Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Read online

  DEATH TO THE CHIEF

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  DEATH TO THE CHIEF

  Copyright © 2021 Lance McMillian

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without permission of the author.

  Published by Bond Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person living or deceased to a character in the novel are purely coincidental.

  eBook Formatting and Cover Design by FormattingExperts.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

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  59

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  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEATH TO THE CHIEF

  LANCE MCMILLIAN

  To My Mom—For Always Having My Back

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Because of my wife’s position as a Justice on the Georgia Supreme Court, some readers may speculate that certain characters in this novel are drawn from real-life examples. Not so. Trust me, every character in the book is a creation of my own imagination. Real judges live boring lives just like the rest of us.

  1

  A tongue tickles my ear. I groan and push her away, wanting to sleep through more of the morning. Eliza is not having it. She nestles closer to me. More licking follows. Her persistence brooks no dissent. I give up the battle against wakefulness and instead try to acclimate myself to the living. The routine is familiar. Eliza always gets her way.

  The night was a cool one. The smell of moist wildflowers tiptoes through a small crack in the open window, the fresh air a delectable respite from the choking smog of the city. I was raised in the country and recently returned to my roots. Sort of. With sale contracts on both my house and condo in Atlanta, I needed a new home, one far enough away from most people. I thought about Jekyll Island off the Georgia coast, even considered the woods of Maine. But Atlanta’s hold over me proved a hard cord to sever. The compromise settled on my moving thirty miles south to the far reaches of Fulton County. Rural life dominates here, and the skyscrapers of Atlanta are an afterthought. This hidden world escaped my notice while I built my legal career in town. That changed when Eliza and I came here in search of a good hike. Fifty acres and a solid brick house later, my life started over.

  Eliza is my dog—part-Golden Retriever, part-Australian Cattle Dog, part-everything else. She looks like a dingo. Her namesake is Alexander Hamilton’s wife. After leaving my job with the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office and finding myself drowning in an abundance of time, I turned to music to fill part of the void. Hamilton: An American Musical, in particular, became a daily obsession. The songs hit home. Alexander Hamilton had trouble getting along with everybody around him, mostly through fault of his own. I know the feeling.

  My new place came with another advantage—a detached automobile garage. Large swaths of my youth were spent working on cars at the side of my Uncle Ernie. Most of my family are Baptists, but he was always a Chevrolet man—the black sheep of the Meridian clan. After my last trial, the thought of continuing to practice law had all the appeal of a root canal. When I inspected the garage on a real estate showing of the home, memories of joyful times spent up to my neck in elbow grease inspired me toward a new path in life.

  Fixing things is noble work, and I escaped the courtroom to focus on bringing old cars back to life. This morning is a typical one. After a hike through the cold woods with Eliza, I head to the garage to see about an engine block that needs my attention. The critical part came in the mail yesterday. The engine belongs to a 1963 Chevy Corvette Stingray that sits nearby on a car lift. The nearly-complete restoration is a labor of love and figures to be worth $100,000 when all is said and done. Maybe I’ll sell it, maybe not. Another bay in the garage with a car lift allows me to perform repair work for friends and family as necessary, always free of charge. With cash in the bank and spartan tastes, I don’t need the money. I just need something to do.

  I check my phone, awaiting a call from the Governor.

  ***

  The phone rings. Not the Governor. Far from it. My best friend, Scott Moore—Atlanta’s lead homicide detective—launches into the discussion mid-stream.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “What?”

  “The news about the Chief Justice.”

  “What news?”

  “Do you even have television or the internet down there?”

  “I do but choose to be oblivious to most things.”

  “You’re oblivious, all right.”

  Scott brings me up to speed. The Chief Justice of the Georgia Supreme Court, Warren Jackson, was murdered two nights ago at a reception to christen Georgia’s new judicial center. A host of political and judicial heavyweights were in attendance, even a United States Senator. Local and national news are blowing up over the story.

  That would explain why I haven’t heard anything from the Governor.

  I ask, “You handling the case?”

  “Nah, the GBI got their hands on it in record time. They do good testing work, but I don’t trust their investigative skills for nothing.”

  The Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s investigative work is fine. Scott is just angry that the case was taken away from him. But the GBI doesn’t unilaterally get to cherry pick the cases it wants. They only intervene when asked.

  “How did the GBI get the case so fast? Did y’all kick it over to them?”

  “Hell, no. The police chief would never give up a case with that much publicity and camera time. We weren’t even called to the scene. The Governor made the decision on the spot—some nonsense about ensuring ‘a fair and independent investigation.’ Big mistake if you ask me. We handle more murders in Atlanta in a week than the GBI handles in a year.”

  Scott confirms that we’re still on for dinner tonight, and I lose myself for a couple of hours working on the Corvette. At this rate, the Governor may not get back to me for some time. When the lunch hour approaches, I stroll with Eliza back to the house to feed the both of us. When my feet hit the back porch, the phone rings for the second time today—a rarity around these parts.

  I check the caller ID and answer.

  “Hello, Governor.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Chance. And stop with that Governor stuff. I’ve known you since you were in diapers. Minton will do, just like always.”

  “All right, Minton. Thanks for returning my call—”

  “I want to meet
with you. Can you be here in an hour?”

  “Not really. I’ve been working on a car all morning and have the grease stains all over to prove it. I know you’re busy, and I don’t think we need to meet to discuss—”

  “Two hours then. In my office. See you directly.”

  The line goes silent.

  2

  During those rare times when I find myself returning to the city, a kind of anticipatory dread flows through me the closer I get to town. The problem is the past. The familiar geography invariably wrenches me back to a painful replaying of the events that led to my exodus from both home and career. God humbled me, and I accepted the discipline. I even reached a state of peace. But memories linger. Forgiveness is one thing, forgetting another. I still lack closure.

  The reason for this trip is uncertain. Governor Minton McReynolds was my father’s best friend. The two of them made their bones together in the Georgia Legislature. Minton eventually made his way to Congress, and Daddy became Lieutenant Governor. Daddy was set to move into the top spot but decided not to run at the last second. “To thine own self be true,” he explained to me. That was years ago. Long after Daddy retired from public life, Minton tired of Washington D.C. and became Governor instead. Now he has summoned me to his office.

  I called him a few days ago to discuss Ella Kemp, my former trial partner. Ella recently replaced me as deputy district attorney for all homicides in Fulton County but now is in the running to become the County’s next Superior Court Judge. The appointment is the Governor’s to make, and the plan is to use every bit of my influence to push Ella across the finish line. I owe her that much. Some bad behavior on my part broke her heart and ended up breaking my own heart before the romantic relationship between us even took flight. The regret I carry remains a daily companion. Sometimes the things we want—the things we need—are only obvious to us in the rearview mirror. I traded Ella’s love for a mess of pottage and now live alone in the woods with a dog.

  The State Capitol sits proudly in the afternoon sun—the light reflecting brightly off the building’s gold dome. Down the block, I spy the new judicial center for the first time in its completed state. The taxpayers got their money’s worth, that’s for sure. The architecture is beautiful, but being baptized with the murder of the state’s Chief Justice is the most inauspicious of beginnings. Maybe Warren Jackson’s ghost will haunt the building in perpetuity.

  ***

  The Governor’s suite of offices is expansive. When I cross the outer ring, Gene Davis accosts me. Gene is Minton’s Chief of Staff and has always reminded me of Jabba the Hutt. The physical resemblance is close enough, but the sliminess of both characters is the defining trait. Gene is one of those lifelong political operatives who lurks unseen behind the scenes, throwing his influence around like a blunt meat cleaver. He makes my skin crawl.

  “Good to see you, Chance,” he belts out. He offers up his hand with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend. We shake. His palm is clammy, and I feel a deep urge to hand sanitize.

  He continues, “The Governor told me he was meeting with Chance Meridian but refused to tell me why. He never keeps information from me. That gets me to thinking, ‘What are those two good ole boys cooking up?’”

  The greasy smile expands as if he just delivered a joke, but his fat eyes pant for information with piercing intensity. I decide to throw him some chum.

  “I’m here to talk to him about a judgeship.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting. Is the old man thinking about putting you on the Supreme Court? You think you’re ready for that? A lot of sitting around and writing. You strike me more as an action man.”

  Is that why I’m here? The thought of me on the Supreme Court is absurd, but Gene’s eagerness to dismiss the idea out of hand doesn’t sit well. I decide to tease him just for fun.

  “You never know. Minton and I go back a long way. We’ll see.”

  His smile turns sour, and he swallows down my response like a jagged little pill. I figure Gene has some type of hustle going and views me as an impediment to his plans. The notion that I’m a threat to him seems odd. All I want from life right now is to work on old cars in peace and quiet.

  Gene waddles off, and I present myself to Minton’s long-time assistant, Martha Towns. She comes around the desk to give me a big hug. Martha ranks as one of my favorite people in this world—a position she has long occupied. Poking my stomach, she asks, “You eating enough?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Martha used to bake me chocolate cookies when I was a boy and has been concerned with my food intake for the entirety of my life. After a bit of small talk, she tells me to go on in. The Governor is waiting for me.

  ***

  “God, I miss your dad.”

  Minton’s words are heartfelt. I miss my dad, too. His death from cancer nearly four years ago rattled my world. But the worst blows were yet to come. Shortly after Daddy’s passing, my wife Amber and son Cale were murdered by an unknown assailant. The years that followed saw me morph into a workaholic monk—until the monk sinned and hit rock bottom at the end of my last murder trial. Only now am I starting to see light again.

  Minton asks, “So you think I should appoint this Ella Kemp to the Fulton County Superior Court, huh?”

  “You couldn’t make a better choice. Ella is smart—”

  “Stop. Your say-so is good enough for me. You don’t have to sell her. Consider it done. I’ll make the call today. But I need something from you in return.”

  The bait-and-switch is worrisome. How can something be considered done if it requires some unnamed favor from me in return? Minton is a renowned arm-twister and now wears a look as if measuring me out for a sling.

  He continues, “You’ve heard about this Warren Jackson business, of course. Murdered in the new judicial center during a reception to celebrate the damn building. The Chief Justice, no less. The whole country is looking at us funny. I don’t like it.”

  Gene’s primordial instincts prove predictably sound. The Governor does want to talk to me about something to do with Warren Jackson. But to appoint me to replace Jackson on the Supreme Court? Minton has dangled various judgeships before me in the past, but I’ve always resisted the bait. Being a trial lawyer was too much fun. Even though those days are over, a spot on the Supreme Court fails to scratch me where I itch. Gene is right that the job involves a lot of sitting around and writing. Not my style. I scurry to think of a way to let Minton down easy. The Governor presses on.

  “Don’t get me wrong. Warren Jackson was a son of a bitch and probably needed a good killing. I never forgave him for what he did to your dad. But not in the new Supreme Court building, for Pete’s sakes! And not when I’m at the same damn party!”

  My face scrunches in confusion. What did Warren Jackson ever do to my dad? Jackson served in the state legislature with Daddy and Minton way back in the day but nothing more than that to my reckoning. The Governor notices my expression and stops his monologue. His gaze gives me a good going over.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? About Jackson and your Daddy? Never mind then, water under the bridge. Forget I brought it up. It’s not important for what I need you to do.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  He smiles, leans back in his chair, and asks, “How long have you known me?”

  “My whole life.”

  “That’s right, about forty years. Have I ever come across to you as stupid?”

  “Never.”

  “That’s exactly how I how see it, too. You don’t serve in Congress for over two decades and become governor of one of the largest states in the country by being stupid, do you? And yet everyone around me—except Martha, bless her heart—suddenly thinks I’m dumb as a post. I don’t like it.”

  He pauses to let the words breathe. I wonder who would be foolish enough to question Minton’s smarts. He has always been as canny as the shrewdest fox and has a great gift for getting what he wants. He ev
en looks the part—his regal crown of white hair screaming wisdom and gravitas. Underestimating him is a profound error of judgment. But I still haven’t the slightest clue what any of this discussion has to do with me.

  “That brings me to Warren Jackson, murdered in his own courthouse. My sensible thought is that we need someone independent to oversee the investigation, only to be told by my Chief of Staff and the Attorney General how awful that idea is. They instead immediately pressed me to transfer the case to the GBI, the director of which happens to be the Attorney General’s brother. Now I’m having buyer’s remorse.”

  Ah, the Brothers Dalton. Tommy Dalton is Attorney General and the overwhelming favorite to succeed Minton as governor in two years. Jerry Dalton heads the GBI. I’ve never run much in their circles, but I’ve heard the stories about their ambition and ruthlessness. Tommy has been running for president his whole life, and Jerry is a former Navy SEAL with confirmed kills. Neither is my cup of tea. Their father, Hank Dalton, founded a shipping delivery company called Express Service Today that is now one of the world’s largest. He is the richest person in the state.

  The Governor is not finished yet: “On top of that, my Chief of Staff and the Attorney General apparently believe that they get to select who replaces Warren Jackson on the Court—like I’m some rubber stamp whose opinion doesn’t mean jack squat. I don’t like it. There’s life in this old man yet.”

  “Gene thinks you want to put me on the Supreme Court.”

  He snorts, “Of course he would. He has a bee in his bonnet about that appointment, for sure. Probably doing Tommy Dalton’s bidding. But no, I have other plans for you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Like I said, the investigation into the Chief Justice’s murder needs some independence about it—a special attorney general, in fact. Unfortunately, I was chagrined to realize that I don’t trust a single lawyer in this entire state of mine. But then I told myself, ‘That’s not true, Minton. That’s not true. There’s one. There’s Chance.’”

  And the reason for the impromptu summons materializes just like that. Heaven help me. I respond, “I’m retired, Minton.”