Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(49)

“Did he ever say why or what he had done that might make him so curious about prison life?”

“Nope. He never said anything at all about that. It was just . . . weird that Andy would take so much interest in my predicament.” Jack laughed and took a quick drag on the cigarette. “I mean, I’d known Andy for thirty years. He was a hard-ass like me. Cared first and foremost about his business. About making money. When we were together, we talked business, and that’s the way we both liked it. After the first visit about freight hauler recommendations, there was no reason for him to come see me. It wasn’t in his interests to visit me and ask a bunch of questions about prison life unless . . .”

“Unless he was worried about ending up in the same place,” Tom offered.

Jack nodded. “Nothing else makes sense.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about his days as the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the KKK?”

Jack shook his head. “Never. I think that was a part of Andy’s life that he’d just as soon forget. But I knew about it.”

“Did he mention anything to you about the killing of a black man named Franklin Roosevelt Haynes in 1966?”

Jack looked down at the table. “Nothing specific.” Then, looking up, he squinted at Tom. “I do remember him saying on one of his visits that ‘your bad decisions in life have a way of catching up to you.’” Jack laughed. “Course I knew all about that, and I agreed with him.”

“To your knowledge, did Andy know JimBone Wheeler?” Tom asked.

Jack smiled, his eyes mean. “Andy knew everyone.”

Tom glared back at him once more, fed up with Jack’s song and dance. “We are really not in the mood to play, Mr. Willistone.”

“I don’t give a shit about your mood, McMurtrie. And let me tell you something, you sumbitch. When I get out of this hellhole, I am going to make it all back. Every last cent. You didn’t break Jack Willistone. You just slowed me down a little.”

“And when you get out of here, you sumbitch, don’t you think JimBone is going to come looking for his payday?” Tom asked, his voice low. “How much did he charge you to trip Mule Morris’s brakes? How about trying to kill Dawn Murphy? Did he do that for free, or did he charge you a fee?” Tom pulled himself up from the wheelchair and leaned his hands on the table, bringing his face to within an inch of Willistone’s. He could smell the inmate’s stale scent. “I’m betting he charged you, and I’m also betting that your financial difficulties have kept you from paying.” Tom lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m betting that the first person you see when you get out of this ‘hellhole’”—Tom made the quotation symbol with his fingers—“is going to be JimBone, and I bet you’re going to look a hell of a lot worse than me when he’s through with you.”

“Now that’s enough,” Greg Zorn said, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder and pointing at Tom. “Prof. McMurtrie, please sit down and stop harassing my client.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Greg,” Powell said, his eyes on Jack. “Mr. Willistone, we think it is in your best interests to cooperate,” Powell said, still sitting in his chair, his voice matter-of-fact.

Jack Willistone slowly rose from his seat. He smiled, then chuckled. “You boys think you’re so goddamned smart.” He paused, turning to Tom, the smile gone. “You aren’t paying attention, old man. The answers you want are right under your nose. You’re just not looking.” He sighed. “I have to say I’m disappointed in you, McMurtrie. Fucking Yoda, letting a storm trooper like Bone get the best of you.”

“Mr. Willistone—” Powell started.

“Get me out of here, Zorn,” Jack interrupted. “These turds have upset my stomach.”

As Zorn stood to usher Jack from the conference room, Tom held up his hand. “Not yet, Jack. Just a couple more questions. We need to finish going through that list.” Tom pointed at the visitor log on the table.

“My client is done here, Mr.—”

“We’ll be quick, Greg,” Tom interrupted. “Now, the visitor log lists a grand total of five people who have come to see you since you were incarcerated.”

“What can I say?” Jack said, grunting. “I’m a popular guy.”

“Your wife, Barbara, son, Barton, Larry Tucker, Andy Walton, and . . . one name we didn’t recognize.”

Jack shrugged. “Just spit it out, McMurtrie.”

Tom reached across the table and flipped the log to the page he was looking for. Holding his finger on the name, Tom eyed Jack Willistone. “On June 10, 2011 a lady came to you see around 10:30 in the morning. Check-in time is 10:32. Checkout time is 10:45.” Tom tapped the times with his finger. “See that?”

“I do.”

“It’s right under your nose, isn’t it?” Tom said, smiling at Jack.

“Strong in the Force, are you,” Jack said.

“Who is she?” Powell asked. Then, stealing a glance at Tom, who nodded, Powell leaned across the table and put his finger on the highlighted name: “Who is Martha Booher?”





33


The Boathouse is an oyster bar that sits on Destin Harbor. As he and Burns waited for a table on the wooden deck outside the establishment, Rick gazed across the water to Holiday Isle, which was the last stretch of beach before the bridge to Okaloosa Island. Beautiful, he thought, watching a yacht slowly make its way through the harbor to the gap that led to the Gulf of Mexico.