Dead By Morning

Chapter 12

Wyman Scudder, you’re a fool.

How many times had his ex-wife said those exact words?

She’d been right. Sheila had been right about a lot of things.

You’re a fool. You’re a drunk. You’re a sorry excuse for a husband. You’ve ruined your life and tried to ruin mine, but I’m getting out while the gettin’ is good.

Wyman lifted the open bottle of Wild Turkey 101 proof bourbon whiskey and poured his glass threefourths full. The damn stuff had cost him sixty bucks, but he had the money, didn’t he? It was nobody’s business what he paid for his pleasures and a good bottle of bourbon headed his list of carnal delights. He lifted the glass to salute his ex-wife, his ex-associates, and his ex-life. He might have been on his way down six months ago, but not now.

“Here’s to Wyman Scudder. Long may he live the good life.”

He downed one long, glorious gulp, shivered, coughed, and then laughed. When he left his office today—a right nice office, if he did say so himself—he’d be going home to a Mill Creek Run apartment. After living in his old office for nearly a year, he had every right to celebrate his good fortune, didn’t he? A new office on Third Street, a first-rate apartment, a good bottle of bourbon, and a new suit. He ran his hand over the quality material of his thousand-dollar pin-striped suit. It might be off the rack, but it was a damn expensive rack.

Wyman took a sip of the smooth whiskey and then another before placing the glass on a fancy soapstone coaster atop his desk.

He had a chance now to put his life back together and that’s just what he intended to do. Screw Sheila. Screw his old law firm. Two years ago, both his wife and his firm had thrown him out as if he were yesterday’s trash.

He’d show ’em just what he was made of.

You’re a fool.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hollered into the emptiness of his new office.

You’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something really nasty.

If anybody asked him who had hired him to represent Jerome Browning, he’d tell them the truth. He hadn’t done anything illegal. He’d seen Browning only a couple of times, did what he’d been paid to do—consult with his client—and that was all there was to it.

If someone connects all the dots, what then?

Then you’re screwed.

He could be considered an accomplice, couldn’t he? An accomplice to murder? No, not just one murder. Five murders now.

But I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know what they were planning. If I had . . .

It was too late for ifs. He had taken the job, taken the money, and unless somebody put the puzzle pieces together, he’d get away scot-free, just as the others would. They would all get away with murder.

The Steeplechase Grill and Tavern was located in downtown Vidalia. Atop the signpost outside the restaurant, a wooden cutout of a comic laughing horse’s head welcomed customers, setting the tone for the casual atmosphere inside the trendy establishment. Upon entering, the tantalizing aroma instantly whetted Derek’s appetite.

“Nice place,” he said as the hostess showed them to their table.

“Nice enough.” Maleah climbed up and sat on one of the bar stools that graced a row of dark wooden tables.

They had arrived at 12:30 P.M., prime lunchtime in downtown Vidalia, so the restaurant was packed. He glanced around at the dark paneled walls, lined with metal signs, and then looked up at the whirling ceiling fans and down at the floral/leaf design in the dark carpet.

Maleah scanned the menu hurriedly, laid it on the table and tapped her fingers absently. Turning her head right and then left, she searched for a waitress. “We should have just picked up fast food and gone straight on to Macon.”

“Settle down and relax,” Derek told her. “It’ll take us less than two hours to drive to Macon. It’s not as if Wyman Scudder is going anywhere. In the grand scheme of things, taking an hour for a decent meal isn’t going to matter.”

She heaved a labored sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Half an hour with Jerome Browning, playing his sick little cat and mouse game, would have an adverse effect on anyone.”

She stared at him, her eyes speaking for her, telling him that even though she hadn’t walked away from the second interview with Browning without a few minor wounds, she had won today’s game.

“You bested him, didn’t you?” Derek grinned.

“I held my own. And yes, in the end, I won.”

“He’ll be all the more determined to draw blood next time.”

She nodded. “I’m well aware of that fact.”

The waitress appeared, all white teeth, freckled nose, and friendly attitude. “What can I get you folks to drink?”

“Sweet tea,” Derek replied.

“Unsweet iced tea, please,” Maleah said.

“Y’all know what you want or do you need a few minutes?”

Derek quickly looked over the extensive menu. One item caught his eye.

“I’d like the Charleston Chicken Salad,” Maleah said.

“Yes, ma’am. And you, sir?” the waitress asked.

“A rack of baby back ribs, baked potato, fully loaded, and onion rings.”

As soon as the waitress walked away to place their order, Maleah made a disapproving tsk-tsk sound with her tongue.

“You disapprove of my lunch choices?” he asked.

“It’s your health and your arteries that you’re clogging, not mine.”

Derek grinned. He had learned months ago when not to argue with Maleah’s reasoning, especially when she was right.

Despite the crowd, the service was good—fast and accurate. The waitress returned quickly with their drinks and a loaf of delicious brown bread coated with a hint of sea salt.

After their meals arrived, they ate in relative silence. Apparently Maleah thought that would save time and allow them to get off to Macon all the sooner. Halfway through eating the delectable ribs, Derek’s phone rang. Using the wipes provided with his meal, he cleaned the barbecue sauce from his fingertips, retrieved his phone and noted the caller ID. The Powell Agency’s number at Griffin’s Rest.

“This is Derek Lawrence.”

“Hi, Derek. It’s Barbara Jean. Sanders received some updated info on Wyman Scudder he thought y’all should have immediately. I’ll send a complete report via e-mail attachment later, and I’ll text the new address, too, but I thought you needed to know that the address we had is incorrect.”

“Okay, give me the correct address.”

She called off the new address on Third Street in downtown Macon. “It seems that Mr. Scudder just signed a lease on a new office and a new apartment a few days ago.”

“You don’t say.”

“What?” Maleah asked.

He waved her off, his actions requesting that she wait.

“Scudder has been making monthly deposits to his account,” Barbara Jean said. “A thousand a month up until the first of June, when he deposited fifty thousand.”

Derek whistled softly. “Now, why would anyone think a guy like Scudder was worth that kind of money.”

“Sanders suggested that you and Maleah might want to ask him.”

“Tell Sanders that he can count on our doing just that.”

“We’re still working on tracking down Cindy Di Blasi,” Barbara Jean said. “And after you texted us with the info that Browning told Maleah Durham is writing his bio, which implies this guy really could be the real Albert Durham, we had some luck finding him. Or at least more info about him.”

“No address or phone number?”

“It seems Albert Durham is a recluse and guards his privacy. He owns several homes, but keeps on the move a lot, travels abroad, works on extended vacations, that sort of thing. As soon as we come up with any information about where you can find him now, I’ll be in touch. Until then, we’re working under the assumption that the man who visited Browning is the real Durham. The info on the ID he used to enter the prison matches that of the real Durham, at least his physical description and date of birth. And the address is for one of Durham’s homes.”

“Thanks, BJ.”

Barbara Jean laughed when he used the nickname he had given her—BJ. She was a good woman. A kind and caring woman. Sanders was a lucky man.

As soon as he slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket, Maleah snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Damn it, Derek, tell me.”

“Scudder has a new office, a new apartment, and fifty grand in the bank.”

Maleah’s mouth dropped open, and then she smiled. “You can tell me the rest on the way to Macon.” She laid her fork on the table, removed her napkin from her lap, tossed it alongside her half-eaten salad, and slipped off the wooden stool and onto her feet.

Derek eyed the remainder of the delicious ribs, gulped down a swig of iced tea, and knowing better than to suggest they finish their lunch, he motioned to the waitress. When she was within earshot, he said, “We need our check, please.”

Wyman Scudder had served his purpose and had been paid well for his services. Unfortunately, Scudder was a liability now, a loose end that needed to be tied up.

Scudder first; then Cindy Di Blasi.

Albert Durham wasn’t a problem. Even if the Powell Agency could find the reclusive author, there wasn’t a damn thing the man could tell them.

He had known the Powell Agency would eventually get around to interviewing Browning, which would prompt them to check out his recent visitors. However, they had moved a bit faster than he had anticipated. Too bad Scudder wouldn’t get to enjoy his big payoff.

The walk from the Travelodge Suites on Broadway Street took only a few minutes and would have been rather pleasant if not for the rain. When he had left his hotel, the sky had been overcast. He had gone to his car to drop off his jacket and had picked up an umbrella. By the time he reached the corner of Walnut and Third, heavy droplets had begun falling. Now that he had reached the building that housed Wyman Scudder’s new law office, a steady drizzle had set in.

After entering the lobby, he closed his black umbrella and headed straight for the elevators. While he waited for the Up elevator, the Down elevator opened and a man and woman emerged. The couple was so absorbed in their conversation with each other that they barely noticed him. Later on, if asked, they would say they had seen a black-haired man with a neat mustache and Van Dyke, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. And perhaps one of them would remember that he had a large skull tattoo on his left arm.

He had learned long ago that a disguise should be simple and the effect subtle. Sometimes little more than a cap and a pair of glasses were needed to alter his appearance.

Scudder’s office was on the third floor, a corner office that faced the street. The outer door was closed.

He knocked.

No response.

He tried the handle and the door opened to an empty outer office. No furniture. No secretary. Scudder hadn’t had time to acquire either.

“Hello, anybody here?” he called out, wondering if perhaps Scudder had gone home early.

The door leading into the private office opened. A bleary-eyed, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a slight paunch hanging over his belt stood in the doorway and stared at him.

“Who are you?” Wyman asked, his speech slightly slurred.

The idiot was drunk.

“A potential client, Mr. Scudder,” he said using his best good old boy accent.

“Well, come right on in, Mr.—” Wyman squinched his eyes and studied his visitor. “Have we met before?”

“Might have, if you’ve ever been down to Perry. I got a motorcycle repair shop.” He moved toward Wyman, who backed up into his office as his guest approached. “You got a motorcycle, Mr. Scudder?”

A perplexed look crossed Wyman’s face. “No, I don’t have a motorcycle.”

He closed the door behind him. Wyman staggered toward his desk.

“Just how can I be of assistance, Mr.—?”

“Just call me Harold.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out the strong thin strip of nylon cord.

Wyman lost his balance and fell toward his desk, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the edge of the only piece of furniture in the room other than a leather swivel chair.

“Yes, sir, Harold. Tell me why you need a lawyer.”

“I don’t need just any lawyer. I need you.”

Before Scudder had a chance to turn and face him, he moved in for the kill. Quickly. Adeptly.

With the expert ease gained from years of experience, he walked up behind an inebriated Wyman Scudder and brought the cord over his head and across his neck before the unsuspecting fool realized what was happening. He struggled, but he was no match for a stronger, more agile, and sober man.

Halfway between Vidalia and Macon, the bottom fell out, and within minutes, Maleah could barely see the road. The rain came down in thick, heavy sheets, all but obliterating her view through the windshield. With little choice, for safety’s sake, Maleah slowed the SUV to a crawl—twenty-five miles an hour.

“Maybe we should find a place to stop,” Derek said. “At least until the worst passes.”

“I’m okay,” she assured him. “If it gets worse, I’ll exit the interstate.”

When he didn’t respond, Maleah knew what he was thinking. Derek wished he was driving. Being the superior male, he could probably use his x-ray vision to see through the heavy downpour and his innate masculine abilities to maneuver the SUV through floodwaters.

After several minutes, Derek ended the awkward silence. “Do you know what puzzles me?”

“What? That I have managed not to wreck us?”

“Huh?” He laughed. “No. You’re doing a great job. Better than I could do. I hate driving in heavy rain. Makes me nervous.”

Maleah almost took her eyes off the road to glance at Derek, to see if he was mocking her. But she didn’t. He sounded sincere, so she’d take him at his word.

“Okay, tell me what puzzles you.”

“Why would someone hire Wyman Scudder, or any lawyer for that matter, to represent Jerome Browning, a man who confessed to murder and is serving consecutive life sentences?”

“I have no idea. You tell me.”

“Let’s say Albert Durham is our copycat killer. He wanted Browning to reveal all his little secrets so that he, Durham, could duplicate Browning’s MO. Maybe simply telling Browning that he wanted to write the story of his life wasn’t enough incentive for Browning to open up and share all.”

Derek was right. Damn, he was always right! “I see what you’re getting at. Durham promised Browning a new lawyer, maybe made him think Scudder could find grounds to reopen his case, as far fetched as that idea is. And he promised Browning a lady friend.”

“Cindy Di Blasi. What are the odds that Cindy, or whatever her name is, gets paid by the hour?”

“A prostitute? Makes sense.”

“Another thing that puzzles me is, if Durham isn’t the copycat killer, why a writer with Durham’s reputation would get involved with Browning. He’s never chosen a convicted criminal as the subject of one of his biographies. If someone hired him to do it, why would he agree?”

“Maybe he needs the money.”

“Possibly. But he’d have to know he was getting himself mixed up with something illegal.”

“What if he’s being blackmailed,” Maleah said. “Or maybe Durham really is our copycat.”

“Maybe he is. But if he is, why would he leave us a trail leading straight to him?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“We have too many unanswered questions.”

“You’re right. We need answers, so we start with Scudder. We know where to find him. He may be able to tell us something.”

“I figure Scudder will talk for the right amount of money,” Derek told her. “But I’m not sure how much he actually knows.”

“Hopefully the agency will dig up more info on Cindy and Durham and once we’ve questioned Scudder and gotten some answers, we’ll be able to move on pretty quickly to Cindy and Durham.”

“It could take time to track them down, especially if they don’t want to be found.”

Maleah and Derek continued discussing the case, their conversation gradually dwindling down to an occasional comment by the time Maleah exited the interstate. The rain had slacked up to little more than a drizzle, but the pavement was slick and mucky with roadway residue. Muddy water filled the potholes and gushed across low-lying areas in the highway.

Following GPS directions, they watched for Mulberry Street, which crisscrossed with Third Street where Wyman Scudder’s new law office was located.

Maleah noted the congestion ahead, but neither she nor Derek immediately realized that the next street was partially blocked by emergency vehicles, including a fire truck, an ambulance, and several patrol cars. As they drew nearer, she noticed a uniformed officer directing traffic. He stood in front of their destination.

“What the hell’s going on?” Derek studied the situation while Maleah slowed the Equinox to a crawl. “Shit! It looks like something has happened in Scudder’s building.”

“Obviously I can’t park here,” she told him.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Let me out at the next corner,” Derek told her. “You find a place to park while I see what’s going on.”

She hesitated, her competitive instinct interfering with her logical thought process. You and Derek are partners, she reminded herself. You’re playing on the same team. “Yeah, sure.”

Since traffic was pretty much bumper-to-bumper, it took Maleah a few minutes to maneuver the SUV into a position where she could come to a full stop. Without hesitation, Derek opened the door and jumped out and onto the street. Once the door slammed, Maleah moved forward and began her search for a parking place.

Five minutes later, out of sorts and perspiring enough to dampen her underwear, Maleah made it back to the cordoned-off area swarming with law enforcement and emergency personnel. She searched the crowd of curious onlookers for any sign of Derek, but didn’t see him. Just as she stood on tiptoe and strained her neck in the hopes of gaining a better view, Derek came up alongside her.

“Looking for me?”

She released a startled gasp, but quickly recovered. “Damn it, I’m going to put a cow bell around your neck.”

“Sorry.”

She might have believed him if he hadn’t chuckled softly.

“Well, what did you find out about all the hullabaloo going on?” she asked.

“A body was found on the third floor of that building.” Derek pointed to the four-story office building in front of them.

“Don’t tell me—”

The news crews in the crowd rushed forward as the ME’s staff came out of the building carrying a body bag laid out on a stretcher. Questions zipped through the air like mosquitoes on a hot, humid summertime night as the reporters questioned officials on the scene. Their questions went unanswered as the officials ignored them.

“From what I’ve been able to find out, a young woman who had an afternoon interview for a position as a secretary for a lawyer in the building got quite a shock when she showed up for her appointment,” Derek said. “She found her potential employer’s body.”

“It’s Scudder, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t get anybody to verify the victim’s name, but when I asked if the dead man was Wyman Scudder, nobody said it wasn’t. So, yes, I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s Scudder.”