Wrongful Termination: A Savannah Martin Novel (Savannah Martin Mystery Book 16) Page 16

  She launched herself at Rafe, who caught her and held her for a moment before passing her on to me. He stepped closer to the bed. “How is he?”

  “Holding on,” Vera said, turning toward him while dashing the moisture off her cheeks with her hands. “He lost a lot of blood. And some of the wounds were deep. One of them nicked a lung. But they stitched everything up. And they say he’s gonna be alright.”

  Rafe nodded, his eyes still on Malcolm. “The detective in charge is trying to convince himself I had something to do with this.”

  “That’s stupid.” Vera shook her head. “And if he asks me, I’ll tell him that. We know you. You’d never hurt my boy.”

  At this point Wendell stepped forward and introduced himself, and they shook hands.

  “Do you have any idea what he was doing at our house?” I asked. “We went out to dinner. When we came back, he was there. On the porch. Did he say anything about talking to Rafe?” Because chances were he hadn’t been there to see me.

  But Vera shook her head. “He came home late last night. Had the late shift at the gas station. I was in bed by the time he got home. And I had to go to work this morning, while he was still asleep, so I didn’t talk to him. Didn’t realize anything was going on until the hospital called.”

  No help in that, then. If Malcolm had seen anything on his way home last night—and it made sense that maybe he had, if he’d worked the last shift—he’d kept it to himself.

  Unless he’d gone out this afternoon, as Rafe had suggested earlier, and had seen someone on our property then. And that someone had decided to get rid of a young man who could identify him.

  We stayed for a few more minutes, but Malcolm didn’t wake up, and wasn’t expected to for a while yet. “I’m staying the night,” Vera said. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

  Rafe nodded. “I can be here in ten minutes if you need me.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” I added. “Do you want dinner? Or a change of clothes?”

  She shook her head. “Just make sure my place is secure. I don’t remember if I locked up.”

  No problem. We assured her we’d take care of it, and then we headed back out. The young cop in the hallway watched us intently, but didn’t say anything.

  We walked out together, into the dark parking lot. “Thanks for coming,” Rafe said. “Sorry to drag you out at night.”

  “Not the first time, is it? And probably won’t be the last.”

  Since Rafe was no longer working for the TBI, and Wendell wouldn’t be for very much longer, it could very well be the last time. But I opted not to say so.

  “Why don’t you come on back to the house for a bit,” I suggested. “I mean, I know you were just there last night. And you may have things to do. But I don’t think either Rafe or I are going to be able to sleep anytime soon.”

  And this way, the two of them could stop by Vera’s house together, and I wouldn’t have to worry about Rafe doing it alone.

  That seemed acceptable to them both, so they took me home, where they made sure I was safely inside with the door locked behind me before they left.

  I went upstairs and started the evening ritual for Carrie, who got a bath before bed, and got dressed in her little pink pajamas, before I fed her one last time and put her to sleep. Before I was even halfway through with all of that, the men were back.

  “Need any help?” Rafe called up the stairs.

  I told him I had it covered, and to take care of our guest. They broke out a couple of bottles of beer that had been left over from last night’s festivities—a lifetime ago—and settled down to rehash the facts of the case. While I dried and dressed and fed Carrie, I listened to Rafe tell Wendell everything, including the details of our breaking into Brennan’s house this afternoon, as well as the verbiage of his interview with Detective Goins this evening. By the time I had put Carrie down in her crib, already half asleep, they were discussing whether Goins really was as stupid as he seemed, or whether he was putting on an act, for some reason we hadn’t figured out.

  “Grimaldi says he really is that stupid,” I said, as I curled up in the sofa next to Rafe. “Or rather, she didn’t say he was stupid. That’s my interpretation. She says he lacks imagination. He closes cases, but he tends to leap on the most obvious solution, and he wastes time trying to prove it. Until he can’t, and then—and only then—does he go on to look at other options.”

  “So eventually he’ll figure out I had nothing to do with this,” Rafe said, “but by then whoever did it’s had plenty of time to get rid of all the evidence.”

  I nodded. “Pretty much, yes.”

  “Great.”

  “And don’t mention Mendoza to him. He has a hang-up about Mendoza.”

  Rafe, who has something of a hang-up about Mendoza, too, snorted. “So that’s where we’re at,” he told Wendell. “Spicer and Truman said they’d figure out who Goins talked to at the TBI, who told him I’d have reason to want Brennan dead. Once we figure out who that is, somebody’s gonna have to take a look at him. Or her. And it can’t be me.”

  Wendell nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You worked with Brennan a long time,” I said. “You must have known him somewhat well. Or at least better than Rafe did. Who do you think would want to get rid of him? Or why?”

  “He wasn’t dirty,” Wendell said, “I can tell you that. Like Detective Grimaldi said about Goins, Brennan didn’t have much imagination. He didn’t think well on his feet. Worked by the book, and it could take some effort to convince him something needed doing, especially if it didn’t fall squarely inside the lines.”

  I nodded.

  “But he put the safety of his operatives above the job. When something went wrong, he shouldered the blame for it, even when it wasn’t his doing. He was in charge, so he took the responsibility. It was Brennan who pushed for hiring Rafe after his cover was blown last year.”

  “I thought that was you,” I said.

  He nodded. “Course. But I couldn’t do it without Brennan’s say-so. He’s the one who went to the brass and made the case. He’s the one who pushed it through.”

  “So he wasn’t dirty. He worked by the book, and had integrity. He cared about the people who worked under him. But he didn’t have much imagination. And if someone was doing something they shouldn’t be doing, not in Brennan’s chain of command, but somewhere else, he might not notice.”

  “Might not,” Wendell agreed.

  “And if he did notice?”

  “He’d tell someone,” Wendell said, with a glance at Rafe.

  My husband nodded. “I’m thinking he mighta tried to tell me. That maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about on Thursday afternoon.”

  “But if he wanted to talk to you and not one of his superiors…” I said.

  They both nodded. “The problem mighta been up the chain.”

  “He must have tipped someone off,” I said. “Somehow, someone figured out that he knew something they didn’t want him to know, and they killed him.”

  “You know the brass at the TBI better’n I do,” Rafe told Wendell. “Who’re we talking about here?”

  Wendell shook his head. “Could be anyone of a handful of people. If we take the tier under Brennan out—I don’t think he woulda worried about blowing the whistle on any of us—there’s Foster. He’s Brennan’s opposite number in narcotics. Has a group of undercover agents under him, too, the way Brennan had us.”

  Rafe nodded. “Lotta money to be made in narcotics, if you don’t mind skirting the line.”

  That was a fairly cynical assessment, but likely true.

  “You must know Foster,” I told Wendell. “Is that something he’d do?”

  “I wouldna thought so,” Wendell said, “but I ain’t eliminating nobody just ’cause of how I feel about’em.”

  Good policy.

  “Above Foster and Brennan, there’s McLaughlin. He’s got the whole undercover division under him, but h
e’s also got the rest of narcotics and organized crime. There are supervisors on that side, too. Hammond, Grant, and Pavlova. Pavlova’s female.”

  “Does that matter?” I wanted to know. Women can be just as evil as men, and while I wouldn’t have the first idea how to cut someone’s brake cables, I had a feeling that Grimaldi, for instance, would have no problem whatsoever. Knowledge of the underside of cars isn’t a purely male thing.

  “No, darlin’.” Rafe smiled at me. “He’s just thinking that Pavlova being female mighta been another reason why Brennan didn’t go to the brass right away.”

  Ah. “So there are plenty of suspects. With anyone in narcotics or organized crime maybe a bit more likely than the others, since those might be easier fields in which to skim.”

  “If somebody was skimming,” Rafe said. “It could be something else. Maybe Pavlova’s sleeping with McLaughlin. Or with Foster or Grant or Hammond. Hell, maybe Grant and Hammond are lovers.”

  “Surely that’s no reason to kill someone. Having an affair isn’t illegal.”

  “But could be enough to lose someone their job,” Rafe said. “You never know what might be enough for someone to commit murder.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sentiment. I nodded. “You’re right, of course. But until we know more, there’s probably nothing more we can do.”

  Wendell shook his head. “I’ll take a look around tomorrow, with this in mind. See what I can pick up. If Spicer and Truman get back to you with a name, let me know.”

  Rafe said he would, and Wendell headed for the door. “Be careful going home,” Rafe told him. “Whoever’s doing this seems like he’s quick on the trigger. Terminating people before he knows if it’s necessary. Make sure you get home and inside in one piece.”

  “You’re welcome to stay the night,” I offered, since it was getting late, and since I could see Rafe’s point. “You can go to the TBI from here tomorrow morning.”

  Wendell gave me a look, and then gave Rafe one. “You trying to teach me my business, boy? I was handling myself just fine while you were in diapers.”

  Rafe grinned. “Yessir.” He walked out with Wendell, and stood on the porch while Wendell walked down the steps to his black Town Car and got inside. Nobody shot at either of them. The Town Car took off, and Rafe came back inside and set the security on the door. And turned to me.

  He held out his arms and I walked into them. “It’s been a helluva day, huh?” His chest rumbled against my ear.

  I nodded. “I feel like I’ve lived a couple of weeks, at least, just today.”

  “You ready for bed? It ain’t that late, but I could use some time on my back.”

  “You got it,” I said, and took his hand and pulled him after me up the stairs. If he wanted to be on his back, I’d give it to him.

  * * *

  I guess our visitor felt he had left enough knives on our property, or maybe what he’d had to do to Malcolm had scared him off, because when I peered out the window each time I was up with Carrie overnight, the yard lay quiet and deserted. Nothing bothered us until the next morning, when Rafe’s phone rang just after seven.

  Since he had no job to go to and nothing in particular to do—and it was Sunday, anyway—my husband was still in bed. He reached for the phone and put it to his ear, his voice husky and sexy with sleep. “Yeah?”

  Whoever was on the other end quacked.

  “On my way,” Rafe said, and dropped the phone back on the bedside table at the same time as he rolled out of bed, all in one beautiful, economical movement. And then he noticed me looking at him, and grinned. “Morning, darlin’.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said, and lowered my eyes from his face farther down his body.

  The grin widened. “Normally I’d take you up on that. But I gotta get to the hospital. Malcolm’s awake.”

  I forgot all about morning sex. Or maybe not all, but at least I understood the need for him to get going. “Oh, good. Do you want me to come?”

  He shook his head, already pulling on his jeans, covering all that gorgeousness with denim and, a second later, the same shirt he’d had on yesterday. “Stay here with the baby. Keep the door locked.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least brush your teeth?” I said, when he headed for the door.

  “I intend to, darlin’.” He disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water kick on, as well as the flushing of the toilet. Two minutes later he was back. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  He came over to kiss me goodbye, his own breath minty fresh. It didn’t seem to bother him that mine wasn’t.

  I didn’t manage to catch my breath again until he was out the door and all the way downstairs. And by then I didn’t want to call after him, since Carrie wasn’t awake and clamoring for food yet, and the last thing I wanted to do was wake her. So I snuggled back under the blankets to get what extra rest I could. Downstairs, the door opened and shut, and I heard the key in the lock, and a few seconds later, the growl of the Harley. It disappeared down the driveway, the sound fading in the distance, and I closed my eyes again.

  It didn’t last long, of course. By the time Rafe came back, less than an hour later, I was up and dressed, and had fed the baby, and changed her, and was sitting on the floor with her. When I heard the Harley pull up outside, I picked her up and headed down the stairs to hear the latest.

  Rafe looked fairly upbeat, so Malcolm must be doing all right.

  He nodded when I said so. “Holding his own. More stable than he was last night. His chances are better every hour.”

  He tossed the leather jacket over the back of the sofa and reached for the baby. I handed her over, and watched him cradle her and smile down at her. “Hi there, pretty girl.”

  She gurgled, almost as if she were talking back to him, and I laughed. “She’s going to be a daddy’s girl. I can already tell.”

  He headed for the sofa, still cradling her. “Were you?” he asked over his shoulder.

  I followed. “Not sure I was anything in particular. I loved my dad, but we weren’t especially close. No more than Catherine and my dad. He was more of the traditional type, I guess, so he spent more time with Dix than he did with his daughters. Catherine and I were Mother’s domain.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “Catherine put up with less than I did. She always had a stronger personality than me, and she was less interested in clothes and hair and things like that. The stuff Mother lived for. I was a typical girl, Catherine a little less so.”

  “You rebelled in your own time,” Rafe said. “It mighta took you longer, but when you finally did it, you blew Catherine out of the water.”

  No question. There had been consternation when Catherine brought Jonathan home—a Boston Brahmin from New England, who wanted to marry into our genteel Southern clan—but it was nothing compared to the fuss that had ensued when I’d gotten involved with Rafe.

  So yes, he was right. It might have taken me more time than Catherine, but when I rebelled, I’d done a much better job of it.

  I sat down in one of the chairs opposite the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Were you able to talk to Malcolm?”

  “I tried,” Rafe said, still cooing at Carrie and tickling her chin with his finger. “He’s still out of it, and don’t remember much of what happened. We had to tell him what he was doing there.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  He nodded. “The doc said the memories’ll come back. Prob’ly. He might never remember everything, but he’ll remember more. But it’s gonna take time. I told him I’d stop by again later.”

  “Can I come, too?”

  “Sure, darlin’.” He kept smiling down at his daughter, and talking to me without looking at me. “Goins was there, too. Somebody musta told him that Malcolm was awake. Maybe the cop outside the door—a different guy than last night—or maybe somebody on staff. But he showed up fifteen minutes after me, and chewed out the cop in the hallway for letting me in, and then told
me to leave. I figured I’d better.”

  “That was probably best,” I agreed. And added, “That must have been frustrating.”

  “Tell me about it. I know the man’s just doing his job, but the fact that he can’t see reason’s becoming a problem.”

  “You could talk to somebody.”

  He shot me a look. “Who’re they gonna believe? One of their own detectives? Or me? A former criminal who just got fired from the TBI and is a suspect in my boss’s murder?”

  “You’re not,” I said. And amended it to, “Not really. Not by anyone sane.”

  “Goins is sane. Just slow on the uptake. And the MNPD are gonna stand by him, not me. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Frustration wound heavily through his voice.

  “Maybe Spicer or Truman will come through with the name of whoever Goins spoke to at the TBI,” I said, “and then you and Wendell can go to work investigating him.”

  “Wendell can. I can’t step onto TBI property without getting in trouble, either.”

  “So you can go to the guy’s house and look around.” I smiled. “If Wendell keeps him—or her, in case it’s Pavlova—busy at the TBI tomorrow, you can snoop. You know how much you like to snoop.”

  He smiled reluctantly. “You’re talking to me like I’m four years old.”

  “Just doing my part,” I said, since I could certainly understand that the situation was frustrating for him. I wasn’t really worried that Goins would end up trying to arrest him. There was no real evidence against him, and Grimaldi had said that Goins usually came to the right conclusion eventually, even if it took him time. But while this was going on, Rafe’s hands were tied. He couldn’t really go to Columbia and start work for Grimaldi, not while he was a suspect—officially, at least—in a murder in Nashville. And without his own badge, he couldn’t do much to investigate what had happened to Brennan, either. Not officially.

  I wondered whether whoever had done this—and I was coming around to thinking that someone had done it, that Brennan hadn’t just driven off the road on his own in a tragic accident—had taken that into account, or whether it was just a nice side benefit.