A Dredging in Swann

by Tim Garvin

  “You did?”

  “He came by Coopertown. He’s on the murder of that rich black guy.”

  “Did he ask you about Pass the Salt?”

  The weight of his sister’s good intentions was like a lead plate in his chest. He said, “I told him no. Sorry.”

  He glanced away from Charlene’s disappointment. At present his only ambition was to get inside his trailer and sit in his chair. On the ride home, at first halfway and then seriously, he began to consider suicide and how to do it—either inhaling water, which was drowning, which he decided wouldn’t hurt once you were over the breath-holding part—or jumping off something, which probably wouldn’t hurt either but had the nerve-wracking drop—or a gun, which would be messy for Charlene, so do it outside. The word started to run in his mind like a recording, suicide, suicide, and he made a note to google it, see where it came from. Cide was killing because of homicide, so sui must be me or myself. Of course, what if suicide was impossible, and you ended up somewhere else without your body, in an afterlife, which was heaven or hell? With atheist friends, he had always argued for an afterlife, telling them he would either have the last laugh, or there wouldn’t be one. Anyway, it was a gamble, in case things continued and the spirit world disapproved of suicide. Besides, when it came down to it, he wanted more life. Not in an eight-by-eight cell though.

  So then it was kill Elton Gleen or get rid of the Stingers. Killing Elton would be chancy and difficult. Find a gun—Charlene had a gun—sneak at night, aim through a window. Or walk in, say cold words, fire bullets into him. He falls and dies. Either way was shocking and horrible. Partly it was fear, since Elton was wily and strong, but also it would be completely cruel, the most complete and untakebackable cruelty possible, which you would have to live with and have in your private self for all time. How could you go on a picnic or marry Keisha and have kids if you had that in back of everything? He saw it in the war once, a kid in the mess hall, jokey one day, and the next day he kills himself. Tell her, Keisha, it was him or me. Except it wasn’t. It was him or the eight-by-eight cell. So the dilemma was, killing Elton will ruin your life, and not killing him will ruin your life.

  So get rid of the Stingers. Elton said, we have to get photos, realistic ones to start the conversation with the terrorists. And Cody said, wait first though. Let the searchers wear out and thin out. On the ride back he had passed a launch ramp and seen the Marine Patrol zooming past, only not with the usual guys in the pilothouse, but with five tie-wearing guys seated in the back. No doubt feds.

  Elton had asked where the Stingers were, and Cody had said, somewhere. Which Elton accepted, since it left him out, in case. Maybe start things going in a month, said Cody. Elton said, a week. They agreed on two weeks, so that’s what Cody had, two weeks to figure it out.

  They would be watching the water. They would set up listening posts with night-vision equipment. Which he could defeat, probably, if he was patient. He would need a trip to the surplus store.

  They might locate him before then though. There were two ways. One, they find the dug-up flytrap pods. Two, someone on the water saw him. Also three, they find the video, identify the tent, check the surplus store. That wouldn’t be proof though. He had lied to Seb Creek about where he ate lunch, but, hey, guys, I had to, because I was poaching flytraps. I was definitely not stealing your Stinger missiles, in case that’s what you’re thinking.

  A plan began to form. It was vague and difficult and uncertain, and his thoughts continued to drift, sometimes to suicide—deciding on drowning, since Charlene could think it was an accident—sometimes to murder, which he saw he wanted to do and was just a coward about the effect it would have on him. Plus, it could go wrong. Retrieving the Stingers could go wrong too. Also suicide, if there was an afterlife. Just a small thing he had done, just a stoned stunt, and here he was, unable to plan, sliding down a slick pipe to destruction.

  He understood better now why he had told Elton Gleen about the Stingers, out of the blue, in a Keisha trance. It had been Keisha, but also he had needed to explode his life. He needed to fuck himself and his old life. And turn the leaf to a new life.

  Cody decided to paint the boat. He would sand it first, get all the little flakes in all the little corners, chip and sand and dust it off, then paint it like a madman.

  Charlene was still holding the dripping stir stick, watching him with disappointed, hoping eyes.

  He said, “I’m going to need a sander and extension cord. And something to scrape with, like a putty knife, if you got one.”

  She beamed, tucked up both her letdown and enthusiasm, and went to the garage cupboard.

  He said, “I’m going to sell this motherfucker when I’m done.”

  She turned with the sander, brightly, and said, “Well, then, you must do a good job.”

  Out-Cooled

  at Debbie’s

  “I just spoke with his daughter, Virginia. She said she put you in touch with her father.”

  “She did. Plus I do pro bono work at the prison, and some of the inmates know me.”

  Seb sat in a plush winged chair across from Alex Person, a small man with a trim gray mustache, thick gray hair, wearing a dark-gray suit. His office was a high-ceilinged room with walnut wainscoting and a modest chandelier suspended over an oak conference table. A bay window looked across the street to the courthouse, and the contrast between the brick-and-concrete government building and the sumptuous office spoke quietly of the needful guidance of wealth.

  Seb said, “And Leo ended up not signing anything?”

  “His daughter brought him to the office the day he was released. I took him to the bank and got him set up. Then we came back, and I laid out the document he had asked for, which was a living trust with two beneficiaries, his son and daughter. He picked up the pen and put it down.”

  “He didn’t trust you.”

  “I believe that’s right. He took the papers with him to read over. I called him three times, I think. He said he was reading and considering.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “The clerk will appoint an administrator, which will be his daughter, Virginia Rubins, since her brother is in prison. Then it heads into probate. That’s what the living trust was for, to avoid probate, which is now upon us with its year of gobbledygook.”

  “Will you be involved in that?”

  “That’s up to Virginia. I will offer my services.”

  “What will that be worth?”

  Person made a mouth smile. He said, “A pittance, sir.”

  “What’s a pittance?”

  “The clerk will do the math. But less than a hundred thousand. You want to know where I was yesterday afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was twenty miles at sea with Judge Lainson and his son, Carl. We landed five mahi-mahi.”

  Seb smiled. “So I can cross you off the list.”

  “You can.” Person dipped his head benignly, indicating his patience with the inquiry. Then his eyes moved to the gold-framed clockface at the corner of his desk, indicating time was money.

  “We contract with some forensic accounting guys who will look through all these papers and through the Ford estate. But help me out. If there’s fraud somewhere, where’s it going to be? Who would have a motive for murder because of fraud? I’ve heard of probate fraud, for instance. Anyone in your office have anything to do with this besides you?”

  “No one. And I had no access to the money.”

  “No power of attorney?”

  “He never signed a paper for me.”

  “How about the Raleigh lawyer firm that made Germaine Ford’s will?”

  “That was a living trust as well, and it wasn’t a firm, it was Leonard Castle. The ex-governor’s personal lawyer.”

  “Could he have stolen some money?”

  Person lifted his head a
fraction, his face showing faint distaste, a failed effort at impartiality. He said, “Detective, for what it’s worth, I consider Leonard above suspicion.”

  “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Not close, but yes, a friend.”

  “And you’re vouching for him?”

  “He has an excellent reputation.”

  “Okay. But you see what’s happening. You guys know each other, and lots of money on the table, and somebody’s dead.”

  Person took a long breath, then nodded. He had collected himself. He said, “You’ll have my full cooperation. Send your forensic accountants.”

  Seb stood. “They’ll get in touch. I see you making a good effort not to be offended, and I appreciate it.”

  Person remained seated. He spread his arms on his desk. He said, “You’re doing your job.”

  “That I am. I’m a paid suspecter.”

  As he left, Seb found the reception area of the law offices, which had formerly been empty, was now occupied by a young man seated on a couch. Seb approached and sat on the couch edge, angled toward him. He said, “Peter Prince?”

  Prince, in his late twenties with short brown hair and a round open reddish face, seemed to pull away from a thought. He laid fingers across his chest and inclined his head, Me? He wore jeans and a white untucked shirt with a blue woolen tie knotted loosely at the open collar, a costume broadcasting: making an effort but still me.

  “Peter Prince, right?” Seb offered his hand. “Seb Creek.”

  They shook. Prince said, “Hey.”

  The secretary spoke from her alcove. “Mr. Prince, Mr. Person is free now.”

  Prince stood. To the secretary: “Okay, thanks.” To Seb: “Nice to meet you. Did you want something?”

  “You don’t remember me because you never saw my face, but I’m the detective that talked to you a couple of weeks ago about flying drones. In that case, it was drones over Cooper Farms. I recognized you because of your website.”

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  “I’m with the sheriff, and I’m investigating a death. I was going to call you today, and here you are.”

  “What do I have to do with …”

  “Look, you got an appointment. Must be important on a Sunday. How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know. I have to sign some stuff.”

  “Okay. Look, do this. Meet me at Debbie’s when you’re done. I’m heading over to get a bite. You know Debbie’s?”

  “Sure. But what do I …”

  “No, no. You don’t have anything to do with the death. But you do aerial surveillance, and I’m hoping you can help me. Probably not, but you were in the back of my mind, and here you are. Drone surveillance, by the way, is not my deal. I have no interest there.”

  “It’s not necessarily illegal.”

  “Good. Maybe you can tune me up on the law. So will you stop by Debbie’s? Just on the corner.”

  Prince thought, gazed away, then back. He said, “Okay.”

  Debbie’s Diner, with red-and-white checked decor retro to the fifties, sat across from the courthouse and served breakfast and lunch for the downtown crowd of lawyers and civil servants. A silent TV set in a corner showed an announcer, then cut to a Super Stallion helicopter taking off from a carrier, a stock shot which meant they had not yet let newspeople onto the crash site.

  Seb seated himself at one of the wooden window tables and ordered the grilled cheese–tomato soup combo from a young, pleasant waitress, his only food that day except for two granola bars from a convenience store, and likely his last, except for more granola bars. When he was finished, he sat with coffee and watched the sidewalk. He had planned to spend the rest of the afternoon calling real estate agents, asking about a white car with a realty sign, maybe try to get a satellite call through to the governor. What would she say? My old pal Germaine confessed to murder and wanted me to let an innocent man go?

  In two hours he would meet the singers at the VFW hall, and he needed a half hour to get his head right for that, which meant get out of his head and get into a flowing, singing mood. So that gave him an hour and a half, about, unless one of the missile investigators called. How could that have gone down? A flounder poacher finds Stinger missiles in a rainstorm. And loads ’em up. Who would do that? A crazy person, or a wild one. Someone locked into everyday criminality.

  He sat with his coffee, thinking of his current collection of pieces. Other than Gleen, he had no suspects, except crooked lawyers, a missing drug-addled husband, and an imprisoned brother. And if it had been Elton Gleen, how to incorporate the hanging, the empty precious box, the mystery in the well? His secretary, Bonnie—he had to call her for the governor’s phone number—said, call it suicide if you can’t solve it. No, but he could call it an accident. Except how do you break your leg by falling and get hung at the same time? You don’t.

  So that’s where to start.

  You break your leg, and some thoughtful person passes you down a lasso to help you up and then snags it around your neck.

  Which was how it was done.

  You’re climbing the ladder, and you slip. Or someone pushes you. You fall, snapping your tibia. The guy calls down, where’s the money, and I’ll help you. You say, help me, and I’ll tell you. So he passes the lasso down. Then, as you’re putting it around yourself, the guy jerks it up, around your neck and under one arm. He hauls you up on your tiptoes. Where’s the money? And you die that way, because you’re an older guy, and it’s a thin rope and maybe you hang there a long time. Also, the guy pulls up the ladder so you can’t swing over to it. And wipes it down. And takes the phone, which is videoing everything. You tell him where the precious box is, and he cleans it out. And he leaves you hanging. But first he pulls you up and ties you off on the angled ladder. A strong guy.

  Seb went over it again. It was solid and reasonable. He should go over it with Carney. They might have a murder theory Stinson would approve.

  His phone rang.

  “This is Seb Creek.”

  “Detective Creek, this is Special Agent Lowry. I’m calling to advise you that you are no longer associated with this investigation, but that you are still under the restraint of the Official Secrets Act. Understood?”

  “Sure. Why, may I ask? I haven’t received a single warrant call.”

  “You were instructed to remain at the magistrate’s office, and you failed to do so.”

  “I see. How’s the investigation going? Any leads?”

  “That’s need-to-know, and you don’t. Goodbye, Mr. Creek.”

  The phone went dead and immediately rang again. The screen showed Sheriff Rhodes.

  “Hello, Sheriff. I just talked to Lowry.”

  “He told me he was calling you. I saw him hang up.”

  “He fired me.”

  “I know. I’m the warrants man now. I called to tell you don’t worry about it.”

  “Is he going to make you camp at Cromarty’s office?”

  “I talked him out of that.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “We issued a warrant for Atlas Storage over on Tremont Road. The soldier they just released, Grayson Kelly, told one of his brig buddies he had a secret hideout and somebody figured it could be a storage unit and started checking and found it.”

  “They pick him up?”

  “No. They found his cot, and some long guns and a bunch of ammo. And five grenades. He’s probably still on the water. He could be two hundred miles gone by now. But they’re looking. They’ll get him.”

  “Have they settled on this guy then?”

  “They’re focused on him. Grenades got them excited.”

  “They’re looking where the light’s good, sounds like. I mean if it wasn’t planned, it had to be random.”

  “True. While I’ve got you, what’s up with Sackl
er?”

  Seb told him about Elton Gleen, the Lands, the lawyer, the death scene he had just imagined. The coming interview with Prince.

  Rhodes said, “So you want to call it a murder?”

  “I’m pretty much settled on murder.”

  “All right. I’ll call Doug and tell him to make another press release.”

  “Reporters been bugging you? Where are you?”

  “I’m still on the base. Lowry wants me handy. As for reporters, I recognize their numbers and don’t answer. They’ll start calling from burners pretty soon.”

  “They want to know about your detective beating up a citizen?”

  “Oh hell, I forgot to tell you. Queeny Barker recanted her bribery charge, and I called off SBI.”

  “Well, damn.”

  “So you’re back to two complaints, where I would appreciate you remain for the next year at least.”

  Peter Prince strolled into view on the sidewalk, raised his eyebrows as he made eye contact. Seb said, “Sheriff, let me go. Here comes my interview.”

  They hung up. Prince crossed the room, sat opposite Seb, and propped his elbows on the table. He laid fingertips across his temples, peering at Seb through palm blinders. He said, “My lawyer just advised me not to speak with you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because the state’s brand-new drone law hasn’t been tested in court.”

  “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re seeing a lawyer?” He caught his waitress’ eye. “You want coffee?”

  The waitress, in her twenties, approached and stood hip-cocked. She said, “What can I get you?” Her face was long but pleasant, made attractive by attentive confidence.

  Prince said, “All I want is a glass of cold water with lemon. For that I will leave a dollar tip though.”

  She said seriously, “Great. That’s a seven hundredth of my rent.”

  Prince watched her retreat to the counter. He said, “I have just been out-cooled. That could be my future wife.”

  Seb remembered the impression he had gotten from the man a month earlier on the phone, a man affably content with his own superiority. He smiled and waited.