The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(47)
Horn asked, “So, if you stretch things, we’re supposed to believe that the guy with the busted nose was driving the stolen truck that caused the accident?”
Lyman shrugged and said, “I’m not stretching anything. I didn’t make the video; I’m just showing it to you.”
“Have you traced the license plates?” the Chief asked.
“Yes. Fake Florida tags. No such number in the records. Why would anyone bother with fake tags if they were not up to something bad? If you ask me, the fake tags point the finger directly at these two. The passenger got his face smacked with the air bag and it drew blood. They weren’t smart enough to have some ice in the follow-up vehicle, the one with the fake tags and driven, of course, by the other guy in the video. So they make their escape and just happen to see Frog’s store open late. They’re trying to get away, not thinking too clearly, and probably not that smart to begin with, so they don’t think about security cameras. Big mistake. They get their pictures taken and it’s just a matter of time before we find ’em.”
The Chief said, “Well, Lyman, that’s not going to happen, at least not now, and not by you. I’m terminating you as of right now.”
Lyman absorbed this shot to the gut with more composure than he knew he had. He stared at the three of them, all sitting over there with their arms folded across their thick bellies, and finally asked, “On what grounds?”
The Chief offered a phony smile and said, “I don’t have to give a reason. It’s called termination at will and it’s clearly set out in our bylaws. As the Chief, I have the power to hire and fire all department heads. You know that.”
“Indeed I do.” Lyman stared at the three of them, realized it was over, and decided to have some fun. He said, “So the big boys want the investigation quashed, right? This video will never see the light of day. And all the mysteries surrounding this car wreck will never be solved. A man gets killed, and the killers walk away. That sound about right, Chief??”
“I’m asking you to leave right now,” the Chief growled.
“This is my office and I have my stuff here.”
“It is no longer your office. Find a box and get it out of here. We’ll wait.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. And hurry up, okay, it is Sunday afternoon.”
“I didn’t call this meeting.”
“Shut up, Lyman, and start packing. Hand over your keys and your guns, don’t touch those files, pack up your crap, and let’s move. And, Lyman, it goes without saying that it’s in your best interest to keep your mouth shut.”
“Of course. That’s what we do around here, right? Bury our heads, keep our mouths shut, and cover up for the big boys.”
“You got it, and the part about shutting your mouth can begin right now,” the Chief said. Lyman began opening drawers.
—
Michael tapped on Lacy’s door with some trepidation, and as he opened it his worst fears were confirmed. Gunther was still there! He was sitting on the edge of her bed, a small backgammon board between them. He reluctantly folded it and placed it on the sofa in his office. Michael and Lacy chatted for a few minutes, then Michael delicately inquired, “Could we have a few moments in private?”
“For what?” Gunther demanded.
“Some sensitive matters.”
“If it’s about her job, I think the conversation can wait until tomorrow. It is, after all, Sunday evening and she’s in no condition to deal with issues related to work. If it’s about the car wreck and the investigation and all that crap, then I’m not leaving the room. Lacy needs a second set of ears and she needs my advice.”
Lacy did not intervene. Michael raised his hands, surrendered, and said, “Okay. I’ll not discuss the office.” He eased into a chair beside her bed and looked at the side of her face. The swelling was almost gone and the bruises were changing colors.
Gunther asked, “Have you had dinner? The cafeteria has some frozen sandwiches that were made at least two years ago and taste like roofing shingles. They’re hard to recommend but I’ve eaten three and I’m still alive.”
“Gee, I’ll pass.”
“Some coffee perhaps. It’s bad but drinkable.”
Michael said, “A great idea. Thanks.” Anything to get him out of the room. Gunther found his shoes and took off. Michael wasted no time. “I stopped by Verna’s this afternoon, and, as you can expect, it’s still a gloomy place.”
“I’ve e-mailed twice but got nothing. I’ve called twice and talked to whoever was answering her cell. I need to see her.”
“Well, that’s what I want to talk about, and I’ll shut up the moment he walks in the door. I’d rather keep this between us. Verna is still sleepwalking through this nightmare, as anyone would be, and she’s still in shock. But she’s coming around and I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing. There is a group of Hugo’s friends, including a couple of pals from law school, and they are full of advice. They have big ideas about lawsuits, with the big target being the Tappacola. That’s where the gold mine is located and they’re dreaming of ways to get it. Frankly, and I’m no tort lawyer, I can’t connect the liability. Just because the accident happened on the reservation doesn’t mean the Indians are at fault. The accident is also subject to tribal law, which is not your average brand of tort law. Because he was a state employee, Verna will get half his salary for the rest of her life. As we know, that’s not much. Hugo had a private life policy for $100,000 and it will be easy to collect. Next is the auto policy on the stolen truck. According to the guy who appears to be the main spokesman, and he’s a real windbag, the truck was covered by Southern Mutual and had a liability limit of $250,000. Even though it was stolen, it was still covered. It might take a lawsuit, but he seems to like their chances. I’m not so sure. Now things might get complicated. There was a lot of talk about suing Toyota for the defective seat belt and air bag. That would necessarily involve you, and your insurance company, and that’s what I didn’t like about their tone.”