“What the hell? What’s in the shipments?”
“Don’t know. The next shipments are slated for Tuesday. They’re headed up north to Ohio and Illinois.”
“Who are the shipments addressed to up north?”
“Same company. Cavanaugh Industries.”
I carefully studied the documents Rudy spread across my desk and zeroed in on the recent shipment addressed to Libertad in San Diego. Could this be the drugs or guns Gallagher had referenced in the memo from the police station? Was Jonathan hiding drugs or guns in Houghton trucks and shipping them to Libertad?
“I agree with you. This looks suspicious. Let’s get Hardy and his team involved. Have them run down these addresses up north. Then, let’s intercept those shipments up to Ohio and Illinois on Tuesday.”
Anita walked into the office. “Ellice, I’m sorry to interrupt.” She looked like someone had died. I assumed she was going to ask me for permission to go home early or something.
“What is it?”
“Can we go into your conference room?”
“Can it wait?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Rudy and I looked at each other. Butterflies tangled in my stomach. The three of us walked into the adjoining conference room. Anita clicked the remote for the flat-screen television on the wall and turned to WSB-TV.
“What’s going on?” I asked. Anita hit the volume control as the serious-looking brunette rattled on about the protesters in front of Houghton and their increase in numbers over the past few days. I froze when I read the tag line below the anchor:
BREAKING NEWS: POLICE QUESTION HOUGHTON EXECUTIVE IN THE MURDER OF TWO ATLANTA ATTORNEYS
I stood in front of the television, like a petrified deer staring into the barrel of a hunter’s rifle, staring at the words beneath the woman and hoping they would melt away. I had tried to will this entire nightmare away, but it just kept getting worse.
“Ellice, they mentioned your name. What’s going on?” Anita asked softly.
Rudy walked past Anita and stood beside me. “Ell, what’s going on? Anita told me you showed up earlier this week with a bruise on your face. She said the police called about your brother? I didn’t even know you had a brother.” Rudy placed his hand on my shoulder. “Just tell me what’s going on. Let me help. I told you Kelly’s brother is a police officer. I can see if he knows anything.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go.” I bolted from the conference room, grabbed my coat and purse, and headed straight for my car.
*
I drove toward the entrance of my condo building. Sitting out front, in the semicircle drive, was a WSB-TV news truck. Oh God. They had already found out where I lived. Now they were circling me, like lions creeping and shifting into position on slow young prey. I drove past the front of the building, turned at the next corner, and entered the building through the service entrance.
I felt like I was falling into Dante’s ninth circle of hell. My latticework of lies and pretense was starting to crumble around me. I was always so sure of myself, so convinced that I could do everything by myself. Because I always had. Now, I sat in my car, scared and alone. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one person who wouldn’t judge me.
“Grace, it’s me. I’m in trouble.”
Chapter 33
Inside my house, I felt safe. I couldn’t see the news trucks from the vantage point of my condo, so I pretended they weren’t there. I undressed and headed straight for the shower. I had this overwhelming need to bathe and wash away the hard crust of lies and guilt. And as if on cue, sepia-brown memories of Chillicothe crept back in—the heavy pungent smell of Dutch Masters cigars, a broken casserole dish, a gray plastic tarp. The hot water could wash my body, but it couldn’t cleanse my soul.
Dressed in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I was back at the kitchen table. I opened my laptop and pulled up the search engine. If I was going to figure my way out of this mess, I needed to know how bad it was first. I typed in the home page for WSB-TV. The website carried a few paragraphs detailing Michael’s murder and describing me as the recently promoted chief legal officer and my being questioned about the deaths of Michael Sayles and Geoffrey Gallagher. And there at the end of the article, it mentioned that my brother was found dead with Gallagher; the police were investigating a link between the three deaths. The way the article was written, people would either feel sorry for me or be convinced that I had killed all three of them.
The article didn’t carry a picture of me or a statement from Houghton. I searched inside CNN’s website. No mention of me and nothing about Houghton since the day Michael was killed. I surmised either the national media outlets hadn’t picked up the story or they were sitting on it until there was some bigger development. Maybe if things remained quiet, the story might have a twenty-four-hour cycle at best.