BEVERLY BARTON - Time of Death

Unlike Griff’s wife, Nicole, her dear friend, she accepted the fact that Sanders had secrets he chose not to share with her. But where she managed to curb her curiosity about the man she loved, about the years he had spent with Griff and Yvette, the three of them captives of a madman, Nic probed relentlessly into the past. Nic needed to know; Barbara Jean did not. It was enough for her that Sanders loved her now, and that he was loyal to the commitment they had made to each other. Perhaps it was because she had known from the very beginning that she was not the great love of Sanders’s life.

When she paused her wheelchair at the door, their guest waiting with her, Sanders rose from behind the desk. “Please come in, Mr. Chambless.”

The tall, broad-shouldered biracial athlete resembled his photographs, a handsome man with a toned body. But where in every picture Barbara Jean had seen of him, he’d been smiling, today he looked as if he might never smile again. Grief hung on his shoulders like a heavy shroud. The man had lost his wife only a month ago.

When Tagg Chambless entered the study and strode across the room, Sanders came out from behind the desk and met him, his hand extended. Sanders was much shorter than the six-five former NFL star, but equally impressive in his own way. The first time she saw Sanders, she had thought he looked like Yul Brynner, the exotically handsome actor who had risen to stardom in the mid-twentieth century portraying the king of Siam in the Broadway production and later in the movie, The King and I. Same bald head. Same hot, dark eyes. Same regal, commanding manner.

“My lawyer, Robert Talbot, told me that the Powell Agency is the best money can buy,” Tagg said as he shook hands with Sanders. “Seems Bobby and your agency’s lawyer are old buddies.”

“Yes, that is my understanding,” Sanders said. “Camden Hendrix called me personally Saturday to set up this appointment today.”

“Yeah. And you might as well know up front that I wanted to talk to Griffin Powell himself about this and was told he was unavailable.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Powell are away on vacation.”

Tagg nodded. “So I get the number-two man instead.” He glanced back at Barbara Jean, who remained in the doorway. “What about Ms. Hughes?”

“Come on in, Barbara Jean.” Sanders motioned to her and then focused his gaze on Tagg. “Just as I am Mr. Powell’s associate and second in command when he and his wife are not available, Ms. Hughes is my associate and privy to everything that goes on at the Powell Agency.” When Tagg made no comment, Sanders indicated a chair near the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”

After Tagg took his seat, Sanders sat in the chair across from him. Barbara Jean entered the room and eased her wheelchair behind Sanders.

“I think Mr. Hendrix explained what I want,” Tagg said.

“He gave me the basic details—that your wife was murdered approximately one month ago, the police have done all they can and have no suspects in the case, and you want to hire the Powell Agency to do an independent investigation.”

Tagg leaned over, his shoulders slouching with weariness, and sank his large, clasped hands between his spread knees. With his gaze directed to the floor, he breathed in heavily and released a deep, tortured sigh.

“You have no idea what it’s like to see your wife’s dead body lying in her own blood … to know that she suffered.” Tagg choked with emotion.

Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Sanders’s and without saying a word she conveyed her concern. He closed his eyes for just for a second and she understood exactly what he was reliving in that dark moment and how the other man’s words had touched a sharp, painful chord in Sanders’s very private memories.

Sanders cleared his throat. “I’ll oversee the case personally, but I’ll put one of our top agents in charge of the investigation. His name is Holt Keinan. I called him in from Knoxville last night and he’s ready to return to Memphis with you today to handle things in the field. He will need your full cooperation. Do you understand?”

“He’ll have it,” Tagg assured Sanders.

“Whatever you share with us will go no further, even if you’ve been involved with anything illegal. But in order for us to do our job, we have to know about anything that might have the slightest bearing on your wife’s murder.”

“No one I’m associated with killed her. I’m sure of that. Nobody was out to get me through Hilary.”

“Nevertheless, we will be digging into your and your wife’s personal lives, past and present.”

Tagg clenched his teeth and nodded.

“The more you can tell us, the more time we can save investigating and having to find out things you could have told us.” Sanders paused, giving Tagg a chance to inject information into their conversation. He didn’t. Sanders continued. “You seem to think there’s no one in your life who posed a threat to you or your wife—what about someone in your wife’s life? Somebody from her past? Or someone—?”

“It’s no secret that for a while, when she was in her early twenties, Hilary went from being a Las Vegas showgirl to a star in several low-budget adult movies.”

“By adult you mean pornographic movies?”

“Yeah. Hilary was a beautiful woman. She had a great body. And she loved showing it off. She loved life … loved sex. When we met, she gave up the movie business and her agent was none too happy. This guy wore two hats, one as an agent and another as a producer of porno flicks. He told Hilary that she’d regret leaving him to marry me, that she’d miss the business and come back to him the first time she caught me in bed with another woman.”

“Did she?” Sanders asked.

When Tagg looked him in the eye, his gaze questioning, Sanders clarified. “Did she ever catch you with another woman?”

“From the day we married, there was never anyone else for either of us. It’s been that way for the past seven years.”

“Who was this guy, the agent-cum-producer?”

“Travis Dillard.”

“Did your wife have any contact with him over the past seven years or perhaps only recently?”

“No, none, not over the years or recently.”

“We will check into it, find out if there is any reason to think he might be involved.” Sanders glanced at Barbara Jean. “See if Holt is free to join us and then have coffee prepared and served in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Certainly.” Barbara Jean wheeled out of the room and headed straight for the kitchen. Holt would be there having a late breakfast. She had spoken to him less than fifteen minutes before Tagg Chambless’s arrival.

The moment Cam Hendrix had contacted Sanders to tell him about Hilary Chambless’s murder, she had known Sanders would agree to take the case. He identified with any man who had lost his wife in such a brutal way. And each time he became involved in a case such as this, he relived his own wife’s death at the hands of a monster.

Charles Wong placed the letter back in the envelope, tore the envelope into several pieces, and dumped the pieces into the kitchen wastebasket.

“We’re off,” his wife Lily called to him from the living room. “Don’t forget that you’re picking the girls up from school today.”

“I won’t forget,” he told her. “I’ll be there on time. Three o’clock sharp.”

“Oh, and Charlie, call me after the interview, okay? Good luck, babe.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

When he heard the front door slam, he released a loud huff as he poured himself another cup of coffee and opened the caramel crunch breakfast bar he had laid out on the counter after he had cleared the kids’ cereal bowls from the table. Right now, Lily was supporting the four of them—herself, him, and her twin daughters, Jenny and Jessy. Since he’d been laid off shortly before Christmas, more than three months ago, he had signed up for unemployment and become a househusband. He had gone on numerous job interviews; today’s interview was number twelve. Unfortunately, he wasn’t qualified for much. His last job had been at a local plant where he’d been a janitor. Today’s interview was for a job as a bagger at the grocery store two blocks from their duplex apartment.