Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  We were walking back to our respective rooms to get what sleep we could when she said, “Sorry about the kiss. I figured that was the best play.”

  A smile came to my lips. “It wasn’t exactly hardship duty.”

  Nadine smiled, too. “No.”

  “Well, good night. For the second time.”

  “Night.”

  I waited for her door to close, then went into my bedroom. I needed a shower but was too exhausted to take one. As I kicked off my shoes, it struck me that I was living in a different world from the one I’d awakened in that morning. In the span of seventeen hours, I had lost two pillars of my childhood to violent death. Strangely, Sally Matheson’s death unsettled me most. Unlike Buck, who had pushed his luck past the point of prudence, Sally had seemed beyond the reach of violence. Untouchable, like a TV actress from my youth. And yet she was dead. For five months I’d been waiting for my father to die, and suddenly Paul’s mother had preceded him into the grave. As I lay in bed and tried to sleep, I saw the dancers on the Aurora roof opening up a circle as though fleeing a suicide bomber, only to reveal Max and Sally arguing viciously while a rock-and-roll legend watched them from his stage. God only knew what wild rumors that scene would inspire.

  Before Nadine and I headed for town this morning, I gave her a key to my house and the code to my gate—2972 (Jet’s birthday, but Nadine doesn’t know that). I told her that if anything felt wrong during the day, if she sensed even the slightest danger, she should consider my house a refuge. If the drive seemed too far, she could come to the Watchman building. A few minutes ago, she texted to let me know that while her customers are obsessed with the shooting of Sally Matheson, our story suggesting that Buck was murdered at the industrial park is running a close second. And while public opinion seems split on Max’s guilt, it’s running 100 percent against me, Ben Tate, the coroner, and Buck himself.

  After dropping Nadine at her shop this morning, I delivered half the dirt I’d collected from the paper mill site to Byron Ellis’s home. The coroner figures the county might fire him today, but he has a lawyer and two well-known black activists ready to protest any such move. In the meantime, he’s glad to have the soil samples to distract him from the politics. Byron’s no archaeologist, but he feels confident that he can determine whether the samples contain any blood or bone. Quinn Ferris is picking up the rest of the dirt later today. Quinn assures me she can get the samples to an expert at LSU in Baton Rouge, who can tell us exactly what Buck was digging into when he was murdered.

  Since my texts with Nadine, I’ve been trying to settle on my next move. Thirty minutes ago, one of my reporters told me Max Matheson was due to be arraigned soon. I’ve put off dealing with in-house issues until I hear how that went. I’ve also kept my burner phone close, but I’ve heard nothing from Jet since last night. And though it’s been tough, I’ve obeyed her order not to try to reach her. I’m hoping Ben Tate’s forceful inquiries made the locum tenens pathologist nervous enough to do an honest autopsy on Buck, but I won’t know until I get a look at the report, which I might not see until the afternoon.

  When my iPhone rings, I curse, wishing it was the burner. But at least it’s Carl Stein, the reporter covering Max’s arraignment.

  “How’d it go, Carl?”

  “The judge just granted Max bail.”

  “How high?”

  “A million bucks. For a hundred grand cash, he gets to walk free till trial.”

  A hundred grand is pocket change for Max, but I expected this. “He’s a lifelong Bienville resident, a war hero, has gainful employment and no criminal record. Plus, the Poker Club has a lot of sway over the judges in this town, both circuit and chancery. Probably even federal.”

  “I hear you, but that’s not why I called.”

  “Something else happen?”

  “You could say that. I called about his lawyer.”

  An odd note in Carl’s voice gets my attention. “Arthur Pine?” I say, thinking of the de facto attorney of the Poker Club.

  “Nope. Pine sat in the back row during the proceeding.”

  “Who did Max hire?”

  “Jet, man. His daughter-in-law. Can you believe that shit?”

  I feel as though the earth just paused in its revolution around the sun. “No. Are you serious?”

  “I knew that would freak you out. I still can’t believe it myself.”

  Everyone who works for me knows Jet and I often collaborate on stories, and she’s given all my staff reporters help at different times. On matters of education or civic corruption, she’s the most reliable source in the city. But I’m not sure quite what to say to Carl Stein in this moment.

  “Did the judge set a trial date?” I ask in a dazed voice.

  “Not yet.”

  “Did Jet post bond for Max?”

  “Pine had the money. The bag man.”

  My mind reels at the implications of this. “Is Jet still at the courthouse?”

  “No, she cut right out.”

  “Was Paul Matheson there?”

  “Uhh, yeah.”

  “Did he leave with his wife?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Okay, Carl. Good work.”

  Before I can second-guess myself, I take out my burner phone and speed-dial Jet. Her phone rings five times. Then she picks up.

  “I told you not to call me,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, well, I just heard about your courtroom appearance.”

  “What about it?”

  “You’re going to defend Max? I thought you hated him.”

  “Like I have a fucking choice? Damn it, Marshall. This is family I’m dealing with.”

  Like I don’t know that? “Where are you now?”

  Silence.

  “Jet!”

  “Look, how about I come by the paper and explain in person why I can’t give you an interview?”

  She’s laying out the excuse she’ll give Paul for the visit. “Whatever works.”

  “I’m still downtown. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The phone clicks, and she’s gone.

  I’m not sure what I did for the five minutes it took Jet to get to my office. I must have sat at my desk in a trance, trying to figure out how she’s rationalized serving a man she’s hated and despised for most of her adult life. When my door opens, I’m shocked yet again. She walks in wearing the standard uniform of a corporate lawyer in Jackson, Mississippi: navy skirt suit, cream silk blouse, Christian Louboutins, a Prada purse, a string of small but fine pearls, and the sapphire earrings she wore yesterday. Jet almost never dresses this way, even in court. What the hell is going on?

  She closes the door softly behind her, then takes a seat on one of the two chairs before my desk. She sits with an unusual rigidness, as though she’s been summoned for an interrogation. No one watching this conversation would guess that we are lovers.

  “Max asked me to represent him at his arraignment,” she informs me. “He asked me through Paul. Paul asked me in front of Kevin. I couldn’t say no, all right? He’s family.”

  “Isn’t that the very reason to say no?”

  “Not in the Matheson family.”

  “Surely there must be an ethical conflict? A rule violation?”

  “Would you let me finish? There are rules, and most of them don’t prevent me from representing Max. However, I’m likely to inherit money from Sally, and that will get me out of having to defend him at trial.”

  “Would you even have considered doing that?”

  She exhales slowly, as though restraining herself from snapping back at me. “After I consulted with Max this morning—at the jail—he asked me to represent him at trial. Begged me, actually.”

  I’m shaking my head in disbelief. “Jet, what the fuck?”

  “Please let me finish. This is difficult enough as it is. It’s no mystery why Max wants me to defend him on this murder charge. I’m a woman and a family member. Even though someone else will almost certain
ly end up defending him at trial, my handling the early phase says more to potential jury members about his innocence than anything else could.”

  “Oh, I know why he wants you. But why have you agreed?”

  She closes her eyes and takes a long breath. “Surely you’ve figured that out.”

  “Uhh, no.”

  Her voice drops to an angry whisper. “What’s the one thing in life I need? Custody of my son. That’s the only way I can be with you and live with myself.”

  “You think representing Max will—”

  “Yes.”

  This is wishful thinking. “Jet, I don’t care what Max has promised you, he won’t live up to it. Not once you get him off.”

  “He will. I’ve made sure of it.”

  I’m sure she’s bound him to some kind of agreement, but I still see a problem. “Does he realize that rules might prevent you from defending him at trial?”

  “Not yet. And by the time he finds out, it won’t matter. He’s providing me a sworn affidavit saying that I deserve to be Kevin’s sole custodial parent. He’ll describe Paul’s years-long depression, his alcoholism, even his suicide attempts.”

  “Suicide attempts?”

  She nods. “There are still a few things I haven’t told you.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Max will not only assert my fitness as a mother, but also his opinion that I’m an ideal role model for Kevin. We agreed on all these points before I handled the arraignment this morning.”

  Her controlled delivery leaves me speechless. I’ve always known that Jet had a calculating side, but her use of Sally’s murder—and Max’s likely guilt—as leverage to gain favorable divorce terms takes my breath away.

  “I told you last night that I’m desperate,” she goes on. “If defending Max for a couple of weeks gets Kevin and me clear of my marriage, it’ll be the noblest work I’ve ever done. Hell, I’d defend him at trial to get that result. I can’t help Sally now.”

  I reflect on this for a bit. “What did Arthur Pine think of you standing up for Max?”

  “Arthur was surprised. When I got to the jail this morning, he was sitting outside looking very unhappy. I think the Poker Club sent him over.”

  This is worth thinking about in detail, but not now.

  “Are you and I okay?” Jet asks. “Because I really don’t want to discuss this anymore. It’s going to be bad enough having to defend Max without you questioning my morality every step of the way.”

  “Did Max kill Sally?”

  Jet takes no time with the question. “He insists he didn’t. I honestly don’t know. I’m not even sure I want to know.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s hard to imagine that anyone else did it.”

  “What did you hear? That there were only two people in the room?”

  “As far as the police could tell.”

  She gives me a forced smile that tells me she may be in possession of private information. “What I’m about to tell you goes in the vault,” she says. “This is you and me, like we’re in bed.”

  “All right.”

  “Max says Sally did it.”

  Once more, the world stops dead in space. This claim seems absurd on its face. “He says Sally killed herself? Shot herself through the heart? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Jet nods. “While she was sitting on top of him.”

  “Like having sex?”

  “No. He was asleep, and she climbed on top of him to shoot herself.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  Jet shrugs. “Nevertheless, she had a good motive.”

  “Being married to Max? She’s had that motive for forty-six years.”

  “You saw the argument they had at the Aurora last night.”

  “Half the town saw it. So?”

  “Several years ago, Max had an affair with one of Sally’s best friends. Probably her best friend. Sally only just found out about it. Day before yesterday. She was distraught. That must have been what she wanted to talk to me about yesterday.”

  Though this comes out of left field, it seems plausible. “Who was the friend?”

  Jet touches her forefinger to her lower lip. “I’d prefer to keep that to myself for now.”

  Her stopping short of full disclosure shocks me, but I try not to show it. “Okay. So that’s your pitch? Finding out Max screwed some friend of hers years ago was enough to make a seventy-year-old woman shoot herself?”

  “Sally was sixty-six.”

  “Oh, that makes all the difference.”

  “Marshall—”

  “Seriously, Jet. Max was a serial philanderer. Everybody knows that, and no one better than Sally.”

  Jet runs her fingers back through her dark hair. “Sometimes one straw breaks the martyr’s back. Sally was drunk last night. Really drunk. That’s unusual for her. She may have been taking pills as well. Max was drunk, too. He claims Sally had threatened to kill herself several times over the past thirty-six hours, including on the way home from the party last night.”

  “Suicide by gun is unusual among women.”

  “I know, but it happens. And the numbers have been rising.”

  “Among wealthy sixty-six-year-old white women?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  I’m trying to fit what Jet’s telling me into my larger picture of the Matheson family, but I can’t do it. “Yesterday you were worried that Sally might have found out about you and me.”

  “I don’t think that’s it anymore. It certainly doesn’t matter now. We’ll never know.”

  “Of course it matters. If Sally found out about us, that means someone else knows about us and told her. Plus, if she knew, she might have mentioned it to somebody else. Max, or even Paul.”

  “Sally wouldn’t do that.”

  “No? I don’t think she would shoot herself, either. Not over some affair. I’ve known Sally since I was three years old, and I’m sure of that. And what about Paul’s sudden suspicions about you? Man, this stinks. It stinks all over.”

  Jet picks up her purse and stands. “Let’s not have this conversation here.”

  I want to keep her here with me, but my mind is spinning. “I figured Max would claim there was a home invasion or something. Meth heads or crazy black kids. The whole town’s going to go nuts over this, Jet. One of the richest guys in the county, and his wife shoots herself while sitting on top of him in bed? This is a TV movie, at the least.”

  “I know. But I don’t have a choice. This is the price I pay for custody of Kevin.”

  “Oh, Jet. You can’t trust Max.”

  “I don’t. But for once, I have him by the short hairs. And I’m going to pull hard.”

  “I still think he killed her.”

  She blows out a rush of air and takes two steps toward the door. “He may well have. But Sally’s gone, and Max’s punishment isn’t my primary concern. Being Max is sufficient punishment, in my view—second only to living with him.”

  Jet’s barely holding herself together. I can’t imagine the stress she must be under. “What kind of shape is Paul in?”

  She reaches for the knob, then hesitates. “He’s close to losing it. I don’t think he understood how dependent he was on his mother. Sally loved him. Max . . . he doesn’t know what love is.”

  “No. That’s the awful truth.”

  “Kevin’s not doing well, either. Sally doted on that boy. She was so protective of him.”

  “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this. I know that’s inadequate, but . . .” I get up and walk around my desk, but Jet motions for me to keep my distance.

  “This is all going to get worse before it gets better.” Her hand is on the knob now. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again. Maybe not for days. After the funeral, probably. I’ll need to stay close to Kevin.”

  “And Paul,” I say automatically.

  A strange deadness comes into her eyes. “I’m not exaggerating about hi
s mental state. We have to put a wall between us for the time being.”

  “What if I have to get hold of you? A real emergency?”

  “I’ll keep my burner on silent and try to check it every two or three hours.”

  “Once an hour would be better. There’s no telling how things could break during all this.”

  “I’ll try.” She stands poised at the door, her resolve finally crumbling. “Are we really okay?”

  “Always.”

  Her eyes close for a moment. Then she blows me a silent farewell kiss and walks out into the newsroom.

  Chapter 23

  After Jet leaves my office, I have no desire to wait for my reporters to find excuses to come in and ask what she was doing here. By now the whole staff knows she’s defending Max. Before they start filtering in, I grab my keys and phones and head out early for my coffee at Constant Reader.

  After starting the Flex, I try to find something calming on Sirius. As I tap the preset button, my eyes are drawn to an irregular line on my steering wheel. I jerk back, thinking it might be a roach or something. But it’s not a roach.

  It’s a flash drive. A black USB thumb drive, 64 GB.

  Someone has affixed it to my steering wheel with Scotch tape. The drive is a Lexar, available at any Office Depot. Taking out my iPhone, I text Nadine at the bookstore: Have you replaced your computer yet? I need to borrow one.

  While I wait for a reply, the hair rises on my neck and arms. The Flex was locked when I came outside. I had to use my key fob to get in. That means somebody broke into my vehicle, left the flash drive, then locked the Flex again so nothing would seem odd as I climbed in. This is like the cracked safe at Nadine’s store last night. Too smooth by half.