Side(H)arm

by James E. Abel

  Chapter 13

  The following morning was damp and overcast on the southeast side of Tybee Island, where the ocean waters meet up with Tybee Creek. Along the inlet, where the creek flows into the ocean, sit about a half-dozen small cottages, most of them with their own personal fishing dock out back.

  At around 9:30, Raymond Wilkins pulled his twenty-year-old burgundy Honda Accord in front of one of those cottages and parked. The cottage was not about to be featured in Better Homes & Gardens. It was nothing more than a rectangular box. Wooden clapboard, painted bright blue, covered the exterior walls. Black shingles, curled up from far too many summers in the Georgia sun, covered the gently pitched roof. The only architectural detail on the front of the building was a five-by-five-foot wooden deck that served as the front porch. Above it was a small A-frame roof, supported by two white 4 by 4 beams at the front corners. Out back, twenty feet behind the cottage, a dilapidated fishing dock extended out about thirty feet over the inlet at Tybee Creek.

  Wilkins glanced around, reached across to the passenger’s seat, and picked up a large brown paper bag. The opening had been carefully rolled down to protect what was inside. He glanced around a second time, took a deep breath, and then slowly unrolled the bag, one turn at a time. He looked inside, reached in, and pulled out a gun. It wasn’t just any gun. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 56 snub-nosed revolver—the gun that had been used to kill Casey Nichols.

  *******

  At police headquarters in downtown Savannah, Detective Sanders looked across the table at Jordan and said, “Sorry, but you know the process.”

  “Yeah. Suspect first, victim second. Look, are we done here? I need to see Molly.”

  Jordan hadn’t slept, hadn’t shaved, and was wearing the same clothes he had on the night before. He and Molly had stayed at Tommy’s house overnight, on the conditions that Tommy wasn’t there, and that Jordan and Molly remained in separate rooms. A female officer was assigned to stay glued to Molly’s side. The officer wasn’t there for Molly’s protection. Sanders wanted her there to make sure that father and daughter couldn’t talk to each other.

  Sanders looked up from his notes and said, “Almost. I just have a few more questions. I noticed that you have a biometric gun safe downstairs. Is that where you keep your service pistol when you’re off duty?”

  “Along with a bunch of other rifles and guns. Why?”

  “What about the small keypad safe we found up in your bedroom? What do you keep in there?”

  “An old Smith & Wesson snub-nose that Tommy gave me. What’s the point?”

  “Is it a .38 caliber?”

  Jordan’s head dropped. “Oh, God! I got the gun out to clean it, and…oh, no, please don’t tell me!”

  “Don’t know yet. But we found some unspent .38 cartridges on the floor of your bedroom and pulled a slug out of the wall. We’ll run forensics; see what we find.”

  Jordan jumped up and started pacing. “Please, I have to see Molly.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do not, I repeat, do not try to push yourself into this investigation. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Look, can I see her now or not?”

  Sanders nodded, opened the door, and said, “You keep yourself right here.”

  He started down a long hallway, toward a door about forty feet away. On the other side of that door, Molly was sitting at a table, staring down at a piece of blank paper and a pencil. Behind her, a female police officer looked over her shoulder and asked, “Are you sure you didn’t get at least a glimpse of him? I hear that you’re quite the artist. Please, just try honey, okay? Maybe then you can see your dad.”

  Without turning and without emotion, Molly asked, “I can see my dad?”

  Out in the hallway, Detective Sanders looked up to see Dr. Karen Conley walking toward him from the opposite direction, or more specifically toward the room where Molly was being held. Karen was in her mid-thirties, the product of a bi-racial marriage, and stunningly beautiful. She had light brown skin, piercing green eyes, and full, firm breasts that most women, or their husbands, would have to pay for. But she never flaunted her good looks. Her only passion was helping kids, specifically trauma victims.

  As Karen marched toward Sanders, her demeanor should have put him on notice, but he was too busy admiring her shape. She got to the door first, blocked Sanders from entering, and asked, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He smiled and said, “Sorry, doctor, I’m trying to solve a murder. So… if you don’t mind?” as he started to move past her. Karen held her ground and said, “Not at the expense of that little girl in there. She’s not ready, and you, sir, have most certainly broken protocol.”

  Two beat cops stood further up the hall, smiling, as they watched the boss get reprimanded. Jordan walked up behind them, and they turned, offered condolences, and quickly drifted off. Meanwhile, Karen continued to lecture Sanders.

  “That little girl in there is not ready to answer a battery of questions about how her mother was murdered, and she’s not going to talk to you or any of your people until I say so! Now, if you don’t mind!”

  Karen turned her back to Sanders, opened the door to the interview room, and walked in. Sanders sheepishly followed behind.

  Karen went directly to Molly, kneeled, took her hand, and looked her in the eyes.

  In a soothing voice she said, “Hi, Molly. My name is Dr. Conley. Would it be okay if you and I just sit and talk alone for a couple of minutes? I’d really like to get to know you.”

  Perhaps it was Karen’s soothing voice, or just her offer to get the female officer out of the room, but for the first time since Molly’s mother was killed, she pulled out of her trance and refocused on the world around her. She offered up a small smile and nodded her head. Karen stared at Sanders until he got the hint to leave the room and take the female officer with him.

  Out in the hall, Sanders walked past Jordan, stopped, and said, “Dr. Conley’s a grief counselor. When she’s done talking with Molly, you are free to go in.”

  Thanks, asshole.

  Jordan heard the door slam behind him as Sanders went into his office.

  A few minutes later, the door to the interview room opened, Karen walked out, and she approached Jordan. “You’re Molly’s dad, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m Jordan Nichols.”

  “My name is Dr. Karen Conley. I want you to know how sincerely sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Thank you, but I…I don’t quite understand.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought detective Sanders had explained. I’m a grief counselor from Savannah General. We recently instituted a co-operative effort with your department designed to lend support to trauma victims. My area of expertise is children, but we can talk about that later. Right now, Molly needs you, and I’m sure you would like some time alone with her. You go ahead, and I promise, no one will interrupt you. Take as much time as you need.”

  Surprised and a bit confused by the unexpected gesture of kindness, Jordan’s lower lip started to quiver. He fought to regain his composure, looked Dr. Conley in the eye, and softly, said “Thank you.” Then he turned his back and walked into the room where Molly waited. Finally reunited, many more tears were shed by father and daughter as he held her tight in his arms, trying his best to give her comfort when he had so little to give.

  Chapter 14

  Jordan sat in the passenger’s seat of the police cruiser, staring at the police tape stretched across the porch of his house. Several minutes later, Tommy walked out the front door and ducked under the tape. He was carrying a black suit with a white shirt underneath it, along with a pair of black shoes.

  He approached Jordan’s side of the car, held out the suit, and asked, “Is this the right one?”

  “Jordan nodded and asked, “Did they say if I could go in?”

  “Yeah, Frank’s in charge, and CSI just left, so they’re pretty much don
e now.”

  Jordan got out of the car as Tommy hung the suit on a hook in the back.

  Jordan suddenly hesitated, looking unsteady. Tommy, watching, said, “Here, let me go in with you.”

  Jordan nodded and said, “I’d appreciate that.”

  When they reached the front door, Frank Bishop, a silver-haired cop who usually sat on the desk downtown, walked out and gave Jordan a hug. He was a good friend, and he was the man who had called Jordan the night Casey was murdered.

  “I’m so sorry, Jordan. You know we’re all here for you. Whatever we can do to help, you just name it.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Frank led Jordan and Tommy inside and up the steps, past the blood-stained wall with the hole in it from where the bullet had passed through Casey, lodged in a stud, and then been pried out by CSI. When they got to Molly’s bedroom, there was no police tape across the door, so Frank let Jordan go in by himself.

  A few minutes later, he came out and handed Tommy a black dress, some shoes to match, and a small suitcase. Then they headed down the hall to Casey and Jordan’s bedroom. Seeing the police tape across the door, Jordan turned to Frank and asked, “Please, a few minutes alone?”

  Frank nodded and said, “Go ahead.”

  Jordan ducked under the tape and walked in. The first thing he did was look for the gun case, but it was gone. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing that was where Casey must have been sitting as she loaded the gun.

  She must have been scared to death. She hated guns.

  He stood up and walked over to Casey’s closet. He pulled one of her dresses close to his nose, smelling it, trying to feel her presence. He slid it over to the other side of the closet, followed by another, and then another.

  Blue, green, white. I’m sorry Casey…I don’t know!

  And then the dresses started to fly across the rack.

  Soon, a crash brought Tommy and Frank rushing into the room where they found Jordan lying in the corner of Casey’s closet. The dresses were all around him, and tears were streaming down his face.

  Chapter 15

  The phone, sitting on the back counter of the Fine Arts and Curios Shop, rang three times before he answered, “Yes, this is Cayden James. How can I help you?”

  “Mr. James, Bill Jensen here. Remember we met last week?”

  James glanced down at the Chamber of Commerce welcome kit lying on the counter, and then at his watch before saying, “Yes, of course.”

  “I just wanted to officially welcome you to Savannah. Your shop is a fine addition to our downtown area, and I was hoping we might get to meet you at our monthly meeting. It’s next Monday at 7:30, over at the Westin.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen. I’ll try to make it, but right now, I am rather busy. I have your materials right here in front of me, so do you mind if I call you back, say tomorrow?”

  “That would be fine, Mr. James. I really appreciate...”

  Click.

  Bill Jensen heard the phone go dead. It had been ripped from James’s hand and hung up by one of the two burly men now staring him in the face. They worked for Lucien Baxter; two of the guys who opened shipping crates back at the warehouse. The biggest one, a man with a shaved head and a long scar down the side of his nose, asked, “You got a back way out of this place?”

  James said, “There’s an alley in back and a small parking area.”

  The man with the scar turned to his partner and said, “You get the car. I’ll take care of business in here.”

  His partner nodded and walked toward the front door. He stopped, flipped the sign on the door to read, “Closed,” and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  The man with the scar said, “Give me your cell phone.”

  James handed him his cell phone, and the man tossed it onto the counter. Then the man with the scar did a quick search of James’s pockets, pulled out a plastic bag, and put it over James head, pushing him toward the rear of the shop. Inside the bag, James was smiling. He had gotten what he wanted: a meeting with Lucien Baxter.

  A half hour later, after being shoved into the backseat of a car and driven to an unknown location, the bag was ripped off James’s head. He squinted, a sudden rush of light blinding him. He slowly opened his eyes, allowing his pupils to adjust, and found himself standing face to face with Lucien Baxter. An armed guard stood by his side. He looked around and saw the men that had delivered him standing nearby. Then he saw the light source that had blinded him just seconds before. It came from rows after row of florescent lights that lined the ceilings. He was standing inside a warehouse of some sort, and all the windows had been cinder-blocked shut. From the look of it, the work was recent.

  Baxter scanned James up and down and said, “You asked to meet me, so here I am. This better be important.”

  James held out his hand and said, “Yes, sir, it is. My name is Cayden James, and I’d like to do business with you.”

  Lucien ignored the attempted handshake and said, “Lots of people want to do business with me. What makes you any different?”

  “Because I want to purchase all of your merchandise, and I’m willing to pay you twice the going rate.”

  The two burly rednecks exchanged surprised looks, but Lucien didn’t show any emotion. He stared at James and asked, “And why would you want to do that? You don’t know me, and I sure as hell don’t know you.”

  James started to reach in his pocket. The armed guard immediately raised his weapon and pointed it at him.

  The man with the scar held out his hand and said, “Don’t worry; he’s clean. I checked him myself.”

  The guard lowered his weapon, and James pulled out his wallet. He found a folded-up piece of paper inside, handed it to Lucien, and said, “Here, read it. It’s a letter of introduction from your supplier, Quang Li.”

  Lucien took the note and read it. He looked up, held out his hand for a handshake, and said, “Welcome to Savannah, Mr. James. Let me give you a tour of our operations.”

  Chapter 16

  Jordan and the other pallbearers rolled the casket into the hearse as the rest of the family watched from inside the limo. Jordan, the cold wind cutting through his suit, glanced back at the long line of cars as he climbed in to join them. It was a modified stretch Cadillac, with two rows of seats behind the driver. Jordan, Molly, and Casey’s mother sat in the row behind the driver, while Jordan’s parents and his sister, Jenna, sat behind them.

  The family members had arrived the prior day and were staying at the Westin Savannah Golf Resort & Spa, an upscale hotel that sits on the Savannah River, directly across from the old cotton warehouses that now service the tourist trade. Jordan and Molly were staying there as well, Tommy having taken up a collection back at the station for the money needed to cover the cost of their stay.

  As the funeral procession slowly snaked its way through the city’s streets, the only sound inside the limo for quite some time was the quiet sobbing of Casey’s mother as she held tightly onto Molly’s hand. Jordan liked Nancy. In fact, he and Casey had convinced her to move down to Savannah that coming spring. It was a move that might not take place now.

  Jenna finally broke the silence when she tapped Molly on her shoulder from behind and said, “Hey, you! You’re shivering. Here, take my coat.” Molly turned and smiled as Jenna leaned over the seat and hung her coat around her shoulders.

  Jenna and Jordan were close, in spite of being separated in age by almost eight years. By the time Jenna was eight years old, she was hanging out with Jordan and his buddies at the ballfield near their house. The guys would have pick-up games there, and if they were short of players, Jenna would beg to play. Even if she struck out, missed a catch, or fell trying to run the bases, she never pouted, cried, or complained. She just got a determined look on her face and tried even harder.

  By the time Jordan was a senior in high school, his coaches were asking him if she was going to attend their school. By then, she was an exceptional so
ftball player, and she was also setting records at junior AAU track meets all over the state. And when Jenna did get to high school, she didn’t disappoint, setting three state records in track and field and helping to lead the girls’ softball team to two state championships.

  Now twenty-seven years old, Jenna still worked out every day, and it showed. With her strong cheekbones, beautiful smile, silky black hair, and the same blue eyes as her brother, it was obvious that the Nichols family was blessed with good looks.

  The car fell back into silence until they arrived at the cemetery. As they got out, Jenna whispered something into Jordan’s ear. He nodded. Jenna took Molly’s hand, and they moved off to the side, away from the folding chairs with the funeral home’s name blazoned across the back.

  The rest of the family followed the limo driver as he escorted them through the chairs and up to the front row, the row facing the open burial plot with its green canvas overhead and its fake green grass underfoot to hide the excavated dirt lying beneath. As the other mourners arrived, they quickly filled in the remaining seats and overflowed onto the single lane road that wound its way through the cemetery. Many of them were Jordan’s fellow officers. Some of them wore their police uniforms, but not all.

  Jordan didn’t hear much of anything that the minister said, not until Jenna returned with Molly and tapped him on his shoulder. She pointed at the mourners gathering to place roses on Casey’s casket and said, “Jordan, you should stand up now. Your friends will want to offer final condolences as they leave.”

  Jordan stood up and, along with the other family members, shook hands, accepted hugs, and pretended to listen to the words of hundreds of close friends. For the most part, all he saw were blank faces. One of the few exceptions was Dr. Conley. When she kneeled to talk to Molly, he was struck by how natural and unforced her kindness and mannerisms were. There was something special about her, and he was glad that she’d be working with his daughter.