Nowhere Man: A Riley King Mystery

by Richard Neer

“Putting my culinary skills to the test, are you? We just started opening for lunch a couple of weeks ago. We’re on a limited menu, but if you’re in the mood for a dinner entrée, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”

  She gave me a dazzling smile. Dressed and made up for business, she looked much more glamorous than she had yesterday. Not that yesterday’s version was shabby. She was wearing a dress cut a little low for the early afternoon.

  I’d long established an unwritten rule that married women are off limits. I’ve extended that to those who friends and acquaintances are dating. As fetching as Katrina McCann was, I’d have a nice lunch, maybe see if she would satisfy my curiosity about Brand X.

  I said, “I will need to talk to Jason later. See when he can set me up with the widow Townes. I’d like him to come along when I talk to her.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to do that. I’d think that would put her more at ease. Now, to more immediate business. Is there anything you absolutely refuse to eat?”

  “I’m not big on veal. I try not to eat much red meat, but I do love a good steak once in a while. Ix-nay on Sushi and raw oysters. No venison, lamb, or duck.”

  “Sounds like you’re almost becoming a vegetarian.”

  “I suppose that sounds weird coming from a grizzled veteran like me.”

  “Not seeing much grizzle on you. I sympathize about the meat, but in my business, that option’s off the table. I love animals. I won’t wear fur. And I’ll never forgive Michael Vick. Are we kind of in alignment?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Thought so the minute we met. Sit. Have a drink but don’t order any food. I’ll surprise you and I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Will you have time to talk after?”

  “Sure, unless we get super busy, but I doubt we will be.”

  She guided me to a back corner table where I sat and played with my phone. I called Black and told his voicemail to set up a meeting with Mrs. Townes. There was a text from Ginn about how bored he was in Savannah, but sometimes there are things you must do to keep the peace. Especially when your woman carries a service revolver. It’s a line he’s used before.

  Jason Black’s woman was carrying something that smelled much nicer than a warm gun. She presented it with a dazzling smile. “Chicken Marsala over Bucatini. They could have come up with a more elegant name for the pasta. We call it rolled fettuccine on the menu, but Bucatini is what it is. Mangia.”

  “Between you and Ginn, I’m lucky I don’t weigh three hundred pounds.”

  “You look pretty fit to me. Enjoy. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I have a nice wine pairing if you like.”

  “Need a clear head for work. Maybe a cappuccino later, if you’ll join me.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Was her manner naturally flirtatious or was Ginn onto something? I filed that away and proceeded to enjoy a superb lunch. When she returned, I told her so.

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “How did you come by the name Frog and Peach?”

  “A long time ago, Peter Cook, who you probably don’t know, and Dudley Moore, who you probably do, did a Broadway play. They had a bit about a restaurant called The Frog and Peach. Only two items on the menu. Pěche a la Frog and Frog a la Pěche.”

  “Tasty. I think I’ll add those to my ‘do not eat’ list.”

  Her laugh was lyrical. “Cappucino’s on the way. So, you said you talked to the man who originally investigated the disappearance. Anything interesting?”

  “Not really. No body. No notebook. His guitar was still in the van when they found it.”

  “I feel a little weird bringing this up, but did you and Jason talk about your fee?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to contribute. Jason’s not exactly rolling in money these days. Just send me the bill.”

  “I really wasn’t planning on charging for my time. Moses volunteered, too. It’ll be our good deed for Christmas. I don’t anticipate a lot of expenses. If something big comes up, I’ll talk it over with you. But when you say Jason isn’t too prosperous, I take it your funds aren’t community property? If it’s none of my business, just say so.”

  “No, it’s okay. Jason and I aren’t legally married. That was my call. Long story.”

  “I have time. But again, if it’s private, that’s fine.”

  She sucked in her cheeks and shrugged. “Let’s just say that Jason feels he owes me for something I did for him. That’s not a reason to get married. I was married before and frankly, I don’t need it. We’ll be together as long as both of us want it and we don’t need all the legal bullshit if and when we don’t. We’re not gonna have kids. We have separate incomes. It’s not exactly what they call an open marriage but there’s no reason to tie the knot.”

  “Kat, when you say he feels obligated, I assume you’re talking about how you saved his life in that Brand X situation. You can’t blame him for feeling he owes you for that but it doesn’t mean he’d be marrying you out of gratitude.”

  “I really don’t need to get into this. We were together for two years before the ‘situation’, as you call it. He never brought up marriage until after it happened. Do the math.”

  “Hey, sometimes it takes something dramatic to open someone’s eyes to what really matters. I had a good friend who died not long ago. I hadn’t spoken to him for months because of something he did to me that I thought was unforgiveable. When I found out he was terminal, I put it aside and we had a great talk. If we hadn’t done that, I’d regret it forever.”

  ‘Riley, Jason and I are happy the way things are. No rules. Let’s leave it at that. The only issue if we split would be custody of Jasper and he was Jason’s dog so he’d get him, much as that would hurt. I’ve grown pretty attached to him.”

  “Why didn’t we meet Jasper yesterday?”

  “It was his spa day. Bath, nails, the works. There’s a great place in Bluffton that picks up and delivers.”

  “I’ll have to look into that with my boy Bosco. Hey, about Hardeeville. The story in the papers really didn’t add up. I have a cop friend who says it’s something nobody on the force will talk about. A jealous old woman killing four men seems farfetched, especially since at least two of them were security guards, presumably armed.”

  I could feel a chill descend over the table. Katrina’s smile faded.

  After a long moment she said, “Riley, promise me something. I know you’re a detective and you’ve got a reputation for getting at the truth. But please, let this drop. I can’t talk about it. Just believe me when I tell you that if certain things come to light, Jason and I will be in some serious danger. If you have any regard for either of us, please, let it go.”

  With that, she stood up and walked away without saying goodbye.

  9

  Still smarting from the sudden change in temperature from Katrina, I had time to do some research. The town of Beaufort is the County seat and one of its largest incorporated areas. I was after a list of the cops who might have investigated what happened to Townes, hoping they might remember more than Bolton.

  After pouring through some musty records to locate the roll call from 1980, a Google search told me that three quarters of them are now patrolling in the afterlife. A few had retired to Florida or Arizona. There was only one who still lived in the area. His name was Paul Dugger. Also interesting was the fact that he had left the force shortly after the Townes case. Cause and effect?

  Dugger lived on one of those parcels of nothingness less than a half mile from the water. His house was surrounded by dense woods and swamp. It stood in stark contrast to Jason Black’s place. The lot size was roughly the same, but that’s where the similarity ended. Dugger’s digs were set back from the road, tall pines, weeds and scrub brush ran right to his front porch. The house was a thousand square foot ranch, probably a modular dating back to the eighties. A tattered Confederate flag flapped in the gentle breeze, announcing his proclivities to all who visited
. I swallowed my disdain and failing to locate a doorbell, rapped hard on the metal front door.

  To my surprise, a smartly dressed man answered. He was wearing Dockers and a green Irish wool sweater, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms rippling with muscle No facial hair, and what was left on the top of his head was neatly trimmed. The beginnings of a paunch; otherwise he seemed in excellent shape.

  “Can I help you?” he said, his weathered face a blank slate, neither welcoming or foreboding.

  “Mr. Dugger, my name is Riley King. I’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened a long time ago, when you were working for the County Sheriff’s office. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I was writing, but I could use a break.”

  “Writing?”

  “My novel. It’s about what would’ve happened if the South had won the War of Northern Aggression. Not something you’d be into, King.”

  As much as I wanted to focus on the Townes case, it was hard to let that one go by. “Why do you assume I wouldn’t read it?”

  He smiled. “I know who you are. You were in the papers a lot a few months back. You helped get that socialist Boomer Purdy elected mayor. I doubt you and I have much in common comes to politics.”

  There was no underlying threat in his demeanor. He seemed almost professorial, albeit with some wacky theories.

  I said, “I actually do read quite a bit and not always from sources I agree with. I like to get perspective from all sides. I try to keep an open mind.”

  He was sizing me up, trying to determine if I was stringing him along or really interested in what he had to say. “Tell you what. I’ve got some moonshine here. Made it myself. Good stuff. Why don’t we set a spell and you can ask your questions.”

  “I’ll pass on the drink, got a long drive ahead. But feel free to have one if you care to.”

  “Already started. Suit yourself. See, my book is about real people. I know that it’s easy for Yankees to typecast us as bigots who hate the colored, but it isn’t that simple.”

  The unkempt exterior of his home reinforced the redneck impression, Confederate flag and all. But the inside was cozy, neat and orderly. The main room was lined with built-in bookshelves that contained all manner of reading material as well as Civil War memorabilia, all on the Rebel side. This man could be a harmless pseudo-intellectual, or a dangerous radical, who might decide to shoot up a mall to make his point. That would be more important than finding out what had happened to an old songwriter, so I indulged my curiosity.

  I said, “I’m listening.”

  “My book starts in Gettysburg. I did a lot of research and came up with a credible scenario on how the battle should have turned out differently. After that, the war drags on until Lee meets with Lincoln in secret and they agree that the bloodshed must stop. Lincoln concedes that the South has a right to be its own nation with its own laws. Lee agrees that any proposed new state must have a referendum on which country they wish to join.”

  “Interesting. Go on.”

  “As the years go on, the Republic of the Confederacy maintains its independence. It joins with the North in the two World Wars, sits out Korea and Vietnam. Has its own constitution. Supports conservative Christian values. Doesn’t buy into political correctness. Like why it’s okay to say ‘of color’ but not okay to say ‘colored’. When I used that word earlier, I was testing you to see your reaction. You didn’t bat an eye, so I figured you might be cool.”

  I ignored that. “Tell me more about your book.”

  “The Confederacy is a real democracy, learning from the mistakes the Founders made and correcting them. Fixed up the Constitution. Made English the official language and Christianity the official religion.”

  “Which branch of Christianity? There are many.”

  “’Course I thought of that. It’s for all Christians, but there are legal guidelines so you can’t have no Jews for Jesus or nothing like that.”

  “And in your book, the two countries never try to re-unite?”

  “They have votes on that every twenty years or so. But they all fall short. Sort of like England and Scotland in a way. They live together peaceably, trade freely, common defense pacts, share technology and such, but are separate nations.”

  “Do you have an agent or a publishing deal?”

  “Haven’t done that yet. I want to be able to present a finished work. I’ll brook no editing after I get it done like I want it. I might put it out on my own. But that can wait until it’s done.”

  “And when do you think that’ll be?”

  “I just turned sixty five and I’m healthy as a horse. I started writing it ten years ago. Figure it’ll take a while before it’s perfected. Maybe by then, the country will be more receptive, the way things are headed.”

  Any wannabe writer who works fifteen years on a book is doomed to failure, although in this guy’s case, that would be a good thing. I’d mention this encounter the next time I talk to Dan Logan at the Bureau. I didn’t see any guns on display, although that didn’t mean he didn’t own any.”

  I said, “How does the Southern Nation look at the second amendment?”

  “No restrictions whatsoever on firearms. Personally, I’m not a big gun owner. Got a few, just for protection. I support the rights of anyone who does feel the need to bear arms.”

  “Well, I wish you well with the book. I look forward to reading it.”

  “Sure you don’t care for any moonshine? It’s good shit, if I do say so myself.”

  “No. I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Let me tell you why I came.” I gave him the condensed version. I told him I had spoken to Bolton, who had said nothing to enlighten me.

  When I was finished, he said, “Don’t recall much about that either.”

  “Were you patrolling the area that night? Lowcountry Highway?”

  He took a pull of moonshine. The liquid was clear and potent. I could smell the alcohol from ten feet away. “Mighta been. Can’t say for sure.”

  “Why did you leave the force?”

  “Brass didn’t approve of my tactics. I didn’t worry much about treating bad guys with kid gloves.”

  “So you were forced out?”

  “I got things done. They seemed to appreciate that until they didn’t. I got results and that’s what mattered.”

  “Before I go, is there anyone you can think of who might know anything about what happened to Colton Townes?”

  “Nope. You already know who had lead on the case.”

  “Sounds like I should talk to him some more.”

  “He gave you my name, didn’t he?”

  “No. Like I said, he gave me nothing. Why would he point me toward you, anyway?”

  “Bolton was a politician, even then. He’d do anything to cover his own ass and I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw me under the bus. I never trusted him. He didn’t have his men’s back, only out for himself. Took advantage of a rumor about me and the chief’s wife. That was the last straw and I was outta there.”

  “So it was just coincidence that you left shortly after Townes disappeared?”

  “I don’t even remember that was when I left. It was all about that sex scandal. That’s how he got to be county sheriff the first time. Leapfrogged right over old Jack Paulsen.”

  “Sorry to have to ask, but was the rumor true?”

  “I admit I did the guy’s wife a few times, but it was nothing more than that. She was hot in her day, big ole fake tits. Chief was such a workaholic, he didn’t take care of business with his lady, if you catch my meaning. But it was only on my own time, I never would’ve done her when I was on duty.”

  “So if your assignment included Coosaw that night, you did patrol it.”

  “Okay, let me level with ya. That alibi for why I didn’t see anything was all Bolton. I didn’t need an alibi. I didn’t see the wreck. You know that road. It’s dark as midnight, no lights, nothing. A van off the side of the road wouldn’t be seen till daw
n, if then.”

  This wasn’t adding up. “Why would he come up with an alibi that made you look bad? Seems it’d be easier to say what you just told me.”

  “Politics, man. The alibi never went public, but Bolton told the sheriff and old Ross didn’t want it to look bad for the department. He swore he’d have my back if Ross wanted me out, which he did.”

  “But you left anyway. So he screwed you?”

  “He said that the heat was coming down on me because the press had heard some stories about me and the guys. He claimed this’d give him leverage to get me a nice severance keep my pension credits alive. He promised to send work my way, like an off-the-books consultant.”

  “Like extracting a few confessions using your highly developed powers of persuasion?”

  “No comment. He did send work my way and I made a good buck under the table while he was sheriff. A while later I found out the real reason. The idea that a chief’s wife was doing a young cop woulda been pretty juicy stuff during an election campaign back then. Paulsen decided not to run rather than make his wife go through that. Today, nobody’d give a shit. Paulsen left the department right after that, just like me. And that snake Bolton kept getting re-elected.”

  10

  Ginn and I were sipping Scotch whisky before dinner, our evening ritual. Upon returning from Savannah, Tomey had gone to the stationhouse to show her face and see if there was anything she needed to deal with on her day off. She promised to be back within the hour, bringing Chinese take-out.

  I said, “So the Christmas show with Handel’s Messiah didn’t do it for you? The man ain’t got no culture. When you say Dylan, he thinks you mean Dylan Thomas, whoever that is.”

  “You think quoting Paul Simon would get past me, 5-0? Thought you’d know how well rounded I am by now.”

  “Impressive. I admit, I didn’t think you’d pick up on that one.”

  “I got plenty of culture. I did dig a couple of passages from that Messiah ditty, but most of it sounds like they were making it up as they go along. Repeating the lyrics ten times, ‘case you missed it the first nine.”