The Friday Edition (A Samantha Church Mystery) Page 3

  “Judie, it’s me.”

  “Do you need me to come over?” Judie asked without hesitation.

  Sam smiled. “No thanks, Judie, I’m okay.”

  In the background Sam could hear the muffled sound of the television and laughter coming from Judie’s family.

  “Sam, what is it?”

  “Didn’t you tell me they had found a bottle of Jack Daniels on Robin’s kitchen table?”

  “Yes. Why? What’re you getting at?”

  Sam didn’t respond and Judie asked again. “Sam? What’s going on?”

  “Robin had reached a point with her alcoholism that she would’ve resorted to drinking anything, mouthwash, cough medicine, you name it. But if she were drinking again, I know it wouldn’t be Jack Daniels. That’s bourbon and Robin hated it. She’d drink vodka, gin, scotch or whatever before bourbon. If she was drinking again, she wouldn’t start with Jack Daniels.”

  Five

  His glasses reflected in the screen as he began to text his message.

  Your sister’s death …

  He smiled in spite of himself. But why, he wondered, had he been unable to clear his thoughts of Robin? He had expected it to be easy to erase those memories of Christmas Eve. Was it the fact that he had to grab her arm to force her out to the balcony? That wasn’t in the plan. That had been a mistake.

  He would have to make no more mistakes. And, he decided, he would clear his mind of those memories of the night he’d killed her. He’d take a long walk in the park. He’d let the bright sun, now breaking through the thick clouds, clear his mind. Yes. And then this evening he’d take a long drive – after making that one stop to explain.

  He looked at the almost-completed message on the screen.

  Your sister’s death was no accident

  He remembered Robin’s hopelessness when she pleaded with him. Then her desperation when she finally realized his intentions. When he knew she was helpless.

  He programmed the message to be sent to the cell phone he knew Sam kept clipped to her waistband, and entered the number from memory: 555-2159. He entered the time he wanted her to receive the message.

  No more mistakes, he said to himself, and read the message once more to check for errors. There were none. The message disappeared from the screen like a magic trick.

  Six

  To get to the 10-foot-by-10-foot room hidden beneath the Grandview home, he had to enter through a trap door concealed in a closet. Once through, he used both hands to pull the door shut tightly. He turned and looked at the man who had been sitting in the small room waiting for him.

  “What happened to the girl?” the man asked. “Did you screw up?”

  Robin’s killer removed his black leather jacket in silence and placed it over the back of a small chair.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  “I touched her.”

  “You touched her, Captain?”

  The nickname for Robin’s killer was “Captain.” That’s what he was called whenever he was in the small room.

  “You touched her? Why?”

  “It was an accident,” Captain replied coolly.

  “Where did you touch her?” the man asked and stroked his chin with long pencil-like fingers.

  Captain stared a moment at a fold in the man’s face that ran from under his left eye to the jaw line of his olive skin.

  “On the arm.”

  The man in the chair sat silent and sullen staring at him.

  “I touched her on the arm,” Captain went on. “It happened so fast. She wouldn’t come outside on the balcony like I asked. I sort of lost my temper and grabbed her by the arm to pull her outside.”

  “You sort of lost your temper?”

  “Yeah, Juan, but there’s nothing to worry about,” Captain said. “Nothing will come of it.”

  “Not good. Not good at all,” Juan said, with all the authority of a man in charge of what went on this hidden room.

  His name was Juan Garcia. At least that’s what everyone called him. He wanted a common, unassuming name, not one that would stand out as did his given name: Alajandro Louis Barraza. He was a diminutive, thin man with a shock of jet-black hair. Captain avoided looking Juan in the black holes that were his eyes. Captain knew he had a reason to fear Juan, but he tried to look collected and unconcerned. Juan finished a cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor and stepped on it. He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook it until one emerged. He secured the cigarette between his lips and pulled it from the packet. He left it to dangle.

  “Don’t worry,” Captain said. “Like I said, it won’t amount to a thing. Trust me.”

  “Do you have the autopsy report?” Juan asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Juan was persistent. “Do you know when?”

  “Maybe a day or so.”

  Juan Garcia looked at Captain, considering what he had said. They had come too far for everything to go wrong now.

  “Follow me,” Juan said.

  Captain grabbed his leather jacket and went with Juan to another room similar in size, windowless with barren walls. They held their breath, trying to ignore the putrid odor that assaulted them as they stood in the doorway. They looked down on the backs of two men hunched over a small table, engrossed in their task. One man turned to look at Juan and Captain, but offered no greeting.

  Captain saw that everything they needed to manufacture the drug was within arm’s length. There was such a large supply of some of the chemicals that they were stored in barrels in the back of the room. Captain recognized the red phosphorus and ephedrine, but there were other acidic chemicals he did not recognize. The chemicals here were used to make meth in a time-consuming method that produced a smell similar to cat urine. Masking odors was part of the motivation behind these hidden rooms. The room also included a ventilation system designed to eliminate suspicious smells.

  “They seldom speak while they’re working,” Juan said, keeping his eyes fixed on the two men at work on the small table. The scant light came from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Their focus, however, was centered in the bright circle of light from a small high-intensity lamp that sat on the table between them.

  They continued to work in silence. Juan turned to Captain, his coal-colored eyes registering little emotion.

  “Do you know, Captain, that those men are surrounded by enough chemicals to make us rich. Very rich.”

  Captain nodded and sighed deeply.

  Juan went on. “There’s a half-pound of methamphetamines on their table,” Juan said and smiled coolly. “Worth more than fifteen thousand dollars on the street.”

  “What’re they doing?” Captain asked Juan.

  “Making twisters,” Juan replied.

  “Twisters?”

  A quick inventory of Captain’s face told Juan his words did not register.

  “It’s a new drug,” Juan said and laughed coolly. “Hasn’t been out on the street long.”

  “What is it?” Captain asked.

  “A combination of cocaine and methamphetamine,” Juan replied. “I’ve heard that the high is unbelievable, but I wouldn’t know.”

  They watched the men work a moment in silence. Juan cast a sideways glance at Captain.

  “So you didn’t come here for twisters or a little space dope, then, I take it?” Juan asked and the words rolled effortlessly off his tongue.

  Captain shook his head. “You know why I came.”

  Juan nodded and laughed smoothly. “You came to reassure me that we could proceed as planned.”

  Captain nodded. For the first time since entering the small, hidden room he felt relieved. Almost immediately his stomach seemed free of the knots that had entangled it since Christmas Eve.

  “That’s good to know,” Juan said and patted Captain firmly on the back. “I’d hate to think we’d have to dismantle an operation that took so long to come together.”

  Captain turned to leave.

/>   “Look here,” Juan said.

  Captain followed Juan’s long finger to the floor. Next to Juan’s foot sat a small bundle of methamphetamines packaged and ready for the street.

  Captain surveyed the shipment. “How much does it weigh?”

  “Twenty-one pounds,” Juan replied.

  “The street value?”

  “Half-million dollars, give or take,” Juan said and kicked the bundle.

  The men were silent a moment before Juan spoke again.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Captain looked from the bundle to Juan, not registering what he meant.

  “This year’s going to be our best yet.”

  Captain nodded and couldn’t help the smile that met Juan’s cold, dark eyes. The operation had gone along smoothly, secretly and successfully for so many years now that he had stopped counting.

  Then Robin Marino emerged on the scene.

  And it was Captain who had been ordered to kill her. He couldn’t argue. He knew he had no choice. If he didn’t, someone else would have killed her. She knew too much.

  Captain put on his leather jacket and left the 10-by 10-foot room.

  He used both hands to close the trap door.

  Seven

  It was 6 a.m., but Sam’s bed had been cold for hours.

  She would bury Robin today and she had to force herself to get ready. She decided to wear a red blazer over a black wool dress. The blazer would do a decent job hiding some of the weight she had gained since a year ago when an editor took her into a side office off the Denver Post newsroom and said her services “were no longer needed.”

  “Am I being fired?” she had asked. “Well,” he’d said, “yes, you are, Sam.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror. It was getting harder to spread her weight evenly over her frame. She guessed she had put on thirty pounds, but feared it was closer to fifty. She had avoided getting on the scale for fear it was actually more. But she couldn’t blame all her extra weight on getting fired. Truth was she had begun to gain weight the moment her father died.

  She turned to face the mirror and was confronted with the sight of her poor posture. She thought of Robin, who had a way of standing straight and tall. Robin was shorter than Sam but it was hard to tell. Robin’s shoulders were always squared and set back, flaunting her femininity. Sam’s had a way of curling inward. Robin often accused Sam of deliberately practicing bad posture as a way of signaling people to stay away from her.

  How true, Sam thought, and straightened her back and shoulders.

  To those who didn’t know them, it was hard to tell they were sisters. Robin, dark and engaging, had the olive coloring of their grandmother. Sam had the fair skin, the blonde hair and blue eyes, of their mother. Unlike Robin, there was nothing striking about Sam’s physical features that made her stand out. No high cheekbones, no deep-set eyes, or wide, inviting smile. She’d been having passing thoughts lately of going to a shorter hairstyle. She felt she was getting too old now to wear her hair as she did when she was twenty, in long layers past her shoulders.

  Sam had always felt she was as plain as a farm girl, in every sense of the word. That’s what her father had called her. A farm girl. She had hated that. She stepped closer to the mirror to examine her face, a geography she knew well. She had slept very little in the last three days and it showed in her eyes. There was something in Robin’s eyes that Sam never saw in her own or in others. Robin had eyes that took everything in. Her eyes would skim, then settle on someone. They would blaze and bore in when she was speaking, then sink back and appraise when she was being addressed.

  Sam stepped away from the mirror and watched herself clip her pager to her belt.

  She put on her coat thinking of the open bottle of wine in the refrigerator. She entertained the notion of taking a few swallows to calm her nerves. For Robin, she wanted to wait, but the temptation was too great. The first swallow burned all the way down. The second swallow calmed her nerves and she sighed deeply.

  She headed for her Mustang. She drove to the church because she did not want to ride in one of those “funeral cars.” Why should she? There would be no one else to ride with her. April was staying with her grandmother, where she should be.

  The weather had improved dramatically since Christmas, which helped to lift her spirits. The sky was as big and round as a beach ball. The sun bounced off the snow, and Sam squinted behind her sunglasses.

  Sam reached St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, a sanctuary situated beneath the foothills near Golden. Her attention flickered to the pews as she reached the church doors. The church was packed. As Sam followed the pallbearers carrying her sister’s casket, she saw Jonathan sitting a few rows from the altar.

  As the service began Sam found herself staring at the altar, feeling empty. None of that sanctuary-induced “peace” that Robin claimed she felt inside churches. None of that “higher power” stuff that AA used to program recovering alcoholics. Sam lowered her head, ashamed that she had scoffed at Robin for her beliefs. They, and maybe the “higher power,” had helped her through difficult times during her first years of sobriety.

  Her emptiness abated when Judie Rossetti slid into the pew beside her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Judie whispered. “Last minute stuff at the office.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here,” Sam said and hesitated a moment before she asked, “any news on the autopsy yet?”

  Judie shook her head. “Not yet.”

  When the services were over, Sam and Judie walked the short distance to Golden Cemetery. Sam remembered what the priest had said during his sermon about how each life lived eventually becomes a book. How a single letter becomes a word, becomes a sentence, becomes a paragraph, before finally becoming a chapter and on and on and on until the cycle of life ends and the book has been written. “What kind of book will people read when all is said and done?” the priest had asked.

  Sam and Judie walked slowly to Robin’s grave and sat in folding chairs before the gaping hole beside her casket. Judie tapped Sam on the shoulder and pointed. Sam followed Judie’s finger and saw Todd Matthews walking toward them. Sam motioned for him to sit beside them.

  Todd nodded at Judie and took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. When Sam looked at him, he nodded and smiled slightly. It was the kind of smile she saw often coming from him, easygoing and soft. She felt her own smile starting to form.

  Todd Matthews was a thirty-three-year-old prosecutor. He had been working for the Truman County District Attorney’s Office for three months when he was assigned to assist Robin on a hit-and-run case.

  He was tall, and slender, and handsome in a kind, quiet sort of way. His soft-spoken personality matched hazel eyes gently framed by glasses that were nearly invisible against his face. There was nothing about him that could be called flashy. He wasn’t pushy, or forceful, or obtrusive. He was sincere, as he was faithful. And Sam knew that Robin had a deep, abiding trust in him.

  Todd leaned over and whispered to Sam. “Where’s Brady? I didn’t see him at the church.”

  She shrugged. “I expected to see him too. I was surprised that he didn’t come with you.”

  “I called to take him, but he said he was going with his father,” Todd said.

  Sam knew Brady Gilmore couldn’t get to the church alone. But for Robin, she was certain that despite his limitations, he would have tried to attend the funeral.

  Their concerns vanished when they saw the white Chevrolet Caprice roll slowly through the open cast-iron gates. The car looked official, with its drab hubcaps, extra antennas and high-powered spotlights mounted on each side of the car doors. Sam watched Brady get out of the car and follow his father toward the graveside. He walked with his head bent slightly forward and looked as obedient as the child he had become.

  Wyatt Gilmore joined them, but Brady stood at a slight distance, eyes fixed on Robin’s coffin. The winter sun shined warmly on them as the priest gave the final prayers. When
the funeral was over, Sam and Todd began to walk to her car.

  Sam glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw that Brady had stayed at Robin’s grave. Wyatt and Jonathan followed Sam and Todd from behind. The men had worked together for years and knew each other well. Wyatt was the Grandview police chief and Jonathan headed the detective’s division and was his second in command. They were talking low enough that Sam could not hear them.

  They reached her car. Wyatt put his hand lightly on Sam’s shoulder.

  “Sorry about your sister, Sam. Jonathan’s told me lots about you both. It sounds like you were very close.”

  Wyatt, a retired Marine, stood six feet and was a bear of man. Nearing sixty, his physique was that of a man twenty years younger, burley with a broad back and a thick chest. His belly had only just begun to protrude slightly over his belt buckle. Though he was retired military, a part of him would always be a soldier. He still kept his hair buzzed close to the sides of his head and his face, though craggy, was clean shaven.

  Sam tried to manage a smile, but found it difficult. “Yes, we were.”

  “I understand Robin was drinking and that may have been why she fell,” Wyatt said.

  His comment sent an immediate surge of anger through her and the desperate message on her answering machine from Robin flickered into her consciousness.

  She was on to something and someone was after her.

  “That’s not true,” Sam said sharply.

  Wyatt looked from Jonathan to Sam and said, “We understand how you feel. The cause of death hasn’t been determined yet, but when we know, you’ll be the first to know, Sam. We have people working on it.”

  She nodded as if that was expected of her, but Wyatt’s words brought little comfort. She had been watching Brady from the corner of her eye and the moment she dreaded had arrived. Sam felt familiar stirrings begin to move in her chest and her stomach felt thick with knots as Brady started in their direction. When he reached them, he acknowledged Todd and Jonathan, then his father, but did not look at Sam.

  “Dad, I’m ready to go to the car,” Brady said, still looking at Wyatt.