Weekend Warriors (Sisterhood #1)(44)

“Myra asked me to file a lawsuit against your department. She said you were supposed to be guarding Marie Lewellen and you let her get away. She’s suing for the full million and she wants another million for the angst and fear she’s going through. I’ll file the suit on Monday. You want to settle now?”

“Up yours.”

“Better tell your boss. I’ll hand deliver the subpoena. Hey, look at it this way, you bastard, you’ll get your picture in the paper. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

Jack slammed the phone back into the cradle, his face murderous. She’d do it, too. Christ, now what was he supposed to do?

In less than thirty minutes he was storming into his office, the same murderous look still riding his features. He sat down at the computer and started to bang at the keys.

The scrap of paper torn from his notebook was alongside the computer. He typed in the license plate number of the eighteen-wheeler parked at Myra Rutledge’s house. They could have spirited the Lewellens away in the truck in the middle of the storm and no one would have been the wiser.

Alan Stephen Lucas. Born August 3, 1958. Address, P.O. Box 206, Vienna, Virginia. He stared down at the social security number and wrote it on a yellow pad of paper. He tapped in more numbers using the department code to allow him access to social security files. He blinked and then knuckled his eyes. Deceased. The guy was dead! He cleared the screen and typed in the number again. Alan Stephen Lucas was just as dead as he was a minute ago.

Did the guy sell the truck? Was it part of his estate? Why was someone still driving the truck and using Lucas’s license plates? He scanned the screen to see the date of death. Not quite five weeks ago. Time enough to take care of details like selling the truck or changing the plates. Lucas wasn’t old, so that had to mean there was a widow someplace. Then again, maybe the guy was divorced.

Jack yanked at his desk drawer and pulled out a well-thumbed booklet with access codes to the different government agencies. He typed in Bureau of Vital Statistics and then the name Alan Stephen Lucas and waited while the screen processed his request to be faxed a copy of Lucas’s death certificate. He cursed ripely when he realized he would have to wait for Monday for the fax. He typed the words in capital letters, RUSH, TOP PRIORITY.

Did truckers belong to unions? He didn’t know. He tapped and punched for the next hour until he came up with Local 233 in Roanoke, Virginia. Even if he sent an e-mail he’d probably have to wait until Monday for a response. Instead he copied down the telephone number and called it. He waited through eleven rings before a gruff voice came on the line and said, “Yeah, what’s your poison?”

Must be trucker lingo. Jack identified himself and said, “I’m trying to locate Alan Lucas. Do you know how I can reach him or his wife?”

“Alan died a while back. I don’t know where his wife is. She’s probably on the road somewhere. She’s the one that drives the rig. Alan was disabled. Why do you want him?”

Jack ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Do you know how I can reach his wife?”

“Do I sound like a private secretary, mister? Send her a letter.”

“Yeah, thanks for your help.” Wiseass.

It wasn’t such a ridiculous idea. He cleared the screen, brought up Word, and typed a message saying it was imperative Kathryn get in touch with him as soon as possible. He filed the message in his personal file folder but not before he printed it out. He scribbled the address on the official stationery, ran it through the postage meter and dropped it in the mail basket.

He flexed his fingers. He was on to something. He could feel it. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “Let’s try the Bentley next,” he muttered.

Jack stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. What the hell, with Nikki temporarily out of the picture, he didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon.





Winston Bugle frowned as he hung up the phone. He didn’t have any use for cops or district attorneys. He reached for the CB and said, “This is Bugle Beagle out here. Anyone listening? I need to get a message to Big Sis. All you ears pay attention now, you hear. Tell her some D.A. called from the District asking questions. Saw on the I.D. he was calling from D.C. Keep trying Big Sis until she responds. Have her call me. Over an’ out.”





Myra made no pretense of not listening to Nikki’s conversation with Jack Emery. The moment she hung up the phone she said, “Was that wise, Nikki? Won’t that just fuel things with Jack?”

“It’s called CYA. Covering your ass. I know Jack. From time to time he has to be reined in. I told you he’s sharp. He’s one of the best and for that I can’t fault him. He has that old prosecutor instinct. I respect that. He really does hate injustice. He hates defense attorneys, of which I am one. He says they catch the bad guys and people like me make sure they walk away clean. We had a lot of fights about it. He’ll shave a corner here or there to get the job done. His instinct has always been right on the money. He knows in his gut we had something to do with Marie’s disappearance. He just can’t prove it. Yet.

“I’ll bet you fifty dollars, if I call him at the office, he’ll answer. The minute he hung up from me he hightailed it there. He’ll stay there all day, through the night and all day tomorrow if he’s on to something. All I did was throw a bone he now has to deal with. It was just to throw him off stride a little. The man has a single-minded purpose in life. Shit, Myra, I can’t even hold that against him. He came off the streets in New York. He worked his way through college and law school. No one helped him. He’s where he is because he earned his way.