by Tim Garvin
Elton said, “I have three burner phones. I get the least sniff you are bullshitting, I call the police and crush the phone.”
Cody said, “That’s cool.” You fool.
Elton said, “So what do you think, put a note on a terrorist forum? Stinger for sale?”
“Definitely not. They’d think it was a sting.”
“Then what?”
“We send ten emails to ten sites. Tonight. On tor. After they respond, we get them in a game chat. We use a private squad in Battlefield. That game has Stinger missiles, so the NSA snoopers won’t alert even if their algorithms catch the word ‘Stinger.’ They’ll just think, well, it’s Battlefield, that’s normal conversation.”
“That’s good. That’s really good. So how do we convince them we got the goods?”
“Send them a photo on tor.”
“How do they know they’re not talking to a cop? How do we know we’re not talking to a cop?”
Cody had spent hours imagining this problem during his internet drug-selling days, the problem of masking. Two guys approach in the dark, neither certain of the other’s identity. There was no good solution. It was something about existence itself, that everything was surfaces, and underneaths were always dark. But he had a sale to make. He said, “We divide the goods to build trust. First they get a missile. Then they get the battery pack. Then the gripstock. Then another missile. Then another one. Finally the launch tube. We never touch money or meet them in person. Never. We leave a missile somewhere and that starts it off.”
“They wouldn’t show up. I wouldn’t. It would be a sting.”
“Good point. So we send part of a missile to them. We send it to some Arab country. The explosive part. The cops would never do that. Any cop that did that would be prosecuted. So that starts off the trust.”
Elton’s stare wandered and softened. He said, “Cody Cooper, dawg, I knew you were smart, but you are the smartest fucking guy I know. And I never knew that. You been hiding that. That’s how smart you are, motherfucking Cody Cooper.”
Cody gave off a half smile, thinking, way smarter than you.
If a Fly
It was early afternoon, and so far Seb had not gotten a single call from the missile theft investigators, which either meant no leads or else warrants were unnecessary due to cooperation. Or maybe they had picked somebody up. The two NCIS guys he had met at the trailer park said half the team was searching the swamp, the other half door-knocking and running boat and fishing permits, and so far nothing.
Seb had missed the murder briefing, but Stinson called, and, with a dry edge, informed him that the sheriff had alerted him that Seb had been pulled off to a need-to-know investigation on the base. Stinson had made assignments himself, sending Barb to Lowe’s and Sears for video, and okaying Marty’s prison visit. Both detectives had also begun reaching out to their informant network. Narcotics had sent a detective to the briefing and were reaching out to their network as well.
Seb informed Stinson he was only the warrants man on the base investigation, was so far unused, and was full time on the Sackler case. He had only half finished his written report, so he reported his day, the daughter, Virginia Sackler, and her extortion testimony, her addict husband and his mother in Chicago, her brother in a federal pen in Kansas, the iPhone videos, the broken leg—which Stinson already knew about—Randall’s canvass and the white realty car, the need to start digging out the well, his interview with Elton Gleen at Coopertown, and finally his own review of the 1969 murder history. He said he had Bonnie pulling the old files and did Stinson by any chance know the detective on the Hugh Britt murder?
Stinson, without answering, said, “Let’s don’t fool around with ancient history yet, Detective. You got a good lead. Let’s work it.”
“I’m working it. But it’s got a time discrepancy. Elton was there at nine, and Sackler died four hours later.”
“I talked to Carney. He can’t be sure.”
“No, but it’s a bad percentage. Also, you don’t kill the guy you’re trying to extort.”
“Unless you’re trying to intimidate him, and things go bad.”
“But the other thing is the well. Something’s in that well, and that brings up the history. Looks like it was filled in way back. Possibly around the time of the Britt murder.”
“You’re the lead investigator, Seb, so I’m not telling you to stand down. But it seems to me you damn near got a smoking gun.”
Seb heard the dismissive tone in the lieutenant’s voice, which said, how about we solve a simple robbery-homicide and stop running a hotshot mystery. He said, “I know. Also, I forgot to mention, there might be a drone video of the area around the time of the murder. There’s an environmentalist overflying Cooper Farms, and he might have caught some road traffic out there. I’m looking into it.”
Stinson said, “Okay. And no, I don’t know who handled the Britt murder. Likely dead and gone. So let’s browse the warrants and door-knock Coopertown. Let’s get some people in the box. Maybe somebody saw Elton taking a walk. Frankly, even with Gleen involved, I’m half inclined to think we’re spending time on an accident.”
Seb said Coopertown was on the list. Presently though, which he did not mention, he was on his way to interview the Lands, one of whom had worked for Germaine Ford—both parties in the ancient history, out-of-favor, hotshot murder theory.
Stinson set a briefing for ten the next morning, and they disconnected.
As Seb turned onto Staunton Road, he called Bonnie and asked her to hunt up the ex-governor’s satellite phone number. She said, why not, I’m just sitting around typing reports. The previous year, the investigators’ intelligence officer had retired, and Bonnie, after attending several seminars, had taken over her duties, with a pay bump, but not, she occasionally commented, her full salary.
Then he called the lawyer, Alex Person, in case he was still in the office. A receptionist answered and said he was. Seb thanked the woman and hung up without identifying himself.
Stinson was right, of course—Elton was the chief lead. Seb had come away from the Gleen interview with the conviction it had been him at the top of the well. But not that he had killed Sackler. First, it was out of character for a smart criminal. But mostly it left too many loose ends.
As he passed Willow Road, which led to Mia’s pottery studio at the western end of the inlet, he recalled the dock there and a guy he knew from childhood, if he was still alive, a Jimmy something, who had a bait shop on a rebuilt barge. It was just before the end of the road, where the studio sat, and maybe he could drop by after the singing, have a talk with Jimmy—see anyone driving past with a boatload of Stinger missiles last night?—then stop by the studio, hey, I was in the neighborhood.
Staunton Road ran two miles along the southern side of the Cooper estate, and as he neared the Land house, Seb rolled up the windows and turned on the air-conditioning. The house, a white wooden box with a low-pitched roof, came in view. Two vehicles, a rusted green van and a small sedan, were parked in the gravel driveway. Beside them sat a gray-white pop-up trailer in the down position. Beneath a bay window a cloud of pink azaleas blossomed. A scatter of croquet equipment littered the lawn.
Seb pulled into the drive and parked behind the sedan. Five hundred feet behind the house, across Council Creek and through a screen of pines, he could see the purple-pink shimmer of one of the Cooper Farms open cesspools, a four-acre rectangle of hog feces the industry called a hog lagoon. Even with the windows up, he could smell the stench. And Christ, he could see a faint rainbow over the field. The automatic sprayer was on. If the breeze was southerly it would drift a shit rain over the house and even a stroll from the car to the front door meant a shower and change of clothes.
As he sat in his car watching the sprayer rainbow and trying to discern wind direction, Josie Land, a small black woman in her fifties, emerged on the front porch, st
ood with her hands on her waist, and sent out a head cock of inquiry. Seb opened the door and got out. Hog stench was strong, and even if he avoided a shit rain, smell might permeate his clothes. Meaning if he did manage a stop-by at Mia’s after the singing, he might need a change. Which meant seven miles home and back. She could be in bed too. Probably a visit was pushing it. Or maybe drive by, see if there were lights on.
Seb stopped at the bottom on the porch steps. He said, “Hi, Josie.”
“I wondered was you taking a nap.”
“I was checking wind. I could see those sprinklers going.”
“Oh, they going today. That’s just about how we know rain coming. Mr. Squint start spraying to get ahead. He don’t want to get fined.” During Hurricane Arthur, one of the Cooper Farms lagoons had overtopped, eroded its berm, and washed millions of gallons of hog shit a mile down Council Creek and into the inlet.
She stopped, offered another head cock, inviting his purpose.
Seb said, “You worked for Germaine Ford, didn’t you?”
She said, “You best come on in.”
He followed her into the house. As she pushed the door closed behind him, he heard the hushing sound of the neatly fitted seals. The Lands, he knew, had been under siege from hog stench for four years. They laundered and bathed, sealed every window and threshold, burned scented candles, sprayed air fresheners, installed a variety of air filters. When the July heat arrived, the house’s white sides wore a moving crust of black flies.
They crossed a small living room with a plastic-covered couch and chairs to an oval wooden table outside a kitchen bar. The wall beside the table was covered with framed family photos. An air-conditioning unit hummed in the kitchen window, and above it, through the top pane, he could see rainbow mist as a sprayer made its pass. He had the vague impression of being in a space capsule on an alien planet. She said, “Please sit. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“If you’re having one. Thanks.”
“I would like a cup of tea.” She turned the electric stove on under a kettle of water. The house smelled of cinnamon and something else Seb couldn’t place and then did—burned sage.
As he pulled out a chair, he said, “I believe that’s sage I smell.”
“Oh, yes. We have learned to burn sage. I grow it too.”
She pulled up a chair and sat across from him, her hands laid palms up on her lap. She gave the impression of a trim bird, upright and perching and attentive. She said, “This about Leo Sackler, I believe.”
“It is, yes.” She waited. He said, “Where are the grandkids today? On a Sunday.”
“They stay in town with their mama’s sister on the weekends. She makes them go to church, so we like that.”
“How’s Jonesy getting on?”
“He’s making do. Arthritis don’t go with turning wrenches, but he’s making do.”
“How’s the suit going?”
“They don’t tell us. They lawyering.”
The Lands had joined a class action nuisance suit. Their nuisance allegation was particularly egregious, since Cooper Farms, formerly the Britt hunting estate, had built their waste lagoons a mile away from the water’s edge and the Cooper mansion but four hundred feet from the Lands’ home. State regulations specified that a hog lagoon could not be built closer than fifteen hundred feet from an occupied dwelling, but when Squint asked for a permit, the house had been unoccupied for more than a year, and a permit was granted. It had been the home of Jonesy’s parents, and Jonesy and Josie had been saving for a remodel. When their own home burned, they were forced to move.
“Did you know Mr. Sackler?”
“No, I didn’t. But I met him.”
“When was this?”
“A week ago. I went out to see if he wanted a maid.”
“Did he?”
“He said he would keep me in mind.”
The teapot began to whistle. Josie rose, set two cups with teabags on the table, and poured. She brought spoons, honey, and a quart of milk from the refrigerator and sat again. Seb swung his teabag in the water. He said, “I’m thinking somebody might have killed him.”
She waited.
He said, “So the Ford lodge is, what, a couple of miles from your house? Make the turn off Staunton to Crandell, left on Twice Mile, and it comes right up. He died around noon yesterday, so I’m out asking did anyone see anything or anybody around noon? Or a car you didn’t recognize?”
“I was in this house, and I don’t see much in here with these little windows. Or hear much either with these air-conditioners.”
“You were by yourself?”
“I was.”
He stopped a smile and delivered a brief finger point. “So no alibi.”
She said, “No alibi.”
They smiled together. He asked about a white Realtor’s car, which she had not seen, then asked, “How long did you work for Ms. Ford?”
“Twenty-six years.”
“So you started when?”
“Eighty-nine, after her mama died. Before that, Jonesy’s mother worked for them.”
“She was getting on, and you took over?”
“That’s right.”
“Your mother-in-law work for Germaine when she got that black eye?”
“I never heard about a black eye. She would have told me.”
“Probably before her time.”
He asked if Germaine had ever mentioned Leo Sackler. She had not. He asked whether she had inherited anything. Twenty-six thousand dollars, for twenty-six years of housekeeping. They were planning to move as soon as the lawsuit cleared, win or lose.
Seb let a moment pass to collect their attention. He said, “What was she like?” Then he said, “Did you love her?”
Josie smiled. “I like you asking that. Because as solitary as she was, she was never a sharp or hurting woman. Yes, I did love her. That house was like church on Tuesday. Just her and me and quiet.”
“Did you cook for her?”
“I did.”
“Did you eat with her?”
“I never did.”
“She kept things formal?”
Josie tilted her head to think. She said, “You ever know a nun? I never did, but I thought she was like a nun. Have a plan for action and keep inside it. Fold yourself in and stroll along inside yourself. See what I mean? That’s not formal like stiffness.”
“More like dignity.”
“More like that.”
“Or depression?”
“She never took to bed or anything, like some do. I was talking to Jonesy—did I ever hear her laugh? I must have, but I cannot remember.”
“Did friends come out?”
“Charity friends, best I could tell. She gave to charities.”
“No best friend?”
“I didn’t see one.”
He asked about her schedule. Eight to five, clean up breakfast—which Germaine prepared—make lunch, leave dinner on the table. Sweep, dust, vacuum, clean. He said, “I bet you miss it.”
“I ache about it.”
“What did she think of your lawsuit?”
“She’s the one told us about it. Put us in contact with the Waterkeepers and the rest of them.”
“She was neighbors with Squint. Was she upset about hogs next door?”
“These hogs right here don’t trouble the lodge. That’s a mile and half through the woods. But when that lagoon failed, and that hog waste come past the lodge, she sued him good. She called him that man. She told me about the nuisance suit and to join up with it. After the house burned, and we moved, I kept a change of clothes at the lodge, but now and then she would catch a whiff of hog on me. She’d get a black look. Not for me. For that man.”
“Did you nurse her when she was sick?”
“I did at first. Then a hospic
e nurse came to live in.”
“She died of congestive heart failure?”
“Yes, she did. Her feet swoll up and hands swoll up. We gave her morphine. Then a series of little strokes came to ease her on out.”
“I wonder if she went to see the governor before she died.”
“Oh, lord, I drove her to Raleigh. It took her fifteen minutes to walk from the car to the governor’s office. She needed a deputy to get back to the car.”
“How long did they talk?”
“Couple of hours anyway. I went shopping, and a secretary called me to come get her.”
“Any idea what they talked about?”
“She didn’t tell me. Now ask me if I think she killed Hugh Britt, which folks think.”
“Do you?”
“I do not. That woman couldn’t kill anything bigger than a fly. If a fly.”
The Afterlife
It was a six-mile ride through the midday heat back to his sister’s house, and Cody arrived at the garage sweaty. As he wheeled the bike in, Charlene turned from the back bench where she had been inspecting an open can of paint. She held up a dripping blue stir stick. She said, “Look at here, dude. Plenty left from last time. I broke out the automatic sprayer too, which I think is pretty ready to go, except it might be clogged. But I have mineral spirits in case.”
Cody leaned the bike against the wall, bent forward, and wiped his face on his T-shirt. He said, “What are we doing?” Then he remembered. He said he would paint the boat. The thought oppressed. He said, “Oh. The boat.”
She said, “I’m holding you to it. And guess what? I ran into Seb Creek. He said he’s coming by.”
He looked at her.
“Actually, I went by the courthouse and there he was. Don’t be mad. I’m a meddler. But he said he would drop by to see you. So in case you have those flytraps all spread around …”
“He’s not coming by. I already saw him.”