Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(60)
Tom smiled. “Actually . . . yes. We obviously disagree with your conclusions, but . . . yes. That’s what we’re asking. If JimBone Wheeler is still alive, then we have no doubt that he will come back to Pulaski. If so, the best way to catch him would be to have someone close to me and Rick.” Tom paused. “If you catch Wheeler, you will likely be able to apprehend whoever it is paying Wheeler to try to hurt or kill me and Rick. Find that person, and you will find the true killer of Andy Walton.”
Again, Helen laughed. “You’ve been a law professor too long, Tom. This whole thing sounds like an incredibly complicated law school fact pattern, but I’m not buying any of it. If JimBone Wheeler is following you and Drake around, it’s because you two almost caused his death last year in Tuscaloosa. We see no connection between Wheeler and the murder of Andy Walton. On the contrary, all of the evidence points toward your client as the killer.” She paused, shaking her head and sighing. “As much as I would love to assign an officer—heck, a whole team of officers—to follow you and your partner around, we simply don’t have the manpower here for that kind of goose chase. Do we, Ennis?”
Petrie was looking down at the table. “No, ma’am.”
“What is your other request?” Helen asked.
“OK,” Tom began, undaunted by Helen’s rejection. “We know that Wheeler was seen with Jack Willistone, a trucking magnate from Tuscaloosa, at the Sundowners Club last summer. Willistone is now serving a prison sentence at a correctional facility in Springville, Alabama. Though Willistone denies that Wheeler ever worked for him or his company, it is our contention that Willistone likely owes Wheeler money in light of his arrest and his company’s subsequent bankruptcy. In looking at the visitor’s log at the Springville prison, a name came up that we didn’t recognize.” Tom paused. “Martha Booher.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
“So, Willistone says that Booher is just an old friend. He said he met her in Nashville years ago.” Tom paused, licking his lips. “We think it’s possible that Booher may be a friend of Wheeler’s. Perhaps she was sent to the jail to deliver a message to Willistone.”
“You’re reaching, Tom,” Helen said, scratching her chin. “You’re back in law school fantasy conspiracy land.”
“Maybe,” Tom admitted, smiling. “But it is a rock we haven’t turned over yet.”
“Sheriff Petrie,” Wade said, breaking in on the speakerphone, “we’d like the Giles County Sheriff’s Office’s cooperation in trying to locate Martha Booher. Our preliminary investigation has turned up an address in Nashville, but the phone number is disconnected, and we have no other leads. Willistone says he met Booher at Tootsie’s bar, so we plan to talk to the people there, but we haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Our office cannot—” Helen started, but the sheriff cut her off.
“We’ll assist in any way we can, Officer Richey,” Petrie said, his voice firm.
Helen shot him a look, but Petrie gave it right back to her. Tom watched, knowing that while the sheriff would obviously listen to the district attorney general, it was the sheriff’s decision whether to cooperate with Tom’s requests. Tom was glad to see Petrie take a stand on Booher.
“Is there anything else, Tom?” Helen asked, making no effort to hide her exasperation.
“Yes,” he said, smiling again. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
43
They sat at a table at Reeves Drug Store, two full mugs of steaming black coffee in front of them.
“You really do look different with a beard,” Helen said, smiling at him.
Tom shrugged, involuntarily scratching the white whiskers that now grew on the sides of his face. “You have a nice smile,” he told her. “You should use it more.”
“He needs to plea, Tom,” Helen said. Smile gone. Back on subject. “Life in prison. It’s better than the alternative, and it would save the town a lot of bad publicity.”
Tom shook his head. “Never.” Glancing around the store, Tom saw several kids enjoying ice-cream cones and an elderly lady working on a Coke float with a spoon. “I like this place,” he said.
“Pulaski or Reeves?” Helen asked.
Tom shrugged. “Both. Reminds me of home.”
“Tuscaloosa?” Helen asked, her voice incredulous.
Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Tuscaloosa is my home now, but I was thinking more of home when I was a kid. I grew up in Hazel Green. Right on the border. When I was young, my parents would take drives on the weekend to pass the time, and I would tag along. On a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, we’d just get in the car and drive somewhere. A lot of times we went up to Fayetteville and would have lunch or dinner at Rachel’s.”
Helen smiled. “Great place.”
Tom nodded his agreement. “And sometimes we’d come here. Get some ice cream and a nickel fountain drink, just like those kids over there,” Tom said, pointing. “My daddy fought in the war, and my momma was a math and history teacher. They’d get to talking. Dad telling stories about the war, and momma pestering him with questions . . .” He trailed off.
“Are you married, Tom?”
He looked at her, surprised by the question. “I was,” he said. “She died four years ago.”