Cheryl Bradshaw - Black Diamond Death

“Copy machines are so much better these days, so quiet.”

I shook my head.

“You got any drinks around this place?”

“There’s a bottle of pinot in the cupboard,” I said.

She raised her left nostril and rifled around for another viable option.

“What the mother lode, you think you got enough tea in here? Because I’m sure there’s a village in some third-world country that could survive at least a month on all this stuff.”

“Not funny,” I said.

“Alright, alright, don’t mess with a woman and her tea. I got it.”

I nudged her out of the way.

“Here, let me look,” I said.

I moved all the tea to the side and pulled out a bottle from the back.

“Bailey’s?” I said.

“That will do just fine.”

I poured her a glass and we both sat down.

“Have you looked the file over yet?” I said.

She nodded.

“And?” I said.

She took a few sips of her drink and set her glass down on the corner of my desk. She leaned in toward me and I did the same.

“It doesn’t add up,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“Any of it.”

“I see,” I said. “And why are we whispering?”

Maddie grabbed her glass and sat back in my chair.

“Good point. Here’s the thing. On paper, the report would hold up to snuff for anyone who looked it over and didn’t know any better. The way it reads Parker shot himself, end of story.” Maddie lifted her thumb and pressed her pointer finger against her right temple and pulled the trigger. “Bang,” she shouted. She slumped down in my chair. A flare for the dramatic was one of her many charms.

“But you just said––”

“The report is conclusive, he killed himself alright.”

“I guess that’s it then,” I said.

She took another sip from her glass and handed me the report.

“If you read through that, you’ll be convinced that Parker shot himself. But that’s what they want you to believe.”

“You’ve lost me. Who wants me to believe that?” I said.

“I can’t say for sure.”

She got up and walked over to my curio cabinet and poured herself another glass of Bailey’s.

“So did he or didn’t he?” I said.

She held up one finger in the air.

“I have a theory.”

I hoped at some point she started making some sense or any sense at all. She walked back over to the chair and leaned forward and we were back to whispering again.

“I don’t think Parker killed himself, but I believe someone wants you and everyone else to think he did. It took a few glasses of brandy, but I got him to talk, at least enough to get one thing out of him.”

“Maddie, out with it already,” I said.

“It seems our esteemed Whitley is on somebody’s payroll.”

CHAPTER 50

It turned out Whitley spilled a lot more than a little brandy on the rug. He confessed to Maddie that Parker didn’t kill himself and that it was set up to look that way. Maddie, in her role as the desirable temptress, tried to talk him into giving up the person behind it all, but it was to no avail.

If Parker didn’t kill Charlotte, I was convinced we had two different killers on our hands. Aside from the fact that they both looked staged, the crimes were committed in very different ways. From a logical standpoint, it didn’t make sense to me that a killer would poison their first victim and then shoot the other.

In the short time I knew Parker Stanton I understood why a person would want him dead. Everywhere I turned he had potential enemies––a jealous girlfriend, someone outraged enough at Charlotte’s death to seek revenge, or maybe an old flame from the past. And what about the mysterious man in black who left the note on Parker’s doorstep. All sorts of suspects came to mind, but I cared a lot less about solving the mystery of Parker’s demise and a lot more about what happened to Charlotte.

I turned onto the freeway toward home and checked my rear-view mirror. For the last four miles I was being followed. At first I chalked it up to coincidence, but the longer I drove, the more I didn’t think so. Given the poor job they did of hiding themselves behind me, I was certain the person was an amateur.

It was seven miles from the freeway off-ramp to the exit where I lived. I continued to drive South and the car stayed right in line with me. A few miles from the exit I stepped on the gas and moved into the left lane and passed a couple of cars before I switched back to the right lane. The car didn’t follow this time.

I exited the freeway and turned toward my house and thought I was in the clear, but I was wrong. A few seconds later the car barreled off the ramp toward the stop sign. At the rate it was going I thought it would miss the stop sign all together, but at some point the driver realized the road came to an end and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked back and expelled a grey substance into the air and then came to a complete stop. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and fumbled around on the seat for my cell phone with the other. It took a minute and then I felt the hard plastic backside. I picked it up and pressed the speed dial button for Nick and held it up to my ear. I waited for it to ring, but it didn’t make a sound, and it occurred to me that the keys weren’t lit up either. My phone was dead.

I didn’t want to lead my follower straight to my house especially if Nick wasn’t there so I turned down the road and headed toward the gas station. Once I got close enough I pulled over. I may not have remembered to charge my phone, but I always carried my gun.

The car behind me stopped and the driver’s side door opened. Someone got out. I shifted my body over to the passenger side of my car and opened the door and then slid out. I knelt on the ground and positioned my body so that I could watch the person approach. Five feet away, then four feet, and now three. In the glow of the light that illuminated from the gas station it looked like the silhouette of a woman. Her hands were stuffed inside her coat pocket.

“Alright, that’s far enough,” I said.

She stopped.

“Ms. Monroe?”

The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“I know you’re following me, show yourself,” I said.

“It’s me.”

“Stop with the games,” I said. “Who are you?”

“It’s Bridget. Please, I need to talk to you.”

I stood up but kept to the side of my car. I needed to make sure.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

She removed her hands from her jacket pocket and turned her palms up.

“Why the hell are you following me?” I said.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I called you, but it kept going to voicemail. I left you a ton of messages, but you didn’t call back. And then I saw your car back there and tried to get your attention, but you didn’t see me so I figured I would follow you. Not the best plan, I know.”

“You still haven’t told me why,” I said.

Her voice vibrated and I couldn’t tell if she was cold or nervous, or both.

“I didn’t know who else to call or what I should do.”

“About what?” I said.

“I left this morning to run some errands and when I got back to my place, someone had been in my apartment. Stuff was knocked off shelves, some of my personal items were broken, and all my files were scattered all over the floor. I took one look at it and I left. I drove around all day trying to figure out what I should do and that’s when I saw you.”

“Did they take anything?” I said.

“I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”

“Why would someone do that?”

I holstered my gun and walked toward her. Her eyes were bloodshot. I put my hand on her arm and she leapt backward.