David Baldacci - Hour Game

"Maybe she's just bucking for a bigger piece of the estate. Not that she needs it."

"No, I think she might," replied King.

"What do you mean? She's the queen of local real estate."

"Dorothea's become involved in some questionable real estate ventures that went south very recently."

"You did some checking?"

"I was getting tired of letting Chip Bailey have all the fun."

"And you haven't told him this?"

"He's FBI, he can find out for himself."

"So Dorothea needs money, and she's trying to get in Remmy's good graces in order to get it."

"That could be." He checked his watch. "I've arranged interviews with Roger Canney and Pembroke's parents starting in about an hour. After we finish with them, you may want to go shopping."

"Shopping? For what?"

He ran his gaze over her. "Jeans and a Secret Service windbreaker just don't cut it for proper funeral attire."

SYLVIA DIAZ WAS COUNTING PILLS. She counted them once and then did it again. She went through her prescriptions written for the last three weeks and compared that number with the inventory counts in the pharmacy for that time period. Lastly, she went on the computer and examined the inventory numbers there. The computer records matched the levels in the pharmacy, but they didn't reconcile with the written prescriptions. Sylvia trusted her written prescriptions. There were clearly drugs unaccounted for. She called her office manager in and spoke at length with her. They went through the records together. She next spoke with her nurse-pharmacist, who filled prescriptions for patients at the office. After finishing that discussion Sylvia was convinced she knew where the problem was.

She debated what to do about it. She had no actual proof, only a fair amount of circumstantial evidence. She started to wonder when the theft or thefts might have occurred. There was one way to check. The outside door to both the morgue and her medical practice was on a key-card access system for after-hours entry and exit. An electronic log was kept that would tell her who'd entered the premises and when. She called the security company, gave the necessary information and pass code and asked her question. Aside from herself, she was told that there was only one person who'd accessed the medical office after hours in the last month: Kyle Montgomery. In fact, Sylvia discovered that he'd made his last nighttime visit around ten o'clock on the night Bobby Battle was murdered.

Janice Pembroke's mother was older than King had expected. Janice was the baby, the youngest of eight, Mrs. Pembroke explained. She'd been forty-one when Janice was born. She and her second husband, Janice's stepfather, lived in a dilapidated one-story red brick house in a run-down neighborhood. Janice had been the only child left home. Her stepfather was a short, potbellied and sour-faced man with an unlit cigarette over one ear and a Bud in his hand at nine in the morning. He apparently didn't go to work early, if at all. He smiled lasciviously at Michelle and didn't take his gaze off her after they had settled in the cluttered living room. Janice's mother was a tiny thing and exhausted-looking, understandable after raising eight children and then losing one in such a horrific manner. She also had several deep bruises on her arms and face.

"I fell down the stairs," she explained when King and Michelle had asked.

The woman spoke haltingly about her deceased daughter, frequently dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She didn't even know Janice was seeing Steve Canney, she told them.

"Different sides of the tracks," said the stepfather gruffly. "And she slept around, dirty little bitch, and it cost her. Probably thought she could get pregnant and then get herself a rich kid like Canney. I told her she was trash and all trash ever gets is more trash. Well, she got it all right." He gave King a triumphant look.

Surprisingly, Mom didn't rise to her dead daughter's defense, and King concluded that the injuries on her face and forearms were the reason.

Janice had had, to their knowledge, no enemies, and they could think of no reason why anyone would want to kill her. It was the same story they'd told the police, and the FBI after that.

"And I hope this is the last damn time we have to go through it," said the stepfather. "If she went and got herself killed, it's her own damn fault. I ain't got time to sit around and tell you people the same stuff over and over."

"Oh, are we keeping you from something important?" asked Michelle. "Like another beer perhaps?"

He lit his cigarette, took a puff and grinned at her. "I like your style, lady."

"By the way, where were you on the night she was killed?" asked Michelle, who was obviously working hard to keep from maiming the man.

His grin disappeared. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I want to know where you were when your stepdaughter was killed."

"I already told the cops that."

"Well, we're cops too. So you're just going to have to tell us again."

"I was out with some buddies."

"These buddies have names and addresses?"

They did, and Michelle wrote it all down while the man looked on nervously.

"I didn't have nothing to do with her getting killed," he said hotly as he followed them outside.

"Then you have nothing to worry about," replied Michelle.

"You're damn right I don't, baby."

Michelle spun around. "The name's Deputy Maxwell. And in case you didn't know, beating up your wife is a felony."

He snorted. "Don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"I think she might disagree," said Michelle, nodding toward Mrs. Pembroke, who cowered inside, staring through the curtains.

He laughed. "That dog won't hunt. I'm king of my castle. Why don't you come on by sometime and I'll show you, sweet-cheeks."

Michelle's entire body tensed.

"Don't do it, Michelle," warned King, who was watching her. "Just let it go."

"Screw you, Sean."

She marched over to the stepfather and spoke in a low but very clear voice. "Listen, you pathetic little moron, she doesn't have to press charges personally anymore. The state can do it for her. So when I come back here-and I will-if she even has one tiny mark on her-just one!-I'll arrest your sorry ass. After I kick the shit out of you first."

The cigarette fell out of the man's mouth. "You can't do that, you're a cop."

"I'll just say you fell down the stairs."

The man looked at King. "She just threatened me," he cried.

"I didn't hear any threat," said King.

"So that's the way it's gonna be, huh? Well, I ain't afraid of no skinny wench like you."

There was a five-foot-high wooden post in the front yard holding up an old-fashioned lantern. Michelle walked over to it and, with one sidekick of her powerful right leg, broke the post right in half.

After seeing that, the man's beer can joined his cigarette on the ground as he stared openmouthed at this demonstration of destruction.

"I'll be seeing you, sweet-cheeks, " said Michelle, and she walked to the car.

King bent down and picked up a piece of the shattered wood and said to the stricken man, "Damn, can you imagine if that were somebody's spine?" He handed him forty dollars for repairs and walked off.

As they got in the car, King said, "I think he actually wet his pants."

"I'll sleep better knowing he's not sleeping at all."

He said in a hurt tone, "Screw you, Sean?"

"I'm sorry, I was upset. But you can't always turn the other cheek either."

"Actually, I was very proud of you."

"Right. No threats on my part will make her situation any better. A guy like that, you never know what he might do. I probably should have just kept my mouth shut."

"But you're going to go and check on her, aren't you?"