We were in a good mood all that Friday night, talking and watching an almost-new movie on the hotel’s pay-per-view. After a little love making, we went to sleep and had room-service coffee and pastries the next morning. The weekend would have worked out great if I hadn’t gotten a call from Emmett around noon on Saturday.
‘Milt,’ he said.
‘Emmett,’ I said.
‘Got a problem.’
‘I’m on vacation.’
‘Anthony’s wife Maryanne just had a wreck on Chapel Road. Brakes went out.’
‘She OK? Was the baby with her?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, on both counts. But the thing is, Milt,’ Emmett said, ‘the guy at the repair shop says the brake lines were definitely cut.’
‘What the hell?’
‘I’m wondering if it might be Anthony’s family that note was all about?’
TWO
I gave Jean the option of staying in the city and having our steakhouse dinner or going home. She opted for going home, which was mostly OK with me. I mean, I’d been looking forward to a good porterhouse with maybe some creamed spinach and the apple tart for dessert (I’d had Holly look up their menu for me online and figured I could get away with those things without Jean hollering too much about it), but being home to support Anthony and his family seemed like the right thing to do. Before we packed up to go, I sat Jean down on the little sofa in the little living room and handed her a black gift box with a big red ribbon and bow on it.
She gave me that raised eyebrow. ‘What’s this?’
‘A present,’ I said.
‘I thought we weren’t going to do that,’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘I forgot.’
She grinned at me. ‘Like hell you did.’
I grinned back. ‘Open it,’ I said.
She tore off the ribbon and bow and opened the jewelry box. And there was the necklace – all three diamonds shimmering and shiny from the overhead light.
She looked up at me. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Let me put it on you,’ I said, taking it out of the box. She turned so that I could put it around her neck and clasp it at the back. When she turned back around, I had to admit I’d done good. Real good.
She got up and moved to the little mirror over the little desk in our little living room. And for some reason or other we were a little later than we’d planned leaving that little hotel suite.
It was slow going getting back to Prophesy County. An eighteen-wheeler had jack-knifed across the highway, probably from a patch of ice still around in a shady spot, and, although nobody hit the truck, a couple of cars had ended up in the median and one in a ditch on the other side. I only saw this when I got out of my Jeep and walked half a mile to see what the hold-up was. Being a peace officer, it’s kind of my job to check these things out. But the highway patrol was already there and everything seemed to be under control. It still took another half hour before we started moving again – slow as hell though because of everybody wanting to look at where the wreck used to be. Never could figure that out. Bad enough having rubberneckers checking out carnage moved to the side of the road – hoping, I guess, to see a little blood. But it seems there’s a memory to a wreck, and somehow the site of one just stands out, whether there’s blood or wreckage or not. Just one of those funny things.
But we finally got back on the road headed to Anthony’s house. Him and Maryanne, his wife, had been trying for several years to have a baby, but she kept miscarrying around the third month. Even though she was three months along when she and my wife and most of the women I know got held hostage a while back, she was able to bring this one to term and it was a beautiful little baby girl. They named her Melinda Janell and she was a hoot and a half. But she was OK and her mama was OK, and that’s all that really mattered.
Except finding out who the hell had it in for my staff. I mean, silly notes and zombie babies hanging from light fixtures is one thing but cutting the brake lines in a loved one’s car was something else again. If it had been someone doing that to Jean, with or without Johnny Mac in the car, I’d want his head on a pike. I had a feeling Anthony’s sentiments might be along those same lines.
I was right. We drove straight from Oklahoma City to the Dobbins’ house on French Street, a nice eighties ranch with a well-kept yard with mature trees, the house white brick with green shutters and trim. Anthony’s personal ride, a nineties Ram pick-up, was in the driveway, along with a couple of cars I didn’t recognize and one I knew: Emmett’s personal vehicle, a Toyota Land Cruiser. There was also a squad car which had the number of the one usually issued to Dalton Pettigrew. I had to wonder who was watching the shop.
Me and Jean got out of the car and went up the steps to the front door. I’d barely knocked before it was quickly opened. A black man stood in front of me, scowling. I held out my hand. ‘Mr Carmichael,’ I said, recognizing Maryanne Dobbins’ daddy.
The scowl loosened and he took my hand and shook it. ‘Sheriff. What you doing about this here?’ he said.
‘Gotta get me some details, Mr Carmichael,’ I said. Turning, I indicated Jean. ‘You remember my wife?’
He nodded. ‘Doctor McDonnell. You might wanna look in on Maryanne. She’s not doing too well.’
‘Where is she?’ Jean asked.
He pointed farther into the house. ‘In the baby’s room with her mama.’
Jean excused herself and followed his pointing finger. We both knew where the nursery was since we’d been there a couple of times to ogle little Miss Melinda. Jean was older than most first-time mothers when she had Johnny Mac and something had gone wrong, leading to her having to have a hysterectomy. So, both of us liking babies, we had to live vicariously through other people’s infants now that Johnny Mac was getting on up there in age.
I followed Mr Carmichael into the house. It was crowded to the hilt. I recognized Anthony’s mama in the kitchen with a couple of Anthony’s sisters, and Anthony’s father was in the living room on the couch next to Anthony, who had his head in his hands and his father’s hand on his shoulder. My former deputy, Anthony’s cousin, Nita Skitteridge, sat on the other side. I could see her husband across the room, an infant in his arms and a toddler holding on to his leg. My other deputy, Jasmine Bodine Hopkins, Emmett’s wife, stood next to Emmett, trying not to stare at Anthony. I’m thinking that was pretty hard not to do.
‘Y’all got Holly holding down the fort?’ I asked Emmett quietly.
‘No. She’s in the baby’s room with Maryanne. Anna’s at the shop.’
I nodded. We were a small shop – Anna was pretty new but this was necessary. This was family. I moved over in front of Anthony and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ I asked him.
He looked up at me and, though I was expecting red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes from an emotional day, all I saw was pure-dee mad. ‘Some ass-wipe tried to kill my wife and daughter, that’s the fuck what happened!’
‘Anthony!’ called his mama from the kitchen. ‘Language!’
‘Marguerite, leave the boy alone,’ his father said back.
‘But they’re OK?’ I said, squeezing his shoulder while holding out my other hand to Anthony’s father. ‘Mr Dobbins,’ I said, and we shook hands, exchanging worried glances at each other and covert ones at Anthony.
Anthony stood up, moving me back a few steps. ‘Yeah. They’re alive, if that’s what you’re asking,’ he said, heat in his voice. ‘But Maryanne’s a basket case and the baby’s been crying for hours. The doctor looked at her, said she might have pulled something when Maryanne hit that curb but that he couldn’t tell.’ He glared at me. ‘My three-month-old daughter is in pain, Sheriff, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it!’
‘Sit back down and give me the details,’ I said, putting my hand back on his shoulder. His daddy, standing next to him, did the same, and we encouraged him back onto the couch. Anthony looked a lot like his daddy, tall and thin with mocha-colored skin a
nd no hair. I think it was natural on Mr Dobbins but I knew Anthony kept his shaved.
‘She was on her way to the grocery store on Chapel Road, between our house and the Piggly Wiggly. She came to that stop sign on Signet Street, put on the brakes and nothing happened. Thank God there weren’t any other cars at the intersection. She wasn’t going much more than thirty, so she just ran the car up on the curb across Signet Street and got stopped by the mile post that’s right there.’
‘How’d you find out about the brake lines?’ I asked.
‘She called me at home on her cell and I took the Ram over there. We had Guy Bergen bring his tow-truck over and haul her car back to his shop. Didn’t take him much more’n a minute to figure out the lines had been cut!’
‘Definitely cut?’ I asked. ‘Maryanne’s car’s not all that new—’
‘Yeah, Sheriff!’ he said, standing again. ‘The goddamn lines were cut! Deliberately!’
I nodded. ‘So you got any suspects?’ I asked him.
He sank back down on the couch. ‘Nobody I can think of offhand,’ he said.
‘Well, me and Emmett came up with a possible list last week of people who mighta put that note on the door and that zombie baby in the interrogation room. You and me will go over it more thoroughly on Monday,’ I said.
‘To hell with Monday!’ he said, standing up again. ‘I’m ready to go right now!’
‘Don’t you think Maryanne might need you here?’ I asked.
He looked around at the crowded house then down at the Berber carpet of the living room. ‘She pretty much ain’t speaking to me, Sheriff. She knows this was ’cause of sheriff’s business, so it’s my fault as far as she’s concerned.’
‘Now, boy, she never said that—’ Anthony’s daddy cut in.
‘She didn’t have to say it, Daddy,’ Anthony said. ‘I could see it in her eyes. And I know it’s true. It’s my fault she and Melinda almost got killed.’
I could see tears welling up and knew what I had to do. ‘OK, fine,’ I said. ‘We go to the shop. You and me—’
‘And me,’ Emmett said.
‘—and Emmett, we’re going to go through those cases with a fine-tooth comb. We’re gonna figure out who done this and we’re gonna bury ’em under the jailhouse.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ Anthony said, and headed for the door.
‘You’re not going anywhere, young man,’ his mother said, catching him at the front door. ‘Not until you eat something. You haven’t had a bite all day.’
‘Mama—’ Anthony started but Miz Dobbins, a pint-sized woman, dragged him into the dining room.
‘All right y’all,’ she said, motioning to the rest of the room, ‘get in here while everything’s still hot.’
The dining table was loaded, buffet-style, with red beans and rice, pork chops, stewed apples, mashed potatoes, green beans with new potatoes and baby onions, a tomato and cucumber salad with blue cheese chunks in a creamy dressing, and corn bread.
Miz Dobbins loaded a plate and handed it to Anthony. ‘You take this in to your wife, boy,’ she said.
Anthony just stood there with that overflowing plate in his hands. Finally, Jasmine walked up and took it from him. ‘I need to say hi to Maryanne and the baby anyhow,’ she said. ‘Let me take that, Anthony.’
We all filled our plates, me with more than my wife would think was my share, but I’d had Miz Dobbins’ cooking before and I wasn’t about to pass this up – semi-tragedy or not. Most of us moved into the living room, balancing our plates on our knees, glasses of sweet tea on the floor in front of us. It was quiet while we all stuffed our faces. All of us, except Anthony. I kept peeking at him, just like his daddy, and his mama, and all three of his sisters, and my deputies.
He picked at the food for about half an hour, then said, ‘Sheriff, it’s about time to go check out that stuff you were talking about?’
I looked at my plate. I hadn’t touched the salad yet, but then again, why would I with everything else on my plate? I picked up my glass of sweet tea off the floor and met him and Emmett in the kitchen, where we cleaned off our plates like good boys and put them in the dishwasher. Then we headed out the door.
Holly had done a good job searching the Internet for stuff on our top suspects, so she came with us to the shop to print out what she’d found. John and Reba Connors were still living right outside of Longbranch in the same house that was in our jurisdiction. John got a DUI from the Longbranch police three months ago but he got off with community service. The records showed he missed four of the sixteen hours of community service he was assigned and got an overnight stay in a jail cell to make him rethink his tardy attitude. He finished up his service and, according to the records, hadn’t had a problem since then.
‘I was the first one on scene at that home invasion,’ Anthony said. ‘I got mixed up and went to the wrong house.’ His voice was low. ‘It was a real screw-up. Maybe if I’d gotten there earlier Miz Connors might not have got raped. I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m real sorry. But that’s no reason to kill my wife and baby!’
‘No, it’s not,’ I said, patting him on the arm. ‘And we don’t know that either of the Connors did this.’
‘But I don’t know if I was directly involved in any of these others,’ Anthony said. ‘If the Connors want to blame somebody for what happened, it would have to be me.’
‘No, it wouldn’t!’ Emmett said. ‘Who’s to blame are the assholes that did it. Not you, not the county, not the department, just the assholes who broke in and did those terrible things!’
‘Those assholes we never caught because I was too damned late,’ Anthony said.
I had to think if somebody in the Dobbins family needed to talk to my wife it might be more Anthony than Maryanne. He was carrying some heavy guilt – both over what had happened to his wife and child and what had happened to John and Reba Connors. And now the two guilty feelings were warring with each other. I knew it was hard for most men, law enforcement in particular, to talk to an outsider about their problems (or really anybody, for that matter), but maybe a department-mandated couple of sessions might be an idea. It was something I’d discuss later with Jean.
‘You were on the scene with that road-rage incident a couple of years ago,’ I reminded Anthony.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. What were their names?’
‘The shooter was Danny Evans and the shootee was Tom Vaught,’ Emmett said, reading from the reports Holly had printed out.
‘Yeah,’ Anthony said. ‘I got to that one pretty quick. On the scene within minutes of the shooting.’
‘How come so fast?’ I asked.
‘I was on the highway and saw the wreck. On my way to it I witnessed the shooting.’
‘Oh, that’s right, you testified at Evans’ trial,’ I said.
‘Yeah. His whole family was there and one of his sons grabbed me on my way out. Said I was a dead man.’
Emmett and I looked at each other, then back at Anthony. ‘And you didn’t mention this?’ I asked.
‘Well, he called me a name and I figured he was just a redneck asshole with anger issues.’
‘What’d he call you?’ Emmett asked.
Anthony shot him a look. ‘What do you think? He said, and I quote, “You’re one dead nigger.”’
‘And you decided not to report this because …’ I said.
‘Hell, Sheriff, if I report every time someone calls me a nigger, all I’d be doing most days is paperwork.’
‘Yeah, well, not when the word “dead” is in front of it,’ I said. ‘That’s more than just a redneck being a redneck, that’s threatening the life of a peace officer.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘Yeah. Well. Maybe I should have at that.’
‘You ever hear anything else from the Evans family?’ I asked.
‘Got some hang-up calls for a while after the trial but we changed our number and the calls stopped,’ Anthony said.
‘And you didn’t report this either?
’ I asked.
‘OK, no, I didn’t. I screwed up, OK? But I don’t think it was the kid.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Well, I heard he’s been working on an oil rig out in west Texas for the last couple of years. Making good money and sending it home to his mama.’
‘Where’d you hear this?’ I asked.
‘Mama’s got a friend, a white lady, who goes to church with Miz Evans. She’s been keeping Mama up to date on what’s been happening with that family.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘that’s two out of our four top ones. The other one, Maudeen Sanders killing her husband, was before your time. Were you in on the interrogation of those two rednecks who held up the liquor store and pistol-whipped the attendant?’
Anthony thought for a minute. ‘Jesse Trevino and Hank Witovec, right? Jesse got two years ’cause he rolled on Witovec, right?’
I looked at the printout Holly had given me. I didn’t recall any names offhand but Anthony certainly did. ‘Yeah. That’s them. I was in on the interview, but isn’t Witovec still in prison?’ Anthony asked.
‘He is, but Jesse Trevino got out a while back,’ Emmett said.
‘Why would he be pissed? I mean, he got off easy. Witovec’s the one who’d want revenge,’ Anthony said.
‘Besides, if I remember right,’ I said, ‘you were just sitting in. You’d only been on the job here a little while, right? I did most of the persuading.’
‘Just moved back here from Tulsa,’ Anthony said. ‘I was just observing.’
‘So no reason for Trevino to be pissed at you.’
‘Or anyone, for that matter,’ Emmett said.
‘So maybe he got hurt in prison and blames us,’ I suggested.
Emmett made a note of that on the pad in front of him. ‘I’ll have Holly call McAlester,’ he said, mentioning the location of the state penitentiary, ‘and talk to the warden. See if Trevino got in any bad trouble while he was a guest.’
‘Anything else?’ Anthony asked.
‘Yeah, top of the list are the Permeter brothers. But Dalton was the deputy on that one.’
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