by Lisa Harris
“Isn’t that what happened, Bear?”
“No. I didn’t kill those girls, just like I didn’t kill my wife. I loved my wife. When I lost her, I lost everything. Why would I kill again when I know how horrid it is when you lose everything . . . everyone you’ve ever loved.”
“You killed again?”
“No.” Bear started rocking back and forth in his chair. Frustrated. Agitated. Right where they wanted him.
Carlos sat down in his chair and pushed the photos back in front of Bear. “You killed your wife, but that wasn’t enough, so you killed these girls, one at a time. You lost control in your marriage, lost control of your job, which meant you were out of control professionally. In killing them, you wanted the world to know that you could still be in control. They were helpless. You are not.”
“No.” Bear’s shoulders slumped.
“Then why did you take the ring?”
“You said it. I have nothing left. I lost my job after Laurie’s death. People thought I killed her. Even when I wasn’t arrested for her death, people looked at me every time I walked by. The courts might have let me go, but the world still saw me as guilty. When I saw that ring, it was my chance. In the end, everyone would win. The owner would get the insurance money, and I would sell it and go somewhere far away.”
“Not everyone won.”
“I want a lawyer now.”
Carlos glanced up at Avery, then looked at Bear. “You’ll get your lawyer, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re placing you under arrest for the murder of Tala Vuong.”
12
After a long day of more waiting for test results and performing another, more routine autopsy, Jackson was ready for a break. Philips was in jail, awaiting arraignment without bond, but some of the evidence still niggled at Jackson. In his mind, it wasn’t all neatly tied up like it should be. Having a low-key evening might free up some new thought processes for him. Even a few minutes of grocery shopping had helped clear his head.
Jackson hung three plastic sacks of groceries on his arm, then fumbled to open the front door of his grandfather’s house. Like Papps, the house was beginning to show its age. He’d already replaced the gutters and painted the outside, but the to-do list seemed never ending. With summer here, the lawn needed to be mowed and the shrubs clipped, but that would have to wait until his next day off. As for some of the larger repairs, all he could do was tackle them one at a time.
Papps met him in the entryway of the one-story ranch-style house wearing shorts and an old Atlanta Hawks T-shirt. “Did you remember my . . .”
Jackson waited while Papps searched for the word.
“. . . the bologna I asked for?”
“Yes, and the peanut butter. Sorry I’m so late. You caught me just in time when you called. I was getting ready to check out.” Jackson crossed the worn yellow shag carpet through the living room and into the kitchen, where he set the grocery bags on the counter. “I still don’t know how you can stand the combination.”
“It reminds me of a time when things were simpler.”
“Whatever you say, Papps.”
Jackson chuckled as he watched his grandfather open the jar of peanut butter so he could make his peanut butter and bologna sandwich, and felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him. His grandfather might have been born Henry Andrew Clay Bryant, but Jackson had called him Papps as long as he could remember. And he had become the only father figure in his life he could remember as well.
He watched his grandfather spread a thick layer of the peanut butter onto a slice of white bread. “That isn’t exactly a healthy dinner. I told you I’d bring you something from the deli. They have some great salads and homemade soups.”
“Bah. When you’re eighty-five, who cares. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my days eating rabbit food.” He slapped on a couple slices of the bologna, topped the whole mess with another slice of bread, then took a bite. “What are you eating?”
“Somewhere in these bags is a roast beef on sourdough with a side salad.”
“Rabbit food, I tell you. Your grandmother forced me to eat that stuff for fifty years.”
“I suppose after fifty years of eating lettuce and carrots you have the right to rebel.” Jackson grabbed the canister of Pringles Papps had asked for and shoved it into the pantry. “Within reason, that is.”
Papps pulled out the Pringles and popped off the lid. Jackson went back to putting away the groceries. He’d learned long ago that arguing with Papps never worked. If anything, it only made him more determined.
“What about that girl you told me about? What was her name? Red hair, feisty, charming . . .”
“Did I use those words?”
“Maybe not feisty, but since you’ve yet to introduce us, I have to make up my own descriptions.” Papps held up a Pringle. “But let me warn you, you marry her and she’ll have you eating that salad without the roast beef sandwich on the side.”
Jackson laughed. Why was it that his grandfather forgot what day it was, yet could remember details about what had been said weeks ago? “Her name is Avery, and yes, I suppose she is a bit feisty. As for your not meeting her yet, she works, remember? She’s a homicide detective who’s probably busier than I am. Though, at this point, I’m not so sure things are going to work out between us.”
“And why not? If you ask me, it’s time you found yourself a woman—working or not—and settled down. I’m not going to be around forever, you know.”
“Maybe not forever, but I still intend to enjoy your company for a long time.”
Jackson finished putting the groceries away before joining his grandfather in the living room with his dinner, but thoughts of his grandfather’s deteriorating health—and the possibility of losing Avery—had put a damper on his appetite.
Papps sat down in his faded olive-green recliner and set up a TV dinner tray in front of him. Jackson loved his grandfather, but sometimes the nightly ritual felt like a scene from the ’50s.
“Where’s the remote, Jackson?”
Jackson settled into the recliner’s equally faded twin and unwrapped his sandwich. “It’s right beside you, Papps.”
Papps grabbed the remote from the cluttered end table and flipped on the television before muting the sound. “When I was a young man, it wasn’t so complicated. You met a girl who struck your fancy, you took her someplace nice for dinner, got to know her, then asked her to marry you.”
Definitely the ’50s.
“I find it hard to believe that a relationship between a man and a woman could ever be that simple.” Lately, something always seemed to get in the way. “What about your book? Did you and Maggie get a lot done today?”
“Changing the subject?”
“Yes.”
Papps balanced the remote on the stack of papers next to him, then took another bite of his sandwich. “That woman you hired for me talks too much. Every day, I hear about one of her ailments. Today it was her bunion.”
“At least the two of you have plenty to talk about.” His grandfather’s memory gaps continued to widen, but keeping his mind as active as possible had seemed to help slow some of the symptoms. Hiring someone to stay with him while Jackson was at work had been out of the question, according to Papps. Hiring someone to transcribe the book he’d always wanted to write had worked. “Besides, at the rate the two of you are going, the book will be finished by Christmas. Then you’ll have to start on the sequel.”
The book had been Jackson’s idea. Four generations ago, Papps’s own grandfather had fought in the Civil War. Papps still remembered stories told around the dinner table as a young child. Jackson’s goal was for him to get as many stories as possible down on paper before he forgot them. Which, from the way things were going, wasn’t too far off
Papps turned the volume back on—loud—then switched to the national news channel.
Jackson sent up a silent prayer of thanks for his food and took a bite of the thick roast beef while Papps watched repeat
s of the same news stories he’d probably been watching all day. His stomach growled and he took another bite of the tender meat. Maybe he was hungry after all.
Jackson studied Papps’s familiar profile while the TV blared. Thin, white hair, face creased with age, bifocals slid halfway down his nose . . . Jackson might have struggled with his decision to make the move from Houston to Atlanta, but the day he found out that his grandfather had gotten lost one afternoon and couldn’t remember how to get home had been the clarifying moment.
The solution had turned out to be a challenge, but besides his sister, his grandfather was the only family he had, and his grandfather needed him. Which meant he didn’t regret his decision. But watching his grandfather slowly lose more and more of his memory had been harder than he’d expected. Some days were simply better than others. At least today seemed to be a good one.
Papps took the last bite of his bologna sandwich, grabbed the remote, and switched off the television.
“You off to bed already?”
“Might as well.” Papps grunted. “I’ve seen that same news story a dozen times today, because those flashy reporters wouldn’t know a good story if it hit them in the noggin. Those producers think we all suffer from brain damage and don’t notice.”
Jackson chuckled. “Grams used to tell me it was watching too much television that would give me brain damage.”
“Except when it came to those silly soap operas she insisted on watching.”
Jackson took another bite of his sandwich. For Papps it was the same routine every night. Dinner in front of the television, complaints about news commentators and the direction the world was taking, then off to bed no later than eight. Of course, by four in the morning he’d be up again, puttering around the house, looking for something he’d lost, or trying to remember how to use the coffee machine. Which was why Maggie had become such a blessing. She never seemed to mind coming early or staying late if Jackson had to work, or if he had plans to go out. Though it wasn’t as if his social calendar was booked. Avery had been the first person in a long time to make him want to change that.
“What about you?” Papps dug into the tube of Pringles he’d set next to his chair. “Are you about finished for the night?”
“No, not yet. I need to go over some of my autopsy notes.”
“You’ve got a new case?”
“A young girl I did an autopsy on a couple of days ago. I’m waiting on some of the test results, but there are still some questions I need to answer.”
“Like how she died?”
“No. The cause of death was the easy part. The rest, though, is like a puzzle. I’m just trying to sort out the pieces.”
An enlarged spleen could mean a number of things, from mononucleosis to leukemia to a bacterial infection. His job was to perform the autopsy and investigate any inconsistencies. Avery’s job was to decide if what he discovered was relevant to her case.
“I’m no medical expert so I can’t help you with this one, but I don’t have any doubt that you’ll figure it out.”
“What did you work on today?” Jackson asked the question, enjoying the conversation.
“Martha Ruth Noble.” Papps held up a photo of a woman from his stack of papers. “Martha was your . . .” He shook his head. The blank look was back.
Jackson waited for him to continue. If he jumped in with the answer, it frustrated Papps. If he waited too long to help, Papps would end up just as frustrated. Sometimes there was simply no way to win. But he was determined to enjoy every conversation they had in the meantime, because the day was coming when Papps wouldn’t remember his only grandson’s name.
“That’s okay. Go on.”
Papps held up a second photo, this time of a Civil War soldier. “Anyway, she put on a uniform and enlisted in the Confederate Army.”
Jackson’s brow furrowed. “That’s the same woman?”
“She went into battle as a man.” Papps stared at the photo of Martha Noble, now with a fake mustache and soldier’s uniform. “Right alongside her male comrades. And apparently they didn’t find out. At least at the beginning. I was able to get hold of some letters she’d written from a cousin of your father’s. She ended up dying from marsh fever along with most of the men in her company, and her true identity was discovered.”
Jackson looked up from the photo. “What’s marsh fever?”
“Today we call it malaria. Back then they thought it was caused by breathing in poisonous swamp gases. They think that a fourth of the men—and women—involved in the Civil War died from it.”
“How long ago was malaria eradicated from the US?”
“Back in the 1940s? Maybe the 1950s. Somewhere in there. The US might have been successful in getting rid of it, but I’ve read it’s still one of the top ten killers in low-income countries.”
Jackson stood up, his mind spinning. Why hadn’t he considered this before? Maybe there was no connection, but then again . . . Avery hadn’t mentioned that Tala had traveled overseas, but maybe she had. “I think I’ve been looking in the wrong place.”
“What do you mean?”
“My case. The one I’m working on right now. You might have just given me another piece of the puzzle.”
Every test he’d thought of had come back negative. Nothing to explain the enlarged spleen. But what if they weren’t considering every possible angle?
“I’ve got to make a phone call.”
“To your lady friend?”
“Not yet. First I need to test my theory.”
13
Avery and Tess stepped out of the humid Georgia air into the Hunt family’s two-story house in suburban Atlanta. Avery shivered and pulled her slate-colored cardigan tighter around her shoulders. She’d learned to adjust to the temperatures in her mother’s house years ago by wearing a sweater in the summertime and shedding a layer or two in the winter.
Mama met them in the foyer, looking as if she were on her way to a sit-down dinner at the upscale Park 75 and not their weekly family meal. Just like the house, with its gold trim crown molding, damask wallpaper, and flashy chandeliers, Claire Hunt’s taste in clothes had always bordered on ostentatious.
But it was Mama’s scowl that registered in Avery’s mind more than the silky teal dress and strappy high heels she wore. How long had it been since she’d seen her mother really smile? Seen her really happy?
“We set the table for five but weren’t sure you would show up.” Mama’s patronizing tone matched her scowl as she kissed Tess on the forehead. At least someone was on her good side.
“I said I was sorry.” Avery swallowed her frustration.
She’d already called to apologize for missing Monday’s lunch, but tonight wouldn’t be the last time she was reminded of her blunder in etiquette. Instead of trying to argue the point, she simply handed her mother the present she’d wrapped in silvery-blue paper and a shiny bow. The photo she’d found of Dad and Michael would be a perfect addition to the photo collection at her dad’s retirement party, as well as help pave the way toward a bit of forgiveness. At least she hoped so.
“I brought you a peace offering.”
“Don’t think this will make up for your skipping out on our lunch meeting with Doris. I had to endure an hour and a half of that woman’s constant babbling, sampling of high-calorie dishes, and comments about how her business is booming.”
Avery set her purse down next to the door. “Maybe you should just be happy for her, Mama.”
“Happy for her? She told me I should let her finalize the menu on her own. Apparently her tastes are superior to mine. I should have fired her right on the spot.”
A wave of panic struck. There was no way they’d find another caterer at this late a date. “You didn’t fire her, did you?”
“Emily talked me out of it.”
Avery let out a sigh of relief as her mother slid her thumb across the end of the present and undid the tape. Maybe a reminder of Michael had been a bad idea.
Avery pressed her fingers around the present. “Why don’t you open it later. I promise it will more than make up for my not being there.”
“All right, but before you leave tonight, I want you to look over the finalized menu as well. It shouldn’t take you too long.”
Avery forced a smile, wishing she could ignore the familiar feeling of being jerked in yet another direction. But as much as Mama drove her crazy, she was Avery’s mother and Avery loved her.
Her dad walked into the room. “Let her be, Claire.”
“Dad’s right, Mom.” Emily was right behind her father, wearing an adorable rose-colored pleated top and skinny jeans. “Hey, sis.”
Avery mouthed “thank you,” while Emily took the present from Mama and set it on the entrance table before leading her toward the dining room.
“I don’t need you ganging up against me too, Emily.”
“Nobody’s ganging up against you, Mama.”
Avery let out a short sigh. Saved by her sister, she was off the hook. For now.
Her father hugged Tess before she scrambled off toward the kitchen.
“She’s hungry. Apparently she forgot her lunch today and had to beg leftovers from her friends.”
“She’ll enjoy dinner then. Your mother made her favorite.” Her daddy gathered Avery in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t be such a stranger. I’ve missed you.”
“Things have been busy at work.”
Her father let out a low chuckle. “I can’t say the same for here.”
Avery caught the longing in her father’s eyes behind the laughter. She’d never thought the day would come when he’d actually stop working. He’d been on the force for four decades. How did one simply walk away from their life’s work?
They walked slowly toward the dining room arm in arm. “How’s that Jane Doe case going that you’re working on?”
“You know about that?”
“I still have my connections—I’m not completely out of the loop.”
“So it would seem. You always did have a knack for getting the information you wanted. Our Jane Doe now has a name, and we were able to get a warrant for a suspect and arrested him yesterday for her murder. We can’t tie him yet to our last Jane Doe case, but I’m hoping we end up closing both cases in the next few days.”