Page 50 of Buried Too Deep

After Anna, he’d wanted to forget how messy a headshot could be.

But he had not forgotten and had come prepared. Carefully removing the outer glove he wore on his right hand, he set it aside and pulled a pack of wet wipes from his jacket pocket, reached around the front seat, and pulled Medford’s hand closer. He cleaned the spattered blood from the man’s right hand and gave it a minute to dry, looking over his shoulder all the while.

It was a quiet neighborhood. Most of the folks nearby were in their homes watching TV. Nobody was paying attention to Medford Hughes’s garage.

Thank the good Lord for that.

When Medford’s hand was dry, he tugged the glove onto the dead man’s hand and carefully placed it on the center console. He put the gun in Medford’s hand, leaving his palm slightly open. Just as Anna’s hand had been after she’d taken her own life.

There would be gunshot residue on the glove and, if CSI got creative, they’d find Medford’s skin cells on the inside of the glove because he’d worn them in Alan’s office earlier that day. It would look like a suicide.

He had the presence of mind to grab Medford’s phone off the front passenger seat and glared at the screen. Medford had googled the number for the NOPD’s tip line.

Alan checked the call log and was relieved to see that Medford hadn’t made a single call. He slipped the phone into his pocket and quickly pulled the first laptop from Sage’s bag.

The laptop screen came to life in the darkness of the car, the home screen containing only one folder. The only other detail on the screen was the logo for Broussard Investigations.

He clicked on the Wi-Fi icon and typed in Medford’s home Wi-Fi password. He’d been given the code the first time he’d visited after Cheryl had called him crying. Medford had discovered that Cheryl had embezzled a great deal of money from her boss, all of which had been either injected into her arm or lost at the gaming tables.

Medford had planned to leave her that night, so long ago. Alan had convinced him to stay. Had convinced him that a good husband—with a knowledge of computers—could make his wife’s misdeeds disappear.

Alan had controlled Medford then. He knew about Cheryl’s crimes and what Medford had done to cover them up. Such a good husband Medford had been.

Alan exhaled in relief when the Wi-Fi icon appeared in the task bar. All I need to do is find Cora Winslow’s information. He clicked on the single folder on the screen and held his breath.

Then frowned. It was gibberish. He scrolled down, his pulse ratcheting up as he recognized the phrases thrown in among the random characters.

Oh. Oh no. This was worse than gibberish. The words were the ones used as place markers in document templates. Lorem ipsum dolor…

This was a trap. Medford had been right.

Someone was probably tracking him right now.

Which was what he’d expected, but he’d hoped to get a payoff for the risk. Instead, he had nothing and, if Broussard’s people were as talented as their press made them out to be, they’d already be on their way.

Alan shook the second laptop out of the bag and left both machines on the back seat, taking the bag with him. He got out of Medford’s car, opened the driver’s door, hit the trunk release, then shut the door, hoping he hadn’t disturbed any blood spatter.

Grabbing the suitcase from Medford’s trunk, he hefted it up and out of the car, staggering a little at the unexpected weight of it. He had to grip the lid of the trunk to remain upright.

What had Medford packed? A load of bricks? Luckily the suitcase had rollers.

He closed the trunk quietly and, dragging the suitcase behind him, headed for his van, grunting as he lifted the heavy bag into the back. He then took off his gloves and shoved them into the pocket of the jeans he intended to burn.

As he drove away, Alan whispered the same words he’d uttered twenty-three years ago. “Forgive me, Lord. I didn’t have a choice.”

Squinting against approaching headlights, he drove away.

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 9:05 P.M.

They’d been sorting boxes for half an hour before Cora began seeing the unlabeled boxes her mother had packed. There were boxes of photos and art from her childhood and knickknacks her mother had once adored—gifts from her father throughout their marriage.

That her mother hadn’t simply thrown them away said quite a lot. “It still kills me that she died thinking he’d left her for someone else,” she said to Phin, who’d stuck as close to her as SodaPop did to him.

“Maybe they’re back together now,” Phin said softly.

Cora swallowed. “I like that thought.” She refocused on the boxes, opening one to find office supplies. “We could be getting to the right ones. This could be what you’re wanting to search.”

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