Read Online A Promise to Protect (Logan Point Book #2): A Novel by Patricia Bradley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Bradley
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“You might want to check them out.” He hung up and emailed the sites from his phone.
“Check this out, Ben. A couple of comments you might be interested in. One from Billy Wayne grousing about losing money to Tony and a reply from his brother.”
Ben leaned over the computer again. Wade had found Billy Wayne’s personal Facebook page, and Junior Gresham had left a rather rude comment. “He doesn’t think much of his brother’s gambling abilities.”
Wade chuckled. “No, he doesn’t. Junior works at Maxwell Industries.”
“Wrap up the investigation here while I pay a visit to the plant.” Ben checked his watch. “It’s eleven now. We’ll meet back at the jail around one to discuss getting the gun to Livy in Memphis.”
Maxwell Industries was located in the industrial park on the western side of Logan Point, near the bypass, and fifteen minutes later, Ben pulled into the visitor’s parking area. He stepped from his pickup into the hot, humid air and surveyed the factory that sat on twenty acres of ground. A far cry from its beginnings.
Brothers Phillip and Anderson Maxwell started a porcelain factory in 1980 when a vein of kaolin was discovered in Bradford County. Since then, two things had happened. Manufacturing costs had risen to the point that Maxwell Industries now shipped the raw product to Mexico, where it was processed into fine china and then shipped back to Logan Point for distribution.
Then, in the late nineties after Anderson died, Phillip Maxwell turned a desire to build a quality rifle into a reality. Built with precision and quality craftsmanship, the Maxwell .270 soon became a hot item with deer hunters, and the porcelain side of Maxwell Industries took a backseat to the rifle division. Ben even owned one of the firearms.
But the .270 wasn’t the only rifle manufactured at the plant. Five years ago, Phillip Maxwell took the factory in a different direction when he developed a variation of the AR-15 for the law enforcement community. Again, because of the quality, the new rifle was a success. Ben’s department had five of the assault rifles. He sincerely hoped none of the Maxwells were involved in this case. If the plant shut down, more than two hundred people would lose their jobs.
He stopped at the receptionist desk and asked to see Phillip Maxwell, noting the name on the brass plate. Tiffany Davis. After a brief phone conversation, the tawny-eyed brunette nodded. “Mr. Maxwell will see you.”
“Thank you, Tiffany.” Ben climbed the stairs to Maxwell’s office.
Maxwell opened the door before he knocked. “Come on in.”
Ben’s feet sank into plush gold carpet as he stepped into the room. Like everything else Phillip Maxwell touched, the office reeked of class—walnut paneling, rich tan leather, and an ornate desk designed to intimidate. But then, even in his late fifties, the man himself intimidated. Standing at six-four, the former quarterback for the New Orleans Saints shook Ben’s hand with the same confidence he’d handled the pigskin more than thirty years ago.
“I stopped by to see Tom last week,” Maxwell said as he released Ben’s hand. “His speech doesn’t seem to be improving that much.”
“I know. For some reason, he won’t work with the speech therapist.”
“I told him what a great job you were doing, and he seemed to understand that. And, if there’s ever a time you need something from me, just say the word.”
“I appreciate that.” He waited until Maxwell had seated himself behind the massive desk before he chose a leather chair that didn’t put him lower than the older man.
Maxwell leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. “Do you know who killed Tony yet?”
“His case falls under the Memphis Police Department jurisdiction.”
“I didn’t ask whose jurisdiction it fell under.”
Ben crossed his ankle over his knee. Maxwell was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. “Nothing concrete. Just a person of
“Check this out, Ben. A couple of comments you might be interested in. One from Billy Wayne grousing about losing money to Tony and a reply from his brother.”
Ben leaned over the computer again. Wade had found Billy Wayne’s personal Facebook page, and Junior Gresham had left a rather rude comment. “He doesn’t think much of his brother’s gambling abilities.”
Wade chuckled. “No, he doesn’t. Junior works at Maxwell Industries.”
“Wrap up the investigation here while I pay a visit to the plant.” Ben checked his watch. “It’s eleven now. We’ll meet back at the jail around one to discuss getting the gun to Livy in Memphis.”
Maxwell Industries was located in the industrial park on the western side of Logan Point, near the bypass, and fifteen minutes later, Ben pulled into the visitor’s parking area. He stepped from his pickup into the hot, humid air and surveyed the factory that sat on twenty acres of ground. A far cry from its beginnings.
Brothers Phillip and Anderson Maxwell started a porcelain factory in 1980 when a vein of kaolin was discovered in Bradford County. Since then, two things had happened. Manufacturing costs had risen to the point that Maxwell Industries now shipped the raw product to Mexico, where it was processed into fine china and then shipped back to Logan Point for distribution.
Then, in the late nineties after Anderson died, Phillip Maxwell turned a desire to build a quality rifle into a reality. Built with precision and quality craftsmanship, the Maxwell .270 soon became a hot item with deer hunters, and the porcelain side of Maxwell Industries took a backseat to the rifle division. Ben even owned one of the firearms.
But the .270 wasn’t the only rifle manufactured at the plant. Five years ago, Phillip Maxwell took the factory in a different direction when he developed a variation of the AR-15 for the law enforcement community. Again, because of the quality, the new rifle was a success. Ben’s department had five of the assault rifles. He sincerely hoped none of the Maxwells were involved in this case. If the plant shut down, more than two hundred people would lose their jobs.
He stopped at the receptionist desk and asked to see Phillip Maxwell, noting the name on the brass plate. Tiffany Davis. After a brief phone conversation, the tawny-eyed brunette nodded. “Mr. Maxwell will see you.”
“Thank you, Tiffany.” Ben climbed the stairs to Maxwell’s office.
Maxwell opened the door before he knocked. “Come on in.”
Ben’s feet sank into plush gold carpet as he stepped into the room. Like everything else Phillip Maxwell touched, the office reeked of class—walnut paneling, rich tan leather, and an ornate desk designed to intimidate. But then, even in his late fifties, the man himself intimidated. Standing at six-four, the former quarterback for the New Orleans Saints shook Ben’s hand with the same confidence he’d handled the pigskin more than thirty years ago.
“I stopped by to see Tom last week,” Maxwell said as he released Ben’s hand. “His speech doesn’t seem to be improving that much.”
“I know. For some reason, he won’t work with the speech therapist.”
“I told him what a great job you were doing, and he seemed to understand that. And, if there’s ever a time you need something from me, just say the word.”
“I appreciate that.” He waited until Maxwell had seated himself behind the massive desk before he chose a leather chair that didn’t put him lower than the older man.
Maxwell leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. “Do you know who killed Tony yet?”
“His case falls under the Memphis Police Department jurisdiction.”
“I didn’t ask whose jurisdiction it fell under.”
Ben crossed his ankle over his knee. Maxwell was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. “Nothing concrete. Just a person of
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