Holt apprehensively waited for Ralph to come by his office. At 4:30 p.m. he received a text message from the DA, who’d left without Holt knowing it:
At Quail Ridge. Just birdied number 9. Have good news for you. What time will you be at the office in the morning?
Holt knew that Ralph preferred early meetings even if neither of them needed to be in court.
8:00 a.m. Okay? Congrats on the birdie.
Yes.
The ninth hole on the Quail Ridge golf course was a short par four that yielded a lot of birdies so golfers would be in a good mood when taking a midround break in the clubhouse. For Ralph, any birdie involved a healthy dose of fortuitous ball striking.
With Ralph on the golf course, Holt decided asking for forgiveness was better than waiting for permission. He called the phone number for Tony McDermott. A woman answered. According to the database, McDermott hadn’t remarried.
“Tony McDermott, please,” Holt said.
“Daddy!” the woman called out. “Telephone!”
Holt checked his info sheet. McDermott had two daughters, both of whom were in their thirties.
“McDermott here,” said a male voice that still had a police-beat sound to it.
“This is Holt Douglas. I’m an assistant district attorney in Ashley County, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about a case you investigated when you were with the sheriff’s department a few years ago.”
“Douglas?”
“Yes. I came to town after you left.”
“How do I know you’re really with the DA’s office?”
It wasn’t a question Holt had anticipated. “Uh, what sort of proof do you need?”
“Just a second,” McDermott said. “Something I can verify that’s not on the county website I just pulled up.”
“Do you see my picture?” Holt asked.
“Tall guy with curly brown hair. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.” Holt racked his brain for a credible piece of additional information. “How about this? For years the busiest defense lawyer in this circuit has been Dirk Rangel. When he’s talking to Judge Lomax he likes to hold out his hand like he’s posing for a Michelangelo statue.”
McDermott laughed. “I haven’t thought about Rangel since I left Paxton. He can be an arrogant jerk, especially when he has something to work with on a case.”
“He recently beat me on a motion to suppress in a drug case,” Holt replied. “It stung, but I had a big evidentiary problem caused by the detective who made the arrest.”
“Who was that?”
Holt immediately regretted bringing up the Morton case because it would require him to criticize a law enforcement officer, but he knew he had to answer. McDermott didn’t seem like the type who would accept a diversion.
“Butch Clovis.”
Holt could hear McDermott grunt. “I’m not surprised. What’s on your mind?”
“Rex Meredith’s death.”
The phone was silent for a moment.
“Go ahead,” McDermott said.
“I obtained a copy of the file at the sheriff’s office. It contains a report from Clovis concluding that Meredith committed suicide. You’re listed as the other detective who worked the case, but there isn’t a report from you. Did you prepare one?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Here with me.”
Holt stopped breathing for a second. “Could I ask you a few questions about it?”
“Yeah. I’ll be right back.”
While McDermott was away from the phone, Holt chided himself for not being better prepared for the call. He quickly jotted down several more questions.
“I’m back,” McDermott said.
Holt glanced down at his legal pad. “Why wasn’t your report in the sheriff’s department file?”
“Because they didn’t want a minority opinion. Clovis and Sheriff Blackstone told me to shred it, but I didn’t. Their primary concern was that my report might get out to the press and cause a stink. I wasn’t interested in that. I just wanted to do my job.”
“Did Ralph Granger know about your report?”
“I can’t say. We never discussed it. He worked directly with Blackstone on that case. Clovis knew I had questions, but he and Blackstone were against me so I let it go. Did you listen to the 911 call from Meredith’s son-in-law?”
“No, all I had was a transcript, but it didn’t read like he was upset.”
“That’s what my notes say, too. I wanted to spend some time with Stevens and probe from different angles to see if his story held up under pressure, but I wasn’t given the chance to do it.”
“What would you have asked him?”
“About the timeline of events on the evening of Meredith’s death. Who, what, when, where questions with Stevens, his wife, who was Meredith’s stepdaughter, and the caretaker who lived on the property.”
“The caretaker was there the night of Meredith’s death?”
“Yeah, the guy with the speech impediment. I didn’t get a chance to interview him, either. Clovis talked to him and told me he didn’t have anything to add. It was the same with the stepdaughter. According to Clovis, they all came into the room about the same time and found Meredith lying on the floor. He’d been shot at close range in the chest. However, I never got a clear answer as to how each person came to be in the house and then ended up together when the body was found.”
“Is there a summary of what Clovis claims the caretaker said?”
“Nothing except that he confirmed Stevens’s story. Of course, what bothered me the most were the questions about the gun.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I thought Clovis included it in his report, but maybe he didn’t. The fingerprints on the weapon were a mess, which made me think more than one person in the study may have handled it. Greg Stevens told Clovis that Meredith was still alive when they found him, and he took the gun from the old man’s hand so he couldn’t get off another shot.”
“He didn’t shoot himself in the heart?”
“Close to it, but no. It tore up his chest enough that he didn’t make it to the hospital.”
“What about the fingerprints?”
“In addition to Stevens messing with the gun, the medics got there and disturbed everything while trying to keep Meredith alive. Before I got shut down by Blackstone, I got a fingerprint card from Greg Stevens and one from Meredith’s corpse at the hospital morgue and then supervised the dusting of the gun myself.”
“Were there any identifiable prints?”
“None that we could lift. Everything was smudged and partial and there were gaps, as if someone tried to wipe the gun clean and did a sloppy job. One thing particularly stuck out. The trigger was completely spotless, nothing on it. Nobody claimed Meredith was wearing gloves when he shot himself. You wouldn’t expect to find a full print on the trigger, but it should have something. I would have dug into that if I’d been given the chance. The other issue related to the shot fired prior to the one that hit Meredith in the chest.”
Holt sat bolt upright in his chair. “That wasn’t in Clovis’s report.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen better investigations of the theft of a carton of cigarettes at a convenience store. Anyway, there was a hole in a painting on the wall in the room where they found the body.”
“Where was the painting hanging?”
“Did you see the diagram of the room with the location of the body?”
“Yes.”
“The painting was across the room. There were two entrances to the study: one from the foyer, another from a hallway that led to the kitchen. The bullet hit the painting in the upper-right corner, pierced the wall, and ended up in the foyer. I found the remains of the slug.”
“Where is the bullet now?”
“If they haven’t thrown it away, it should be in storage at the sheriff’s department, but I’m not sure it can reveal anything.”
“What was your explanation for the gunshot?”
“The most obvious conclusion was that Meredith shot at something or someone. It could have been an accidental discharge of the weapon prior to the bullet he put in his chest. Or it may have been something else.”
“Did any of the people in the house hear two shots?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Stevens and the caretaker admitted hearing one shot. They all came running into the study and found Meredith on the floor. I found that very strange.”
“Why?”
“Think about it. If you’re a rich person, and there’s a gunshot in the house, the first thing you consider is a break-in, isn’t it? Have you met Greg Stevens?”
“Yes.”
“Does he seem like the kind of guy itching to wrestle a thief to the floor and make a citizen’s arrest? And would most husbands bring their wives along to see what’s going on if a gun has been fired? Wouldn’t the first call have been to 911 to get the police on the scene as soon as possible? That’s some of the stuff I wanted to explore. Most fabricated stories aren’t detailed enough to stand up under prolonged questioning. Eventually, the person who’s lying trips up in a small way that turns into a bigger discrepancy. I’ve been around long enough to know that all investigations are not created equal, but the way this one was rammed through bugged me then, and it bothers me now.”
Listening to McDermott strengthened Holt’s resolve to continue to dig until he uncovered the truth. “What do you believe happened?”
“I don’t know and hate to assume anything until it’s proven.”
McDermott covered the phone receiver with his hand and said something Holt couldn’t hear.
“Who’s working with you?” McDermott asked when he returned to the call.
“Uh, a low-level contact at the sheriff’s department is feeding me a little bit of information on the side.”
“I get it,” McDermott said. “You’re going lone ranger on this one, trying to make a name for yourself as a hotshot prosecutor who goes up against the local power structure.”
“Not really. The DA’s file ended up on my desk by mistake a couple of weeks ago, and I immediately saw how little was done. A man’s death deserves more than what I read on a few sheets of paper, so I decided to do a little digging on my own. You’ve told me a lot more than I knew before.”
“Are you going to tell Ralph Granger about our conversation?”
“If it’s okay with you.”
McDermott gave a short laugh. “I never really fit in down there, and nobody can do anything to me now. I don’t care what you say to Granger. He’s a political animal, not a professional prosecutor.”
It was a crisp, biting, and accurate summary. Holt couldn’t disagree. He looked down at his notes. There were no more questions, but he knew he’d have a bunch after he digested what the former detective had told him.
“Can I call you back if I need to?”
“Yeah, but I work by the hour now. If you need an expert witness, it won’t be a freebie. This conversation was on the house. The next one won’t be.”
“Would you send me a copy of your report?”
McDermott was silent for a moment. “Only if you promise to keep it confidential until you go public with this thing. And that means an indictment. Otherwise it stays buried. I don’t want to get sued for slander.”
Holt’s hands suddenly felt clammy. Until his conversation with McDermott, there had been an academic quality to the investigation. Now it was beginning to feel real.
“Agreed. I don’t want it coming to the office. One of the staff might open it.”
Holt gave McDermott his home address.
“Could you send it overnight?” Holt asked.
“Yeah, if you reimburse the cost.”
“Sure.”
“And let me know what happens with your investigation,” the former detective said, “even if you drop it.”
“Will do.”
After work, Holt took Henry out for a walk in the direction of Magnolia Avenue. It was a pleasant evening. He let Henry stop to explore smells that caught the attention of the dog’s sensitive nose. When they reached the Meredith mansion, Holt saw an expensive car parked in the driveway. Standing beside the car and talking to the caretaker was Valerie Stevens. The Meredith heiress was wearing a yellow summer dress. Prancing around at her feet was a rambunctious Chihuahua. Holt stopped as if admiring the house. Valerie and the caretaker didn’t notice him. As Holt watched, Valerie handed an envelope to the caretaker, who touched the bill of his cap in a sign of respect. Holt continued down the street. When he reached the corner, he turned around and retraced his steps. As he approached the Meredith house, a figure was coming toward him on the sidewalk.
It was Valerie Stevens.
The Chihuahua was on a slender leash. Holt heard a growl rumble up in Henry’s throat. As they came closer together, Holt pulled back on Henry’s leash until the dog was rubbing against Holt’s leg. When they were about ten feet from each other, Valerie made eye contact with Holt and smiled.
“That’s a handsome Jack Russell,” she said. “I bet he loves going for walks.”
“Yes, there’s no limit to his energy,” Holt said as he stopped.
Valerie picked up her wiggling Chihuahua in her arms. Then, to Holt’s horror, she leaned over and stretched out her hand toward Henry’s mouth.
“No!” Holt called out.
But it was too late. Valerie Stevens was already stroking Henry under the chin. The dog closed his eyes and seemed to purr.
“That’s incredible,” Holt said. “Henry usually bites first and asks questions later.”
“He told me it would be okay when I looked in his eyes,” Valerie said as she stood up. “I’m Valerie Stevens.”
Holt introduced himself. Valerie eyed him for a moment.
“The charity auction,” she said. “You were there.”
“Yes, and I saw your husband the other day at the office. He was meeting with Ralph Granger.”
“Why was he there?”
Holt hadn’t considered the possibility that Stevens’s wife might not know about his political activities. But then, people with a lot of money didn’t have the time to keep track of every dollar.
“He’s on Ralph Granger’s reelection committee. I hope Mr. Stevens won’t get in trouble at home for me telling you.”
“No,” Valerie said and dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “He does a lot I don’t know about.”
The Chihuahua yelped sharply.
“What’s your dog’s name?” Holt asked.
“Peps.” She stroked the tiny dog’s head. “I’ve had Chihuahuas for years and years. Tell me about Henry.”
“He’s my first dog since I left home. I rented a house on Montgomery Street with a big fenced-in backyard just so I could get a dog.”
“I like your priorities.” Valerie smiled again. “Is Henry friendlier with dogs than he is with people?”
“Not really. Let me introduce them and see how it goes.”
Holt picked up Henry and held him close enough to Peps that the two dogs could touch noses. Peps trembled with a mixture of excitement and fear. Henry, perhaps after satisfying himself that Peps wasn’t a new form of squirrel, seemed disinterested.
“I think it will be okay,” Holt said. “But I’ll keep a tight rein on Henry.”
Valerie lowered Peps to the ground, and the Chihuahua showed unmistakable signs of submission. Henry majestically accepted the little dog’s homage. Valerie laughed.
“It seems Henry likes both the owner and the dog,” Holt said.
“Most dogs can sense a friend when they meet one. I’m around a lot of them. At least once a week I go to the rescue facility on Nelson Street.”
Holt had passed by the building, which was much nicer than expected for a town the size of Paxton. He guessed Valerie Stevens had a lot to do with that.
“We can’t save every animal,” Valerie continued, “but matching the right one with a loving family is very satisfying.”
“I prosecuted a cruelty to animal case last year,” Holt said. “The dogs ended up at that shelter.”
“Yes,” Valerie responded sadly. “I remember but didn’t know you were involved. There were four dogs. We only placed one of them, a six-month-old puppy. The others were older and so traumatized we couldn’t socialize them enough to release them. They had to be put down.”
“The man involved went to jail.”
“For six months with two years on probation.” Valerie looked into Holt’s eyes. “Thanks for making sure he was punished. A lot of people wouldn’t think mistreating dogs is worth taking seriously.”
“That’s my job,” Holt replied. “To prosecute the guilty.”