Hour Game

Mason smiled, did a half-bow to the lady and departed.

Remmy said, "I left the hospital around ten and drove home."

"Okay," said Bailey as he noted this down. "What time did you get here?"

"Around eleven or so."

"But the hospital's no more than thirty minutes from your house," King pointed out.

"I took a back road. I needed air; I drove slow, needed time to think."

"Can anyone verify when you got home?" asked Bailey.

Remmy seemed to bristle a bit but said, "Mason was still up and opened the door for me." She took a long sip of coffee. "Before I could even get my clothes off and get into bed, the phone rang and my husband was dead." She paused for a moment, seemingly studying the depths of her drink. "I called Eddie but he wasn't home."

"He was actually with us at the Sage Gentleman until a little after eleven," said King. "He was having dinner there and we joined him for a drink."

Remmy's left eyebrow hiked at this information. "Where was Dorothea?"

"At some function in Richmond, Eddie said."

Remmy snorted. "Function? She sure as hell goes to lots of those." She paused and said in a calmer tone, "I went right back to the hospital and saw my dead husband." She looked at all of them, one by one, as though daring them to challenge one word of what she was saying. "That ended the longest day of my life."

"Was there anything missing from Bobby's personal effects in the hospital?"

"No. I'm particular about that, even made the hospital put together an inventory list."

Bailey cleared his throat. "Remmy, this is going to be a difficult question to answer, but I want you to try."

Remmy seemed to stiffen. "What is it?" she said imperiously.

Bailey shot King a sideways glance before he spoke. "The other murders that seem connected to Bobby's death may not be. It's just possible that someone else killed him."

She put her cup down, sat forward and placed her hands on her knees. "What exactly is your question?"

"Just this: do you know anyone who'd want to hurt Bobby?"

She looked disappointed and sat back. "Every man has his enemies. A rich, successful man has more than most."

"Do you have anyone in particular in mind?"

"No, I don't."

"Remmy, we're just trying to get to the truth."

"So am I," she retorted.

King said, "With ‘enemies' are you referring to business or personal?"

The woman's gaze swiveled to him now. "I'm sure I couldn't say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have funeral arrangements to attend to, now that I've finally gotten back my husband's body from thatplace, " she said, undoubtedly referring to the undignified invasion of her husband's remains at the morgue.

"Remmy, we have more questions," said Bailey.

"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.