Free A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) by A.W. Hartoin

fraud and various white-collar crimes. Stark Evans worked everything else, mostly domestics. None of them worked with or for Gavin, as far as I knew. I took down the information, and moved on to the rest of the calls. The next two were from clients, big industrial outfits asking about some background checks. Then I heard Gavin’s voice come through the recorder, tinny and thin. It was unlike his voice in person, but it was him.
    “Tommy. Gavin. I have a situation. I’m driving back now. Call me on the second cell,” he said. Both Dad and Gavin carried several phones with them, in case of a problem.
    “Tommy, where the hell are you? Call me ASAP. I’m four hours out.”
    “It’s me again. God damn it. This is irritating. Don’t make me call Chuck. Meet me at the house if you get this.”
    The first call came in at midnight, the second at two-thirty A.M. and the third at five. Gavin must’ve forgotten about the cruise. He never called Chuck or he’d probably still be alive. I sat down in Dad’s big chair, and kicked my feet up on the beast. I grabbed my pack and looked at his last calls, three to Dad, two to information, and the rest I didn’t recognize. Gavin called three numbers twice.
    I dialed the first one and heard a voice say, “Rockville Church of Christ. Nancy speaking.”
    “Hi. Did you say this was a church?” I said.
    “Yes. This is the Rockville Church of Christ. How may I help you?”
    “I’m not sure. What denomination are you?” I asked.
    “We’re Protestant. Are you looking to join a congregation?”
    I was so surprised I could only mutter, “I’m just doing a friend a favor. Thanks for your time.”
    Gavin called a Protestant church? He was Episcopalian. It had to be a case, but I couldn’t exactly ask good old Nancy, “Hey, my friend was murdered. Can you help me out?” I’d have to call Nancy back and be a little more coherent.
    I dialed the second number after forming a game plan. After all, Gavin could’ve been calling anyone, so I had to be less dufus and more Dad.
    Like most of my game plans, it didn’t help. The phone rang forever and finally a familiar voice said, “Hello?”
    “Hello, who is this?” I asked.
    “Who is this?”
    “I asked you first,” I said.
    “Mercy?”
    “Chuck?”
    “How in the hell did you get this number?”
    “Is this your cell?” I asked.
    “You know it’s not,” he said.
    “Whose is it?”
    “First, tell me where you got this number.” Chuck was grinding his teeth. Not a pleasant sound on a phone.
    “Fat chance.” I snorted.
    “I’m not playing, Mercy. How did you get this number?”
    “Got to go.”
    I hung up before he could threaten me and dialed the third number.
    “Good afternoon, Student Administration. This is Angela speaking.”
    “Uh. I’m sorry, I’m not sure who exactly I’ve reached. Where are you?”
    “This is Student Admin. Are you a student?” asked Angela.
    “No. Is this a college?” I asked.
    “This is the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. Is there something I can help you with?”
    “I hope so. Were you answering the phones last Friday?”
    “No. I was out sick. Why?”
    “If I knew I’d tell you,” I said.
    I wouldn’t, but she didn’t know that. People like a little hopeless honesty.
    “What’s wrong? What can I help you with?”
    “I have a friend who called you on Friday and I’m trying to figure out who he talked to and why.”
    “Well, like I said, I wasn’t here,” she said.
    “Do you keep records of phone inquiries?”
    “No.”
    “Who would’ve been handling calls while you were gone?”
    “I think they sent someone from personnel down.”
    “You don’t know who,” I said.
    “No,” she said.
    “Could you find out?” I asked.
    “I suppose so.” She didn’t sound too sure, so I decided to throw out some bait.
    “I’m a private detective, and this is part of a very important investigation. I’d really appreciate your help.”
    “Really? What’s the