“What happened that night?” I said. “The night Wayne was killed.” She rubbed her fingertips against her temples, trying to drive away the beginning of a headache, maybe, or perhaps the lingering of a memory.
“He came home nervous,” she said. “He was real scared that afternoon. He came home and took me right into the bedroom. He told me he thought the Russians knew about him. He said I had to take Betsy and leave that night. He’d leave the house but stay in the city, and he’d talk to his father the next day and finalize the arrangements with Hubbard. He’d rented a car using false identification, and he piled us into it and told us to drive to Columbus. He didn’t want us to use the Cleveland airport, so he’d arranged for a flight to Myrtle Beach from Columbus. He said Randy knew everything, and he’d take care of us. Randy was Wayne’s closest friend. His most trusted friend.” Her voice was a clipped monotone now, an obvious effort to hide all emotion while she told the story.
“We flew into town, and Randy picked us up at the airport,” she said. “He told me not to worry, that he would take care of us until Wayne came down and we left. But the next afternoon we still hadn’t heard from Wayne, and I was starting to get nervous. Then Randy came up to the room and told me Wayne had been murdered. He’d found a story about it on the Cleveland newspaper’s Web site.”
She stopped talking. I said, “And?”
“And?”
I raised my eyebrows. “And what the hell have you been doing since then? It’s been days.”
“I wanted to call the police right away. I figured I could tell them everything, and we wouldn’t be in any danger. But Randy told me not to. He said the Russians were still going to be looking for us, because they knew we were alive, and they knew we could testify against them. And he didn’t trust the police or the FBI for the same reasons Wayne hadn’t—he thought Hubbard could pull strings. So we stayed here, waiting to see what the police would turn up. When it was obvious they weren’t producing anything, Randy went to Cleveland to sort it out.”
“Sort it out?” I said. “How?”
She frowned. “By killing the Russians, maybe? By killing Hubbard? By killing everyone involved? I don’t know, but I’m sure that’s what he had in mind. Randy is a very dangerous man in his own right, Mr. Perry. I’ve known him for years, and I’ll admit he still scares me. I know he would never hurt Betsy or me, but I’m certainly not comfortable around him. After we found out Wayne had been killed, Randy made it clear he was in charge. I didn’t argue. I was scared, and alone, and I had no one else to turn to. He told me he’d go to Cleveland and be back in a few days.”
“So you let him go.”
She pushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ears. “What was I supposed to do? Stop him? Argue with him?” She shook her head. “You’ve obviously never met Randy Hartwick.”
“I met him,” I said. “For about ten seconds, until someone put a bullet through his chest.”
She lifted her hand halfway to her lips and held it there, frozen, her mouth open and her eyes wide. “Randy’s dead?”
“Randy’s dead. That’s what led me here. I wasn’t expecting to find you; I was just trying to find out more about him.”
She eased slowly into the plastic deck chair beside me, as if this last bit of news had extinguished the final flickering embers that had fueled her.
“So the Russians killed your husband?” I said, knowing she wasn’t up to more questioning but still trying to sort out the details.
She swiveled her head and met my eyes, “No. The Russians did not kill my husband. Whoever killed him made it look like a suicide, Mr. Perry.”
“Lincoln.”
“Whoever killed him made it look like a suicide, Lincoln. The Russians would never have been able to get inside our home to do that. Wayne was too smart for that.”
“So who do you think killed him?”
“Jeremiah Hubbard,” she said flatly, as if there were no room for doubt in her mind.
I didn’t know about that, but I didn’t argue with her. It was easy to believe Hubbard might have been involved in Weston’s death, but I had trouble imagining the aging real estate mogul doing his own gun handling.
“So you’ve stayed hidden in this hotel,” I said, “because Hartwick told you not to go to the police?”
“That was my decision,” she said firmly. “My life as I knew it is over. I understand that, and I have to accept it. My husband has angered the most dangerous group of men in the country. They will kill my daughter and me if they can find us. Jeremiah Hubbard will do the same. If we go to the police, we will be placed in witness protection and forced into whatever life they decide to give us. That is not how I will raise my daughter. But I also can’t let the world believe Wayne killed Betsy and me like they’ve been saying on the news. And I can’t let Jeremiah Hubbard get away with this.”
“So what are you planning to do?” I asked.
She looked away. “I don’t know. Randy told me to wait here, and that’s what I was doing. But I know we’re not safe here anymore. You proved that by finding us.”
For a while we sat in silence. Then I said, “So that’s the story? I know everything I should know now?”
“Yes,” she said. “Well, almost. There is one other thing you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Remember the videotape Wayne shot of the murder?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I have it.”
CHAPTER 15
WE STAYED on the balcony for another hour, but I could tell she was fatigued, so around midnight I told her I would leave so she could sleep. She stopped me at the door, though, and asked me to sleep on the couch.
“I can stay,” I said, surprised by the request but not unhappy. I’d had a slight fear I might wake up in the morning to find they’d checked out of the hotel and disappeared. Then I’d get the pleasure of calling Joe. Yeah, good news, Pritchard. I found Julie and Betsy Weston. Where are they? Well, um, that’s a good question. You see, they kind of slipped away while I was asleep.
I told Julie I’d be right back, and then I went down to my own room. It was nice to have a moment alone. It had been only a few hours since I’d left, but it seemed as if it had been days. I closed the door to the balcony and then found my bag. The Glock was inside with a full clip and one spare. I checked the load in the gun and put it back in the bag. It was a Glock 26, known as a “Baby Glock” because of its short barrel, but still outfitted with a ten-shot clip. The gun was small enough to conceal easily in a spine holster and powerful enough to do some serious damage in a short amount of time. It was the first handgun I’d ever bought. An old friend now. I had no reason to believe I was going to need a weapon, but I still felt better knowing it was there. The last man who had tried to help Julie Weston was Randy Hartwick, and I’d watched him die in front of me. Before that, someone had killed her husband. I had no desire to repeat the pattern.
Before going back upstairs, I used my cell phone to call Joe again. This time, I called him at home, knowing he would be there, likely asleep. Joe didn’t have an answering machine, and the phone rang eight times without being picked up. I let it keep going, though, trusting he’d be pissed off enough to get it eventually.
“Hello?” He finally answered, and he definitely sounded unhappy.
“Greetings from the beautiful beaches of South Carolina,” I said. “Are we having an enjoyable evening, Mr. Pritchard?”
“What the hell do you want?” Testy.
“I found Julie and Betsy Weston. They’re here in the hotel where Hartwick worked. I just spent the last two hours talking to Julie.” I could hear him take in his breath sharply, but he didn’t speak.