The Contract

Chuck Maxwell picked up the empty beer bottle that was sitting on a coaster next to his recliner. The ballgame was still on, top of the 12th. The extra inning game was going deep into the night. He was tired and his knees ached when he stood up. They ached even more when he walked toward the kitchen refrigerator. He paused to look out the window for a moment. The last sound he ever heard was a faint whisper. A bullet from an AR15 rifle with a silencer pierced his forehead, turning his brain to mush.

 The shooter, who had fired from an adjacent lot under the cover of darkness, calmly walked back to his car, through the tall, thick-trunked trees, with his rifle slung over his left shoulder. In his right hand he carried a Colt .45 in case someone was foolish enough to be curious.

The following morning, the weather was brisk, even for early September. Two patrol officers stepped up to the front door of Chuck and Marguerite Maxwell’s Spring Hill, Tennessee home and rang the bell. They noted that Mr. Maxwell’s truck, a badly bruised, 2009 Chevrolet Silverado, was parked in the driveway. When no one answered the door, one of the officers, as instructed over the phone by Mrs. Maxwell, looked under a gargoyle seated to his right and found the key to the front door. The officers, one, a tall black woman who wore wire rimmed glasses, and the other, a short white man with a crewcut, walked in. The Maxwell home was modest, with three bedrooms, and one and a half baths. The furniture was of good quality, but well worn.

The officers found Chuck Maxwell sprawled out on the floor, flies already working him over. The television was still on.

 Marguerite Maxwell, known to friends and family as Maggie, was spending a few days in New Jersey, attending a cousins’ reunion. She had called the Spring Hill police department when she couldn’t reach her husband by phone. “I’ve been trying to reach him since last night,” she said. “I just assumed he fell asleep and had his phone switched off. But when I couldn’t get him this morning, well, now I’m worried, you know?”

 The Maxwells, Maggie 43 and Chuck 45, had been married for twenty-one years. They’d met when he was a minor league ballplayer in the Detroit Tigers organization.

 The officers quickly called for the homicide squad and the CSI team. Other than the kitchen window having been shattered, there were no signs of a struggle. It didn’t appear that anything in the home had been disturbed.  When Detective Jeremy Bullock arrived, he quickly took charge. He knew that the CSI team needed no instructions, so he turned to the officers on the scene for a report. Not that there was much to tell.

 “Have you been through every room to make sure no one else is here, dead or alive?” he asked.

The officers were young and new to the force. “We did that right away,” the woman said.

 Bullock tapped his pen against his notebook, seemingly impatient “Did you check for evidence of a robbery?” Bullock asked. He was a tall, slender man whose demeanor belied his toughness. Aware of the first impression he made, Bullock tended to be gruff with people when he first met them.

 “Didn’t look like anything was out of place.” This time it was the male officer.

 “Maybe so, but take another look around just in case,” Bullock said. He looked through the kitchen window, staring out at the trees. Turning toward the head of the CSI team he said, “About what time did this go down, JJ?”

 “Last night. I’d say before midnight, maybe around ten, or ten-thirty.”

 “Looks like a single shot to the head. You recover the bullet?”

 “Yeah, landed over there.” He pointed to the kitchen table. Looks like a 5.56, most likely from an AR-15,” JJ said. “Looking at the damage though -damn thing went right through the man’s skull, I didn’t really need the bullet to tell you that, now did I?”

 “No, I guess not.” Bullock looked through the window again. He decided to check the area from which the shot probably was fired. Before he stepped outside, he told the two patrol officers, “When you finish searching the rooms, canvas the neighborhood to see if anyone heard a shot being fired, or saw someone who looked suspicious.”

 He walked carefully through the heavily wooded lot. The ground was dry, so he didn’t expect to find footprints. He was hoping he might find a shell casing, or maybe the shooter dropped something that might lead to identifying whoever pulled the trigger. He could tell that someone else had looked for the shell casing by the way the dirt was smoothed over in some areas.

 After thirty minutes of searching, he found it under a single leaf. It confirmed the CSI’s notion about the bullet. He bagged it with great care, doubtful that the shooter was careless. Considering where he found the casing, it was clear to Bullock that this wasn’t a random shot from a neighbor’s backyard that somehow went horribly awry. This was a hit. The question was who and why?

 Maggie Maxwell had been told by a New Jersey state trooper only that her husband had died. She insisted on knowing the details, but the trooper would say only that it was important that she get home as soon as possible. Carla Rackoff, a Nashville police officer met her at the airport. She was a mature woman, experienced in handling cases like this. She arranged with the airline to take care of Mrs. Maxwell’s luggage. Officer Rackoff led the woman into a conference room used by law enforcement authorities for situations like this. A camera was recording their conversation. Brad Vander Molen, a homicide detective from the city was waiting for them.

“Mrs. Maxwell, I’m afraid I have bad news. Your husband was found in your home by Spring Hill officers. He was shot and killed. I’m very sorry.”

 Maggie took a deep breath. “Oh, there has to be some kind of mistake. Are you sure? Who would do something like that?” She started hyperventilating. “I can’t breathe,” she said. “Are you sure it was Chuck?”

 “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

 Officer Rackoff was ready for it when Maggie collapsed in her arms, sobbing now. The new widow kept repeating, “This is some kind of mistake.”

 The detective, a gray-haired man nearing retirement, and eager for its arrival, gave Maggie time to compose herself. When she stopped crying, the detective took out a notebook and started asking questions. “Do you have any children?”

 “No, we didn’t have any kids.” She told Vander Molen she’d been in New Jersey for a reunion. She told him what she’d told the Spring Hill police, that her husband didn’t pick up when she called.

 “Do you know of anyone who might want to harm your husband?” The detective asked. He took her through a string of possibilities that might lead to violence. Was he having a problem getting along with someone? Did he have gambling debts? Was it possible he’d been seeing another man’s wife?

 Maggie shook her head no to all of these question except for the last one about seeing another woman. “Not that I know of,” she said. “I guess you never know these days.”

 “Have you been concerned about that possibility recently?”

 “Oh, no, not at all. It’s just a funny question, I guess. Maybe when he was younger, he ran around some. He was a major league baseball player for a little while back then. Played two seasons with the Tigers, but they released him and that was that.”

 “What kind of work did he do after baseball?”

 “He was still involved with baseball, actually, as an assistant baseball coach at Triune State College.” She was crying quietly now, a tissue in her hand to wipe her tears. “Sometimes he worked nights, part time, too, at the Spring Hill plant where they make them Cadillacs.”

 “Any problems there?”

 “Not that I know of.” She clutched her purse. “Can I go home now?”

The detective looked at the uniformed officer who nodded. “Officer Rackoff will take you to the Spring Hill station. Detective Jeremy Bullock needs to see you first. He’ll meet you there.”

 By the time Mrs. Maxwell got to the Spring Hill station, the Nashville detective had already briefed Detective Bullock. He said, “Hard to tell, Jeremy. She seemed suitably distressed, but you know how it goes. It can be hard to tell in cases like this.”

“It looks to me like it was a hit. We’ll need to dig into the backgrounds of both husband and wife.”

 “I know how that goes. The wife wasn’t much help, I can tell you that.”

 Bullock met Maggie Maxwell at the station and escorted her to a small interview room.  “I need to see my husband,” she said. “Need to see for myself.”

 “You might regret that Mrs. Maxwell. We have other ways to confirm his identity.”

 Maggie pulled a menthol cigarette out of her purse. “I haven’t had one of these since I got up this morning.” Her hands were shaking. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the building, but Bullock allowed it. He lit her cigarette and took a closer look at her. She looked fit, like a woman who ran marathons or lifted weights, maybe both. She was dressed to look younger too. Her husband, whose body was still lying on their kitchen floor, had been a large man, still muscular, but with his girth, Bullock figured he had to be over 300 pounds. According to his driver’s license, Maxwell was only 5’10” tall.

 “Mrs. Maxwell, we have a few questions to ask. We’ll drive you home when we’re through. We need to give our people time to clean things up at your home.”

 Maggie took a long drag and nodded. Bullock offered to get her something to eat, but she refused.

 He put the recorder on and quickly explained he was going to ask her some questions, some of which might make her uncomfortable. “I’m ready. Can we just get this over with?” she asked.

 “We’re going to be going through your financial records and your cell phones and computers. I want to make sure you understand that, because whatever you tell me, is going to be verified. If you don’t know the answer to a question, just say so.”

 “Do I need a lawyer?” she asked.

 “You haven’t been charged with anything and you’re not under arrest, but that is your right.” He looked at her, a neutral look on his face.

 “No, I will answer your questions. I assume you don’t know who did this.”

“We do not.”

 “Any suspects?”

 Bullock smiled. “Not yet, but I’m asking the questions right now, okay?”

 She nodded and took another cigarette out.

 “Now, let’s get right to it. Do you have a boyfriend?”

 “No, absolutely not.”

 “Did your husband have a girlfriend?”

 “The other detective already asked me that.”

 He waited.

 “No, I don’t think so. How could I know for sure?”

 “That’s fine. You’re doing great. Want some coffee?”

 “Black, please.” He got up and stuck his head out the door and spoke to someone.

 “Did your husband have life insurance?”

 “No. Oh, wait a sec. I take that back. He had a $100,000 policy he bought through his job at the college.” Her face flushed. “I forgot about that.”

 “When did he buy it?”

 “I’m not sure. At least five years ago.”

 “Any new policies taken out in say, the last eighteen months?”

 “Nope.” There was a knock on the door. An administrative assistant was there with two cups. The detective placed the coffee in front of Maggie.   

 “I’m a tea drinker,” he said, pulling the teabag’s string. “Never liked the taste of coffee. When we check your bank records, are we going to find any large recent withdrawals, or maybe a pattern of withdrawals?”

 “No, why?”

 Bullock ignored her question. He walked her through her relationship with her husband, how they met, when they got married and where they had lived. For the last fifteen years she worked in the county hospital’s gift shop. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her husband had made very good money playing baseball, but he hadn’t played long enough for them to be wealthy. And that was almost twenty years ago. Now, Chuck Maxwell was dead and his widow was about to collect $100,000. 

 “I’ll get someone to drive you home,” he said.

 “Can they take me to my sister’s house in Nolensville? I don’t want to be in the house alone. I’m afraid. I mean what if it was me they were after?”

 “Do you know of any reason why someone might want to do you harm?”

 “No, but I don’t know of any reason why someone would want to hurt Chuck either.”

 “Good point.” Bullock stood and stretched. “Let’s see if we can get you to your sister’s.”

 “Can I smoke in the car? If not, I’ll need one before we leave.”

Over the next few days, Bullock was able to confirm everything Maggie Maxwell had told him. There was no evidence of an extramarital affair by either Chuck or Maggie, no new insurance policies and no sudden withdrawals of large amounts of money. Their finances appeared to be a bit shaky. Their credit rating was poor, mostly because they frequently ran behind on their bills. Savings were meager too, less than $20,000. Maggie Maxwell had no apparent motive to kill her husband. Of course, Bullock realized that she could have done it for the $100,000 life insurance policy, but in cases like that, usually, more insurance has been purchased prior to the murder.  

 Friends and family members he’d spoken to so far vouched for the couple too. He hadn’t spoken yet with her New Jersey cousins, but he didn’t expect to hear anything different from them. Everyone seemed to agree. The Maxwells had a good marriage. That had to count for something. But someone wanted Chuck Maxwell dead.

 Detective Bullock had a good deal of experience working homicide cases. He’d risen to lead homicide detective in neighboring Rutherford County before he decided to switch to Williamson County, where he lived with his wife, Laurie, and their three boys. The move allowed him to cut down on his commute time. Bullock’s sons were all into sports and he wanted more opportunities to see them play.

 The Maxwell case was his first homicide on his new job. Eager to make a good first impression, he was hoping to solve the case quickly. But that didn’t seem likely now. If the spouse isn’t involved and there are no other men or women who might have a clear motive to kill the victim, well, he knew from experience these cases often wound up in the cold case files.

 He had the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation try to trace the bullet and shell casing he’d retrieved, but they were having trouble with that. His contact told him, “The only thing we know for sure is the ammo was military grade. Whoever did this, had access to military ammo.”

 “My shooter could have been from anywhere, then?” Bullock asked the investigator.

 “Yeah. it’s possible.”

 “I haven’t found anyone yet that might have had a grudge against my guy. The wife looks clean so far too.”

 “Could be a case of mistaken identity,” the TBI agent suggested.

 As was his custom with cases where there was no obvious suspect, Bullock let matters rest for a few days, letting his subconscious work through his next steps. He had placed several calls to Maggie’s cousins, but no one had returned his call yet. He doubted any of her cousins would be able to tell him much, but, with no other leads, he decided to call again. His first call was to Bernadette Benaquista. This time the woman picked up.

 “Oh, I was meaning to call you back, detective. It’s awful what happened to Chucky. How can I help you?”

 “How well did you know the deceased?”

 “Not well, really. I was at the wedding and one time they came up to New Jersey and spent a few days at my shore house.”

 “How long ago was their visit?”

 “Good question. Maybe six or seven years ago. They were really happy. Chuck still had money from his baseball days.”

 Bullock perked up. It was the first sign that perhaps everything wasn’t rosy in the Maxwell marriage. Were their money related problems causing tension in their marriage? “Did you see Maggie on her last visit?”

 “Yeah, she stayed with me while she was here. We spent a lot of time together.”

Bullock looked at his calendar. The next few days were clear. His middle son, a 7th grader, would have a football game, but he’d seen his other games and the season wasn’t over yet. He could miss one game. “Ms. Benaquista, I would like to come see you so we could talk in person. Would that be okay with you?”

 “I don’t know. Why would you want to do that?” she asked. “Is Maggie in some kind of trouble?”

 Bullock took a deep breath. “To be honest, I don’t know the answer to that. You could help me clear her completely, though. Will you talk to me?”

 “I’ll think about it.”

 An hour later Bernadette Benaquista called him back. “I spoke to Maggie. She’s okay with it. When do you want to come?”

 “Would tomorrow work for you?”

 “Sure.” She gave him her address then and directions to her home in Verona, New Jersey.

 The lieutenant Bullock reported to, gave him the go ahead for his trip, but not without reservation. “You sure you can’t get what you need over the phone? I don’t know how you did things in Rutherford County, but we are very careful with the people’s money here.”

 “If I thought I could get what I was looking for over the phone, I would have done that,” Bullock answered.

 “Okay, just asking. Keep in mind that the brass is going to increase the pressure on you now.”

 Bullock smiled and went back to his cubicle to make the necessary arrangements. He arrived at Newark Liberty International Airport that night and settled into his hotel room for the night. He called home, eager to know how the football game went. His son made a game saving tackle. His team won.

 The next morning, he took his rental car to Bernadette Benaquista’s home in Verona. She looked to be about 50 years old, with short, but stylish blonde hair. She invited him into her dining room. There was an assortment of Italian cookies, espresso cups and a bottle of Anisette on the table.

 “Sit, please. I’ll get the coffee. How was your trip?” she asked as she headed to the kitchen. When she got back, she poured coffee into each cup. “Ever have espresso before?”

 “No, I can’t say I have. The woman seemed a bit exotic to Bullock. He took a sip. “Very strong stuff,” he said. It tasted bitter to him.

 She picked up the bottle of Anisette and poured some into his cup. “Try it now,” she said.           He took another sip and smiled.

 “Better right?”

 Bullock took a closer look at Bernadette. Her eyes told him this was not her first spiked cup of the day. “It’s very good, thank you.” He bit into a cookie and tasted almond and a touch of the licorice flavor he noticed in the Anisette. “Tell me about your cousin Maggie.”

 Bullock walked her through some basic areas to get her talking. That turned out to be easy. After ten minutes of family history, Bernadette said, “You know, Maggie used to be very heavy. She got that way about ten years ago when she found out they couldn’t have a child. Something wrong with Chuck’s sperm.”

 “She must have lost a lot of weight,” Bullock said.

 “She sure did. Right about the time Chuck starting gaining weight, in fact. She started going to the gym and running, eating carrot sticks, sticking to a low carb diet.”

 “So, they were going in opposite directions?” In spite of his determination not to, Bullock took another cookie.        

 “You might say that. She told me she tried to get him to go on a diet, but he just laughed.”

 “Were they happy together?”

 “Who knows? I mean how happy is anybody after twenty years of marriage?” She hesitated for a moment, poured more coffee for both of them and added more liqueur. “I think she was bored. I mean when she met him it was like he was a rising star. And he did make it to the majors for a little while. They lived in a classy Detroit suburb and drove nice cars, you know?

 “How did Mr. Maxwell’s career end exactly?”

 Bernadette rolled her eyes. She pointed a finger at him. “You did not hear this from me. What happened was the stupid bastard took a bribe to lose a game. Then he took that money and bet on his own team, like Pete Rose did. He winds up pitching a shutout! Can you believe that?”

 “What happened?”

 “He collected a bundle on that game, but somebody ratted him out. He wound up paying a fine equal to what he won. Then the Tigers put him on some injured list for the rest of the season and released him when it was over. They covered it up. They didn’t want another Pete Rose type deal to come out.”

 “What about the people he crossed? Did they come after him?”  

 “Beats me. Wait, you think they could have done this to Chucky?”

 “I’ll have to look into it. Who told you this story?”

 Bernadette looked around her dining room. She poured herself more Anisette, but Bullock passed. “I shouldn’t have told you that. Maggie told me. Anyway, when it was all over, he wanted to go home to Tennessee.”

 “Maggie doesn’t like Tennessee?”

 “Don’t let your feelings get hurt. She thinks the people are nice, but she can’t get a decent slice of pizza down there.”

 Bullock smiled. “Did they argue a lot?”

 “Wait, I said she was bored. I’m bored half the time myself. That doesn’t mean I want to kill my husband.”

 “When she was here for the reunion, did she seem different, or nervous, out of sorts?”

 “I’m giving you the wrong impression, I’m afraid. She was fine. She even told me that she and Chuck were thinking about taking a trip to Italy next year.”

 “Does Maggie have any friends or relatives in New Jersey that might be involved in criminal activities?”

 Bernadette’s eyes narrowed. “You mean because she’s Italian and comes from New Jersey she might be related to somebody in the mafia? Is that it?”

 Bullock raised his hands in protest. “I didn’t know she was Italian, Bernadette. I’m really trying to rule Maggie out. It’s part of my job.”

Bernadette reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one, puffing hard. The smoke encircled her head and she waved it away. “Well, to answer your question, Maggie doesn’t know anybody in that line of work. In fact, just the opposite. She volunteers at some women’s prison in Nashville about once a week.”

 “Really? What does she do there?”

 “Some kind of counseling, I think.”

After a few more perfunctory questions, Bullock wrapped up the interview. When he stood to leave, Bernadette asked him to wait a moment. She went into the kitchen and came out with a fresh brown paper bag. She filled the bag with the cookies and handed it to him. “Take these. That way you’ll have something decent to eat on the plane.”

 On his flight back to Nashville, Bullock studied his notes. The big takeaways for him were Bernadette’s acknowledgement that Maggie and Chuck’s marriage wasn’t necessarily idyllic after all. He was also curious about her volunteer work. Then there was the story about Maxwell’s departure from baseball.

Back in the office the next morning, he placed a call to Maggie. She didn’t say hello. Instead she said, “How were the cookies?”

 “Wonderful. My kids loved them. Tell me about your volunteer work at the prison.”

 “There isn’t much to tell. I go there sometimes to help out. I took a special course so I could help the women make plans for when they get released,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

 “Who is your contact at the prison?”

 “Michelle Darden. What is this about?”

“Probably nothing. Please try to understand that police work often involves going down the rabbit hole. Every once in a while, we find something that might help.” He paused. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your husband’s case is shaping up to be particularly difficult. We don’t have any leads, but I promise you we will do whatever we can to find the person responsible for his death.”

 “Thank you,” she said. “Do you know when the insurance money will be released? I hate to ask at a time like this, but bills are piling up with Chucky’s funeral.”

 “Well, that’s up to the life insurance company,” Bullock said, writing a note. “Have you filed a claim yet?”

 “No, I was just wondering. Does the case have to be solved before I get the money?”

 “Call your agent. I can tell you that there is a statute pertaining to this type of situation.”

 “Okay.”

 Bullock’s next call was to Sam Wachowski, the athletic director at Vanderbilt University. He had coached at the major league level and was well connected. They knew each other because they served on some church committees together. Bullock relayed the story Bernadette Benaquista had told him about Chuck Maxwell’s baseball life and asked Sam to see if he could try to confirm it. 

 Bullock took a quick break. He washed his hands and patted his face with a cool, wet paper towel. It felt good. Then he called Michelle Darden at the Tennessee Prison for Women.

“Was she a good counselor? He asked.

 “As far as it goes, yes, but I had to reprimand her several times for talking to prisoners. Counselors are only allowed to talk to prisoners at specified times in meeting rooms. Marguerite had a habit of talking to them in the hallway between sessions. Come to think of it, the last time she was here, I told her if it happened again, I would have to let her go.”

 “What did she say?”

 “She apologized, but she hasn’t been back since.”

 “I’m going to need to review the records of the women she counseled.” Bullock told Darden about what happened to Chuck Maxwell.

 She let out a low whistle. “I think I know where you’re going with this, but the women that make it into this program are usually considered good candidates for parole. I’ll check, but I think Marguerite only worked with a few prisoners.”

 That afternoon Michelle Darden called Detective Bullock. “There are seven of them. I have the folders here. When can you come in?”

 “I’ll be there tomorrow morning.” 

On his way home that evening, Sam Wachowski called him. “Never happened, Jeremy. I spoke to the general manager of the Tigers. He laughed.”

Did he tell you why Maxwell was released?”

 “Dead arm. Came to spring training and had nothing. It happens. Shame the guy is dead though.” The question now was why would Maggie Maxwell tell her cousin such an elaborate story.

 The following morning, Bullock quickly went through the prison’s visitor center and found Michelle Darden waiting for him in a small conference room, surrounded by filing cabinets topped with stacks of paper. The room was air conditioned, but barely.

 “Some good news, maybe. Of the seven, there were only two that Maggie spoke to outside the rules.” She handed the detective the first file. “This one here is Marianne Jethro, in for armed robbery, one count. She got caught while she was robbing a convenience store. The other one is Dorothy Reynolds. This woman is a bit of a longshot for our program, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed. She went along with a friend on what she said was a stop at the Piggly Wiggly for milk. Her companion decided to stick up the store and wound up shooting two people. One of them died.”

 Bullock took the other file and sat down. “Let me go through these and then I’ll talk to these women.”

 Less than 45 minutes later, he was ready to meet the prisoners. Marianne Jethro was first.

 “Oh, Maggie. Nice lady. She really tried to help,” Jethro said. “But I think she got fired for talking to us about certain things.”

 Bullock wrote as Jethro talked. “What kind of things?”

 Jethro stretched her long thin legs and yawned. “She was supposed to talk to us mostly about handling money, finances, on the outside, stuff like that. But sometimes she would ask us about other things, like, oh, I can’t remember what.” Jethro averted her eyes. “That’s all I know, really. Is there anything else?”

 Dorothy Reynolds came across as a woman who was still angry over what happened to her. A serious nail biter with stringy hair, she spoke with a deep voice. “I’m in jail for something I didn’t do,” she said before Bullock even asked her a question. “I was there, sure, but how could I know what Marta was gonna do if she didn’t tell me?”

 The detective glanced again at her file, confirming what he’d read earlier. Reynolds, who was driving that day, had driven the car away at a high rate of speed when her friend exited the convenience store. She also owned the gun her partner used. “You probably should take that up with your lawyer,” Bullock said. “Can you tell me what you and Marguerite Maxwell talked about outside your counseling sessions?”

 “Sure, we talked about the Titans and the Predators.”

 “What else did you talk about?”

 “Recipes. I used to make a mean chocolate pudding. You want the recipe? Mine was so good they put it on the back of the Jell-O Pudding box.” 

 Since he was at the prison, Bullock decided to meet with the other five women Maggie had worked with. Darden raised an eyebrow, but agreed to bring the women in. “You want their files?”

 “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

The fourth woman he spoke with, Nanci Prescott, heavyset and matronly looking, sat down and said, “I know what this is about.”

 “What do you think it’s about?” Bullock leaned back in his chair.

 “Maggie’s husband is dead ain’t he?”

 “He is.”

 “Murdered, right?” Prescott looked around the room. “Is this being recorded?”

 “No, it’s just you and me.”

 “Okay, you didn’t hear this from me, but I overheard two girls talking one night and one of them said her brother was going to make a bundle helping to solve Maggie Maxwell’s problem and she was getting a cut.”

 “Who was that?”

 “If I tell you, what do I get for that?”

 “If I have to give you something for that, that’s a problem. But I will say this, if you tell me something that leads to a conviction, I’ll see what I can do.”

 “It’s not like I’m asking for a reduced sentence or anything. I just want some really good chocolate, Sharffen Berger. They’re from California.”

 “Sharffen Berger?”          

 “Yes, do I look too stupid to know about fine chocolate?”

 “Not at all. I never heard of it. You have a deal, Nanci.”

 “I don’t mean one lousy bar. I want a box of twenty bars.”

 “As long as the warden approves, you’ll get them,” Bullock said.

 “Fair enough. It was Dottie Reynolds.”

 Her answer didn’t surprise Bullock. Before he left the prison, he sat down with Michelle Darden and reviewed Dorothy Reynold’s file again. Included were references to fights she’d had with other prisoners and threats she’d made about having her brother and his friends, take care of them when they got out, if they didn’t do what she asked. Over the last eighteen months, though, she seemed to have calmed down. Then Bullock saw the tie-in he was looking for. Reynolds was born in Brooklyn, where she lived until she was 30. That’s when she moved to Tennessee. Her brother’s name was Arnold Reynolds. They were twins. 

 It was time for another chat with Maggie Maxwell, but before he did that, he went back and checked Chuck and Maggie’s cellphone records. There were no calls to Brooklyn numbers. He went back over his notes from his meeting with Bernadette Benaquista. He noticed that she said something about Maggie always misplacing things that turned up later; how she was always borrowing things because she couldn’t find her own.

 He called her. “Bernadette, it’s Jeremy Bullock from the Spring Hill, Tennessee Police department. I have a quick follow up question for you. Did your cousin Maggie borrow your cell phone on her last visit?’

 She didn’t answer immediately. “No, not that I recall,” she said, finally.

 “Bernadette, I hope you realize that we are conducting an official murder investigation. If you lie to me that is a crime.”

 Again, there was hesitation on the other end of the line. “Well, like I told you, I don’t think so.”

 “Here’s what we’re going to do Ms. Benaquista. You’re going to email me your phone records during the time your cousin was staying with you. If you refuse, I’ll subpoena them, understood?”

 “Is Maggie in some kind of trouble? Don’t bullshit me.”

 “I still don’t know. We’re running down several leads.”

 “Does she have to know I’m giving you this information?”

 “I won’t tell her,” Bullock said. What he didn’t say was that Maggie Maxwell would probably figure it out. “I need the information today, please.”

 Two hours later he received an email from Bernadette Benaquista with her phone records attached. He printed it and ran his finger down the page until he saw calls to Brooklyn’s 718 area code. There were three calls to the same number, all of them made while Maggie was staying with her cousin.

 He called the number and got a voice mail. “It’s Arnie. Don’t bother leaving a message unless you got money for me.”

 Next, he called the precinct in Brooklyn that covered the area where Arnold Reynolds lived. He explained what he was looking for. The officer on the other end of the line just listened, but Bullock could hear the keys to the man’s keyboard clicking.

“Well, detective, your man Reynolds is a regular piece of work. He’s a low-level soldier in what’s left of the Porzio crime family. He’s spent time in prison, never very long, did a two year stretch in Attica, out for three years now,” he said. “So, if you’re looking for a guy who might be acquainted with a reliable hitman, he’s certainly in the running.”

 “Do you have somebody that can talk to him for me?”

 The man laughed. “I’m just a desk sergeant these days. All I can tell you is we’re pretty busy here in this precinct. I can arrange to have this clown picked up, but you’ll need to come up here if you want to talk to him.”

 “I see.”

 “You think he was the shooter?”

 “Anything like that on his record?”

 More clicks. The desk sergeant cleared his throat. “Doesn’t look like his thing. Anyway, I doubt this guy could find his way to Jersey on a bus, let alone make it to Tennessee.”

 “His sister lives here, courtesy of the state,” Bullock said.

 “I’ll email you some paperwork. Let me know if you plan to pay us a visit.”

 Bullock got up from his desk and walked down to the lieutenant’s office. The lieutenant was watching the local news on the TV monitor that hung on his wall. He looked up when Bullock walked in. “Uh-oh, I’ve seen that look before. You want to travel again, right?”

 He told the lieutenant what he’d learned and why he felt it was important to go to New York. When he finished. The lieutenant said, “Go ahead. I just hope if we have another homicide this year, it’s people who live next door to each other.” He shook his head to acknowledge he didn’t mean that.

 Bullock flew to LaGuardia Airport and opted for a ride share service to get to Brooklyn. He arrived at the precinct at one in the afternoon. They were waiting for him with Arnold Reynolds in an interview room. Reynolds was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. His neck was covered with tattoos. There were no tattoos on his arms, except for the ones on his wrists which looked like handcuffs.

 Reynolds noticed Bullock eying them. “I was high, and the jerk who did the work said he’d do it for free.”

 “Your sister Dottie sends her regards,” Bullock said. Reynolds just stared; his mouth closed. Bullock asked, “When did you meet Maggie Maxwell?”

 “Never heard of her.”

 “Mr. Reynolds, we have phone records that show you received three calls from Maggie Maxwell, all while she was visiting New Jersey.”

 “What of it?”

 “When we check your phone records, I think there’s a good chance we’ll be able to connect the dots related to a murder for hire scheme. It isn’t going to go well for you unless you start cooperating.”

 “A couple of phone calls that I may have taken from some dame is gonna somehow connect me to a hit?” Reynolds said. “Maybe you can run that shit by the hicks you got in Tennessee, but it won’t fly here, man. We done?”

 Bullock had been bluffing. He should have realized that Reynolds was at least bright enough not to set up the actual hit over the phone. They’d find no calls to the shooter. He’d been lulled by the fact that Maggie Maxwell had indeed made that error. No doubt, she thought that using her cousin’s phone would keep her safe on that score.

 “Even us hicks have a few tricks up our sleeves, Arnie. We have a witness that overheard your sister bragging about how she was going to score when she got her end of the Maxwell hit you were arranging. Our witness will testify to that.” Again, he was stretching things, but this time, he was confident.

 Reynolds looked at Bullock, rage in his eyes. Yet, the detective could see the anger was not directed at him. “Arnie, work with me now and I’m pretty sure I can get you a deal.” Bullock walked Reynolds through the sequence of events leading up to the murder. “Marguerite Maxwell called you. Your sister tipped you about the call. You agreed to arrange the murder, right?’

 “I want my lawyer.” Reynolds was fidgeting now.

 “Sure, we’ll wait,” Bullock said. 

 Less than an hour later, Marc Slifer, Reynolds’ attorney arrived. He was a good-looking guy with a beard and long hair, a throwback to the seventies. He was also a no-nonsense type. After a short conference with his client, he got right to the point. “You want my client to help you convict the decedent’s wife and the shooter.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling. “Mr. Reynolds was the go between. He didn’t pull the trigger. True he got a finder’s fee, but it was small.”

 “How much?” Bullock asked.

 Slifer turned to his client and nodded. “It was fifty grand. All I got was five. My dumbass sister got two grand.”

“If you want my client’s testimony and evidence he has in his possession, evidence that will…”

 Bullock interrupted him. “What kind of evidence does he have?”

 Again, Slifer turned to Reynolds. “I got a picture of the Maxwell broad approaching my car in Hoboken, near the Union Dry Dock Yard with a shopping bag full of cash.”

 “What else?”

 “I got my girlfriend to deliver the money to the shooter in front of his apartment. He didn’t know I was across the street in the park. I got a picture of that too. It’s an insurance kind of thing. It’s not like I can ask for a receipt.”

Slifer continued. “What my client wants in exchange for his cooperation is immunity from prosecution and to be placed in the witness protection program. Let’s face it, if he testifies against a member of the Porzio family, his number’s going to get punched.”

 Bullock looked at the Brooklyn detective who had been sitting there as an observer. “It’s probably doable,” he said. “Let me get the DA in here.” He picked up the phone and made a call. The DA walked in and the Brooklyn detective explained what was on the table. The DA turned to Slifer. “Your client will enter a guilty plea for conspiracy to commit murder. Until this goes to trial, Mr. Reynolds will be placed in isolation at Rikers. Once the trial is over, he’ll be moved to witness protection.” By the time trials actually occurred, that would mean at least a year in prison. The DA planned to see to it.

 Reynolds nodded. “Yeah, that works,” Slifer said.

 “Who was the shooter?” Bullock asked.

 Reynolds exhaled, rubbed his eyes and then his temples. “His name is Casey Donato. The guy’s an Iraq war vet, Special Forces.”

 Bullock shook his head. The shooter had used a military grade bullet.  

 Before he left the precinct, Bullock arranged to have the NYPD pick up Donato and start the process of extradition to Tennessee. He flew home feeling both satisfaction and relief. He’d solved his first murder case on his new job in Spring Hill. He was glad to leave New York and hopeful that the case didn’t bust the department’s travel budget.

The next day he had patrol officers, the same team that had been the first to arrive at the murder scene, pick up Maggie Maxwell. She didn’t resist and asked no questions. They placed her in the tiny interview room. She’d asked for a lawyer, but ignored his advice.

 “I’m glad it’s over,” she said. “I haven’t been sleeping too well.”

“Why did you do it?” Bullock asked. He’d never worked a contract killing before.

 “I was bored. You saw him. Fat and sloppy. And I was in shape. I was thinking about going back to school. He wasn’t too happy about that; I can tell you.”

 “And you wanted the money from the life insurance policy?”

 “It would have helped, but that isn’t why I did it.”

 “So, you did it because you were bored? Is that it?” Bullock was incredulous.

 “You don’t get it, I guess. I wanted to live a very different life than he did. I’m not gonna lie and say he hit me, but more and more he could be verbally abusive. I was scared.” 

 Bullock glanced at Maggie’s attorney. They were thinking the same thing. Maggie Maxwell was beginning to form her defense. “Why not divorce him?” he asked.

 “I was raised Catholic. It’s not allowed.” She opened her purse. “Can I please have a cigarette?”

 The detective nodded and she lit up. “How did you come up with the $50,000?” Bullock asked.

 She shrugged. “Planning, detective. I saved every way I could for two years. I took money out of Chuck’s wallet, sold my car for cash and made payments on a new one. I skipped a few payments, things like that. Dottie at the prison told me how to do it.”

 “You saved $50,000 in two years doing little things?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I borrowed about half of it from my brother. He’s going to kill me when he finds out he’s not getting his money back.”