Bicycle Shop Murder 29

“Cancel the rest of my appointments for this morning.”

“But Sir, Mr. Jacobs is already here, waiting,” whispered Millie.

“I don’t care. Make my apologies and reschedule him. And I do not want to be disturbed unless the building is on fire. Do you understand?”

Buford needed time to think things through. Sam was dead. The only witness who saw the murderer at the scene was dead. The bull-headed juror was dead. And he assumed the police now had Marty’s body. They would find his fingerprints at one of the murder scenes. Or there would be someone who had seen him nearby. They could blame the murders on him and close those cases.

Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman were now Buford’s greatest concern. But John X had taken care of Marty. Surely he could handle those two.

Then there was Kantrell Jamison. There was still a good chance he would be found ‘Guilty,’ even without Troy on the jury and without Arabeth Albertson’s testimony.

It had seemed like a good plan. He had personally done research, and selected Kantrell for the job. He was a poor black teenager who probably wouldn’t graduate from high school. And Buford was sure he could tempt the boy with cash. Back in March, he had mailed a letter to Kantrell:

Mr. Kantrell Jamison, This letter is private. Please do not share it with anyone. The inner envelope contains five one-hun­dred dollars bills. This money is yours. There are no strings attached. You can spend it any way you wish.

At that time, I will offer you a job that will allow you earn a large amount of cash. And you’ll only have to work one night. So, think about it. And have fun spending your money!

Kantrell answered the call on that Saturday morning. Buford had used a throwaway cell phone to call him.

“Don’t talk—just listen. Your pay will be $30,000. You will receive it in cash before you do the job. If you take the cash, but don’t do the job, a hit man will track you down. You will never be safe. He will find you, and kill you. Since you haven’t hung up yet, I will assume you’re still interested.

“The job is to kill Sam Spokane. You will go into his bicy­cle shop one night next week when he is alone and murder him. I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure he’s dead. Also, you will take all of the money from his wallet and from the cash register. You can keep that money too. Do you want the job?”

Buford had been proud of the scheme he had concocted. He had worn gloves while preparing the envelope and the cash. He had even remembered to wet the stamps with tap water instead of licking them. But he had made one stupid mistake. When he had dropped off the $30,000 envelope at the post office from his car, he had picked up the envelope with his bare hands.

As soon as he had released it into the box, he realized his mistake. But it was too late. Tampering with the U.S. Mail could send him to prison just as quickly as hiring a murderer.

But had Kantrell Jamison saved the envelope? Apparently he had been smart enough to hide the money. But if that enve­lope had not been destroyed, and the police ever found it, they would check for DNA. If Kantrell were found innocent, every­thing would be okay. But that outcome now seemed unlikely.

What if Kantrell decided to make a deal with the D.A.? If Kantrell could produce evidence against the person who hired him, he might get a lighter sentence. That envelope kept Buford awake at night.

**********

Greg and Cynthia had not traveled far before stopping at an IHop for breakfast. As they were being shown to a booth, it happened again. And Greg was growing accustomed to it. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t blame the men for looking. If a shiny, new sports car passed by, you had to check it out—right?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So, if beauty is not beheld, is it still beautiful? Greg Tenorly was a musician, not a philosopher. But sometimes his mind wandered—chased rab­bits. And sometimes the chase went on so long he couldn’t even remember where it began.

As long as the men were not ogling her, he could try to ignore them. Cynthia had apparently already learned to do just that. Through years of practice, no doubt.

They sipped coffee, and inhaled the aroma of bacon and pancakes, while waiting for their breakfast. There were four police officers devouring a full table of food, just three booths away. They had watched Cynthia as she passed by—but not in such a way that they thought she might be a fugitive. Just another group of beauty beholders, Greg thought.

“Buford was not the only one acting funny,” Cynthia said softly. “When his secretary took us into his office, he was understandably surprised that we were not old friends. But she seemed confused by his reaction.”

“Really? I didn’t see that.”

“You were looking at Buford.”

“So, what do you think that meant?”

“I didn’t know at the time, but now I’m wondering if it meant he had already told her he knew who we were.”

“But why would it matter?”

“Think about it. We said we were from Coreyville, so he knew that much. But why would he think it was us? Unless he really is involved in the murders.”

“Yeah. If he knows about everything that’s been happening in Coreyville, then he would know about us. But why would we be coming to see him?”

Cynthia said, “Let’s just assume for now that he’s respon­si­ble for all of the murders. I doubt he personally murdered any­body. So, he must have hired someone to do it.”

“A hit man.”

“I guess. But we still don’t know why he would have wanted those people dead.”

“True. But let’s skip that part for now and assume he has some reason. One thing we know is that all of the victims were involved in the murder trial. Troy was a juror. Dorothy was Sam’s widow. And Arabeth Albertson was the sole witness. I believe she was also murdered. The police said it was an acci­dent—that she was old and weak, and just fell down the stairs. But I think somebody tripped her.”

“Well, it does seem like Buford wanted the defendant to go free. Troy was pushing the jury toward a guilty verdict—”

“—and I was trying to stop him—without much luck. Now I realize that I was just a pawn. Buford was playing me.”

“Me too. And Mrs. Albertson was testifying against the defendant.”

“And Dorothy Spokane called to tell me that Buford was the cause of it all. Although—I don’t know how he knew she was about to tell somebody. But now Buford knows that the person she called was me. Or maybe he already knew.”

“Either way, you and I will probably be his next targets.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe going to see Buford wasn’t such a good idea.”

“No—you were just trying to do the right thing, Greg. But we probably are in danger. Maybe we should go to the D.A. and get police protection.”

“Only thing is—I’m not sure the Coreyville police can really protect us. But maybe that’s our only option.”

“The killer might be following us right now.” They both looked around the restaurant, studying each customer, won­dering what a hit man might look like.

“We should go home a different way. Most people travel­ing from Dallas to Coreyville would take I-20 to Longview, and then go up FM-2208. But it would just be too easy to spot my big red convertible on the interstate. So, let’s take Highway 80 instead, and then maybe we’ll even take a smaller highway after we’re on 80 for a while. We don’t want to make it easy for the killer to find us.”

Greg heard something buzzing. Cynthia noticed it too. She reached into her purse, and retrieved her vibrating phone. She flipped it open, but didn’t answer it. “This is not good. I recog­nize the number. It’s the district attorney’s office.

**********

Stealing the Silverado had been a piece of cake. But John X knew he was taking a chance. His new ride might be reported stolen before he could even get out of Dallas. But taking chances was what made the game fun.

He knew the exact location of his prey. They were cur­rently stationary. So, he pulled into a McDonalds, got a #4 breakfast meal with a two large coffees—one to go with break­fast, one for the chase. Ah, adrenaline and coffee—what a combo. He parked to eat his meal and wait for them to start moving again.

John X really wanted the extra $10,000 Buford would pay for accidental deaths. But even more than the money, he liked the challenge. He had never done an accident. Most of his hits had been with a gun. He had murdered a family via arson one time. But his employer had not stipulated that it look like an acci­dent.

So, what were the possibilities? If he raced up behind Greg’s car and clipped the left end of his bumper at just the right speed and angle, maybe he could cause the Bonneville to turn sideways and then flip. Greg and Cynthia would be in big trouble if that convertible started rolling down the highway. Seatbelts would be of little help when their heads hit the pave­ment. But the Bonneville weighed over 4,000 pounds, and had a low center of gravity. He wasn’t sure he could make it flip.

He could wait until they were on a two-lane highway, drive up beside them on the shoulder, and force their car into the oncoming traffic—preferably an 18-wheeler. That would proba­bly do it.

But if they took Interstate 20, he wouldn’t have a chance to do that until they were close to home. He didn’t want to do it that late into the trip. Once they got back home, they would probably separate. That would mean two more hits in Corey­ville. And considering that the local police were already on the lookout for a killer, he thought it wise to stay away from there if possible.

He decided to follow them for a while and wait for an opportunity.