Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“Frank.” A secretary stuck her head in. “Reggie says he needs to see you.”

“I have a meeting here.” Powell sounded annoyed.

“He says it’s important.”

Powell sighed. “My boss calls. I’m sorry. Will you excuse me a moment?”

“Of course.”

Powell left. I got up and wandered over to examine his photos. They were mostly of football teams Powell had played on. I scanned the pictures and discovered that he was on the 1986 All-Met team. Goosebumps puckered my flesh. I’d heard of that team before. I checked the caption. There he was—Don “Diesel” Diezman, the fullback. In the next row was a name I hadn’t expected to find—Darrell Cooper. He played center for the team. Powell was quarterback.

I looked at the jerseys. Diezman wore number 44. Powell wore 17. The numbers in Cooper’s calendar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I left Powell’s office before he could come back and tell me more lies. I drove about a mile, pulled over, and called CID. The man who answered said Detective Harris wasn’t in, and Detective Willard was in a meeting.

“I think I’ve solved one of Detective Harris’s cases,” I said. “At least, I’m reasonably certain that I have a prime suspect for her.”

“Really.” I heard a suppressed guffaw. Sure, Crimesolver Sam, doing police work now. Tell me another one, I expected him to say.

“The guy just lied to me about knowing someone connected to the case. Plus, he’s in exactly the kind of position that would enable him to commit the crime.” As Tina’s guidance counselor, Powell must have arranged to meet Shanae at home, ostensibly to talk about Tina. She no doubt appreciated this accommodation since she hated going to Tina’s school to discuss her problems. Shanae must have wanted to discuss Tina’s performance with Beaufort on the DVDs. Powell had to know it was a matter of time before his part in the arrangement came out.

“So shall I have one of the detectives call you?” the man said, in a voice appropriate for dealing with small, unruly children.

“Can I have Detective Harris’s cell phone?”

“I can take a message.”

I gave him my cell number and told him to have her call right away.

I leaned back with my eyes shut. A sickening feeling overcame me. I shouldn’t have left Powell’s office. He would wonder about that. At some point, he would think of the photos and realize that they tipped me off to his lies. Which meant he’d come after me. Or he’d send Diesel.

I wondered if there was a motel far enough away for me to hide. And what would I do with Oscar? He didn’t travel well. I couldn’t ask Russell to take him again.

My phone rang. Reed Duvall’s cheery voice greeted me.

“Hey,” I said, trying to collect my thoughts. “How was your trip?”

“As good as it gets when you move your mother into assisted living,” he said. “Now that’s done and I’ve got a week’s worth of backup to deal with. I thought I’d check in and see how things are going.”

“Funny you should ask,” I said, pondering how much had changed in a week. I gave him a bare bones update, including my revelation about Powell. “I’m trying to figure out where I can hide fr

om a homicidal guidance counselor and a killer with a body that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger weep with envy.”

“Let me help.”

“Don’t tell me. You’ll give me your frequent flier miles to go to Tahiti?” The truth is, I’ve never been on a plane and I’m scared to death of flying, but I would ride shotgun with The Red Baron rather than face Diesel again.

“How about this?” Duvall said. “I’ll be your bodyguard.”

* * * * *

“This is not the kind of service I usually provide,” Duvall said, two hours later in my living room. “But, in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

Duvall had brought a small overnight bag that Oscar sniffed with great enthusiasm.

“I can’t offer much in accommodations. I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the sofa.”