Chapter 42
Forty-Two
“WHY DO YOU THINK George left?” Deck glanced over at Harper, his heart once again breaking for her as they made the hour trek outside of Chicago to George’s home, where he prayed they’d find him.
“Maybe he’s scared the same will happen to him, or maybe he knows the killer.”
“I was thinking the first one, but my gut says it’s both.”
Harper shifted, pulling one leg up under the other in her seat. “It’ll be interesting to see what your sister and Greyson pull up on the frat.”
“Agreed. I mean, why take a photo from a murder scene if you aren’t in it?”
“I wish I could remember all the faces. . . .”
“We need to call Riley to do that research thing of hers,” Deck said.
It took two calls to finally reach her.
“Sorry, was on another important call.”
“Hopefully to do with this case?”
“Everything to do with this case. I was able to get the sweetest lady in the alum office. I explained—well, never mind, it’s not important.”
Greyson chuckled in the background.
“Yeah, I don’t want to know,” Deckard said. “But I’d love to hear what you learned.”
“I got the names of everyone in the frat for the years Taylor’s sister-in-law said they attended. By the way, thanks for the resource. She was super helpful.”
“And?” Deck nudged before she got sidetracked.
“Right.”
Greyson chuckled again.
“Stop it,” she said, clearly holding back laughter. “Anyway. I’m running the names, and a few interesting things popped up.”
“Oh?” Harper asked. She had that getting-close gleam in her deep green eyes.
“I’ll let Grey tell you. It was his find.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Silence ensued a moment.
“Ah, come on,” Deck said.
“What?” Harper frowned.
“They’re doing the kissy thing again.” Deck grunted. “Come on, guys. This is more important.”
“So you say.” Riley’s voice held mirth.
“All right,” Grey said. “Focusing. We ran the guys who were in the frat during the same years as Nick and George, and two other men, Hank Weathers and Randolph Palmer, also lost their wives.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Harper said—exactly what he was thinking.
“Who?” she asked.
“Well, you know about George. His wife died of a heart attack a year before Taylor, and the circumstances surrounding it are eerily the same. George was a teacher at Northwestern in biology, then took a job with a big pharmaceutical company.”
“We plan to pay his work a visit too. See what kind of lab he works in,” Harper interjected.
“And the other two wives?” Deck asked.
“One died of a heart attack in Georgia. The other died in a car accident in Chicago.”
“How long ago?”
“Uh . . .” Papers rustled. “The heart attack victim was five years ago, and the car accident happened the year before that. It was really sad. The guy and his wife lost their son to a playground accident, then the wife died in a car accident.”
“That’s terrible. Which frat guy was that?”
“Randolph. Like George, he lives in Chicago and works at Northwestern,” Grey said.
“That’s it for now, but we’ll keep digging,” Riley said.
“Thanks, guys.”
Deck turned right, taking them down a beautiful row of houses.
Well maintained. Kids playing on the lawns.
Looked like an idyllic neighborhood, but he knew too well that how things looked on the surface wasn’t always what they actually were.
He hated being jaded, but he’d seen it over and over again.
“Third one on the left,” Harper said, pointing.
Pulling into the driveway, Deck noted the car in the open garage. He glanced at Harper. “Looks like he’s home.” He put the SUV in park and cut the engine. He hopped out, moving around to get Harper’s door, but she was already out.
“He knows we’re here.” She pointed to the drawn-back curtain in the front window.
George pulled back, the curtain falling into place.
“He’s a runner,” Deck said, racing around back.
The rear door stood open. He scanned the property. George was trying his best to scramble over the six-foot privacy fence. Deck reached it just as George went over the top.
Come on, man.
He scaled the wall, dropping down on the other side. He surveyed the area and caught sight of George running through the neighbor’s wooded backyard.
Deck bolted through the trees, getting whacked by evergreen branches. “George! You’re not going to get away. You might as well stop.”
George kept going, darting around the neighbor’s house. If he kept to this direction, he’d hit the road.
Pulling out his cell, he called Harper, his breath coming in rhythmic spurts. “He’s going to hit the road soon. Grab the car and see if you can cut him off.”
“On it. Which road?”
He burst through another batch of trees, popping out on the ice-covered road.
“He’s crossing Trambo now,” he said, thankful for the green sign with the street name. “Go one past it.” He was wagering George would continue in the same direction.
Deck’s muscles warmed more with each stride. George barreled straight ahead. They hit the next road, and Harper rushed in, then slammed on the brakes, cutting them off.
George slowed just enough for Deckard to grab him. “In the car,” he said, his hand gripping hard on the man’s shoulder.
George climbed in the back seat, and Deck moved in beside him. “We just want to talk to you,” he said.
“You don’t understand.” Beads of sweat dotted his brow. “I talk, and I’m as dead as Nick.”
“You know who killed Nick, don’t you?” he pressed.
George swallowed, his hands shaking. “You’re not getting anything else out of me.”
“No problem. I’m sure local cops will be by soon, and we can explain how Nick wired you two hundred thousand dollars mere weeks before Taylor Jackson died.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
“What about your wife’s?”
George blanched.
George paced his living room after they’d returned to his house. Deck remained standing while Harper took a seat in one of the armchairs.
“Who killed Nick?” Deck asked.
George smoothed what little hair he had atop his head. “I can’t tell you. Can’t tell you anything, so leave me alone.”
He took a different tack. “Why was Nick killed?”
“Because he screwed up.”
“How so?”
“He made bad moves, and it brought you to him, along with that cop.”
“So Nick killed his wife?” He wanted to hear the truth.
“Yes. Okay. Yes,” George spouted out.
Harper crossed her legs. “Just like you killed yours.”
George remained silent, which gave Deckard all the answer he needed, but someone was supplying the poison. Was that who he was so afraid of?
“How do you like your pharmaceutical job?” Harper asked. “Cook up a lot of things in your lab, do you?”
George stopped pacing and sank down on the couch. “It’s not what you think.”
“What do we think?” Deck moved to join George on the burgundy couch.
“That I made the poison. I didn’t.”
“Come on, man. You really expect us to believe that? You have the perfect job to concoct the poisonous plant and accelerator.”
“Yeah.” George’s leg bounced in a fast-paced rhythm. “Well, so does he.”
“He, who?” Harper asked, leaning forward.
“Uh-huh. I’m done talking. You’ve probably already got me killed.”
“By Hank Weathers or Randolph Palmer?”
George’s eyes widened as his jaw clamped. “How”—he grunted the words—“do you know about them?”
“We know about the frat. All the wives killed by a poisonous flower.” That part Deck was bluffing on. They didn’t know for certain, but it’s what made sense. “Except the wife Randolph lost in a car accident.”
George averted his attention.
“Why that maneuver?”
“Not everything is as it seems.” He stood. “I’m done talking without a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest.” Deck stood beside him.
“Nevertheless, I’m done.”
Deck and Harper saw themselves out.
“Who do you think he’s so afraid of?” Harper asked as they climbed back into the car.
“It’s got to be Hank or Randolph.”
“Hank seems the more likely of the two, given how Randolph’s wife wasn’t murdered.”
“Agreed, but we might as well pay Randolph a visit while we’re in Chicago.”
Harper scrolled through her phone. “Okay. We have his home address and his office at Northwestern.”
“Start at the house?”
“Sure.”
Harper kept scrolling. “Wanna guess what he’s a professor of?”
“Forensic botany?”
“No.” She smiled, but it faded fast. “Chemistry.”
“I wonder if the good professor has a lab.”
“Time to find out.”