Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(59)
Rick sighed and closed his eyes, wishing for a breeze off the harbor that wouldn’t come. Instead, the air was hot and sticky, and he sucked in a humid breath.
I’m lucky to be alive, he thought.
But all things told, the trip had been a success. Darla Ford could be a key witness for the defense, provided they could obtain more evidence linking Larry Tucker to the murder of Andy Walton. So the nine hours in the car, the three-hundred-dollar bar bill at The Boathouse, the exhaustion at having barely slept for forty-eight hours, and the cramping in his left calf that was making it difficult to walk had all been worth it.
The defense of Bocephus Haynes for capital murder had improved. An alternative theory was beginning to take shape.
He knew he should feel grateful for his good fortune.
But as he began to limp away from the dock, Rick Drake felt neither grateful nor fortunate. Truth be known, the events of the last forty-eight hours had left him numb. His instincts had proved to be both successful and almost fatal. His persistence had been rewarded, but it had almost resulted in him and an innocent bystander being shot and killed.
He felt like he was walking a tightrope with no net beneath him.
And he was scared. For the first time since Wilma Newton changed her testimony during the trial in Henshaw the year before, Rick Drake was scared.
42
“You look different with a beard,” Helen said, her eyes flashing with amusement. “More rugged.”
“It’s not by choice,” Tom said, managing a smile as he rubbed the purplish bruise on the side of his face.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “A mugging is extremely rare for Pulaski.” She lowered her voice. “I told you not to get involved.”
“So you admit that the attack on me is related to our defense of Bo?” Tom crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on hers.
Sheriff Ennis Petrie sat next to Helen, but he had yet to utter a word, and outside of shaking his hand, Tom had not looked at him. Tom had called the sheriff’s office that morning, saying he had news with respect to JimBone Wheeler. Two hours later he was here, meeting with Helen and the sheriff. In the center of the conference room table was Tom’s cell phone, which he had turned to speaker so that Wade Richey could also attend.
“No,” Helen said. “I admit nothing. Your wallet was stolen, so a mugging is the correct call. But”—she tapped her fingernail on the table—“I don’t believe in coincidences. You show up in town to represent Bo, and you become the first victim of a mugging in downtown Pulaski since I’ve been DA . . .” She stopped, shaking her head. “I will admit that it is very strange.”
“Big of you,” Tom said, his voice hard.
“You said you had new information,” Helen said, placing her elbows on the table.
Tom nodded. “I do. My partner, Rick Drake, went to Destin, Florida on Friday to meet with Darla Ford, the dancer at the Sundowners Club who Andy Walton saw the night of the murder.”
Helen gave a slight twist of her head, and for a split second her eyes darted at the sheriff’s. Tom could tell she was unaware that Ford had left the county. “OK . . .”
“He was followed,” Tom said. “JimBone Wheeler, a suspect in several felonies in the state of Alabama, followed Rick to Destin and tried to kill him and Ford.”
Helen raised her eyebrows. “Tell me.”
On the speakerphone Wade’s voice came in loud and clear. Introductions had already been made, so Wade got right to it, explaining in detail his tailing of Rick to Destin, concluding with Wheeler’s leap into the harbor.
“Has he been found?” Sheriff Petrie asked, his first words since introductions were made.
“No,” Wade answered. “The Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and the Destin PD have been patrolling the harbor for the past fifty-six hours, and they have found nothing. They have also scoured the Holiday Isle section of Destin, which is located on the other side of the harbor and where Ford lives in a duplex, but so far nothing has turned up. The preliminary conclusion is that Wheeler drowned.”
Helen slapped her hands. “So that’s that. He drowned. Good work, Officer Richey. You have taken care of a significant problem. We appreciate you all letting us know.”
“It’s not that simple, Helen,” Tom broke in. “First of all, Wheeler managed to survive a fall off the Northport Bridge in Tuscaloosa last year, and he did not drown in the Black Warrior River, which was the preliminary conclusion in Tuscaloosa. We think it is a bit presumptive to think he is gone at this point.”
Helen shrugged. “OK. So if he’s alive, he’s in Destin, and the authorities there are looking for him. What do you want us to do?”
“We have two requests,” Tom said, knowing they had finally reached the point of this meeting. As per their strategy session beforehand, Wade explained the first.
“General Lewis,” Wade began, “though we were unable to apprehend Wheeler, Tom’s idea worked. Tracking Drake led us to Wheeler. We would request that the Giles County Sheriff’s Office assign a security detail to Rick and Tom.”
Helen laughed. “Let me get this straight,” she started, looking at Tom and crossing her arms. “You are asking us to assign officers to follow you around as you conduct your mission-impossible task of trying to defend Bocephus Haynes on a charge of which he is one hundred percent guilty.”