Murder Deja Vu

know me, Robert, if you asked that. If things work out the way I planned, Reece Daughtry’s going back to prison.”
    “With Daughtry’s history, I could have built a case to nail him. The public would have clamored for his head. I don’t understand why you had to do Howe.”
    Klugh leaned across the table, eyes squinting, stale coffee-scented breath clouding the air. Robert slid back to put more space between them. Klugh’s words came out tight and soft. Robert scanned the diner to make sure no one could hear.
    “Because a dead witness can’t change her story. She can’t accept deals by opposing counsel, and she can’t implicate anyone in the bribe. Like me. That’s why.” He sat back, took a bite of his sandwich. “Now, if everything works out the way I planned, you can try Daughtry for two murders and close out the one in Cambridge once and for all. And you might even get your ex-wife along with him if he runs and she goes with him. Hell, you’ll be all over the front page of the New York Times , Boston Globe , and every other big newspaper still left in the country. You’ll be a star. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
    Robert grunted, thought about Dana. “Hmm, maybe you have a point. This could work out after all. Sure will help when I decide to run for governor.”
    “Sure, it will. I guarantee it. Of course, I expect to be well-paid for my work. I’ll send you my new account number. As soon as you deposit the money, I’ll transfer it to another account, so don’t get any ideas.”
    Robert wiped his handkerchief around the back of his neck and across his forehead. “Have I ever screwed you? In all the years? You should know me by now.”
    Klugh snorted. “Yeah, I know you. The only person you give a shit about is Robert Minette.” He finished his coffee. “I’m curious. This hair across your ass for Daughtry—you never answered. Is it because he’s banging your wife or is it because he wouldn’t build you the fireplace?”
    “Fuck you, Harry. And she’s my ex -wife.”

Chapter Twenty-One
Clarence Comes Clean

    R obert paced the floor of his office, fuming because the sheriff’s deputies couldn’t locate Reece Daughtry to serve the arrest warrant. He wanted to blast them out, but it wasn’t their fault. Daughtry’s lawyer probably had a snitch. That was what he’d do, what he’d always done. Someone in his office had sided with the competition. Goddamn, he’d find out who.
    He called Dana. She didn’t answer. Coincidence? He thought not. His wife had run off with a head-severing murderer.
    He picked up the phone and called Sheriff Payton. “Any news?”
    “Nope. Daughtry’s not driving his old pickup. It’s parked at his place. You know where your wife is? I hear Daughtry and her have a thing going. Think she might be with him?”
    “ Ex -wife, Jim. She’s my ex-wife, which means why would I have a clue where she is? Her love life is her business, but if she’s with him, she’s in a pile of trouble.”
    “I forgot you were divorced. You’re right, though. If she’s with Daughtry, she’s in trouble. I called over there, but she didn’t answer. I’ll run someone by her house. See if anything’s wrong.”
    “Yes, do that. I’ll worry. You can’t live with someone for twenty years and not care what happens to them.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Robert didn’t like Jim Payton’s tone. He didn’t like Jim Payton, and the feelings were mutual. Payton knew damn well Dana had divorced him, and he relished rubbing salt in the wound. Everyone in the area knew it, thanks to Harris Stroud. The backstabber published it in the newspaper. That was the problem with small town newspapers. They printed everything: births, deaths, school graduations, and divorces. But Robert owned this one. He shouldn’t have been humiliated reading about his divorce in his own damn paper. Irreconcilable differences. That was what Harris wrote. He took Dana’s side because they’d been friends forever. If Robert hadn’t come along, Dana might have married him. In spite of his three marriages, Harris always had the hots for her.
    No matter how much he wanted to fire Harris’s ass for humiliating him, the man was untouchable, and they both knew it. Harris might be a small town newspaperman and a womanizing drunk, but he was a good reporter who could’ve worked any big city desk if he stayed off the sauce. He knew how to play Robert’s game too. He’d dug into Robert’s life, turned the