by Andy Straka
“You meet the sheriff?”
“Yup. How long's he been in office?”
“Couple of years.”
“What happened to the old sheriff, what was his name?”
“Daveys. Retired to Myrtle Beach.”
“Well this new one was all over me. Doesn't seem amenable to a peeper sticking his nose into official business.”
Jake laughed. “Yeah, right. Like you or I would have been …” He sipped his beer.
“The problem is, I'm in a bit of a vice.”
“Yeah? How's that?”
I decided to outline the entire story for him from the beginning: the discovery of Dewayne Turner's body and the evidence I'd lifted; my conversations with Ferrier and Nicole, and Ferrier's ultimatum; right through to the most recent party at the Affalachia County jail.
Toronto listened carefully. When I finished he gave a low whistle.
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
“You want another beer?”
“No thanks.”
We both stared at the wall.
“Well, for one thing,” he said, “I'd be careful who else you talk to. If Nicole really has somehow got herself mixed up in murder, the last thing she needs is her father making the case.”
“I see your point. But Nicky swears she's innocent. I promised her I'd help.”
He nodded. But then he added: “Thirteen years is a long time to be out of the drug and murder business, compadre.”
You could say that again. My homicide investigation skills were more than a little rusty, not to mention my personal involvement in the case, which didn't exactly inspire objective analysis. To be brutally honest, I'd become more a businessman than sleuth, surveillance and documentation my stock-in-trade.
Blame it on the ‘90s. Blame it on whatever you want. I was a chamber-of-commerce shamus in a town full of lawyers and academics, and now, faced with a daughter possibly mixed up in drugs and killing, I felt like a guest who'd arrived after the party was over. Worse, I wasn't even sure where to start.
“What're you packing?” Toronto asked. I knew he still kept his old .44 locked in a kitchen drawer where he could find it if needed.
I showed him the new Magnum.
“That's all right, but you watch yourself. Whoever wasted that drug dealer might be from around here, and while they would maybe think twice about shooting a cop, they ain't gonna worry—no offense—about doing some piss-ass private eye. I don't wanna be out flying Jersey and find your dead body somewhere.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming me.”
Toronto said nothing more, but I could almost read his thoughts—fear of shooting a cop hadn't helped Singer. My old partner had never second-guessed me, never wavered in his loyalty. We both knew what we saw that night, but I was the senior man, the one who was supposed to have been sure before we fired.
I stood and poured the dregs of beer into the sink. “I guess I better hit the sack. I've got a feeling tomorrow may not be much of an improvement on today. Oh, hey, I almost forgot, I need to check my office machine first—make sure nothing urgent came in over the weekend. Mind if I use your phone?”
“No. Go right ahead.” He handed me the portable handset from the recharger on the table, and I went through the routine.
“That's funny,” I said after I finished. “Got a message from Rashid Fuad. He says he's going to be attending some conference at the University in Charlottesville, starting Tuesday, and he'd like to get together for a drink. Says he's got some more news on that imaging software thing.”
“What, his computer figure out how the Balazar kid's gun vanished into thin air? Maybe they're making psychic software now.”
“Right. But I wouldn't mind talking to Fuad anyway. Be nice to see him again after all these years. You want to go?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe Cat'll want to come too … of course, he never knew Fuad.”
“Seems to me like you got enough on your plate here already, amigo.”
“Yeah. I'll sleep on it. Maybe try calling Fuad tomorrow.”
“Whatever … and Frank?”
I looked back before turning down the hall toward his tiny guest room. He was pouring himself a cup of high-test coffee from a pot on the stove—I never knew how he could drink so much of the stuff. “Yeah?”
He stared across his kitchen as if surveying some great distance. “You need anything to help Nicky, anything at all, I'm here.”
10
Early Monday morning I tried calling my ex-wife. Camille and I had established a sort of truce of late, predicated on lack of communication. The rich widow now, she lived on two hundred acres, with a long drive leading to an antebellum home. Jake had already left to pick up some supplies in town.
A male voice answered the phone. His name was Kevin Weems, Camille's latest live-in beau. I didn't know that much about him except that Nicky had nicknamed him “the sponge,” figuring he was more attracted to Mama's dollars than to her sexy figure. He was a good fifteen years younger than Camille, closer to Nicky's age in fact. I was trying to keep an open mind.
“What do you want?” he said after I identified myself.
Okay, rudeness off the bat, but maybe he was only trying to protect his dearly beloved. “I was hoping to talk with Camille.”
“She's asleep. We don't take calls before eight.”
“But you picked up the phone.”
He said nothing.
“Does she know what's going on with Nicky?”
“She knows.” He sounded bored.
“Well if you could tell her I'm here in the area. I met with Nicky at the jail last night. I'd like to come by later today and talk with her about it.”
He said nothing.
“This affect of yours, it take a lot of practice?”
“What?” He hung up.
Nice talking with you too, Kev.
Cahill's Restaurant took on a completely different character in the AM light. Gone were most of the cars from the parking lot. The beer neons were dark. The bar and the two pool tables were empty, but a few construction workers were eating breakfast.
I nodded to a waitress and slipped into an empty booth, figuring Cat would find me soon enough. Someone had left a fresh copy of the weekly Leonardston Standard in my booth and I picked it up. The frontpage headline read: LOCAL TEEN FOUND DEAD IN MADISON COUNTY (QUESTIONS RAISED ABOUT SHERIFF'S ARREST). The article gave a brief bio of Dewayne Turner—high school basketball and football star—and didn't mention anything about drugs. But it did mention that the dead young man had last been seen in Sheriff's custody. A smiling Dewayne in a white shirt and tie stared at me from the page.
The waitress came over, and I ordered a bowl of oatmeal, some orange juice, and a banana. Not what I might have asked for ten years earlier, but physiques do change.
As if on cue, a huge man wearing a clean white apron lumbered forth from the kitchen with his back to me, carrying a big spoon. Cat. He scanned the restaurant as if honing in on my signal, surveying all his customers. Exaggerating his stop in mid-stride when he saw me, his face broke into a grin.
“Well I'll be damned.” He voice dropped as he made a beeline to my booth. “About time you showed up.” He enveloped my good-sized hand with his own.
“Good to see you, Cat.”
“I heard about Nicky.” Small town.
I nodded.
“How you takin’ the news?” Since retiring South, Cat had slipped right back into his old accent, only traces of which had been visible in New Rochelle.
“I've been better,” I said.
He frowned. “I'll bet. Well, you came to the right place for a good breakfast, anyway.”
Before I could answer he was yelling over his shoulder toward the kitchen: “Hey Kerstin! Kerstin, come on out! Frank's here!” The rest of his patrons glanced at us for a curious second, then turned back to their food.
Cat's wife, a stout woman with curly blond hair came through the kitchen d
oor. She moved in the unhurried manner with which some people her size seemed born. Cat ushered her over. “I told you he'd be showin’ up, didn't I? Just as soon as I heard about Nicky, I knew he'd be on his way over in that truck of his.”
“Hello, Frank,” she said. “Nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, Kerstin.”
“They told us you came by the other night. I'm sorry we missed you.”
“That's all right. It was sort of an impromptu visit.”
“Cat and I were up at the cabin.”
“She makes me get away,” Cat said.
“To hear Cat talk, Frank, I thought you might come riding in here on a white horse.”
“I hope you didn't believe him. You know you gotta watch out for this guy.”
“Now, now,” Cat said. “Man comes in here and in twenty seconds he's already spreading doubts between husband and wife. …”
She laughed, and when she did, her eyes laughed too, steady and unblinking.
“Honey, could you check with Veronica, see what's holding up Frank's meal?” Cat asked.
“Sure, Snug.” She lowered her voice. “I'm sorry about Nicole, Frank. If there's anything we can do to help, don't be a stranger now, you hear?” She turned back toward the kitchen.
“And ask her to bring me out a Coke too, will you, darlin’?”
She waved her hand affirmatively as she headed through the door. “Diet,” she added.
“See what I got to put up with? … Ain't she a peach?”
“How are the grandkids?” I said.
“Just great. We had ‘em over vistin’ last weekend.”
“Come on.” I gestured. “Pictures.”
He produced them from his wallet with a practiced hand and slid them across the table.
“Boys, huh? You must be proud. This one already looks like a linebacker.”
Cat didn't answer. He looked thoughtful. “I was awful sorry to hear about Nicky, Frank. I was even going to try to go by there later today and visit her. That is, … I mean … it's not like you—”
The waitress burst through the kitchen door with my breakfast. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”
“No problem,” I said.
She set the dishes in front of me and gave Cat his diet soda. “Anything else I can get you two?”
“Thanks, Veronica,” Cat said. “Everything looks just fine.”
“I'm okay,” I said.
She spun off to another table.
Cat gave my breakfast a long look. “What kind of sissy food you eating there, hoss? That what living in a university town done for you? Weakened your stomach? Before you leave town, I'm going to have to fix you a real dinner.” Which meant sweet Virginia ham, biscuits with honey, collard greens, fried ocra, and summer squash. Maybe finished off with warm cherry cobbler and vanilla ice cream, all washed down by some sweetened iced tea.
“You were saying?” I said, digging into my suddenly less appetizing oatmeal.
“I was about to say it was good of you to drive all the way down here to try and help out your little girl.”
I waited until I finished my bite. “Problem is, she isn't a little girl anymore.”
“Ain't it the truth.”
“I found her here the other night and she says she was on her way over here yesterday when she was arrested.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn't doubt it. We've been seein’ a lot of her over here lately.”
“Not drinking, I hope?”
He held out his hands. “You know me better than that, Frank. The girl's still underage.”
“She usually come in by herself?”
“Usually. But sometimes she comes in with a couple pals,” he said. “We talk.”
“Un-huh. She told me she shoots pool too. Wonder who would have taught her?”
He feigned surprise. “She told you that? I had no idea.”
I nodded, smiling. “You know any of her friends?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
I spun the paper around and pointed to the picture of Dewayne Turner. “How about this guy? Ever see her with him?”
He stared at me blankly for a second. Then he shrugged. “Couple of times. Hey, you aren't thinkin’ what I think you are, are you?”
“The kid's been murdered. White girl with a black man. Wouldn't that raise some eyebrows around here?”
“Maybe once upon a time. Not anymore. Most folks just as soon mind their own business, if you know what I mean.”
“But some might not take a liking to it.”
“I suppose.”
“And if they didn't, you'd know about it, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you'd let me know about it.”
He gripped the corners of the table with his condorlike arms and pouted. “Frank, now I'm feeling hurt. What you tryin’ to say?”
“I'm sorry. I'm not here to give you the third degree.”
“I know you ain't,” he said. “You want to help Nicky is all.”
I said nothing.
“Hey, and you still a private eye.”
“You make it sound like Hollywood.”
“Well why not? From one ex-blue to another, it beats the sugar out of slinging hash.”
“Not when it's the finest hash between Winchester and West Virginia,” I said.
“And don't you ever forget it.” He poked his meaty finger toward me in the air. “You figurin’ this Turner murder got something to do with Nicky and her bein’ arrested?”
“Don't know yet.”
He shook his head. “I heard she was totin’ dope. That kid there,” he said, pointing to Turner's picture, “what I understand, he used to be into it pretty big himself.”
“That's what the sheriff and the state police say.”
“State police are in on this deal too, huh?”
“A couple of investigators out of Richmond. Sheriff up in Madison County had his hands full so they picked up on the case.”
“My old uncle was pretty shook up about the whole thing.”
I wanted to say he wasn't the only one, but instead I asked: “Speaking of sheriffs, what do you think of your new man?”
“Cowan? I think Buford Pusser never looked so good.”
We both laughed. The door to the kitchen opened again. A young man stepped out carrying a gray tub. He was tall and black, maybe six-four or -five. He was also efficient. He began busing a row of empty tables to our left.
“So talk to me some more about Nicky,” I said. “I've already been by to see her and I'm heading out to talk to her mother later too.”
“You talk to Camille?”
“Not yet. Just got her boyfriend on the phone. Sounds like a toad.”
“Yeah. And he looks like a hired wrestler. I'd check out his background if I was you. Guy shows up out of nowhere a year ago. Next thing you know, he's moved in with Camille.”
“Nicky doesn't seem to be too much of a fan.”
He snickered. “She's got good reason. He put the moves on her too.”
“She tell you that?”
“Didn't have to tell me, at least not in so many words. Young girl … it messes with your head, you catch my drift?”
“You think Camille knows?”
“Camille knows what Camille wants to know.” He sighed. “That is, when she's not stoned.”
“More than booze?”
He shrugged.
“Why would Nicky be carrying cocaine? You think she's strung out too?”
“No, sir. Not that little girl of yours. She's too tough for that.”
“She says she knew nothing about it.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe … maybe not.”
“So you're saying you think Nicky's capable of getting involved in a deal to move product.”
The big man's face turned sad. “Under the right circumstances, she gets into a situation over her head … who isn't?”
“But what for? She wouldn't need the money.”
“You think it might have something to do with Weems?”
“Hey, you the detective, partner. I is just a poor patrolee.” He struggled to extricate himself from the booth. “Listen, I got to get back to work. Why don't you and Jake come on by for lunch tomorrow? We got a private room in back and we can talk some more.”
“Sure.”
“Save your appetite. I'm pickin’ the menu … how's the oatmeal?”
I made a thumbs-up gesture. “First-rate.”
“Hard to mess up porridge.” He stood staring at me for a moment. “By the way, you still miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Bein’ a cop.”
“I don't know. I don't think about it too much anymore.”
“That makes me feel good, cause I do.”
“That reminds me, there was a message on my machine last night from Rashid Fuad.”
“Fuad?”
“You know, the ballistics guy Jake and I used to work with. From New York. The one who sent you the letter.”
“Oh yeah, yeah.”
“He said he's going to be in Charlottesville for a conference this week. He's got some new information. Maybe to do with that software of his or something.”
“Them machines is black magic, ain't they?”
“Jake and I are thinking of going over to have a drink with him. Want to ride along?”
“Nah. I got a restaurant to run. Besides …”
“What?”
“Old wounds, buddy. What's gone is gone … Old wounds.”
I nodded then swept the air with my spoon. “ ‘ ‘Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake that virtue must go through.’ ”
He shook his head as he lumbered back toward his kitchen. “Gotta ask Kerstin what she put in that oatmeal today,” he said.
11
The bright sunshine on the sidewalk outside the jail almost blinded me. A skinny man riding a lawn mower and chewing a cigar cut the public grass, and the smell of it made my nostrils twitch. A rare autumn haze draped the town. Jake was correct: it was going to be a warm one all right.
I didn't notice the young woman barreling down the walkway toward me until it was too late.
“Oh.” She stumbled to an abrupt halt. “I'm sorry, I didn't see you.”