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I woke up as soon as I felt Jack leave the bed. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.
“I can’t turn off my mind,” he whispered. “I need to work. Try to go back to sleep.”
I laughed and lifted my head to look at the clock. It was barely after midnight. “Yeah, that’s going to happen. I’ll come down with you. And I’ll even make the coffee.”
Jack winced as he pulled on a pair of old sweatpants and a white t-shirt. “There’s no need to make threats. I’ll make the coffee. But you should probably put some clothes on so we don’t get distracted on the stairs again.”
The sheet was draped down to my waist, and he stopped what he was doing to skim over my body with that hot stare.
“Stairs are dangerous places,” I said, stretching, just because I loved the idea that I could tempt him. I’d never been that kind of woman. But I was with him because he loved me.
“I’m going now,” he said, though he didn’t move from his spot. “And you’re going to put on clothes. Though maybe not too many because you never know when I might become inspired.” And then he ran out the door and downstairs.
I laughed and shuffled into the bathroom so I could wash my face and wake up a little. An odd thing to say, considering seventy-two hours before, I’d been able to do nothingbutstay awake.
I borrowed Jack’s old Giants jersey, and I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. The smell of coffee greeted me as I made my way down the stairs and into his office. He stood in front of his white boards that seemed to be growing more and more crowded. My coffee cup sat on the end table by the couch, so I grabbed it and took a seat.
“What’s going on, Jack? You think of something else?”
“The Vances are bothering me. I called Carver and told him to start sending me everything he had specifically on William Vance. His alibi is the shakiest for the Daniel Oglesby’s murder. He didn’t have a wife or lover at home to confirm he’d been in bed all night. He was reported to be the doctor on call at the hospital during the time of George’s murder, but it would be easy enough to slip out of the hospital if he wanted to. He spent another night alone in bed on Saturday night and slept late Sunday morning when Doc Randall was shot, so yeah—I’m awfully curious about William Vance.”
I noticed then that Jack’s laptop was open and different folders were popping up as they downloaded from Carver’s computer at the B&B.
“Let’s take out the possibility that Daniel Oglesby was killed because he was gay. That there was no hate crime involved. What are we left with?”
“He saw something he shouldn’t have,” I said automatically.
“Bingo.” Jack paced in front of his board and took down everything that had to do with the Aryan Nation, and all those we thought could be possible members. “So Daniel Oglesby jogs like clockwork every morning and happens to see the white Cadillac transferring whatever it was they were transferring into the green hatchback Miss Pilcher told us about. What are our connections?”
He tacked up Julie Lawrence’s crime scene photo and Ronnie Campbell’s mug shot. “Julie is the only one killed exactly the same way, and Ronnie was connected through her. No one else has the brand. So what was in that car?”
“Meth or money,” I said, my eyes widening as the pieces all fell into place. “Holy shit, George was running drugs?”
“It’s the perfect setup. Whoever’s cooking it puts the finished product in a broken down car. Someone picks up the product—in this case the white Cadillac—and then George comes along and collects the money and the car when he tows it back to his garage.”
“But why is George dead?” I asked, confused.
“Because George wasn’t important. He wasn’t the one in charge, even though the garage was his. You said when you talked to him that morning that he kept sayingthey, as if he wasn’t a part of it. But he also told you they’d use you until they lost interest. Once you’re a member of the organization, it’s hard to get out.”
“George was a member of the Aryan Nation. He had the mark to prove it.” I looked at the photograph I’d found in George’s body. “The men in this photograph. Maybe that’s what he was trying to tell us. Maybe they’re all members.”
“Or former members, which means they’re in just as much danger as George was. No wonder Mayor Glass went out of town.”
“So George joined up, but then decided it wasn’t for him, so he tried to get out. But by then it was too late. I never thought about it before, but how did George get the start up money for that garage?”
“Excellent question, my dear Watson. Always follow the money.” Jack tapped a few keys on his computer and what looked like a scanned document popped up. “Remind me to give Carver a raise,” he said.
“You could probably just pay him in beer.”
“You read people well, love. Here it is.” He turned the screen so I could read.
“A small business loan was granted to George Murphy twelve years ago. He would have been what, twenty?” I asked. “No bank in their right mind would loan that much money to a twenty-year old.”
“Keep reading,” Jack said.
“Blah, blah, blah, a bunch of boring legal speak I don’t understand,” I said, reading down the page. “Signed on this day, March 11th, by United Trust bank president, Frank Greenbaum.” And then I remembered Lewis telling us about the false bank account under Frank’s name, and I looked once more at the photograph I’d found inside George. “Okay. That makes more sense now.”
“At least we don’t have to be worried about Dickie being involved,” Jack said.
