None of this was making sense. These two guys weren’t murderers. And Trent was fairly sure that Allyson wasn’t either. She was a reputable columnist. Young, with a devoted following of readers, yet not so well-known that she could just up and leave her current job. From the looks of her file, it didn’t add up.
He plopped the stack of paper down onto his desk and stood up, stretching his arms out and twisting his back a little. There was no one else in the building except a couple of beat cops talking in the break room. Morris didn’t envy those guys. He had done that job a long time ago. There were some parts of Atlanta he was glad to avoid on the routes they had to cover. As a detective, he had the luxury of showing up after the crime was committed and a safe perimeter had been established. Too many times, he had been shot at, once successfully. Fortunately, the bullet only grazed his side but a few inches to the right and…
Shaking the thought from his brain, he walked toward the break room to get a cup of what passed for coffee at the station. The officers who had been talking casually gave a polite, “Evening, Detective.”
To which Trent replied, “How’s the joe, boys?”
One of them snickered, “How’s it always taste? Like crap.”
“Yeah, well, one of these days I am going to spring for some good stuff.” He poured a cup of the steamy, black sludge into a paper cup. After placing the hot coffee pot back in its place, he stepped over to the fridge. As he opened the door, the other officer who hadn’t spoken said, “We’re out of creamer too, sir”.
Crap. A forlorn look down at the hot liquid in his cup signaled he was actually considering dumping it down the drain. “I heard you guys talkin’ about a murder when I walked in? The KSU thing?” He changed the subject from the topic of bad coffee hoping the medicine might go down a little better. Taking a sip, he realized it hadn’t helped. “Any word on that?”
“The professor that got killed? Nothing new yet, sir,” this time the taller one spoke up.
“Murder weapon been found yet?” Trent took another pull from the coffee and grimaced as he swallowed.
“No sign of it. Heard it was a large blade, though.” The short cop reached over and confirmed a stereotype by grabbing a chocolate glazed doughnut from a box on the counter.
This was nothing new to Morris. “What was this guy a professor of?” He asked casually, trying to free his mind from the case that had been numbing him for the last eight hours.
“Ancient languages and cultures. He taught unconventional history courses there. Did a lot of work with the IAA. Apparently he was an expert in…”
Trent immediately interrupted, the light bulb going on in his head, “Did you say he worked with the IAA?”
“Yeah, I think so. That’s what the bio said.”
“Who’s on the case?”
“Thompson, I think. Why?” The tall cop said as he, too, grabbed a doughnut.
“Just curious,” Trent replied as he tossed the nearly full cup into the trash and walked quickly out the door. “Thanks, fellas.”
“No problem.” The two replied, finishing their sugary pastries.
Chapter 10
Sean had driven around the outskirts of the city for a few hours, uncertain of what to do. He’d chanced a stop in a drive-thru burger joint to get a little food for Allyson and himself. Being out of sorts wasn’t something he was accustomed to.
Interrupting his thoughts, the cell phone ring tone sang from his left front pocket. Two attacks within forty-five minutes had caused both he and his passenger more than just mere concern. When the phone rang, it was just one more in a growing line of surprises.
Fishing the device out of his pocket, he looked at the number. It was an Atlanta area code, but the number was unfamiliar. Normally, he tried to avoid answering calls from unknown numbers, but after what had just transpired, he decided to give it a try.
“Wyatt here.” His answer was simple and direct.
“Sean Wyatt?” The voice on the other end sought confirmation.
“Yeah. Who his this?”
“Mr. Wyatt, this is Detective Trent Morris from Atlanta PD. We’d like you to come in to answer a few questions.”
This wasn’t good. “Questions about what?”
“Mr. Wyatt,” the cop on the line began again, “we have reason to believe that you were involved in a double homicide this afternoon in Buckhead.” The man paused. “Of course, if you don’t come voluntarily, we can always bring you in.”
“Sorry detective. No can do. The two guys from the coffee shop shot at us first.”
“Seems like you handled the situation more than adequately.” Morris changed gears. “Look, we just need to find out more about what happened. Odds are, a man like yourself with your resources won’t even be held for more than thirty minutes. Do you have any idea who those men were that you killed?”
“No.”
There was a pause on the line, then, “What do you know about Tommy Schultz’s disappearance?”
A look of immediate concern crossed Sean’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“About twenty-four hours ago, your friend Schultz went missing. We were hoping you could enlighten us. Normally,” he added, “someone who is missing for such a short time would not have raised any alarm. However, Schultz was due to give a press conference yesterday concerning one of his new finds. He never showed.”
Tommy had told Sean about the discovery and that he was going to announce it at the Georgia Historical Center during a special press conference.
Now this cop was telling him that his friend was missing?
“I assume you went to Tommy’s house,” Sean posed.
“Of course, we have people still there as we speak. There was no evidence of forced entry. And there was no sign of a confrontation. So, whoever took Schultz either knew him, or was invited in. Both of those signs point to you, Mr. Wyatt.”
Sean realized that the good policeman was trying to keep him on the line so that they could trace his location. He figured they had about thirty more seconds before pinpointing him. “I was unaware of Tommy disappearing. But I can assure you, I will find him.” Then he went back to the incidents from earlier.
“The two dead guys from the parking lot came out of nowhere. I have no idea why they attacked us or what they wanted. They just started shooting. About twenty minutes later, I knocked out another one at my house, though, I doubt he is still there.”
“At your house?”
“Yeah, don’t think I killed him, though.” Sean hurried, “Look Trent, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go.”
“Sean, wait!” Morris was desperate. “What do you know about the Borringer murder?”
Wyatt pressed the end button. Borringer murder? Had he heard correctly? Sean had been out of town for a few weeks and hadn’t heard anything about it. He’d worked with Frank Borringer a few times on a couple of projects. The man was a foremost expert on ancient dead languages. The professor was one of only a few people in the world who could interpret Sumerian and ancient Hebrew text and was an asset to the university in Kennesaw.
Now he was dead?
The rush of new information was unsettling. His best friend is kidnapped. Frank was apparently dead. And now there were two separate attempts on his own life.
He had no idea what was going on, but he intended to find out. Turning the car down a side street, he changed directions.
Sean’s look of concern transmitted to Allyson.
“What is it?” She asked curiously, still unsettled from the most recent incident.