Murder Deja Vu

railing so she could sit next to him. Reece gingerly lifted his arm.
    “Ah, Doctor Frankenstein, I can move again.”
    Dana smiled and lay down beside him. He buried his face in her hair. “I want to go home. I’m tired, hurting, and scared. Seems like you’ve attached yourself to a loser.”
    “I haven’t. That’s one thing I know for sure.”
    Reece breathed her in. An essence so sweet he wished he could bottle it and take it out whenever she wasn’t near. “Carl can’t get away with this.”
    She lifted her head and said, “He won’t.”
    “There’s nothing to stop him. The police will believe him, and I’m going to be carted off to prison again.”
    “Not if I have this.”
    Reece stared at the key she held in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
    Dana’s wicked smile teased. “Yup. Key for the handcuffs.”
    Reece looked at the key, then back at Dana. “Where did you get it?”
    “Detective Tobey.”
    “What the hell’s going on, Dana? Why would he give you that?”
    “So we can escape.”
    “I’m through running for something I didn’t do. And I wouldn’t take you with me if I did. So give it back.”
    The door opened. Larkins came into the room, followed by Jeraldine, Clarence, and Detective Tobey. Dana hid the key with a quick motion.
    “Mind if we come in, Mr. Daughtry?” Larkins said.
    Reece still focused on Dana. “Yes, I do, but I don’t imagine it’ll make any difference.”
    “’Fraid not.”

Chapter Fifty-Four
One-sided Deal

    Atlanta, Georgia

    J im Payton met Barry Kanter at his office Monday morning. A man in a suit who looked like a cross between Mike Tyson and Isaac Hayes perched on the corner of the desk. Barry introduced him as Detective J.C. Stone, Atlanta PD.
    “Call me J.C.” He stood and offered his hand, towering over Payton, who at six-two had always considered himself a big guy, but he seemed dwarfed next to Stone.
    “J. C. Stone,” Payton said. “Didn’t you play for the Falcons some years back? Wrecked your knee, right?”
    “That’s me.” He tapped his knee. “Sidelined permanently, but life goes on. Now instead of bullying big brutes, I bully two-bit sleazeballs.”
    “Like Harry Klugh?” Payton asked.
    Stone laughed. “Man, you pulled a doozey out of thin air. A lot of people would like to get their hands on that guy.”
    “I’m hoping to work that in my favor.”
    “J.C. will go with you to talk to Vic Castell, aka, Harry Klugh. That’ll solve the jurisdiction problem,” Barry said. “Interesting how he stepped into another man’s life twenty-five years ago.”
    Stone released a long sigh. “Pros like Castell find ways to get around those minor inconveniences—payoffs, someone else’s fingerprints, like that.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin, which matched his gleaming head. “Klugh does most of his work for attorneys, specializing in digging up dirt on witnesses so lawyers can discredit their testimony. Probably has a budget to get what an ethical PI. wouldn’t stoop to go after.”
    “Why don’t you tell J.C. what you have in mind, Jim,” Barry said. “See what he thinks.”
    * * * * *
    P ayton and J.C. found Harry Klugh’s office on the second floor of an unobtrusive two-story brick building on Broad Street in downtown Atlanta, a couple of blocks from the court house. Part of the area appeared newly renovated. Payton figured Klugh had been there awhile and benefited from the inner city rejuvenation. Although the outside of his building had been refurbished, the inside looked its age, with cracked plaster walls and missing one-inch floor tiles. A stale, musty smell permeated the air.
    “If he’s trying to keep a low profile,” J. C. said, “this’ll do it.”
    The first floor housed a finance company and bail bondsman. With no elevator in sight, they climbed the wide flight of creaking stairs. Payton stopped in front of the door painted with chipped gold lettering on the frosted glass panel: Harry J. Klugh , Private Investigator .
    Payton waggled his brows at Stone, turned the knob, and entered the small space, furnished with the basic office necessities, including a laptop and fax machine. Klugh sat behind a metal desk, feet stretched on top, reading the Atlanta Journal-Constitution . He looked up .
    If he had a nose for cops, he didn’t act like he smelled anything unusual. He rolled his chair back and lowered his legs, looking eager to make a good impression.
    Klugh must have been doing an okay