This is episode eight of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.
Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
Episode 8 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)
Rich called Hiram Holiday, a lawyer. He had interviewed him a few months earlier. Hiram was a bit of a local celebrity. He had told Rich that if he ever got into any kind of trouble, to give him a call, and he would be there in half an hour with two witnesses.
After talking with Hiram over the phone, Grillo returned Rich to the interview room. Forty minutes later, there was a rap on the door. Hiram walked in. They shook hands.
“You can go,” Hiram said.
“I can go?” Rich asked.
“Unless you want to stick around for lunch,” Hiram said. “Stale bread, bologna on its way out, and, let’s see, this is Tuesday—water-flavored water.”
“That was fast,” Rich said.
They walked down the hallway and into the lobby.
“Don’t say anything until we’re outside,” Hiram said.
They walked to Hiram’s car and got in.
“Okay,” Hiram said, “I read the detective’s notes. You had an alibi, and they had nothing to refute it. Now, say nothing to nobody. Got it? Nothing. Now, let’s go to my office.”
Hiram’s office was a short distance away. It was on the top floor of a five-story office building. They walked into the office. There was a brief introduction to his secretary, Maxine, a woman who looked more like a librarian. He opened a door on the side of the room.
“Miss Winslow, my office.”
They walked into Hiram’s office. It was richly paneled, and on one wall were shelves of law books. On another wall were shelves with various statues and memorabilia. Miss Winslow was introduced as a paralegal. She was an attractive, tall, middle-aged blonde.
Hiram sat behind his large mahogany desk. Miss Winslow sat to his right. Rich sat in front of the desk in a plush leather Queen Anne chair.
“We speak plain around here,” Hiram said. Hiram turned to Miss Winslow. “Larsen has an alibi. But I know Sheriff Morris. He’s looking at an election. But election or not, he wants a notch on his belt. Frankly, he’s good for business. He and the county prosecutor are as dirty and crooked as they come. They keep arresting on flimsy and non-existent evidence, and we keep getting them off.”
“Miss Winslow, hound the sheriff’s department every day. If they withhold so much as a comma or period, note it. This is a big one for Morris. He smells blood.”
Hiram turned to Rich. He pointed a pencil at him. “You’re a bright guy. You have to be. You called me. You’ve interviewed me, and as much as you got a feel for me, I got a feel for you. What are things about the last couple of days that can be used against you?”
“My parents had a bitter argument last night,” Rich said. “I planned on moving in another two weeks. I packed last night and moved into a motel.”
“They were alive when you left, right?” Miss Winslow asked.
“Yes,” Rich said. “The police asked the same question, and I told them they were alive.”
“My relationship with my boss at the News couldn’t be any more acrimonious. We had bitter words this morning. It was about an article I wrote about Morris. I quoted him saying he was going to ignore Tillman Township and all the low-lifes who live there.”
“Is there anything else between you and Morris?” Miss Winslow asked.
“No,” Rich said, “nothing I’m aware of. Yesterday was the first time I ever talked to him.”
“Did he know you were going to print defamatory statements about him?” Hiram asked.
“It was just a normal interview,” Rich said. “I was asking about upgrades to the county jail, and he goes off into a tirade about how few votes he gets from Tillman. He never said it was off the record.”
“Let me ask you this,” Miss Winslow said, “did you know, or was there any hint it was off the record?”
“The only thing I got was this morning, when my boss, Briggs, said he’s our man, meaning Morris.”
“What did you take that to mean?” Miss Winslow asked.
“I was supposed to ignore anything that might be derogatory and only report the good things. In fact, he said as much at the top of his voice in front of the whole newsroom.”
Hiram glanced at Miss Winslow. “I think we know how the news will be slanted.”
“Is there anything in your past that might cast any sort of shadow over your character?” Miss Winslow asked.
“I left home when I was fifteen,” Rich said. “I had no contact with my mom or dad for seven years. My reason for returning was to mend fences.”
“Why did you leave?” Miss Winslow asked.
“At the time, I didn’t think I could bear it anymore,” Rich said. “I was never physically abused, but Mom and Dad were physical with each other. Mom tried to wreck our car into a tree one night. She said she wanted to kill us all. Dad was an alcoholic. He saw his life as a complete failure. For seven years, I went over everything in my life and convinced myself that I should have stayed and that it was all my fault.”
“Children of alcoholics always do that,” Miss Winslow said. “They end up blaming themselves because they think their parents are infallible. So it must be somebody else’s fault—the kid. And I’m sure you got blamed for everything too.”
“It sounds to me you’ve been down that road,” Rich said.
“Indeed,” Miss Winslow said.
“So you left,” Hiram said. “Where did you go?”
“If you don’t mind, sir, please don’t say I ran away; I left.”
“I will,” Hiram said. “The distinction is valid.”
“I peddled a bicycle to Maine and found work as a janitor for a newspaper,” Rich began. “I lied about my age. The owner and editor took me under his wing and before long I was writing and reporting. Every day was like sitting in one of the most exciting classrooms you could imagine.”
“You have really lifted yourself up,” Hiram said. “That’s impressive.”
“The editor and owner of the newspaper was Sam White.” Rich glanced at Miss Winslow and back to Hiram. “Does that name mean anything to either of you?”
Hiram raised an eyebrow. “The guy who became an informant?”
“Yes,” Rich said.
Hiram tapped his teeth with his pencil. “Were you aware of his activities before the time he became an informant?” Hiram asked.
“Could Miss Winslow leave?” Rich asked.
“No,” Hiram said. “Miss Winslow is bound by the same ethics that I am, and she is as much a part of me as the heart that beats in my chest.”
“All I will tell you is that I believe the CIA has a file on me,” Rich said. “Rather, I’m sure of it. Before Sam White turned informant, I had to escape from him. I spent the next four years sailing around the world. There were several attempts on my life.”
“Does anyone in this community know about any of this?” Hiram asked.
“Only you and Miss Winslow.”
“By any stretch of the imagination, do you think any of this is connected with the seven years you spent away from home?” Miss Winslow asked.
“No.”
“We got a big puzzle, Miss Winslow,” Hiram said. “And we may have to put it together with missing pieces.” He looked at Rich. “Just so ya know.”
“Miss Winslow,” Hiram said, “you can go do your magic. Mr. Larsen and I have some other things to talk over.”
Miss Winslow smiled at Rich, and they had congenial parting words. She closed the door behind her.
“Well, Rich,” Hiram said, “I’m nervous.”
“I guess you really do speak plainly,” Rich half-grinned. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“You see,” Hiram said, “seven years missing will be turned into seven years of pent-up rage. Your relationship with Briggs will be turned into an outlet for your contempt for your parents until you cannot hold it in anymore. You had a job to go to. You were packed. Nobody knew you were leaving?”
“I told a friend, another reporter, from the sports desk,” Rich said.
“Planning, premeditation, is the way it will be presented by the prosecution,” Hiram said. “They can turn a hangnail into motive. And as far as means, if there’s a half-hour window that no one saw you, they will say that’s when it was done. The only thing I’ve heard is that there was a knife and a gun involved. And I can guarantee it will be linked to you. Did your dad own a gun?”
“I don’t think he did,” Rich said. “He hated guns. We were visiting relatives one time. My uncle brought out his new hunting rifle, and my dad packed my mom and me into the car, and we drove away. He was absolutely petrified of guns.”
“Okay,” Hiram said, "do you have a place to stay?”
“I can stay at the Hillcrest Motel,” Rich said.
“How are you set on funds?” Hiram asked.
“I drive a Korean War vintage Jeep,” Rich said. “I paid mom and dad fifty dollars a month. They insisted on nothing. My underwear is wearing thin. Over four years around the world, living on a sailboat, I learned to live with less than less. I don’t smoke, gamble, or have a girl.”
“Rich,” Hiram said, “I’m a good lawyer. Good lawyers keep their clients from going before a jury. You can’t predict a jury. One person can hang a jury. One person can sway the other eleven into a guilty verdict. You are tying my hands a bit. But I do need a name. Somebody I can contact who will at least vouch for some of your story.”
“There’s an agent named Clyde Akers,” Rich said. “He helped me in the past. It’s been several years. I don’t know where he’s at now. I met him in Grenada. He paid me.”
“For what?” Hiram asked.
“I was a decoy,” Rich said, “an expendable pawn in a game of chess in which there are no rules.”
“I will be discreet,” Hiram said pensively. “But I don’t give a rat’s patootie about anybody but you. It’s my sacred oath.”
