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for him so badly that he would have given his own life just to see that wretched man in the grave. It would have been like Marty killing his own father for the years of misery he had dealt his son. Alcohol had killed him before Marty could work up the nerve to do it himself.

*

Greg and Cynthia were approaching Dallas. Soon, they would meet the notorious Buford Bellowin. In the meantime, Greg struggled with his mixed emotions about Cynthia. He was very attracted to her. But he couldn’t let the physical attraction blind him to the fact they she might well be a murderer.

He wanted to believe her story, but he didn’t want to be a fool. Was this an innocent, kind woman of high moral value? Or was she a talented liar, capable of killing without remorse? He hoped he could survive the relationship until he knew the answer to that question.

Then Cynthia looked at him and smiled, and he knew he couldn’t possibly resist her, no matter what she had done. It felt as though the two of them had just stripped naked, and dived off a high cliff over a beautiful river. The water below looked cool and inviting.

But what if it was only six inches deep?

Chapter 23

Greg and Cynthia walked through the spacious marble lobby to the large, circular reception/security booth, which separated them from the hallway of elevators. A huge digital wall clock read 4:08 PM. Two uniformed men were carefully watching an array of closed circuit television monitors.

In a quick survey of three screens, Cynthia saw a young couple in one of the elevators, a woman walking down a hallway with an armful of folders and a man opening a door.

One of the guards looked up at Greg. “May I help you, Sir?”

“Yes. We’re here to see Buford Bellowin.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no, we don’t.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t let you go up. You’ll have to call his secretary and set up an appointment. The office numbers are listed over on that board. I’m sorry—but, that’s all I can do for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Why hadn’t he lied to the guard about having an appointment? No—the guard would have called Buford’s secretary to verify it.

They walked to the information board and found Bellowin & Associates. It was located on the seventeenth floor. Greg typed the office phone number into his cell phone, but did not press the ‘Send’ button. “Let’s go over there,” he said to Cynthia.

He led her to a small couch close to the lobby entrance. He didn’t want to be within earshot of the guards. “Okay. Here goes.” He pressed the ‘Send’ button.

“Bellowin and Associates. How may I help you?”

“I would like to make an appointment with Mr. Bellowin.”

“Are you one of Mr. Bellowin’s clients?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, now, Mr. Bellowin is booked up for the foreseeable future. But one of his associates could see you

next Wednesday at 5:30. Would that work for you?”

What had made Greg think they could just walk right in and meet with the mighty Buford Bellowin?

“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry—this is not about a legal matter. I’m an old friend of Buford’s, from his hometown of Coreyville. I’m in Dallas on business and just wanted to drop by and ‘shoot the bull’ for a while.” He hoped he sounded like one of Buford’s friends. On second thought, he didn’t know whether Buford actually had any friends.

“Oh, I see. Well, he’s in court for the rest of the day, but I could probably squeeze you in sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 tomorrow morning. He reads his email during that time, but I’m sure he could spare a few minutes for an old friend.”

“That would be great.” It wasn’t great. Now he and Cynthia would be forced to spend the night in Dallas. They had planned to meet with Buford and be back home by late evening, having solved the mystery of the Coreyville killing spree. It had seemed like a good plan. What were they thinking?

Cynthia had an ear close to Greg’s phone, and didn’t like what she was hearing. But Greg gave her a look that said, ‘We have no choice.’

“Now, what was your name?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather surprise him.”

There was a brief pause before the secretary responded. Maybe Greg had blown it.

“Okay. Just tell the guard that you are Buford’s friend from Coreyville. He will call me, and I will give him the okay for you to come up.”

“Oh. Actually, there are two of us. The other one is a lady friend of his.”

The secretary knew Buford would not want to miss an opportunity to see a lady friend. “Got it. Two friends from Coreyville at 8:30 AM.”

“Thanks. See you in the morning. Bye.”

“What if he figures out that it’s us?” said Cynthia.

“Even if he does, I think he will be curious to hear what we have to say.”

Cynthia’s cell rang, and Greg was about to advise her not to answer—but, he was too late.

“Hello?

Ten o’clock? I would prefer afternoon, if that’s okay.

Good. I will see you at 2:00.”

“Who was that?”

“Andrea Newly, the Assistant D.A. Thank goodness for cell phones. They have no idea I left town. I’ve got to meet with the D.A. tomorrow afternoon at 2:00. Can we be back home by then?”

“I hope so. If we can see Buford before 9:00, we should make it back in time. But we may be cutting it close.”

*

“Bellowin and Associates. How may I—”

“—Millie, it’s me. I just got out of court, and I have special dinner plans tonight. So, I do not want to be disturbed by anyone for the rest of the evening.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Any important calls?”

“No, Sir. But, you did get a call from an old friend.”

“Who?” Buford had no friends—just associates and clients.

“He wouldn’t give his name. Said he wanted to surprise you. And there’s a lady friend too. They’re from Coreyville.”

“Coreyville?”

“Yes. I told them to come by at 8:30 in the morning.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“No, Sir. That was all.”

“Okay. Thanks, Millie. See you in the morning.”

Buford got into his Mercedes, locked the doors and thought for a few minutes. Who would be coming to see him from Coreyville? He hadn’t been there in eight or ten years. What if Marty had suspected that Buford sent someone to kill him? He might be coming to kill Buford right there in his own office. He wouldn’t care if he got caught. But who was the woman?

What if it was Cynthia Blockerman. And Greg Tenorly? What if Dorothy Spokane had told one of them what Buford had done? Marty had killed Dorothy. But what if she had already told Buford’s dirty secret?

His pistol was locked safely in his office drawer, along with plenty of bullets. He would have it ready to go by the time they got there. He had spent an adequate amount of time at the shooting range to handle this situation. If they knew too much, he could shoot them and say it was self-defense. He could put one of his big, heavy golf trophies in Greg’s dead hands and say that Greg was about to hit him with it.

He would come up with some way to justify Cynthia’s killing as well. He had a very sharp legal mind. He would get himself out of this. And of course, the police would believe almost anything he told them. He was a powerful man. A man who would, in a few short years, be governor of the Lone Star State.

*

Angela Hammerly popped her head into Andrea Newly’s office. “Got Cynthia Blockerman lined up for tomorrow?”

“Yeah. She’s coming in at 2:00.”

“Why not first thing in the morning?” The D.A. was clearly disappointed in her new A.D.A.

“She had a conflict in the morning. I don’t know—”

“—you should have made her come in to suit our schedule—not hers!”

“I’m sorry. Should I call her back?”

“No. I don’t want it to look like I’m undermining your authority. We need a united front.”

“So, you really think she killed her husband?”

“Well, let’s look at the facts.” Angela walked in and took a seat. “The night of the murder, as I was getting out of my car at Cynthia’s house, I saw Greg Tenorly driving by. Or at least I saw his big red convertible. It’s the only one like it in town. I can’t be sure he was driving it—but, for now, let’s just assume he was.

“Why was he driving down her street at three o’clock in the morning? And one of the vice presidents at her bank said he saw Greg go into Cynthia’s office on Tuesday afternoon. By tomorrow, we’ll have their phone records. That should be interesting.

“We also know that she attended his choir rehearsal Wednesday night, the very night of the murder, and stayed late for a private meeting with Greg. And here’s the best part: the church organist says that she overheard Cynthia telling Greg she wished Troy was dead.”

“Are you thinking Greg Tenorly is the murderer?”

“I don’t know which one of them actually cut Troy’s throat, but I think they planned it together.”

“So, Greg and Cynthia were sneaking around having sex while plotting to kill Troy?”

“Something like that.”

“I can get their credit card records and see if one of them has checked into a hotel lately. If so, we can try to find out what the other one was doing at that time,” Andrea said with a wicked tone Angela particularly liked.

“Now you’re thinking. If we can catch them in bed together, after the fact—then we’ve got ‘em.” Angela almost looked proud of Andrea.

“I just hope they were stupid enough to use a credit card.”

“They’re not stupid. But I can guarantee you they’re not as smart as they think they are.”

Chapter 24

John X stole a silver F-150 pickup from a Wal-Mart in Shreveport. It was easy. The owner had parked it thirty feet away from other cars, probably in an attempt to avoid dings. It was a 2004 model, but looked brand new.

If someone had seen him stealing the truck, he would have been too far away for a positive ID. Even if the owner himself had walked out of the store at the moment John X was popping the lock, he would have had no hope of stopping him. He was just too good. Too fast. Too cool.

He didn’t like the George Strait CD or the preset Country radio stations. But it didn’t take long for him to find a heavy metal station and crank up the volume. He wasn’t happy unless the music made his teeth rattle, even if it blew out the speakers.

He took Interstate 20 West, then Highway 59 North to Marshall. Then he merged into Highway 154. Coreyville was fifteen miles away. He knew Marty was much older than he was, but probably a little wiser too.

But he had no intention of giving Marty any chance to avoid extermination. So, it had to be right—on the first attempt. One perfect shot, delivered without warning. Marty was just an ex-con punk. John X was a professional hit man.

Over the past two years, he had averaged two jobs per month, the first few for a measly $5,000 each, and then upped his price to $10,000. He was now ready to raise it again. After all, he’d never failed to complete an objective. A failure could put his employer in jeopardy. And

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