“Now my Willie was no bum or anything like that, but he rarely bathed, on account of his medical condition. And he seldom did any manual labor, on account of his lifelong dream to become a pilot. I asked myself what this woman wanted with my Willie. Couldn’t come up with one thing. It just didn’t make sense…made no sense whatsoever.
“The next day he came and took his clothes. I told him the woman wasn’t no good. He said I was trying to stop him from enjoying the finer things in life. I was just holding on to him so I wouldn’t be alone, like Fred on Sanford and Son. That hurt.”
Tasha glanced at her watch, hoping the woman would catch the hint.
“You got something to do?” Mrs. Davis asked.
“Yes, we were scheduled to interview someone in an hour,” Tasha lied.
“About my son?”
“No, no. Another matter.”
“It can wait, can’t it? I’ve been itching to tell this. If it’s a life-or-death situation I understand. Otherwise, you might as well sit there and hear what I got to say.”
“Okay,” Tasha said. “There’s a few questions we’d like to ask. And like I said, we do have another interview.”
“As I was saying before you interrupted, my boy left with that woman. Two months he come back, apologizing, admitting I was right about Miss Thang. Told me she was making him do things he didn’t want to do. I couldn’t imagine what. Whatever it was, it scared him.
“The next morning--the sun hadn’t even come up yet--she come aknocking, hollering at the top of her lungs, ‘Willie, get your so-and-so out here!’
“I politely asked her what the hell her problem. Guess what she told me? ‘Get a grip, Granny.’ I told her get off my porch before I call the police. She kicked the screen door and the hook popped and she rushed in and grabbed me by the neck. Now I may look old and senile, but I ain’t never took a whooping without getting in a few licks. I grabbed that thing there,” pointing at the box fan, “and commenced to swinging.
“She started hollering, ‘Willie! Willie! Willie, come save me. Your mother trying to kill me!’ I was fixin’ to ring her bell when he came in. He say, ‘Momma, don’t hurt her.’ I says, ‘You better get this trash out my house!’ That’s when she really started bawling. ‘Willie, take me home…take me home!’ I says, ‘Willie ain’t taking you no-damn-where, get your butt out and don’t come back!’ But he did. I begged him not to, but he did.” She paused. “A few weeks later, a man called me and said my boy was…” She started crying again, more intense than before.
Bob and Tasha sat there quietly, waiting for her emotions to subside.
Tasha said, “Ma’am, was your son an avid fisherman?”
Mrs. Davis laughed and wiped her face with the sleeve of a blue-and-white checkered dress. “You ain’t listening. I told you Willie was scared of water, all kinds of water. Dishwater, spring water, rain water. Unless it came in a cup, Willie steered clear. That oughta tell you he didn’t fish no avid or any other fish.”
“So there’s no reason,” Bob said, “why Willie’s in a boat at night, fishing?”
Mrs. Davis stared at Bob as if he were something that dropped out of the sky. “Did you earn your badge or win it in a raffle?”
“Ma’am,” Tasha said, “does the name Keshana Green mean anything to you?”
“Nope. Is it supposed to?”
“Your son,” Tasha said, wondering if she should reveal the information, thinking it might cause another round of hysterics, “signed a life insurance policy a few weeks prior to his death. The beneficiary was a Keshana Green, whom we don’t have a clue to who she is or how she’s connected to Willie.”
The woman looked pained, her eyes on Tasha, but her thoughts elsewhere. “Well, I’ll be damn!” she said.
“What?” Tasha asked.
“It’s all adding up now. I could never figure out why she wanted Willie dead. You’re telling me he had some kinda insurance. The same young man who couldn’t muster enough change to buy a newspaper? Hmmph! That was her plan all along. That’s why she put him in rehab, you see? She had to get him cleaned up to start the insurance.”
Tasha said, “Keshana Green was the sole beneficiary. No one else.”
“Don’t matter what the name is, don’t matter at all. I’m telling you what I know. Perry got the money. Do I have to do your work for you? Keshana, Osama! That might be her nickname. I’ll guarantee you this, Perry got the money. All of it!”
“You mentioned a rehab,” Tasha said. “Do you know the name?”
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. It’s the one downtown, near the Capitol Hotel. My nephew called me and said he’d seen Willie down there.”
Tasha stood, signaling the time to leave. Mrs. Davis asked them to stay a minute longer; she had baby pictures of Willie she wanted to show. Tasha politely declined.
Tears welled in Mrs. Davis’ eyes. “Get that heifer, okay?”
“We’ll keep you informed,” Tasha said.
“I’ll be praying for you,” Mrs. Davis said.
* * * * *
“What you think?” Bob asked Tasha once they were in the car.
“I think she should be the lead investigator.”
Bob laughed. “She’s something else, isn’t she? One minute she’s calling the Lord, the next she’s talking about ringing somebody’s bell.”
“The rehab she mentioned, it has to be New Directions. You wanna check it now or wait till in the morning?”
“That steak dinner still on?”
“Chicken-fried steak, right? No one does it quite like the Colonel.”
Bob grimaced. “I’m allergic to chicken-fried steak, makes me break out. Tell you what, we’ll go to the rehab. Then I’ll settle for a rib dinner at Hose’s.”
“Hose’s! A rib sandwich alone costs a ten spot there.”
“I know,” Bob said, smiling.
New Directions read the sign on the magenta-colored three-story Colonial. A decade ago the Arkansas Museum and Restoration Society listed the house as a historical landmark. To the Society’s appall, Duke Alexander, an ex-con/ex-drug addict, bought the house and started holding NA meetings on the second floor.
Despite lawsuits levied against him, Duke transformed the house into one of the most successful drug rehabs in the state. Bob had arrested Duke twelve years ago, when Bob was a patrolman and Duke an absentminded junkie.
Tasha followed Bob up the concrete stairs, through a graffiti-scarred foyer, and into a dining room full of curious drug addicts sitting in a circle.
A slender man in a purple three-piece suit and purple shoes stepped forward and shook Bob’s hand.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Duke,” Bob said.
The man stared at Tasha. “And who do we have here?”
“My partner. Detective Tasha Montgomery.”
Tasha smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
Duke took her hand and kissed it. “It’s an honor to meet you. Why don’t we continue this conversation in my office.”
They followed him to a converted bedroom; with a well-used mahogany desk, a couple of file cabinets and a few dinette chairs, it was officially an office. On the wall behind Duke’s desk was a wooden plaque embroidered: Former Addict.
“Have a seat,” Duke offered.
“I’m interested in one of your clients,” Bob said.
Duke frowned. “Bob, you know there’s laws against that sort of thing. I can’t even reveal a client’s name. Unless, of course, you have a warrant.”
“The client in question,” Bob said, “is deceased, which nullifies any client-confidentiality agreement.”
Duke’s grin exposed two gold teeth. “In that case what’s on your mind?”
“Willie Davis,” Bob said.
“Willie? Didn’t he drink too much water in Fourche Creek?”
“He was here for a time, was he not?” Tasha asked.
“Yes, he was. He completed the in-patient program and was scheduled to begin the out-patient program, but he
didn’t show.”
“Anything out the ordinary with his particular case?” Bob asked.
Duke shrugged. “Not really.”
“Any visitors?”
“His wife. She came by once or twice a week.”
“Did Willie ever mention a Keshana Green?” Tasha asked.
“Can’t say he did. I don’t work directly with clients. Our professional staff handles that.” Duke tilted his chin and flashed the gold teeth again. “I’m the administrator.”
“Did his wife play a role in his rehabilitation?” Tasha asked.
“A role,” Duke said with a laugh. “I’m convinced his wife was the sole reason he came here.”
“How’s that?” Tasha said.
“You see,” Duke said, leaning back in his chair, “I knew Willie back when I was on the street playing the fool. You remember, Bob?”
Bob nodded.
“The Willie I knew back then was…He wasn’t a bad guy, you know, just trifling. Most dope fiends are, but Willie lowered the standards. He wouldn’t work, wouldn’t hustle, just hung around looking pathetic until somebody gave him something.
“The man was a bitter enemy to soap and water. Whew, he stank! Wouldn’t shower if you paid him. Why it shocked me when he came into my office smelling good, dressed in a new Brooks Brothers suit, with this ten hanging on his arm. And I do mean ten! Long hair, movie-star face, expensive jewelry out the kazoo. I’m like, wow! I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
“Willie starts mumbling he wants to rehabilitate himself. He sounded as truthful as a televangelist’s tax return. I think he memorized his lines during the drive over. Then she says, ‘My husband is sick and tired of being sick and tired.’ Now where have I heard that before?
“It didn’t add up. You know, Bob, I’ve been a dope fiend over twenty years and I’ve played or seen every con in the book. But I couldn’t figure what game this woman playing. You know what I’m saying? What’s her payoff?
“I put all that aside and told Willie about the program. It’s tough; you lose a lot of sleep; you’re expected to contribute during behavior groups. While I’m talking, she’s rubbing his back, telling him, ‘You can do it, baby. You can do it.’ Willie’s looking like he’s just been told he needed a lobotomy.
“She leaves him here, we enter him into the program, and eight hours later he escapes. Sneaks off in the heat of night and slides down a gutter pipe on the second floor. He could have broken his neck. He wasn’t court-ordered; he could have walked out the front door whenever the urge hit him. Two days later she brings him back.
“He’s high, smelling like an outhouse, paranoid--his old self, the Willie I remember. She asked if Willie could have a second chance. I said, ‘No way!’ Told her straight that Willie had to want rehabilitation for Willie, not someone else. She’s persistent as hell, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I capitulated…she’s hard to resist. Those eyes, mesmerizing.”
“No more problems after that?” Bob asked.
“No, thank God. I told him he could leave anytime, out the front door. To my surprise he completed the program, the in-patient program, that is.”
“Uh,” Bob said, “I guess that’ll be it. Unless Detective Montgomery has something to ask.”
Tasha shook her head.
“Let me ask you guys something,” Duke said.
“Yes,” Tasha said, knowing the question before he asked it.
“She killed him, didn’t she?”
Bob stared at Tasha, she out the window.
“Your body language tells me she killed him,” Duke said. “That makes her a rabid cougar.”
“How’s that?” Bob said.
“A woman kills, she’s motivated by drugs, alcohol, or she’s insanely jealous. Willie didn’t have a dime to his name. She propped him up to knock him down. Someone who does that has something that ate away their conscience. A mental disease, like rabies.”
Chapter 4
Bob and Tasha sat opposite each other at a dirty table inside Hose’s Rib and Steakhouse, a greasy spoon frequented regularly by LRPD. Bob plowed into a beef rib dinner while Tasha read the newspaper.
“You think it’s time we bring her in for a little chat?” Tasha said without looking up.
“Uh-uh,” Bob grunted with a mouthful of beef. “It’s”--CHOMP!--“too early”--CHOMP!--“for that.”
Slightly nauseated, Tasha decided to wait till he finished eating.
Just then her cell phone vibrated. “Detective Montgomery.” Thankful for the diversion.
“Hey, baby,” Neal said. “What you doing?”
“Working.”
“The reason I called, my folks invited me up for the weekend and I was wondering if Derrick could tag along. We’ll be gone a couple of days, nothing special.”
“Let me think about it,” staring at the juice trickling down Bob’s chin onto his plate.
“What’s there to think about? You’re at work, he’s with me, his father, remember?”
“Now,” Tasha said, “is not a good time to discuss this. Why don’t you wait till I get there, which should be in about thirty minutes.”
“We could be halfway out the state in thirty minutes. Derrick really wants to go.”
“Okay, Neal. Call me when you get there.”
“He’s gonna need some money. We might catch a movie or something.”
“What about gas? You want me to buy your gas, too?”
“Would you?”
Tasha pinched the bridge of her nose; she could feel the onset of a migraine. “There’s money under my mattress. If you don’t mind, leave some for me.”
“Baby, you know I love you.”
“Bye, Neal.” She closed the phone and inhaled deeply, held it, slowly exhaled. An ad she’d read said the breathing technique was effective against migraines, though it had never worked for her.
“We need something concrete,” Bob said, wiping his mouth with his wrist. “All we have are coincidences. And if she’s as slick as everyone says she is, it’s highly unlikely she
will say something incriminating in an interrogation room.”
“No matter how slick she is, she’ll soon be facing three counts of murder one. Agreed?”
Tasha waited. “Right?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I got a bad feeling about this one, Tash. I think this’ll be a case we’ll remember for years.”
“Why?”
Bob shook his head. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. What else you got on Keshana Green?”
“Nothing. Zip. I’m starting to think she’s a figment of my imagination.”
Bob chuckled, then turned serious. “You want to shelf it? It’s not official yet. If something concrete comes along we’ll jump on it.”
Tasha stared at him in disbelief. “What? Bob, we don’t have anything to shelf. Are you serious?”
Bob folded his napkin, unfolded it. “I just think we’re going to get our hands dirty on this one. Why? I don’t know. If you insist on pursuing this, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”
Craps, Tasha thought, he’s the lead detective here and all he’s concerned with is our clearance ratio.
“Okay,” she said, “the case stinks. No physical evidence. No eyewitnesses. Nothing. And we both know we’ll have to blow smoke up a prosecutor’s butt just to get him or her to look at it. But Bob, we’re dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, who I’m sure will kill again!”
“Okay, Tash. Calm down. I’m on your side. You point the way, I’ll follow. Meanwhile, I’m going to the little boy’s lavatory to make room for more.”
The ride home, Tasha turned the radio up full blast. She needed a distraction. Anything to steer her thoughts from Perry Davis, Bob Kelvis and Neal Montgomery.
Inside her apartment, she went straight to her room and lifted the mattress.
“Craps!” As she’d expected, all her money was gone.
Why did she bother with such a man, anyway?
He fooled me, suckered me in w
ith his good looks and token promises. Told me he was going to make me happy. Lies, lies, lies!
‘I’ll be a millionaire by the time I’m thirty, baby.’
Yeah, right. Got to get a job first, Neal. You’ll also have to keep it. No one ever made a million dollars watching television all day.
‘Baby, I can feel it. Look at this. It says: You may have already won millions. That’s my name right there. Look!’
A stupid sweepstakes!
The phone rang. Tasha rolled over the bed and picked it up. “Hello.”
“Hey, baby,” Neal said. “We’re on the freeway. Thought I’d call and let you know.”
“Hey, butthead, I told you not to take all my money!”
“Derrick wanted something to drink on the way up. I couldn’t let the boy go thirsty.”
“I had three hundred dollars here, and I better have at least two hundred when you get back, do you hear me? I’m not playing, Neal!”
“What you gonna do, huh? Shock me again?”
“You better have my money!” and hung up.
She imagined Derrick sitting beside his father, listening to every word, nodding in agreement when Neal said, “Your mother is a pain in the butt.”
Go ahead, Neal, tell him how I broke up the marriage and put you out on the street. It’s your favorite story; no one can tell it quite like you. If that bores Derrick, you can always tell him your second favorite story: The Day Your Mother Zapped Me With A Taser And Shocked Me Within Inches Of My Life.
Tasha rolled over on her stomach, grabbed a pillow and covered her head. She didn’t want to recall the incident that changed the course of her marriage, but the memory lingered, like the smell of cheap perfume, needing only a slight sniff to garner full attention…
She remembered the Friday afternoon Captain David Simmons, her first commanding officer, summoned her to his office. There he slid a photocopy of three checks with her name and Neal’s across his desk.
“Could you explain this?” he said.
Pernicious Page 4