“Yeah?”
“Who do you think was doing the shooting?”
“My guess would be the two who tried to brace you about Wheeler at the bar. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.
“Mine too.” I looked at the pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing that, please?” I said.
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down for a moment, then raised my hands, my palms toward her as an apology. “So if Wheeler, who works or worked for Pate is responsible for the murder of Franklin Dugan, why would he seek me out at the bar? When I saw him at the cemetery he hadn’t followed me, he was already there.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to pick him up or search his last known residence?” she said.
“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said, but my eyes fell away from hers when I spoke.
“Like it or not, Jonesy, Wheeler’s a part of this.”
“Whether or not I like it has nothing to do with it, Cora.”
“You’re right about that,” she said. “But you don’t have to convince me.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Wheeler is, or was, a friend, right? You two have a history together. You can’t serve a personal agenda and the State at the same time, Jonesy.”
“There is no personal agenda,” I said, but I regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
“So what was in the safe deposit box then?” she said. “I didn’t see that in your report.”
Try to throw Cora a curve ball on an even up count and she’ll check her swing every time. When I did not answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”
I laid it out for her. When I finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at me and said, “So let’s take a walk over and talk to the D.A. It should be fun. Did you know he used to teach a criminal law course at Notre Dame? I’m sure we won’t have any trouble convincing him.”
Preston Elliott, the prosecuting attorney for Marion county was someone I had known for over five years. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had worked together any number of times over the years on different cases. He was a hands-on administrator who still worked his own caseload, put in more hours than anyone else in his office, and held one of the highest conviction rates in the history of the county. He stood five feet, four inches tall, had an attitude consistent with someone who carries a short man complex, and he seemed to tower over his opponents in the courtroom. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.
When we walked into his office at the end of the day he greeted us from behind his desk without standing up. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and I saw him peek at his watch has he motioned us to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later I had laid it out for him.
He looked at me, then at Cora, then back at me. “It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”
“It’s where the answers are,” I said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books, I think-”
Elliott interrupted me. “Have you served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”
“Not yet” I said.
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This Wheeler character has served time in Westville for assault. Franklin Dugan, who wrote the note on a five million dollar deal is shot to death in his driveway. Nobody knows where Wheeler is, not even his girlfriend, who coincidentally is the pastor of the church that was bought by Pate with the money he borrowed from the dead banker. Do I have that right?”
“Yes, but-“
Elliott held up a finger. “Let me finish,” he said. He was pacing back and forth now behind his desk, as if he were in the courtroom giving a summation to a jury. “Wheeler worked for Pate, but again, no one knows where Wheeler is. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead you want another warrant so you can toss the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential people.”
“Murton Wheeler didn’t have motive,” I said. “Why would he want to kill Dugan?”
“That’s a great question, Jonesy,” Elliott said. His back was to Cora and me, and he spoke to us both through the reflection in the window behind his desk. “Why don’t you use the warrant, pick him up and ask him?”
“I intend to, Preston. But I’m telling you right now, this all leads back to Pate. Murton Wheeler might be a player somehow, but Pate is the one we should be looking at.”
“What proof do you have?”
“He’s under investigation by the Texas Department of Insurance for Fraud out of Houston. His last church burned to the ground,” Cora said.
“Yes. And that would be a matter for the State of Texas, and maybe, just maybe, a matter for the FBI, depending of course on which way the federal winds are currently blowing,” he said, his voice impatient and thick with sarcasm. “Either way, it’s just a tad bit out of our jurisdiction, Cora. The fact of the matter is, neither of you can offer any proof whatsoever of Samuel Pate’s involvement in the murder of Franklin Dugan. As an officer of the court I appreciate your efforts, but this office has certain standards we like to follow and we can not infringe upon the rights of our citizens based solely on supposition or minimalistic circumstantial evidence. Get me something concrete and I’ll sign off on a warrant. Until then, I suggest you round up this Wheeler fellow and work your case from that angle.” After a moment he turned from the window, looked at Cora and said, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
Later that night the phone next to my bed rang just as I was about to fall asleep. I was certain it was Sandy and I did not bother to check the caller I.D. before I answered. The smile in my voice must have been evident because after I said hello the voice that came through the receiver was as soft and feminine as I have ever heard.
“You’ve got your warrant for Pate. One for the office and one for the house.”
“What? Cora? Say that again, will you please?”
“What’s the matter, Jonesy? You sound like you were expecting someone else. I said you’ve got your warrant for Pate.”
As I listened to her speak, I realized her words were slightly over annunciated yet slurred, and it reminded me of my days on patrol when I would stop an intoxicated driver then listen as they tried to talk their way out of a trip to jail. “Uh, that’s great, Cora. How did you pull that off?”
“Don’t ask,” she said, then giggled quietly like a young girl. “Let’s just say my powers of persuasion are still as good as they ever were.”
Among other things, I thought.
“What was that?” she said.
“I didn’t say anything. The connection is bad, I think. Thanks for going to bat for me.”
“Anytime,” she said. “Hey, did you ever see that Far Side cartoon? The one where the couple is in the delivery room at the hospital? The father is standing next to the bed and the doctor is holding their new baby boy right after he comes out of the chute. The father looks at his wife and says, ‘Look honey, it’s a boy. Let’s name him Preston.’” She howled with laughter, then hung up on me.
Out of the chute?
I looked at the caller I.D. It read Elliott, Preston. It was just after one-thirty in the morning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Saturday at ten o’clock, Sandy and I were supposed to meet at the Pate Ministries complex. I saw her State car, but not her so I assumed she was already inside. I looked at my watch and discovered I was about ten minutes late. I had a search warrant for the complex tucked inside my jacket pocket. The lobby of the church had been converted from the wide open space I witnessed on my last visit to a smaller, more intimate setting, the latter being achieved by erecting a three-sided red pipe and drape system, the kind you see at trade shows and conventions. At the front of the enclosure an electrically operated viewing screen had been lowered from its ceiling mount and the images being displayed prior to the screening of tomorrow’s broadcast was a closed circuit view of the enclosed area where I now stood. There were about twenty to twenty-five people scattered about the area, some seated in padded folding chairs which were set out in four rows of twelve across the width of the enclosure. Others either stood or were seated in various places at the round four-top tables covered with white linen cloths and set with dishes and flatware.