Shakedown

Chapter Forty-two

Death doesn’t settle easily or quickly. I’d learned from delivering news of a loved one’s death that I couldn’t instantly turn a shattered survivor into a good witness. Some people fall apart. Others are brave in public and grieve in private. Others refuse to mourn. They accept their loss as the penalty for their sins or they assign it to God’s master plan, something beyond their understanding.

Jill Rice, sitting at her kitchen table in her designer tennis set with pinot noir on her breath, was suffering the death of her husband. Her shoulders were slumped, her chin hung toward her chest. Minutes ago, she had been harsh and unforgiving toward him. It was too soon to tell whether she felt worse for him or for herself.

I wouldn’t tell her that he’d brought this on himself. I wouldn’t tell her what someone had told me when Kevin died, that he was in a better place. I wouldn’t try to justify Thomas Rice’s death or her suffering because there was no justification for such things. No one could justify Kevin’s death to me because that would have somehow made it okay. And if we can justify the death of an innocent child, we can justify anything.

So I joined Jill Rice at her table and told her again that I was sorry for her loss. I asked her if I could get her a glass of water or anything else and didn’t push when she said no. Then I waited, though I didn’t have the time.

After a while she lifted her head in my direction. “What do you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea what could have led to your husband’s death?”

“You mean do I know why he killed himself?”

“If that’s what happened.”

She straightened, a new shock wave rippling through her face. “What are you saying?”

“Did the warden tell you whether Thomas left a note?”

“I was afraid to ask, but he said they didn’t find one.”

“Most people who commit suicide do it in private. If they’ve really made up their minds to kill themselves, they don’t want someone talking them out of it. If you’re in prison, you do it in your cell when your cellmate isn’t there, not the laundry.

“What are you saying? That Thomas didn’t kill himself? That he was murdered?”

“I don’t know. When I saw him yesterday he was frightened of something and I think it had to do with the sale of this house. He wouldn’t say what it was, only that I couldn’t help him.”

“All I know about the sale of the house is what he told me.”

“Colby Hudson claims that you called the FBI office not long ago asking if anyone would be interested in buying your husband’s car at a great price and that he just happened to take the call. When he bought the car, he said that you offered to also sell him the house for a lot less than it was worth. When he asked you why, he says you told him that you were doing it to get even with your husband. Is any of that true?”

“Not a word of it. I told you. Thomas set the whole thing up before he went to prison. Did Colby Hudson have something to do with my husband’s death?”

“Five people were killed the other night in a drug house in Kansas City, Kansas. Two nights ago, another drug dealer was shot to death in the Argentine rail yard. Colby Hudson was working on both of those cases. Last night, your husband either committed suicide or was murdered. Colby was connected to your husband. I don’t know how or why, but he is the only common link to all of the victims.”

“What does he have to say about all of this?”

“When we find him, we’ll ask him.”

“I see.”

Rice rose from the kitchen table and walked into the den. Bookcases lined one wall, although there were more crystal figurines, lacquered boxes, and other knickknacks than there were books. Photographs framed in silver were interspersed among the other decorator-inspired keepsakes. There was one of an older couple, the woman faintly resembling Jill, another of four small children who I guessed to be nieces and nephews, and others of people whose connection to her I could only speculate about.

She reached for the top shelf, pulling down a photograph that had been pushed to the back where it was barely visible. She brushed the dust from the glass and rubbed the silver frame with the hem of her skirt, holding it up long enough for me to catch a glimpse of her wearing a wedding gown and Thomas Rice in a tuxedo before she pressed it against her chest and turned toward me.

“When we arrested your husband, I’m sure our agents confiscated all of his financial records.”

“Boxes of them and the computers he had at the office and at home.”

“Did we ever give any of those records back to you?”

She cocked her head, surprised at the question. “As a matter of fact, yes. My accountant couldn’t prepare my tax return without them. He told the U.S. Attorney’s office what records he needed and they sent him the information. He put it all on his computer and e-mailed it to me. He had to get an extension so I could file my return after April 15th. Everything was finally taken care of about a month ago.”

“Did you keep the e-mail with the records?”

“I didn’t keep the e-mail, but I did download the records to my computer.”

I pulled the?ash bar Joy had given me from my pocket. “May I copy those records?”

She pulled her shoulders in close, apprehensive again. “Why? If you’re an FBI agent, you should be able to get them from the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“Mrs. Rice, I’m not officially assigned to this case. In fact, I’m not officially assigned to anything right now. I’m looking into this on my own.”

“Why aren’t you officially assigned to anything right now?”

“I’m on medical leave.”

I started shaking, not as bad as before, more like I’d just put a quarter in a vibrating bed in a motel that rented rooms by the hour. I closed my eyes, opening them when I’d gotten my money’s worth.

Her eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed. “What makes you do that?”

“I don’t know, but until I do and can make it stop, I’m not officially assigned to anything.”

“Then why are you running around pretending to be a police detective and asking me all these questions?”

“Colby Hudson brought someone to see your house the other night. Were you here?”

“Yes. He brought a nice-looking young woman. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but he was acting like the house was as much for her as it was for him.”

“Did he introduce her to you?”

“I’m sure he did, but to tell you the truth, I’m terrible with names.”

“Her name is Wendy Davis. She’s my daughter and she’s missing. I’m trying to find her.”

Rice looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time and then returned the photograph to its spot, leaving it near the edge of the shelf where she could see it.

“My computer is downstairs.”