by Gregory Ashe
With a nod, Hazard followed Somers back to the bullpen. Somers pulled his chair around to Hazard’s desk so that they sat, both facing the desk, with the missing person reports spread out in front of them. Keeping his gaze carefully fixed on the reports, Hazard said, “You don’t have to do this.”
“We’re pretty different, right?”
“What?”
“Not just now. Back in high school, too. We were really different. I was a major asshole. You were—”
“The town faggot.”
“I was going to say you were really sweet. Weird. Don’t get me wrong, you were super weird. But sweet.”
“Thanks,” Hazard said drily.
“You figured out the bones. You knew I was jumping to conclusions about what Lady Mabbe saw. You’re smart, and you know a hell of a lot, and you’re analytical.”
“Now the other shoe drops.”
“There’s no other shoe. You’re a good detective, but that doesn’t mean you’re great at everything. And you’ve been gone for a long time. Wahredua is a different place. Unless you’ve lived here, there’s no way you could know stuff like how Lee and Aurora Rochester fight, or the fact that—” Somers scanned the missing person list for names. “Cokie Heibel, Nora Dale, and Edward Jasper are living with their daddies and their mothers are mad as hell about it, so they filed these missing persons to put pressure on them. You’re not supposed to know that stuff, not right off the bat. That’s why we’re partners.”
Hazard didn’t answer. He still had that tired, beaten look on his face. His big hands were folded around each other.
“Do you want to quit?” Somers asked. “You could probably get on in Kansas City. You could definitely get on in another small town department. Your chances at either place of being a detective are pretty low, though. Most places, transfers start at the bottom.”
“I know,” Hazard said in a low, pained voice.
“If you leave, you’re walking away from the shitheels that have been terrorizing the LGBT community here. And you walk away from a murder that you might be able to solve.”
Hazard scrubbed at his cheeks; he had a heavy shadow already, and the bristles rasped under his palm.
“If we do this,” Hazard said, “things have to change. I have to change. I know that. It’s hard. I’m not saying it’s going to happen overnight. The past . . . I know it’s the past, and I know it’s over, but sometimes that’s not easy to let go of. You understand?”
Somers nodded.
“I know I’m shit at talking to people. I know I rub people the wrong way. But I’m a good detective. Very good.”
Somers nodded again. “Fuck yeah, you are.”
For the first time since they had sat, Hazard raised his eyes to meet Somers’s gaze. Those straw-colored eyes were surprisingly vulnerable; they reminded Somers of—
—the locker room, when Somers had wanted, had wanted so badly his chest was ready exploded, wanted Hazard to—
—how Hazard had looked as a boy, before he had hardened himself against the world.
“If we do this, we have to do it together,” Somers said. “That’s the change.”
Hazard nodded.
“What do you say we look through the names you pulled? I’ll tell you what I know, and then we’ll make some phone calls before we head over to see Upchurch.”
For a moment, Somers was certain that Hazard was going to ask him something: the question was right there on Hazard’s lips, ready to spring. Then Hazard’s expression closed, returning to its normal wariness—although perhaps a bit less wary than usual.
He slid the pages to the middle of the desk, halfway between them, and pointed to the first name he had underlined. “Milton Billings.”
“Oh Lord,” Somers said, fighting a grin. “He’s been dead for four years.”
To his surprise, Hazard started to laugh.
HAZARD FELT ODDLY DRAINED when he followed Somers out of the station. It wasn’t physical fatigue—although the day had been long and hot. It wasn’t mental exhaustion—although Hazard had scoured the missing person list for possible matches. It was emotional, he realized. Emotional weariness. Too many highs and lows, too much of a roller-coaster with Somers, too much grief and pain and rage at having come back to Warhedua and finding the past was buried in a shallow grave.
The afternoon was like every other afternoon—hot and muggy—and the Impala still smelled like pine air-freshener. Somers drove them across town towards Upchurch’s house, and Hazard brushed his hair back—Billy liked it long, as long as regulations allowed, but it became damn annoying sometimes—and ran through the case again.
Together, Hazard and Somers had eliminated every possible match on the missing person list. Too many of the missing persons were not really missing at all; the few genuine ones that remained were either too old, too young, or women.
That fact left Hazard and Somers with only Lady Mabbe’s description of the two bald men who had rolled a barrel into the trailer. It was the only lead they had left on the case, and the next step was to see what information Upchurch’s contacts within the Ozark Volunteers could yield.
Somers pulled the Impala to a halt outside a tan brick bungalow. The building probably dated from the early 1950s; the windows, streaked with white paint at the edges, were probably original. In fact, everything looked original except the paint. Upchurch must have decided to slap on a fresh coat before selling the place, Hazard decided. The house, with only a utilitarian line of box hedge under the front windows, needed all the sprucing up it could get.
“Looks like he made it home from Jeff City,” Somers said, nodding at an old Mustang as he climbed out of the car.
The car looked well-maintained—that was only Hazard’s inexpert opinion—and dirty. He knew almost nothing about cars except that he needed to get the oil changed every few thousand miles, and Billy was the one who usually took care of that. The Mustang, though, was probably expensive, and an unusual car like that made Hazard think that Upchurch either really liked cars or really liked status symbols. Judging by the state of the house, Hazard guessed it was the former. The other detail that Hazard could infer about Upchurch was that, even if he liked cars, he must not care much about appearances: red dust covered the car’s blue sheen.
“You want to watch what you say to him,” Hazard said, thinking back to his first and only encounter with Upchurch. “Just what he needs to know. Nothing else.”
Somers stopped on the grass. Sweat glistened on his forehead, at the roots of his short, spiky blond hair. “What?”
“He’s not police anymore.”
“He is until the end of this week. And then he’s going to state police.”
“But he won’t be Warhedua PD.”
“So what?” Somers wrinkled his brow. “What’s going on?”
“Look, I don’t think he’s got your back. I know he was your partner, and you—”
To Hazard’s surprise, Somers burst out laughing. “He told me, but I thought he was lying. Or exaggerating.”
“What?”
“You’re protective.” Somers’s eyes sparkled with amusement—and, Hazard thought, pleasure. “Of me. You’re being protective of me.”
“I’m being protective of our investigation, and I don’t think an outsider—”
“Bull. He told me he started ragging on me and that you said you’d take his head off if he said anything like that. You did, didn’t you? You stood up for me.”
“I didn’t stand up for you. I was making it clear that we were partners and—”
“You stood up for me,” Somers was beaming now. “Listen, I appreciate it, I really do. And you know I’d do it for you too.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have—”
“You’re missing what I’m trying to tell you: a guy who will talk shit about you behind your back, especially to someone he doesn’t even know, that’s not someone you can trust. So keep your mouth sh
ut when we talk to him, ok?”
Hazard’s tone had scrubbed the amusement from Somers’s face, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah, ok.”
Without waiting for anything else, Hazard made his way to the door and knocked. It opened a few moments later, revealing a much older woman—nearing sixty, Hazard guessed, with gray hair spilling down her back and an enormous pair of spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. She looked confused at Hazard’s appearance and then smiled when she noticed Somers.
“John-Henry,” she crowed. “Renard didn’t tell me you were coming over. I would have made those pecan bars you like. And you’re very naughty, not telling me a thing, not even a peep about what you’ve got planned for the party.”
“What party?” Somers asked with a cool, cat-with-the-cream smile. “I never said anything about a party.”
“Oh, you,” the old woman said with a smile. “Now, don’t be rude. Come inside and introduce me to your new partner.”
As they stepped into the air-conditioned cool of the foyer, Hazard took another look at the woman: the lines around her eyes and mouth, across her forehead, the loose skin on her arms. “Are you Upchurch’s mother?”
As soon as the words had left Hazard’s mouth, he knew he’d done it again: stuck his foot right inside. Somers colored, and he opened his mouth as if he were going to try to explain, but the old woman started laughing. It was a good-natured sound, and she accented the laughter by leaning forward to squeeze Hazard’s arm; it took willpower not to pull away from her touch.
“No, no, no,” she said through her laughter. “Renard and I are married. I’m his wife.”
Hazard’s face must have expressed his disbelief because the woman laughed more.
“You’ll have to excuse him, Eldora. I didn’t—”
Eldora’s lips twitched with humor, and she interrupted, saying, “You didn’t have time to warn him that Renard had married an old woman.”
“No, that’s not what I . . .” Somers trailed off helplessly.
“John-Henry, I’m only teasing.” Turning her attention to Hazard, she continued, “It happens all the time. More now than it used too—I’m afraid I’ve let myself go, and women do age faster than men. At least, most women do. Ten years ago, it bothered the hell out of me. Now, it rolls right off.”
“I am sorry,” Hazard said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Eldora stated this as though it were a fact. “Now, let me see what I have in the kitchen. John-Henry, you’re looking frightfully thin.” She pinched his waist, and then her face filled with sadness. “I suppose that means . . .”
“I’m fine, Eldora.”
“No, you’re not,” she said with a dismissive sniff, turning to lead them towards the kitchen. “A man needs a woman to care for him. Isn’t that right, detective?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a woman take care of me,” Hazard said, “but my boyfriend might.”
Eldora turned in the doorway to the kitchen, planted both hands on her hips, and looked Hazard up and down. In spite of himself, in spite of all the years since he’d come out, he felt the same nervous tickle in his stomach—this was Wahredua, after all, and saying a word like boyfriend could bring down hellfire and brimstone. But Eldora only smiled.
“Well, I suppose I’ve made a fool of myself now. I’m very sorry, detective. Now come in and have a cookie.”
Exchanging confused looks with Somers, Hazard followed Eldora into the kitchen, where she sat him at a large table. The kitchen matched what Hazard had seen in the rest of the house: floral wallpaper in shades of green and pink, light-colored wood, curling sprigs of plastic ivy and silk flowers, decorative crystals scattering rainbow shadows along the walls.
Eldora piled a plate with cookies—from a real, ceramic cookie jar—and carried them to the table. “Milk?”
“Actually, Eldora,” Somers said, “we’re just here to talk to Renard for a few minutes about a case.”
“You can talk and eat cookies. I’ll get you some milk.”
“I don’t—” Somers began.
But Eldora spoke first. “So long as that—” Her voice shifted, and Hazard struggled to identify the tone, but he couldn’t quite place it. “—that wife of yours insists on letting you starve, the rest of us will have to pick up the slack.”
“She’s not letting me starve. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”
“Detective,” Eldora appealed to Hazard. “Tell him.”
“Uh.” Hazard looked at each of them.
“Your boyfriend,” Eldora prompted, “what’s his name?”
“Billy,” Somers said before Hazard could answer.
“Does Billy cook for you? Do the laundry? Clean the house?”
“Eldora,” Somers said, his face coloring again. “That’s pretty sexist. Just because—”
“Let the detective answer,” Eldora said.
When Somers’s gaze turned to Hazard, Hazard struggled to find somewhere to look. He plucked a cookie from the plate and took a bite—chocolate chip, soft and delicious—and mumbled, “I wish.”
“What?” Somers said.
“I said I wish. Billy never—I mean, it’s just not his thing. He’s more, I don’t know. He’s busy. He’s got a lot of stuff—listen, what are we even talking about?”
Eldora Upchurch, Hazard guessed, was too polite to say “I told you so,” but her look at Somers carried the same message.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Somers said, but it wasn’t clear what he meant or if he was talking to Hazard or Eldora.
“I’ll go get Renard,” Eldora said.
“Well,” Somers said, his eyes roving around the room, “this has got to be my single worst interaction in the house. Ever.” His eyes flicked to Hazard. “Did you—were you serious?”
“About Billy?”
Somers nodded. “He didn’t do anything?”
“Look, I wasn’t—that’s not important, is it? What’s going on here?”
“With Renard and Eldora?”
“She looks twenty years older than him.”
“She’s not. She is older, but not that much.” Hazard processed the information; some of his thinking must have shown on his face, because Somers said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Go on.”
“It’s nothing.”
“He loves her. She loves him.”
“I got it, Somers.” Then a question crossed Hazard’s mind. “What did she mean, your wife is letting you starve? Are you married?”
Before Somers could answer, Renard and Eldora Upchurch entered the kitchen. Seeing them together, Hazard was again struck by the disparities of their age. Renard Upchurch looked still young, although his hair was thinning and he’d acquired a belly. Next to him, Eldora really did look like his mother. A thought began to form in Hazard’s head; men of other generations, men who might have remained what was discreetly called “confirmed bachelors,” had often married instead. There was nothing in Upchurch’s manner that might point to this being the case, no affectations, nothing in the way he looked at John-Henry Somers, but Hazard wondered.
“I see you met my wife, Detective Hazard,” Upchurch said. “Good to see you again.”
Hazard nodded.
“Let’s go outside; Eldora hates it when we talk shop in the house.”
“It’s so depressing,” Eldora said; Hazard could half-imagine her fanning herself with an apron in dismay. “But at least take the cookies with you. And the milk.”
Upchurch rolled his eyes and gave his wife a tolerant smile and a kiss on the cheek before leading Hazard and Somers to the garage. The door was up, and a spotless Toyota took up one-half of the space. The other parking spot was empty. The garage, like the dusty Mustang, gave further evidence of its owner’s carelessness. Junk lined the walls of the garage: gasoline cans, painting supplies, tools, shop rags, rakes, shovels, old shoes, and on and on. Upchurch grabbed a bucket, which was filled with soapy
water, and a sponge.
“Washing the car,” he offered as an explanation. “Some of the county roads are still dirt, and it’s about an inch deep on the Mustang.”
“I thought your baby looked like she needed a bath,” Somers said.
“He sounds like he’s joking,” Upchurch said, “but he’s not. That Mustang really is my baby. I know, it’s sad, but it’s the truth.”
As they walked around the house and out to the Mustang, Hazard decided they’d spent enough time playing nice. “Somers said you have a contact in the Ozark Volunteers. We’d like to get in touch with this person. We have some questions.”
Upchurch dunked his sponge and began washing the Mustang’s hood. “Well, Detective Hazard, I might know someone you can talk to. But you understand that it’s a matter of trust.”
“We’ll keep their identities safe. This isn’t my first time around the block.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.” Upchurch continued to move the sponge in slow, squishy circles. “Is this about the vandalism?”
“Well,” Somers began, “we think—” Hazard shot him a look, and Somers faltered. “We think,” he tried again, “that we need to talk to someone from the Ozark Volunteers.”
“Yeah, I figured that much out,” Upchurch said with a dry smile. His eyes, though, weren’t smiling; they’d gone carefully blank. “You’re talking in a circle, John-Henry. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, it’s just that—”
“This is an ongoing investigation,” Hazard said. “You’re no longer Wahredua PD. Or, at least, you won’t be after this week. We think it’s best that the details stay inside the department.”
Upchurch’s hand froze; rust-colored water leaked from the sponge. “So that’s how this game gets played.”
“Renard,” Somers said, “it’s not personal, but Hazard’s right: the fewer people we tell, the easier it is to control what’s out there.”
“That’s bullshit, pardon my language.” Upchurch wrung out the sponge; the smell of the dust and the soap filled the air. “You don’t trust me, is that what this is? If that’s the case, why do you want my contacts?”