Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(56)

The phone in his left pocket vibrated, and Bone grabbed it, never taking his eyes off Nikita and Drake. He looked down at the message on the screen and felt his body temperature drop a couple degrees.

Kill the girl. And the lawyer if necessary.

Bone felt his heart pick up a beat as he read and reread the message. Not exactly what he was expecting, but . . .

A second message came in on top of the first.

And make it look good.

Bone smiled. He always did.

He glanced at his watch, then looked around. It was already past 1:00 a.m., and outside of the few stragglers in The Boathouse, Bone saw no one around. The dock below was completely deserted except for Drake and the dancer, and there was very little light.

Perfect, he thought, taking a small sip of beer and placing it on the railing. Bone felt for the gun inside the front of his shorts. His pockets were too tight for the .38, so he’d stuffed it down the front of his shorts and let his loose-fitting T-shirt hang over it.

Slowly and softly, Bone began to walk down the wooden steps to the dock. Both the stripper and Drake had come to The Boathouse from the parking lot. When he got to the bottom of the steps, he saw them.

Drake’s life is over, Bone knew, stepping behind the stairs and into the shadows. Killing the lawyer, he’d already determined, was going to be necessary. The boy, along with McMurtrie, had cost Bone a lot of money last year. And the El Camino . . .

He took the gun out of his shorts and waited. They would have to come back to these steps to get to the parking lot. When they did . . .

He flipped the gun so that he was holding the weapon by its barrel. He’d hit them both with the butt end and toss their limp bodies in the harbor. Bone could almost see the headline in the paper. “Accidental Drowning Claims Lives of Young Man and Woman.”

Bone smiled, waiting . . .





38


“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Darla said, squeezing her hands into fists and lightly tapping Rick on the stomach. “Do you think Larry could be involved in Mr. Walton’s murder?”

Rick hadn’t even heard the question the first time she’d asked it. He was still looking at the water, thinking it through in his mind. Assuming that Larry Tucker was one of the ten men who participated in the lynching of Roosevelt Haynes in 1966, then he would have every reason to want to stop Andy Walton’s confession.

Motive, Rick thought. Larry Tucker had motive. He was also the owner of the Sundowners Club, the scene of the crime. Opportunity. Rick felt his heart pounding in his chest. We might have an alternative theory . . .

“When did you tell Mr. Tucker about Mr. Walton’s plan to confess?”

“The same night Mr. Walton told me about it.”

“So two weeks before the murder?”

Darla nodded, and her eyes were wide with fear. “Do you think Larry—?”

“I don’t know,” Rick interrupted. “I think it’s possible that Mr. Tucker was involved. We represent Bocephus Haynes, who has been charged with the murder, but he has pled not guilty. If Bo is innocent of the charges, then—”

“Someone else did it,” Darla completed the thought. “And you think it might be Larry.”

“Was Larry in the Klan with Andy?”

Darla crossed her arms and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know they had been friends for . . .” She stopped and placed her hand over her mouth. “There were others. Of course . . . Mr. Haynes was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, and Mr. Walton was just one of the men.” She paused, her eyes wide. “You think Larry was one of them.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” Rick said. “But I can’t prove it right now. Assuming he was and he found out that Andy was going to confess . . .”

“Oh, Jesus, it’s my fault then,” Darla said. “I’m the one who told him.” Her voice cracked, and she sat down on the bench. She crossed her arms and began to rock back and forth. “After all Mr. Walton did for me . . .”

“You didn’t know,” Rick said, sitting beside her. “Besides . . .” He sighed. “It’s just a theory.”

For several minutes they both just sat there. Arms crossed, gazing out at the water. The only sounds were Darla’s sniffles. Finally, she wiped her eyes. “I would have made it here without him,” she said, her voice determined. “I was two years away from saving enough. I didn’t need a sugar daddy.” She sighed. “But he helped me. I . . . no one ever did anything for me before. If I’m somehow responsible for his death . . .”

“He was dying,” Rick said. “It wouldn’t have been much longer.”

She nodded. “Still . . . it’s not right.”

“I agree, but you can’t blame yourself. You did what you thought was right. That’s all anyone can do.” Then a thought struck him like a thunderbolt. “Did you tell the sheriff’s department or DA’s office about any of this? Andy saying he was going to confess, and you telling Larry Tucker about it?”

“They didn’t ask. All they wanted to know was what I saw the last night Mr. Walton was with me, and they told me to write a statement. They said they would schedule another interview with me, but I guess I left town before they could talk to me again.”

Rick turned and gazed into the depths of the dark water. Larry Tucker is our killer, he thought. Has to be . . .