faxed map of the marina.”
Daniel didn’t see the point of arguing with Tony, but what could explain away the evidence that the police had? The marina’s telephone records showed that—also on the previous Thursday afternoon—a one-page fax had been sent from Tony’s fax machine to Quentin’s fax machine. Moreover, an employee at the boatyard saw Quentin Fisher walking on the docks a few minutes before the explosion. Quentin approached him and asked for help finding a boat named Marzipan. The employee noted that Fisher’d had in his possession a faxed diagram of the marina’s docks.
Tony rested both hands flat on the tabletop. “And let me tell you the most relevant fact of all. Marzipan was worth a fortune. She was my pride and joy: I’d rebuilt her personally. Who in his right mind would destroy a genuine antique to kill a slime ball like Quentin Fisher?”
Daniel nodded once more. Everything Tony said made sense, but then, each of the prisoners he’d visited over the years could spout a dozen good reasons that proved his innocence. Most of them would conveniently ignore an especially strong fact or two. Tony hadn’t mentioned the garage-door transmitter.
When arson investigators from the Glory fire department—supplemented by two evidence technicians from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation—sifted through the debris, they found a radio-controlled detonator in the remains of Marzipan’s bilge. The detonator had been built using a garage door remote-control system. The police, acting under a search warrant, rummaged through Tony’s office at the marina. They found a matching garage-door transmitter tucked behind a row of books on his bookshelf.
Daniel found it difficult to look Tony squarely in the eye. He didn’t want to believe that his friend was guilty of murder, but the evidence seemed…well, “overwhelming” was the word that Rafe Neilson had used. Daniel had had a heart-to-heart talk with Rafe, who had been remarkably forthcoming.
“I wish it wasn’t so,” Rafe had said, “but all the evidence points to a simple fact. Tony Taylor turned Marzipan into a bomb that killed Quentin Fisher.”
Daniel had countered, “For what purpose? What was Tony’s motive for killing Quentin?”
Rafe had thrown both hands up. “The obvious one, of course. Tony figured out that Quentin Fisher was cheating the church. We found a letter to Fisher outlining his alleged fraud in Tony’s computer. The letter demanded that McKinley Investments return the church’s money.”
Daniel had pressed. “Okay, but why kill him?”
“Because Fisher refused to return the money,” Rafe had said. “We figure that Tony decided to kill Fisher in the hope that his ‘accidental death’ would clear the way for McKinley Investments to take a fresh look at the church’s failed investment.”
Daniel had chosen not to argue with Rafe. After all, what could he offer as an alternative theory? But Rafe’s reasoning as to Tony’s motive seemed awfully weak. Would he really kill Quentin Fisher as part of a revenge-driven scheme to get the church’s money back? That didn’t seem anything like the Tony Taylor he knew.
Now, as Daniel observed Tony’s distress in jail, he wished he had at least challenged some of Rafe’s assumptions. He should have pressed Rafe, made him explain more.
“I’m curious…” Daniel said. “What led you to Quentin Fisher in the first place?”
Tony shrugged leisurely. “I guess I foolishly assumed that George Ingles knew what he was doing.” He let his head roll backward, then forward. “Look, Rebecca’s uncle died six months ago and she received a cash bequest of about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We were looking for an aggressive investment—something a bit riskier than usual that would have high returns. I asked George for his advice. He referred me to Quentin Fisher. I admit I was very impressed that he worked for McKinley Investments.”
“And he asked you to send him a check?”
“Not quite. At first he didn’t want to talk to me. He said that he handled major accounts and he offered to turn me over to one of the more junior investment advisers.”
“And?”
“I said fine. A few days later Fisher called me back and said that he’d be happy to take on my account.” Tony gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s when he asked me to send him a check.”
“And did you?”
“No. I dragged my feet. I wanted to see what kind of investment he would suggest before I made a commitment.” He grimaced. “I was astounded by what he came up with. Como Creative Media is a real dog. He tried to convince me that their corporate bonds would go up—I knew better.”
“But George Ingles didn’t?”
“I guess not.”
Daniel wanted to dig deeper, but decided not to. Any more questions about George would verge on gossip. Instead he asked, “So you never actually invested with Fisher?”
“Nope.” He paused. “When I realized that Quentin Fisher was a hack, I took a close look at the bonds that Fisher had sold the church and I confronted him about them.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone else at the church what you were doing?”
“Two reasons. I didn’t want to embarrass George, and I didn’t want to cause a panic among the congregation. I thought I’d be able to get the money back without making a big fuss.” He added, with a smile, “Feel free to use my story if you ever need a good example of foolish pride.”
Daniel returned the smile. When he was sure that Tony had nothing more to say, he asked, “How can I help you today, Tony? Besides praying for you, of course.”
“I need someone in my corner. Someone who cares enough to find out what really happened that day. The cops think I killed Quentin Fisher, so they’ve stopped investigating. I need someone who still has an open mind. I need you, Daniel.”
“Me?”
“My defense attorney recommended that I hire a private investigator, but it would take a month to bring him up to speed and a year to get folks in Glory to cooperate with him. Even then, he wouldn’t really care about me. I need you.”
Daniel thought about arguing with Tony—until he saw the determination in the man’s eyes. Tony would not take no for an answer.
“You’ve given me quite a challenge,” Daniel said. “Of course I’ll help in every way I can—including praying for you.”
Tony’s expression darkened for a moment but then he said, “You do that, Reverend. And while you’re praying, imagine what’s going to happen to me if you can’t help me prove my innocence. I’ll spend the rest of my life in a prison far grimmer than the Albemarle District Jail.”
Daniel shivered at the notion. There was indisputable fear behind Tony’s plea for help. And cold logic in his description of what could happen to him. For the first time in decades, Daniel began to wonder if prayer was enough.
Okay, Mizz Dorsett. It’s time to begin your scheming.
Lori slipped her camera case under her bed and retrieved her laptop computer, the smallest and thinnest portable available. She switched it on and opened a password-protected file that contained comprehensive dossiers of George Ingles, Christine Stanton and Daniel Hartman.
“A big hello to the Big Three,” she said. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Which of you is best to know?”
Lori scrolled to the bottom of the document, then back to the top, stopping awhile to look at a large photograph of each “candidate.” One of them would soon be her weak link at Glory Community Church—the person who would, with gentle prodding, be encouraged to share information about the ongoing lawsuit.
She moved the cursor next to the photo of George Ingles and let herself smile. Her easiest target might well be flirty George, the fellow who started it all by making foolish investments. She’d probably