Chapter Eleven
As Russ drove away from the jobsite and alleged murder scene with Emery locked in the back still handcuffed, the man began to talk.
“Look, what I did was stupid, okay?” he said. “My truck was broke down. I was desperate because I gotta have the truck to get to work.”
“Are you trying to tell me this was the only time you did this?”
“It was, I swear. When my boss found out, I almost got fired. Now if I have to go to jail…”
Russ pulled into a vacant business’s parking lot. “Maybe you can help me with another case I’m working on. Do you know a man named Jack Marshall?”
“The car guy from TV?”
“Have you ever seen him at your jobsite?” Russ asked.
“A few times.”
“He friends with the property owner?”
“He’s friends with everybody, going around glad-handing everyone like he owns the town,” Emery said.
“Did he talk to someone about buying one of the houses?”
“I saw the boss take him into one.”
“The one next to the apartment you rented online?”
Emery frowned. “Yeah, that one.”
“What is your boss’s name?” He took down the name Frank Johnstone and his phone number.
“I’ll tell you what, Emery, I’m going to let you go.
But I expect you to pay back the woman you duped.
Fair enough? That’s what I thought you’d say.
I’ll see that you get an address to send the money, even if you have to send partial payments for a while. Agreed?”
Emery had quickly agreed, so he’d taken him back to the jobsite and dropped him off.
“The crew is going to be curious. I’d appreciate it if the story you tell them doesn’t involve Jack Marshall.”
Liz felt sick with worry and shaking with the shock of what she now knew as she sat in her car in front of Whitney’s house.
In her rearview mirror, she watched the older car she had passed disappear back up the road.
That was him. She knew it based on all the hints Whitney had given her, and now she’d just seen Jack Marshall coming from Whitney’s rental house.
Add to that he was driving an old beater car wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie sweatshirt hoping no one would recognize him.
She groaned. Hadn’t she known that her friend was in trouble?
Jack Marshall was just the kind of man her friend would have set her sights on.
Money, high profile and handsome. But why were they always married?
According to Whitney he was getting a divorce, but Liz hadn’t heard anything about that and figured Jack Marshall had lied.
Whitney had wanted it to be real, all of it, so she had believed whatever the man told her.
But Liz suspected none of it had been true. Had Whitney found out? Is that why Liz hadn’t heard from her?
She glanced at the empty space where Whitney usually parked, then at the house.
No lights on inside. No sign of life. Her friend always left the light over the front door on where she never had to come home to the dark.
Was it possible she’d moved into this new house her lover was supposedly building for her?
Doubtful, she thought, given what she’d just seen.
Just as doubtful was that Whitney was somewhere waiting for “the man of her dreams” to return.
Since she’d driven out here, Liz told herself that she might as well check the house.
Getting out, she looked back up the road, glad to see no vehicle headed her way.
She would make this quick and get home before dark.
Like her friend, she didn’t like coming home to an empty house with no lights on.
Now that she suspected Jack Marshall was the man Whitney had been in love with, Liz was even more terrified that something bad had happened to her friend.
She still had the spare key Whitney had given her, but as it turned out, she didn’t need it. The door was partially open. Her heart pounded as she pushed it in, terrified of what she was about to find.
Russ found Frank Johnstone at the construction site where the alleged murder had taken place.
He had to assume that anything he said to anyone about Jack Marshall was going to get back to Jack—and then his boss.
Yet he’d become a detective to catch criminals, and that was exactly what he was trying to do.
“Mr. Johnstone,” he said as he entered the small temporary office. “I’m Detective Tate investigating a possible homicide. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The sixty-something stocky man behind a large desk motioned him in. “A homicide?”
“I need to know if Jack Marshall talked to you about buying one of your houses here.”
Johnstone raised an eyebrow. “Not sure what that might have to do with a homicide, but yes, Jack did show some interest in a house.”
“The one next to the apartments?” Russ asked, pointing out a window across the street. “Did he set up a time to look at it? Ask for a key?”
“Not really. He said it would be after work. I told him I’d leave the back door open.”
“Do you happen to remember the date he planned to see it?” he asked, practically holding his breath as the man gave the date of the murder.
“I remember because I had an offer on the house the day before and told him if he wanted it, he’d have to make an offer soon,” Johnstone said.
“Did he make an offer?”
“No, said it wasn’t quite what he was looking for.” The man shrugged. “I think he was looking for investment property. What’s this about a homicide?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, but I appreciate your time.”
“I hope I was able to help,” Johnstone said.
“You were.”
As he left, Russ knew that this, too, wasn’t enough to get the chief to open an investigation.
He needed more. He needed a body. He glanced toward the newest building coming up in the subdivision and recalled that it had been an empty hole in the ground the night of the murder.
Now it would take quite a bit of excavation to dig up the concrete that had been poured looking for a body beneath it.
At every turn, he felt stymied. Bringing Jack Marshall to justice felt impossible. He feared he’d never be able to find hard evidence against the man.
Jack swore under his breath as he walked into his showroom and saw Detective Tate waiting for him yet again. Obviously, Milt hadn’t taken care of the problem.
“Mr. Marshall,” the detective said, rising to greet him.
“Detective Tate,” he said, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand as he walked past him to open his office door. “I thought I made myself clear the last time you were here. I’m not talking to you without my attorney present.”
“I just need a few minutes of your time,” the detective said, following him into the office. “But I’d be happy to wait while you call your attorney.”
Jack lowered himself into his big office chair in front of his massive desk and didn’t offer the cop a seat. “A few minutes is actually more than I have.”
“I’ll be brief. Are you familiar with Briarwood Estates?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t understand what this—”
“It’s the name of the new addition where the eyewitness claims she saw a murder. Do you have a financial connection to Frank Johnstone or Thomas Armstrong or any others involved in Briarwood Estates?”
Jack glared at the cop. “Even if I did, I don’t see where it would be any of your business.”
“I’m sorry, is that a yes or no?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, warning himself to be helpful, not make this detective any more suspicious than he already was. “No, I have no financial interest in…what did you call it?”
“Briarwood Estates. What about the other investors? Do you know any of them?”
Jack sighed deeply. “Detective Tate, I know you’re just doing your job, though I have to wonder why you are continuing to ask me these questions. As I understand it, there wasn’t a murder, and as you know I was out of town all that weekend.”
“Sorry, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“I know Frank Johnstone and probably some of the other investors,” he snapped. “You seem to have forgotten who I am. I own the largest car dealership in the Northwest. I know a lot of people—many of them buy their vehicles from me because they do know me and have for years.”
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten who you are,” the detective said with a chuckle.
“Well, I have work to do.”
“Did you talk to Frank Johnstone about buying a house in the new subdivision?”
Jack stared at the detective. The man was relentless. “I have a beautiful home up by the rimrocks overlooking the city, Detective. I don’t need another home.”
“But you did talk to him about one of the houses.”
“I might have thought about buying one as an investment. I really can’t remember.”
“So, Mr. Marshall, you’re saying you don’t remember taking someone to the subdivision the night of the alleged murder to show them a house next to the apartments?”
Jack got to his feet. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. Unless you’re going to arrest me…” He tried to make a joke out of it, but the cop didn’t smile.
“That’s all for now,” Detective Tate said. “I think I have what I came for.” With that, he turned and walked out.
Jack swore under his breath, hating that he’d lost his temper, hating even more that he was sweating.
This damned detective just wouldn’t quit.
He picked up his phone to call Milt again to complain about being harassed by the cops, but found himself putting the phone down as he spotted something that stole his breath.