Chapter Fifteen
Landon played the guitar for Raquelle that evening.
He was at her place, feeling very much like he belonged there once again.
But never taking it for granted that this was where he was meant to be.
He wanted Raquelle—and more than just to share the same bed with.
They had come to terms with their past mistakes and were seemingly ready to explore a new beginning, where new memories could be created.
I won’t try to get it all back at once, no matter how comfortable things seem between us, Landon told himself.
He was standing in the great room, as was Raquelle, while strumming the guitar, which she seemed riveted by.
I can play all night if it makes her happy, he thought as a grin spread across his lips.
Each holding glasses of wine, they settled onto a modular sectional sofa that had an Indigenous custom-made slipcover on it.
Landon thought it was a good time—or bad, depending on how you looked at it—to tell her about the most recent developments in the case.
Whether he liked it or not, Raquelle had skin in the game, thanks to Eddie’s involvement.
“So, as it turned out, Fred Davenport didn’t take his own life,” Landon said with a catch to his voice. “He was shot to death in a deliberately staged suicide, according to the coroner’s office, following the autopsy on Davenport.”
Raquelle cocked a brow. “For what purpose—to make it seem like he acted alone in blowing up Eddie’s boat?”
“I’d say it was more a half-hearted attempt to throw off the art-crimes investigation and take the onus off the main players in the game,” Landon told her matter-of-factly.
He tasted the wine. “Instead, it shows the desperation and the lengths they are willing to go to in order to conceal their criminal behavior. Quite the contrary, as another homicide has been added to the investigation.” In so saying, Landon realized that it brought them back to Eddie and his invisibility.
He truly regretted recruiting Raquelle’s brother as his CI—though it made sense at the time, for him and Eddie.
But now, with his former brother-in-law still unaccounted for, he was an elephant in the room that figured to remain part of the picture so long as Eddie’s situation remained unresolved.
Raquelle sipped her wine, thoughtful. “I think Eddie is still alive—and may have contacted Penelope…”
“Really?” Landon was anxious to hear more. “Explain.”
Raquelle sighed and said, “Two days ago, someone with no caller ID phoned Penelope. Though she could hear breathing on the line, the caller never spoke before ending the call. She thought it might have been Eddie reaching out—but backpedaled instead.”
“Interesting…” Landon drank more wine as he assessed this. It would obviously mean that Eddie was alive and able to communicate from a position of safety. “What do you think?”
Raquelle met his gaze and answered pointblank, “My gut tells me it was Eddie on the phone. He’s out there—somewhere—and trying to find his way back. But may not be sure how.”
“You could be right.” Landon sat back. “If it was Eddie, he has my number—and yours. We have to believe that he’s smart enough to push past any uncertainties and reach out to those in the best position to help him extricate himself out of this mess—before it’s too late…”
She nodded and tasted her wine. “I do believe that. Eddie has to know we’re on his side. When ready, he’ll make the call and do what he needs to do to reclaim his life.”
“Okay.” Landon put his arm across her shoulders, pulling them close together, while hoping her faith in Eddie would be justified.
The harsh reality was that Ivan Pimentel still viewed Eddie as a major obstacle to his criminal enterprise and wanted him dead—even if Fred Davenport was no longer around to get the job done.
* * *
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Landon got a call from Detective Spencer Davidson.
“Hey,” he said curiously. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to get back with you on the drifter, Lim Ramírez, shot to death in the woods…” Spencer drew a breath into the phone.
“As the current theory is that it was a targeted hit—though apparently the wrong target—we came across some surveillance video a few blocks away from the crime scene that should interest you…”
Landon asked, definitely piqued, “What’s on it?”
“The footage clearly shows Ramírez being stalked by another man,” Spencer replied.
“For how long, who knows? But this proves, if nothing else, that it wasn’t a random murder.
Ramírez was followed to the woods with the intent on assassinating him—believing him to be your CI, Eddie Jernigan, if what your investigation has put together is on the money. ”
“It is,” Landon assured him. “All the pieces fit— including the resemblance between Eddie and Ramírez as well as the proximity to Eddie’s residence.
And the fact that the murder occurred shortly after an IED was detonated on Eddie’s pontoon.
Ramírez was simply in the wrong place at a convenient time for the killer.
I believe the video will confirm that to be Fred Davenport, who was himself gunned down—”
“What’s that they say about you reap what you sow?” Spencer’s voice lowered an octave. “Must have been karma or something.”
“Yeah, perhaps.” Landon didn’t necessarily buy into that line of thought, but Davenport might well have signed his own death warrant by, it seemed, failing to put Eddie out to pasture. “Send the video.”
“On its way,” the detective said.
When he opened it on his cell phone, Landon could see Ramírez wandering aimlessly. He was followed by a man wearing a hoodie, with the hood over his head. After freezing the frame and zooming in on the stalker, Landon believed it was the same person who had attacked Raquelle.
Fred Davenport.
To Landon, it was yet one more piece of the puzzle that wound its way right back to Ivan Pimentel and his desire to stop Eddie from providing any further intel into Pimentel’s criminal activities.
* * *
AT 11:00 A.M., YUSEF ABERCROMBIE was brought in for questioning as a person of interest in the investigation of Fred Davenport’s murder.
In a windowless interrogation room, Landon sat on a metal chair at a wooden table, across from the seated suspect. He wasted no time going after him, placing a photograph before Abercrombie of a deceased Davenport.
“Do you recognize him?” Landon asked with an edge to his voice.
Abercrombie glanced at the picture and replied smugly, “Should I?”
“Yeah—his name is Fred Davenport.” Landon jutted his chin. “Two nights ago, he was shot to death in a bathroom at his apartment in West Columbia—but it was made to look like a suicide.”
“And this has to do with me, how?” The suspect appeared unflappable as he sat back in his chair.
“Since you asked,” Landon said sarcastically, “he’s the guy who was hired to blow up a boat at Knotter Marina that was supposed to have art dealer Eddie Jernigan on it when the explosion occurred.
But he wasn’t, fortunately. Still, Jernigan is now missing.
In the meantime, Davenport has kicked the bucket himself.
I don’t suppose you know anything about either of these things… ?”
Abercrombie frowned and said sneeringly, “You’re right, I don’t.
Eddie Jernigan is someone my employer, Ivan Pimentel, has done business with.
Other than that, I know nothing about his boat.
Or what might have happened to him.” Abercrombie sighed.
“As for this Fred Davenport, the name doesn’t ring a bell—”
“Well, maybe I can help it to ring inside your head,” Landon told him. “A surveillance camera was able to place a BMW X5 M SUV registered in your name to within two blocks of Davenport’s apartment—where he was shot—around the time of his death. Can you explain this?”
The revelation seemed to catch Abercrombie off guard.
He took a long moment before answering. “Though it technically belongs to me, the BMW you refer to is actually a car that is routinely driven by different people who work for Mr. Pimentel, in conducting business involving his art galleries and related interests. So, I’m sure you will find that the BMW was driven by one of these employees during the time that you say it was in the area you speak of. ”
“We’ll see about that,” Landon tossed out, doubting his story. “But was someone else also using a cell phone in your name, which pinged near the apartment complex where Davenport lived at around the time of his death?”
Landon strongly suspected that Abercrombie, on Pimentel’s orders, had been dispatched to take out Davenport—while making it appear to be a suicide.
Moreover, it seemed that as Pimentel’s wingman, Abercrombie had likely been the one to hire Davenport as a hit man.
Cell phone records would probably show communication between the two men—before Davenport became expendable after botching the job, as now appeared to be the case.
Abercrombie looked to be stumped trying to weave his way out of this one.
His brows knitted thoughtfully before he responded.
“I’m the only one who uses my cell phone.
When you say, ‘near the apartment complex,’ I don’t know what that means.
I spend a lot of time in and around West Columbia—for both business and pleasure.
If my cell phone pinged in the vicinity around that time, it was purely coincidental, nothing more.
” He kept a straight face. “Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Briscoe. If you expected a confession, I’m afraid it’s not happening. ”
Actually, I wasn’t expecting an admission of guilt, Landon told himself.
That would be way too easy. No, if they were going to hang one or more murders on Pimentel and Abercrombie—to say nothing of the myriad art-related crimes they were believed to have perpetrated, along with accomplices—it would need to be proven in a court of law. With solid evidence to back it up.