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Things couldn’t have worked out better. Strickland had taken care of Moody, and the police had taken care of Strickland. He was under lock and key, ranting and raving like a lunatic. The things he’d been quoted in the newspaper as saying—such as asking for Susan Lyston’s panties back—made him sound like a total whack job.
He also continued to issue threats of vengeance against Bellamy Price, Denton Carter, and just about everybody else on the planet. Nobody would listen to a madman’s allegations against a former assistant district attorney, upholder of law and jus
tice.
Thinking quickly, Rupe had preempted any questions that might arise about the telephone calls to and from him on Ray Strickland’s cell phone, which would have been noticed. He’d admitted to having helped support Ray, which now appeared to have been an act of Christian charity rather than a means of maintaining control over a potential threat.
And that crap about a copy of the case file? Moody hadn’t died with it on him, and it hadn’t been found in his car. Rupe figured Bellamy Price had been bluffing about its existence.
Rupe couldn’t ask for things to be any tidier. Moody, gone. Strickland, as good as. Bellamy Price and her book made to look incredible by Olivia Lyston’s staggering deathbed confession.
To capitalize on the hot news story, he’d called his own press conference to clear up any questions regarding his relationship with Ray Strickland, to express his regret over the grisly death of Dale Moody, a police officer for whom he had the fondest memories and utmost regard, and to convey his sympathies once again to the Lyston family, to whom the fates had been so grossly unkind.
He laid it on thick and the reporters were eating it up.
He was just about to close when Van Durbin and his photographer walked into the showroom.
National coverage! he thought.
The columnist gave him a jaunty little wave. While Rupe was answering the last question posed to him, the two elbowed their way forward until they were standing directly in front of Rupe. When Rupe stopped speaking, Van Durbin raised his hand.
“Ah, I see our friend from EyeSpy has joined us. Mr. Van Durbin, you have a question for me?” He flashed a smile toward the cameraman, who was rapidly taking shots of him.
“No question. I already have all the answers. In a signed confession Dale Moody left with Bellamy Price.”
Rupe’s bowels loosened. But he blustered and flashed another smile. “Moody was a delusional drunkard. So whatever he said—”
“What he said was that you and he sent Allen Strickland to prison for killing Susan Lyston, knowing full well that he hadn’t committed the crime. You’re accountable for his death, as well as for Moody’s. Your bad, Rupe.”
“You print that and I swear—”
But Van Durbin was looking at a point behind him.
He spun around and found himself face-to-face with two grim-faced men. “Who’re you?” he demanded.
“I’m Detective Abbott. I spoke to you yesterday on the phone when you reported that Dale Moody had been killed. This is my partner, Detective Nagle. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Collier.” Then, after a beat, “You have the right to remain silent.”
Nagle stepped behind Rupe and fastened a pair of plastic restraints on his wrists.
Van Durbin’s photographer got some great shots.
Epilogue
One week later
“I need a pilot.”
“Yeah? Happens I’m a pilot.”
“I hear you’re good.”
“You heard right. Where do you need to go?”
“Anywhere.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Can we talk about it?”
