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“Crystal,” Hoyt said.
* * *
Hoyt’s return only a few hours later didn’t sit well with Chad. He motioned the man into the chair across from his desk. Hoyt sat, and when he didn’t say anything, Chad said, “Well?”
“Whitman’s dead,” Hoyt said.
Relief swept through Chad. He leaned back in his chair. “Thank Christ. Okay, we get Edwards and Simpson started on a new batch of juice, and I’ll -”
“It wasn’t us,” Hoyt said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we didn’t fucking clean him. He died of a heart attack, I think.”
Unease slithered down Chad’s spine. “Do you have the juice formula or not, Hoyt?”
“No,” Hoyt said.
“Fuck,” Chad said. “Tell me what happened.”
“We went to his place first. His neighbour was outside watering her flowers. I sent Jacobs in to talk to her. You know the ladies can’t fucking resist him.”
Chad waved his hand impatiently. “What then?”
“The neighbour saw Whitman leaving a couple of hours earlier. Said he looked like he was in a hurry. He had a suitcase and a package.”
“What kind of package?” Chad said.
“A box. The neighbour said he was on his way to mail it.”
“How did she know that?”
Hoyt shrugged. “I guess Whitman dropped it as he headed toward the car. She picked it up and saw a mailing address on it.”
Chad sat forward. “Did she remember who it was addressed to?”
“Nah. Anyway, Whitman told her he was going on vacation for a few weeks. Said he was visiting friends upstate. The neighbour told Jacobs that he didn’t look so hot, though. Pale and sweaty, and he looked scared, she said.”
“So, we don’t actually know if he mailed the box,” Chad said.
Hoyt snorted impatiently. “Am I telling the fucking story or not, Chad?”
Chad seriously considered pulling his gun from his desk and putting a bullet between Hoyt’s eyes. Instead, he gave his head of security a thin smile. “By all means, finish your fucking story, Hoyt.”
“We didn’t know for sure he went to the post office, but we figured it couldn’t hurt to check. We went to the post office closest to his house.”
“And?” Chad said.
Hoyt made a face. “The coroner was just loading Whitman’s body to take him to the morgue. We talked to a few of the lookie-loos, and they all said the same thing. Whitman came out of the post office, pale and sweaty and rubbing his chest. He climbed into his car, drove about twenty feet, and rammed the car into a tree. He most likely had a heart attack while driving.”
“Shit,” Chad said. “Did you get the parcel from the post office?”
“No.”
“What the fuck, Hoyt?”
“There were police in the post office, taking statements,” Hoyt said. “I couldn’t exactly waltz in there and bribe the post office for the package. The fucking truck showed up while we waited for the police to leave, and they loaded the packages for the day. Whatever Whitman sent is gone.”
