by Wayne Zurl
She paused and let a smile cross over her lips. We took a few more steps, and then she continued.
“I was lucky, if you can call it that, to work for a good woman. She never acted like a pimp. She was good to all the girls. We provided an upscale service for well-heeled men. She made plenty of money, and finding replacements was easier than you may think. She and I shook hands, and we parted friends.”
A red-tailed hawk swooped down and perched on the dead limb of a poplar tree only a few yards from us.
“Then Dwight learned he was too old to get another job that paid anything close to what he’d been making.”
That age thing made me cringe, but I kept a straight face.
“He sold his house, not for what it was worth, but it sold quickly, and he had cash in his hand. We moved into an apartment, and he got his divorce. Finally, he found a job in a men’s store selling clothes—nice job, but no money.”
The sun felt warmer than I anticipated. I took off my sport jacket and with it hanging on my finger, swung it over my right shoulder.
“I wasn’t exactly employable,” she said, “but I did get something in a department store. Then Chicago turned out to be just too expensive.”
I wondered how much she’d tell me if we sat in a bar with a couple of drinks. I didn’t ask. She continued without prompting.
“We packed up, moved here and got married. We lived in an apartment for a while. Dwight looked around a lot and finally found a decent job, but salaries here are much less than up there.”
She paused again, but continued to walk along. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked over at me. The dark, tortoise-shell frames offered a prominent contrast to her pale blonde hair.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I’m from New York.”
“Then you know what I mean.” She nodded and smiled. “We decided paying rent just wasted money, so we started looking for a place of our own. We looked at everything from doublewides to where we are now. Dwight’s job sort of demanded a place to have a few house parties every year. You know, wine and dine the bosses or important clients occasionally. So we thought Lovejoy offered the best option. But, as you may already know, Dwight didn’t qualify for the big mortgage we needed. Where could I work to bring in an extra salary, Wal-Mart?”
Two crows began squawking and made a kamikaze attack on the hawk. The hawk spooked and flew off toward another copse of trees down the road.
“Then that bastard called me, asked to see me and offered to co-sign a mortgage if I posed nude for him.”
She began to get her dander up. I heard it in her voice.
“I wanted to spit in his face,” she said, “and then I thought, who am I kidding? How different would he be from some john I met back in Chicago and considered disgusting? I thought about Dwight, how they took away his pension, how he offered to help me get out of the life and how much having a nice home meant to him. And we really loved each other. So I told myself, what the hell. Let him take his pictures. I know how to put a distasteful guy out of my mind. So I did. But he was disgusting. One of the worst johns I’d ever met. A real slob.”
I turned and looked behind me. We were a long walk from her house.
“After posing for him, I started getting dressed and ready to go, and he told me he changed his mind—he wanted to have sex. I mentioned that wasn’t part of the deal. He didn’t care. He wanted sex before he signed off on the mortgage. I said, okay—in for a penny, in for a pound—I guess. After that, I left, and he said he’d call about the mortgage. He called all right, to say more sex. I said, ‘Fuck you, Jack. You sign first, and then I’ll do you again, but not before.’”
That oldest profession started to show again.
“The second time was even more disgusting than the first,” she said. “He was all grunts and sweat. Uhh!” She shuddered a little before continuing. “But I had the mortgage, and Dwight would have his house.”
I thought she made one hell of a sacrifice for her husband.
She continued her story. “Then that miserable prick called again and wanted more. I told him over his dead body. If he ever got near me, I’d kill him. I’m sure the sound of my voice convinced him I meant it. I’ve been around the block a few times and…what did you say your name was?”
“Jenkins.”
“And, I know that doesn’t sound too good, Mr. Jenkins, but that got him off my back. And now here we are.”
“I assume your husband knows nothing about any of this, and you would rather he not know.”
The look on her face made me think she trusted me with the rest of her life. It’s hard to see something like that and let it go.
“I can’t read his mind,” she said. “He knew what I did before we married, but I assume he’d be terribly disappointed. Damn it, I’m disappointed in me. I really would hate for Dwight to think the same. I’m faithful to my husband, Mr. Jenkins. I really am. I love him. I guess that sounds pretty bad when it comes to a motive, doesn’t it?”
“Mrs. Keeble, I think your husband is a lucky man. You went above the call of duty for him. I sure can’t predict what he’d think about all this, and I don’t want to be the one to tell him. I hope if he ever does learn about what happened, he listens to you first and then thinks about what you were trying to accomplish before he says or does anything foolish. I think you’re a good woman. I hope everything works out for you and Dwight.”
“Thank you.” A tear formed in the corner of one eye. She took her glasses from where they sat in her hair and put them on again. Perhaps there were more tears I didn’t see.
We turned around at the end of a cul-de-sac and began our walk back to her home.
“I’ve got to ask,” I said. “Where were you on Saturday afternoon between 4:30 and 5:30?”
“Here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“How about Dwight?”
“He went fishing in the park—all day. He got home about six. Then he showered, and we went out to dinner.”
“Was he there with anyone?”
“No, he was alone, too.”
We finished our conversation for the moment and walked the last fifty yards in silence. I thought she was the most beautiful and most articulate ex-hooker I’d ever met. Of course, there aren’t many on my list of acquaintances, but she’s still number one. We stopped in front of her door. Her short sleeve blouse looked as fresh as when we met her inside their air conditioned home. Her beige slacks didn’t have a wrinkle. I hoped I didn’t smell like a goat.
“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Keeble. Thanks for your time and honesty. I don’t plan on mentioning anything we discussed today again…unless either you or your husband killed Cecil Lovejoy.”
“I understand,” she said. “I didn’t kill that man, but I’m glad he’s dead. The world is better off without him. And I know Dwight didn’t kill him either. He would never harm anyone.”
She removed her glasses again and had no problem looking me straight in the eye.
“Good,” I said, “I’m glad to hear that. I really hope it’s all true.”
“What’s your first name?” she asked.
“Sam.”
“Thank you, Sam. Thanks very much for your understanding. Please call me Roni.”
She shook my hand.
“You’re welcome, Roni.”
I can’t remember what color shoes she wore, but she had the most incredibly blue eyes with long, dark lashes.
Roni Keeble went back into her home, and I got into the driver’s seat of my car next to Bettye.
“Okay, Little Miss Perfect,” I said, “let me tell you what I know.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
I put the car into gear. “I’ll explain.”
* * * *
That day Lady Luck stood just outside our corner—we found all four women easily. No one left a note saying, ‘Out to the store, back sometime later.’ No one acted uncooperative, slammed the door in
our faces or lawyered up. Of course, no one broke down and confessed either, but life ain’t perfect.
I decided we had done enough investigating for one day and headed toward the PD. If I knew who’d be waiting for me, I would have taken half a sick day.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bettye and I entered the PD via the rear parking lot door. She continued past my office to the reception area to relieve Joey Gillespie of his desk duties, deal with her routine jobs and look toward the next interviews she’d conduct alone.
I began to walk through my office door when I saw a man sitting in one of my guest chairs, his back facing me. I turned and walked out to talk with Joey. Before he began to speak, I put a finger over my lips to keep him from blurting out a name. I mouthed the word who.
Bettye handed Joey a pad from her desk. He wrote the name Travis Lovejoy. The three of us looked at each other. None of us knew what the Pillsbury Doughboy wanted.
I lacked the ambition to work anymore that day. Bettye and I had only stopped at Taco Bell for a quick, junk food lunch. So, not gastronomically satisfied, I felt more inclined to sit for the rest of the afternoon and think of what I wanted for dinner. Warm and weary from a day of driving, interviewing and getting in and out of a hot car, I just wasn’t in the mood.
But Doughboy piqued my curiosity. Had I stirred a pot, and did something of importance float to the surface? Did Travis come in to confess to offing his daddy? I doubted that, but there remained only one way to find out. I walked into my office and greeted him.
“Mr. Lovejoy, good afternoon. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” I tried sounding friendly.
He didn’t rise or extend a hand. He just sat there like a sulking, bloated Cabbage Patch doll.
I circled around my desk to the big chair and sat, the desk offering a barrier of authority between us.
As I settled down, he finally chose to speak. “As a matter o’ fact, Chief, I have been waitin’, a very, very long time. Aren’t y’all s’posed ta be here durin’ the day?”
I ignored the corpulent, young twerp’s impudence and smiled. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Hasn’t my mother made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t want y’all here at Prospect Po-leece investigatin’ my daddy’s murder? What more do we have ta say ta make y’all unnerstand that y’all are not to be involved in this case any-mowah?”
He pronounced more like a New Yorker says mower.
“Mr. Lovejoy, I’ve tried my best to be courteous and treat you politely. Ever since I’ve said hello, you’ve responded with hostility. I apologize, I really do, for the necessity of waiting to see me, but I had other police business to conduct out of the office.”
He let out a noise somewhere between a belch and a snort.
“Now, I’m unclear why you think someone from Prospect PD investigating your father’s murder would create a problem,” I said. “Can you explain that to me?”
I suppose the portly rich kid craved a heated shouting match, but I wouldn’t accommodate him. My calm, rational, adult response to his snotty, juvenile, asshole, shit-for-brains, dumb ass, petulant, stupid, moronic statement must have confused him. I remained unmoved and unemotional. Well, almost. He just gaped at me.
Then he spoke. “Y’all have been pacifically told. This is not your case any longer. I’ve heard from reliable sources that y’all have continued to interview people.”
Reliable sources? Who could those sources be?
Travis continued. “Y’all have even asked the court to send you transcripts of a lawsuit against the good name o’ my father. Now what is your problem?”
As he talked himself into a mild frenzy, his voice took on a squeaky quality. I had no intention of answering that mollycoddled, ineffectual, insolent scrotum-head. But I did want to see where changing subject in mid-conversation would lead me. I tried to steer numb-nuts away from his soapbox.
“Did you work with your dad, Mr. Lovejoy, at his construction business or with the land development thing?”
He stared at me again. I smiled at him again, still trying to appear friendly.
Travis wore a white dress shirt that looked too large for him except for the neck that he buttoned and wore with a paisley tie. His fleshy jowls bulged over the strained collar. A spare tire of fat hung over the waistband of his pleated, dark blue trousers.
I hoped my face didn’t betray a repressed desire to knock over his chair and step on his neck. He still hadn’t replied. For another moment, I waited and thought my last question had been too difficult for him.
Then he answered, “No, I didn’t work with Daddy. I work for the county.”
“Really?” I said. “Where do you work?”
“I’m assistant to the Director of Budget and Finance. We, of course, report directly to the county mayor.”
His answer showed an inflated sense of self-worth.
“Well, that sounds like a prestigious and responsible job. I envy you.”
He just looked so proud of himself, the chubby young mutt. I began to think I needed medication to increase my patience.
“Being sort of a basically lazy person myself,” I said, “I think I would have opted to ask my daddy for a job, if that is, he owned a big, lucrative company like your father. You know, being the boss’s kid, I could have had an easy time of it—maybe even a no-show job.” I tried to get him talking.
“Well, Chief, I’m not that way. When I was first outta college, I did start to work in the family bidness. Momma said I should try it. But Daddy was not the easiest man to work with. It’s his way or no way, if you unnerstand. I do not like bein’ stifled or f’ustrated even by my own father. So I sought employment elsewhere and was hired immediately.”
“Well good for you. It’s nice to see someone make it in the world all on his own.”
I figured Miss Pearl just dropped a dime on the county mayor and landed a job for the dummy.
“I’ve learned that although successful, people thought your father to be sometimes, you’ll forgive me…difficult, perhaps,” I said.
“All important men make decisions that do not always please ever’one. And…they may have enemies, Chief.” He spoke as if trying to get a child to grasp a difficult concept.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Travis. Do you mind if I call you Travis? I’m Sam, by the way. Everyone who works here calls me by name. I encourage all the folks in Prospect to do the same. It’s much more…friendly that way,” I said, trying to ooze some homespun…friendliness.
“Of course then.” He tilted his head like a dog who’s not sure it can trust you. “Call me Travis if you’d like.”
“I’d like to go back to my previous question,” I said. “Why would you or your mother think I’d cause a problem if I continued to investigate your daddy’s murder? Huh?”
“As I said, Momma had the TBI called in to do that.”
“I understand. And perhaps if I were in your mother’s place, I too would want a large police agency to put all their personnel and resources toward solving a terrible crime against my spouse. But as you may know, I’m a police officer in the entire state of Tennessee—same powers all over. Prospect is my geographic area of employment, but I can pursue a suspect wherever the needs take me. I can certainly turn over primary responsibility for the case to the state people, and I have done that, but it would be foolish and most peculiar for anyone to want another police officer to turn a blind eye on an open homicide. Isn’t that true?”
“Well, yes, uh…but…uh…well, we’re thinking that, well…you know the old sayin’, uh…‘Too many cooks spoil the food’?”
“Broth, Travis, broth.”
“Do what?”
His face got that confused look again. I knew some things were too hard for him to comprehend, the fat bastard.
“It’s ‘too many cooks spoil the broth.’ I understand that concept—and appreciate it. But I’ve got a lot of experience investigating crimes, some of which were committed by genuine
ly bad—and smart—people. I’ve also got a good track record solving cases. I know how to do my job and keep from stepping on another cop’s toes.”
His eyes had narrowed, and he had more lines on his forehead than a roadmap of Manhattan.
“Remember that other old saying, Travis, ‘Two heads are better than one?’ Sometimes that’s true. Here in Prospect—the place where the murder occurred—we’ve got thirteen heads. We know the local people. Citizens of Prospect will talk to a Prospect officer when they may not speak freely to an outsider.”
His stress began showing. I watched his eyes blink rapidly. He looked like the lens of a time-lapse camera.
“Another old saying, Travis: ‘Information is knowledge. Knowledge is power.’ Remember that one?”
I got another blank stare from the young troll. He was probably still back there thinking about the broth.
“Aren’t we just so philosophical today?” I stood and walked to the front of my desk and extended a hand. “Travis, I’ve enjoyed our little conversation.”
He shook my hand and continued looking confused.
“I’m glad we had an opportunity to get to know each other better. I know it was a very sad time for you and your family last Sunday when we first met, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer…or nod…or even grunt.
“I want you to be assured—and tell your lovely mother this, too—that we here at Prospect PD will leave no stone unturned—but we won’t interfere with those two senior investigators from the TBI either, in solving your daddy’s murder and bringing the culprit to justice.”
The culprit? Sometimes I’m ashamed of myself.
“Uh…yes. Thank you, Chief, uh, I mean…Sam.”
A strained expression and a weak smile competed to dominate his face as he turned to leave. I expected to see the shirttails half out of his pants, and a stain on the seat of his britches.
Now how difficult would it be to find out what sort of relationship young Travis really had with ol’ Cecil? What would my new, chubby friend gain from his daddy’s death?
Chapter Twenty-Three