Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)

“And you know where to find me when you want to ask them,” she said.

“Okay, we’ll need to talk to Savannah. Is she around?”

Remmy had half risen and now stopped. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

“She was at the hospital on the day Bobby died.”

“So what?”

“So that makes her someone I need to speak to,” said Bailey very firmly. “You know, Remmy, I saved your son’s life. I thought by that you’d realize I know what I’m doing.”

King was waiting for her to erupt at this statement, but all she said was, “It might take a while. My daughter has never been an early riser.” She left the room.

King couldn’t help himself from asking, “So you’re not discounting the two-killer angle, Chip?”

“In a murder investigation I don’t discount anything. The fact that nothing was missing from Battle’s room doesn’t jibe with the other killings.” He looked at King and Michelle. “So what do you two think?”

“I think the woman has her own agenda and is trying to get as much information out of us as we’re trying to get out of her,” answered Michelle promptly.

“And I think she won this round handily,” said King with his gaze on Bailey.

CHAPTER

37

ON THE MORNING THAT

the interrogation of the Battles was taking place, Kyle Montgomery sat in his apartment and fingered the new acoustical guitar he’d purchased with his drug profits. He strummed a few chords and sang a few words, his normal procedure when thinking intently. He finally put the guitar aside, slipped gloves on and pulled out a pencil and piece of paper and sat at his kitchen table. He thought about what to write and then how to write it. After several more minutes of contemplation he began to etch out large block letters. He made it halfway through, balled up the paper and threw it away. He did that twice more before settling on the final wording, chewing down a pencil in the process.

He sat back and read over it three times. It would no doubt get the person’s attention; however, his dilemma was he didn’t know if he actually possessed any blackmail information. Yet the beauty of it was that if the person were guilty, the wording of the letter would surely do its work. And his next message would carry with it a request for money, to be delivered in a very safe way that he’d think of in the meantime. He wondered how much it would be worth and then ultimately decided he couldn’t determine that yet. He looked at his new guitar. One hour’s work had brought that to him. One hour! When he slaved during the day for pennies! Well, maybe not too much longer.

He put the letter in an envelope, addressed it and then walked down to the corner mailbox and dropped it in. When the metal door of the postal box clanged shut, Kyle wondered for one terrifying second if he’d just made a huge blunder. However, that dread quickly left him. It was replaced by an even stronger emotion: greed.

They waited for forty-five minutes, and Bailey was just about to leave the room and find one of the household staff when Savannah Battle finally tottered into the library.

Where the mother had been all stone and ice, the daughter looked like a burning photograph a few seconds from curling up and disintegrating.

“Hello, Savannah,” said King. “We’re sorry we have to bother you now.”

If she said something in response, none could hear it. She just stood there dressed in baggy sweatpants and a William and Mary T-shirt with no bra underneath. She was barefoot, her hair a tangled mess. Her nose and cheeks were so reddened it looked like she’d dived headfirst into a bottle of rouge. And she was chewing on her nails.

“Uh, Savannah, you want to take a seat?” asked Bailey.

The woman just stood there staring at the floor, her finger in her mouth. Michelle finally rose, guided her to the couch, poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Drink it,” she said firmly.

Savannah cradled the cup in both hands and took a sip.

The ensuing interview was very frustrating. Savannah, when she did answer their questions, mumbled. When asked to repeat, she mumbled again. She’d gone to the hospital around lunchtime to see her father on the day he died. That much they managed to glean after several tedious attempts and misfires. She stayed about thirty minutes, saw no one and left. Her father was not conscious during that time. They didn’t bother asking her if she had any reason to believe someone might want to kill her father. That required a level of mental acuity that the girl simply wasn’t capable of right now. She’d been home the night of Bobby Battle’s death but wasn’t sure if anyone saw her.

As she slowly walked out of the room, Michelle touched King on the arm. “You were right. Daddy’s little girl is rocked.”

“But are we sure why?”

Chip Bailey received a phone call that caused him to have to make a hasty departure.

King and Michelle followed him to the front door, where King said, “We’ll just hang here. You know, deputy stuff.”

Bailey didn’t look too pleased, but he had no grounds to argue the point.