Shakedown

Chapter Forty-one

Jill Rice came home at four-thirty. I’d been waiting in front of her house for an hour, ignoring the neighbors who’d slowed down as they passed me by. She slowed down as well, giving me a curdled look as she pulled into the driveway. I followed her into the garage and opened her car door.

“We need to talk.”

Her makeup was intact, her tennis clothes unwrinkled and unstained by sweat. Her perfume was mixed with wine. My guess was that she’d spent her tennis game gossiping at the net and drinking in the clubhouse.

She stayed in the car. “What about, Detective Funkhouser?”

“My name, for starters. It’s Jack Davis. I’m an FBI agent.”

“But you said you were a policeman from Kansas City, Kansas.”

“It’s a long story that will be easier to tell inside.”

She drew her lips back. “I want to see some ID.”

I knew she would. All I had was my driver’s license and a business card I handed to her.

“You can print business cards at Kinko’s. I want to see your badge or I’m calling the police.” She reached for her cell phone.

“I am an FBI agent, Mrs. Rice. When we’re finished talking, you can call my office and they’ll tell you. I’m on leave, so I don’t have my FBI credentials.”

She edged back toward the center console on the front seat of her car. “I don’t believe you. Why should I?”

I reached toward her, extending my hand. “Please, Mrs. Rice. I don’t want to make this any harder than it is.”

She cringed and?ipped open her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”

“Let me talk to you first. I’m not going to hurt you. Inside will be better.”

She hesitated with the phone. “Not until you tell me what this is about.”

“It’s about your ex-husband.”

“What about him? I’ve already answered your questions about him.”

“There’s been a new development,” I said.

“What? Did he screw somebody else?”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s dead. He hanged himself last night. I didn’t know that when I was here this morning. The prison probably won’t notify you since ex-spouses aren’t considered next of kin. I didn’t want you to find out what had happened watching TV or reading the newspaper. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Rice looked at me, looked away, held herself, and shuddered. Her cell phone fell from her hand into her lap. She didn’t speak, cry, or moan. She was as silent as if she’d been struck dumb, looking at me again, finding her voice.

“Thomas would never kill himself. There must be some mistake.”

“I wish there were. Let’s go inside. You can call the prison. Ask for the warden. He’ll tell you.”

I extended my hand again. This time she took it. Her hand was cool and limp. She walked slowly to the door, slipped the key in, turned the lock, punched in the code that turned off the alarm, and led me into the kitchen.

Copper pots hung in a rectangle above a black marble island. Hardwood?oors gleamed. The light was soft, bright, and indirect. The?owers were freshly cut.

The light on her phone was blinking, the digital readout saying she had one new message. She pushed the button to play the message. It was from the prison, a woman identifying herself as the warden’s secretary asking her to call as soon as possible. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. She fumbled for paper and pen, trying to write the number down, but the message ended before she could.

She turned to me. “I didn’t get all of it.”

I replayed the message, writing the number down. I dialed and handed her the phone.

“This is Jill Rice,” she said to the secretary. “You left me a message.”

She waited a moment and then identified herself again.

“Yes, Warden. This is Jill Rice. My husband is Thomas Rice,” she said, retaking her vows.

She listened, slumping against the counter before sliding onto a kitchen chair.

“Thank you. He was a good man. Things just got away from him at the end,” she said.

I took the phone, hanging it up for her.

She wiped the corners of her eyes. “The warden said that Thomas listed me as next of kin when he first arrived at the prison. They told him that an ex-spouse didn’t qualify. He said he didn’t care. He said that I’d always be his wife.”