Time of Death

When he opened the door, the deputy jumped back. “Sir, I told Ms. Hammonds that you were unavailable.”

“It’s all right, Lana. Ms. Hammonds doesn’t like to follow the rules. You may go now. I’ll handle this.”

Lana Ladner? The name certainly didn’t suit the plump, plain female deputy. The name was far too fancy for such an ordinary-looking woman.

When Lana walked away, Lorie flashed Mike with a lavish smile. Totally fake, of course.

“I take it that I’m what you intend to handle,” Lorie said.

Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her into his office, then closed the door behind him. “You wanted to see me. Here I am.”

“You’re really pissed about this, aren’t you?” When he cocked an eyebrow as if saying I-don’t-know-what-you-mean, she elaborated. “You don’t like my invading your territory, even with a valid complaint.”

Mike snorted.

“I know you don’t believe that I’m in any danger. You think I concocted those two death threats, don’t you?”

“One letter,” Mike corrected. “Maleah explained that you threw the first one away … if there was a first one.”

“You egotistical son of a bitch. You actually think that I’m so determined to get back into your life that I’d fake death threats.” She punched her index fingertip into his chest. “Get this straight.” She repeated the punching motion again and again as she said, “I got the message loud and clear. You don’t want me. You wish I had never come back to Dunmore. You think I’m poison. Fine. Now, listen up—I’m over you. Finally. I wouldn’t have you if you were served to me on a silver platter with a gold apple in your mouth.”

He stood there and stared at her, his blue-black eyes wide with surprise.

She lifted her finger from his chest and balled her hand into a tight fist. “Someone has sent me two letters telling me that I’m going to die. It may be somebody’s idea of a sick joke or it could be that out there somewhere there’s a crazy person who intends to kill me. So, do your job, Sheriff. I’m a tax-paying citizen of your county.”

Lorie turned and left his office, ignored the wide-eyed department personnel, and marched straight out the front door.

Chapter 4

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall over his shoulder, and went directly to the car rental kiosk. If anyone remembered seeing him, they would describe him as a gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. They might add that he wore sunglasses and dressed in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt. And if the airline passenger list were ever checked, his real name wouldn’t appear, only the name on his phony ID.

He was a smart man. He had covered all his bases.

Within twenty minutes, he was behind the wheel of a low-mileage Ford Taurus and halfway across town. Charles Wong, aka Charlie Hung, lived in a duplex on Rider Avenue. The adjoining apartment had been recently vacated and was For Rent. Charlie now had a wife and a couple of stepkids, and was presently unemployed. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person by simply using the Internet.

He turned off the main street that went straight through Blythe, Arizona, population ten thousand, a quiet little border town southeast of Yuma. From what he could tell, the town was overrun with Mexicans and he figured half of them were illegals.

He slowed down as he drove past Charlie’s apartment, but he didn’t see anybody, not even a stray dog. His first stop would be at the Blythe City Diner, where Charlie’s wife was employed. He had called earlier and found out she was working the evening shift. If he was lucky, she’d be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he’d simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary’s pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

“I found these this morning,” Tagg said. “In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these.”

Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg’s haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. “What are they?” He sure as hell hoped they weren’t love letters some other guy had written to the man’s now deceased wife.

“Death threats,” Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

Holt focused on the envelopes. “Mind if I take a look?”

Tagg handed the letters over to Holt, who laid one down on a nearby end table in the den and then slipped the single page from the other envelope, unfolded it, and read aloud. “‘Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?’”

“Why didn’t she show me these letters?” Tagg asked. “Why did she hide them from me?”

Holt inspected the envelopes. Typewritten. No return address. One was postmarked Knoxville, Tennessee, and the postmark on the other was smudged, making it illegible. The messages were identical.

“Any idea who might have sent these to your wife?”

Tagg shook his head. “I’m certain she didn’t know anybody from Knoxville.”

“Where the letters were mailed may or may not be important. But the message is important. You’re right—these are definitely death threats.”

“You think the person who murdered Hilary is the one who sent her these letters?”

“I think it’s a good possibility.”

“Is there any way to find out who—?”

“Probably not,” Holt said. “But I’ll overnight these to our lab.”

“Shouldn’t I show them to the police?”

“Let me handle that. Our lab will get to the letters immediately. With the police, it could take weeks … or longer.”

Tagg sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. The police have gotten nowhere. I’m pretty sure they think that I’m involved with some unscrupulous business partners and one of them had my wife killed. They’re wrong. I’ve tried to tell them that, but they won’t believe me. I’m putting my trust in the Powell Agency. I expect you to uncover the truth and find out who killed Hilary.”

“The only promise we can make is that we will use every resource available to us to find your wife’s killer and we won’t stop looking until we either find the person responsible or you tell us to stop.”

“Understood.”

Sanders sipped on the cup of hot tea that Barbara Jean had, only moments ago, brought to him there in Griffin’s study. During the past few years, he had come to rely on her as a friend, a lover, and an assistant. She meant more to him than she would ever know. His love for her was deep and sincere. He would willingly lay down his life and die for her. Barbara Jean possessed a sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.

After his wife’s death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffin’s Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sister’s killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.

As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinan’s recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question was—why had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?

“I’m overnighting the letters to our lab,” Holt had said. “I doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.”

Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadn’t been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where he’d taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.

His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm York’s domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.

And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.

Even if his wife and child had not.

A soft rap on the outer door of Griffin’s private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Come in,” Sanders said.