Tin God; Skeleton's Key; Ashes and Bone

by Stacy Green

  “I’ve noticed. But they’d better heed the warning this time because if this is a Dixie Mafia job, we are dealing with some mean bastards.”

  “You spoke to your FBI guy, then?” He dropped into the nearest chair. A yawn ripped from his mouth before he could stop it. Thirty minutes of sleep would do him so much good.

  “He’s actually in white-collar crime. Those guys are usually pretty tight-lipped. I had to beg and plead for information and promise him a steak dinner next time I visit.”

  “Hope that’s all you promised.”

  Gina ignored his remark. “In the last five years, the Dixie Mafia’s been making a comeback in Mississippi and all along Appalachia. And like Penn told you, it’s not about family. This ain’t the Sopranos. This is about money, and whoever has the most owns the power.” Gina rustled through her notes. Paper and sticky notes overloaded her usually immaculate desk.

  “The FBI thinks there are only three big bosses at most, and they’re tough to pin down because there’s no loyalty like southern loyalty. They operate with all sorts of businesses: antiques, flea markets, construction, garbage. They’re all legit, and all used to launder drug and illegal weapons money.” She took a sip of coffee and scowled. Then she took another.

  “Cold. The Feds have managed to get a couple of underlings to talk, so they’ve got the basic mode of ops down. But they clam up when it comes to the bosses.” She leaned back in her creaky chair looking exhausted. She rubbed her eyes until the sensitive skin around them shone pink. “My guy believes that there’s one big dog and a couple of guards, and that’s it. Little competition at the top. He’s been trying to get at least one name, but the underlings won’t talk.”

  “What about Gilbert?” Cage asked. “The inmate at Delta Correctional? Did you mention the John Wilkes Booth thing?”

  “He’s spoken with the FBI. They’re trying to convince him to testify against the bosses. FBI believes Gilbert knows all the major players, and they set him up in a private facility to grease him.”

  Cage looked longingly at the toxic-looking coffee. I should have stopped at Sallie’s. “What about Penn? What kind of hurt will he get in for talking to us?”

  “I mentioned that to my contact. They’re checking things out, but they’ve got to be careful,” Gina said. “Word might not have got out yet, and if Booth’s got connections with the warden, the Feds don’t want to be the ones to expose Penn.”

  “He needs to be protected.”

  “Working on it.” Gina gave him her bossiest look. “Back to the topic at hand. I asked my contact if he knew anything about Norton Investments and Wyatt Booth, or his boasting about Wilkes Booth, and he got really quiet.”

  A ghost of a smile played on her mouth. “I knew I had him, and I waited. Finally, he tells me the FBI’s interested in them. Seems a year ago, a former employee died of an overdose of injected fentanyl—which, by the way, was found in Gilbert’s house. He wasn’t just making meth. He had his hands in some hard shit. Anyway, the fentanyl guy had been a project manager on a major construction project in D.C.” Gina stood up, stretched, and rolled her neck. “Christ, I’m tired.”

  “The mold in the housing projects?” Cage asked. “Red’s daughter’s in D.C. She’d heard about it.”

  “The very same,” Gina said. “News of the mold comes out, the project manager is talking to the health department. And then suddenly the guy’s dead of an overdose. Wife insisted he’d been clean for ten years, but the police didn’t investigate any further.”

  “So why is it on the FBI’s radar?” Cage tried to shove the puzzle pieces together. None of them quite fit. “What do they care unless it’s a part of something a lot bigger?”

  “Exactly. And when I asked, my friend just said they were keeping an eye on the situation. But he reiterated that he believes the Dixie Mafia big boss has old school money and suspected government ties.” Gina sat back down and steepled her hands, gazing at Cage with weary eyes. “Any thoughts?”

  Cage started to slide down into the chair, fatigue sucking him dry. Then realization made him sit ramrod straight. “Wyatt Booth. Jaymee and Dani saw him at Delta Correctional. And I don’t buy the warden is a family friend shit. What if he was there to talk to Gilbert?”

  “It’s looking that way. Which brings us back to treading carefully when it comes to protecting Penn Gereau.”

  “How do you inject fentanyl, by the way? I thought it was only used in hospitals, for surgery?”

  “But drug addicts always find a way, Foster. Guess they’re using the prescription patch. Not sure how it works, but they take it off the patch and go from there.”

  Cage’s face grew scorching, like he’d been caught in the girl’s bathroom with his pants down. “Sonofabitch. Is the patch clear?”

  Gina shrugged. “I’d have to look it up. Why?”

  “Wyatt Booth has a pain patch for an arthritic knee. Told me about it himself.”

  Gina actually started to smile. “And he was in town when the project manager died. They’d met the night before, as a matter of fact. Did Booth say how long he’s been on the patch?”

  “No. But hear me out. I think—and it sounds like your FBI guy does too—that Booth is one of the big dogs. He leaned on Mayor Asher and went after the Semple land before it was in trouble.” Cage related Red’s story to Gina.

  “If you’re right, what’s on that property that he wants?” Gina said. “Because it’s not the best location for his tourist-trap supreme. I’m not buying that story for another second.”

  “It would have been if he’d gotten Ironwood like he wanted,” Cage said. “God knows he sure tried hard enough.” Norton Investments, with the help of Ben Moore, had nearly purchased Ironwood last summer before Dani came along. If they’d succeeded, the historic home would have been demolished by now, and Cage would still be alone.

  “But he didn’t. So why doesn’t he let the Semple land go? Sell at cost? From what Jaymee said about those plans she saw, it doesn’t sound like they’re building any kind of easy access. And there’s no application to the State Highway Department for a road to be built.” Gina drummed her hand on one of the files scattered across her desk. “Nothing about trying to buy right of way from the other property owners, including Dani. He’d have to build his own private road, but he’d be responsible for it. And that’s not great access for what’s supposed to be a big, money-sucking resort.

  “I’m telling you, this has bothered me since the whole deal went down,” Gina said. “It’s a bad location for a resort of any kind, especially when there’s property on the other side of town that would be a lot more accessible and less of an investment. Not to mention tearing down Ironwood would have caused one hell of a fight for Booth. I don’t think he ever intended to tear it down, to be honest. I think he wants the Semple land for something else, and Ironwood was all about accessibility.” Gina’s sharp glare made it clear she’d gotten a second wind.

  Cage tried to play devil’s advocate, but he didn’t like the feeling growing in his gut. “Could be he’s waiting on the zoning to be official. And maybe he wants this property so he can play in the historical angle.”

  “Or could be this is about something else altogether. From everything I heard, the Dixie Mafia is about fast money. Not long-term investments. I think there’s more to this land,” Gina said. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what or how in the hell Nick Samuels ties into it.”

  “You don’t know Nick. He’s got an instinct for shit like this. And he’d go straight after it.”

  Gina’s desk phone rang, and she barked a hello. Cage leaned back in the stiff chair thinking he might close his eyes for thirty seconds and just relax. Clear his head. Maybe then he could see the big, ugly something he was missing.

  “Holy shit,” Gina said. “We’re on our way.”

  Ice water down his back. The steel in Gina’s voice scared the hell out of him. “Nick?”

  “Ben Moore. His mother found him hanging
in the barn.”

  21

  Cage couldn’t help thinking no matter how peacefully a person goes, death is the most undignified moment of the human body. Everything ceases, the body expels waste, and the smell starts. Witnessing death or its aftermath is an experience that burns itself into a person’s brain and subtly changes them. Takes a tiny piece of their soul. First was Cage’s sister, then the woman murdered in the trailer court last year, and now, Ben.

  With the tap-tap of rain as background noise and the rain-induced odor of long-gone manure lingering, Cage faced the body of his former rival. Remorse and sickness rolled through him. Like the stalled pendulum of a grandfather clock, Ben Moore hung from the wooden rafters of Oak Lynn’s defunct horse barn. It looked like he’d jumped out of the hayloft. Ben’s neck hung at an impossible angle, his pants soiled. His body dangled, limp, one hand twisted in the noose, the other caught on his belt buckle. His eyes wide open, frozen like glass, mouth in a lopsided circle.

  “What an ugly way to go,” Gina said.

  Roselea coroner Jeb Riley was already on the scene. His hair and jacket dripped from the rain, and he wore the broken expression of a man who’d seen one too many bodies. “He hasn’t been here very long. I’d say no more than a couple of hours.”

  Jeb’s usually steady hands fumbled with the camera, nearly dropping it. His eyes watered. “Damn it. I just talked to him this morning. Never saw this coming.”

  “We called him in about Nick Samuels’s disappearance,” Cage said. “Ben was selling fake Civil-War replicas. I think he might have been in with some big criminal types. Nick got messed up in it, Ben gets pinched.”

  “You think he had something to do with the kidnapping?” Jeb’s white eyebrows knitted together.

  “I think he was involved in something that may have led to the kidnapping,” Cage said.

  “Jesus.” Jeb put the camera back in the bag and sat down on the bare ground next to it. He looked decidedly old, his paper-thin skin paler than normal.

  “You all right?” Gina laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Jeb wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then dug into his shirt pocket, retrieving a roll of antacids. “Stomach’s been bothering me.”

  “You said you spoke to him this morning?” Gina said.

  “This just isn’t right. Ben wouldn’t do this.” Jeb popped an antacid into his mouth and chewed before continuing. “I stopped by to see Grace. We go way back. Ben was here. Friendly. Different than he used to be. I thought—and so did his mother—that things were turning around in his life.”

  Cage stared up at the broken body. He couldn’t look away from the shock in Ben’s dead eyes. A sliver of anxiety trailed down Cage’s neck, like an ice-cold finger. Ben’s eyes looked flat and lifeless, but they seemed focused on Cage. Like he wanted Cage to see. To know. To understand.

  Gina gloved up, the snap of the latex making him jump, and carefully examined Ben’s hands. “Look at his fingertips. Skin’s shredded. He fought.”

  “Changed his mind.” Jeb kept his gaze on the ground. Cage had known the old coroner all of his life, had been on several calls with him. He’d never seen him so affected. Rumor was he and Grace were getting to be more than friends. Maybe Jeb had tried to take Ben under his wing. Or maybe he was just getting old.

  “He’s got rope burn too,” Gina said.

  “Holding on to the rope while you jump doesn’t exactly scream ready to die,” Cage said.

  “You thinking this wasn’t suicide?” Hope crept into Jeb’s tone.

  “Is there a note?” Cage said. “Did he leave Grace anything?”

  “Not that I know of.” Jeb took another antacid. “I’m telling you, I can’t believe he’d do this to her, after everything. She told me the other day he’d had a change of heart about everything he’s done to the town. Wanted to start over. She believed him.”

  That sounded unlike the Ben Cage knew, but he hadn’t been the same at the interrogation either. The usual arrogant confidence was forced. And the relief he’d seemed to show when Gina told him his computer would be searched…

  Cage looked at Gina, who nodded and said, “Get in there and talk to her. Be gentle. I’ll keep looking.”

  He found Grace in the parlor sitting with the woman he recognized as her part-time maid. Ashen and shaking, eyes red-rimmed and her usually perfect makeup smeared, Grace stared at Cage as he entered.

  “My son is dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Grace.” He sat down across from her. He should remain professional, but it was damned hard. Grace was a friend of his family, had taken Dani in like her own, had fiercely defended Cage when he was accused of murder last summer. She didn’t deserve Ben as a son, and she didn’t deserve this agony.

  “I’m all alone now.”

  “You aren’t. You’ve got me and Dani and your friends. We’ll be here for you.”

  Grace looked away as if he hadn’t spoken. “Benny and I had our problems. He was mad at me for changing my will. I’ve left Oak Lynn to the historical foundation. But after what he did…I couldn’t risk him selling this place. It’s our legacy.”

  So was that why Ben had the sudden change of heart? Trying to get the house back?

  “When he showed up last week, I thought he’d come to fight. To convince me he should have it. But he said he understood. Other than that, he never brought it up.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “All the mistakes he’s made. How he wished he could change things. That he was honestly trying to.” The poor woman sobbed into a lace hankie as her maid patted her on the back.

  Cage gave her a moment to regain some composure. “Miss Grace.” Asking the question felt like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound. “Can you think of anything Ben might have said that would have pointed to his taking his own life?”

  “No. Just today—I know you all called him to the station.” She rubbed her eyes, streaking her mascara into the fine wrinkles surrounding her eyes. “I asked him what he’d done now, and he said he was going to finally get some help. When he got back, I expected to hear more of his excuses, but he was actually happy. He said everything was going to change, and soon. He even talked about moving from Jackson and helping me run Oak Lynn. I told him I would never leave the house to him.” Grace’s face crumpled. “And he didn’t argue. He said he didn’t deserve it. He just wanted to help.”

  If Cage hadn’t seen the change in Ben himself, he would have wondered what game he’d been playing with his mother. He thought of Ben’s accusing, dead eyes. He’d been into something deep, and the police investigation was Ben’s ticket to getting out of it. Cage would bet his left nut on that.

  “So he talked about the future?”

  “He did. He had an idea—a good one, actually—about a special fall tour of the house. He thought it would be fun to do a Halloween tour and share our ghost stories. Lord knows we’ve got plenty.” She released a rasping sob. “Now he’ll be one of them.”

  The maid—Cage couldn’t remember her name—pulled Grace close. “He really was trying to turn things around,” the maid said. “Even treated me nicely, apologized for his old behavior, and told me things would be different now. I never would have expected this.”

  “Did you all search his room?” Cage asked. “See if he left a note?”

  The maid nodded. “Searched Miss Grace’s too. He didn’t leave anything.”

  Gina appeared in the doorway. Her eyes glittered. Cage could tell immediately she’d found something. “Grace, I’m so sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I borrow Cage for a minute?”

  Grace waved her hand, and Cage followed Gina out of the room. “What’s up?”

  “There’s signs of a clear struggle in the loft. Scuff marks on the bottom of Ben’s shoes.”

  “Like he was dragged.”

  “It’s very possible. None of this looks like a suicide.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a person who planned to
commit suicide. According to Miss Grace and the maid, it sounds like he was making amends, but he was also talking about the future. And after we talked to him this morning, he told Grace he was finally getting help. He was actually happy about it.”

  Gina nodded. “I’ll have Jackson police get a move on to his apartment. They’ve got his laptop, but it’s all kinds of encrypted, and naturally their techs are backed up. Story of this state. But we need to get back to the station. They found something in the pictures he sent Nick.”

  The Adams County sheriff had two computer techs housed in the basement with slits for windows and ugly, blue curtains blocking off the light. It smelled like moisture, the heat of the machines, and the reek of the empty energy drink cans flowing out of the small wastebasket. At least it didn’t smell like a drowned campfire like the rest of the town.

  “What have you got?” Cage wanted out of the tiny room as soon as possible. His head was an inch from the ceiling, and his wingspan was nearly the width of the room. More like a tomb than a department room.

  “Okay, it took me a while.” Amy, the lone tech working, looked like she belonged in a dive bar instead of a dingy basement. Her hair was short and spiked in various directions, reminding Cage of a stylish porcupine. He wondered how much gel it took to keep her hair sticking out like that. He was fascinated by the tattoo on the back of her neck—a three-dimensional tree—its gnarled limbs stretching around to her collarbone. Cage almost asked if she’d passed out during the procedure. “But I finally figured it out, using Stenography.”

  “What’s that?” Gina asked.

  “It’s the same program Al-Qaeda used to hide text files in porn videos,” Amy said. “First time I’ve seen it with an image, and it’s pretty well hidden. Honestly, if it weren’t for the Jackson forensics guys helping, I wouldn’t have cracked it. I just got the encrypted pictures separated from the main files.”

  “So what is it?” Gina asked.

  Amy clicked the file, and a picture loaded. “I found this attached to the picture of the Confederate money.” It was grainy and pixilated, but it was clearly of three men, heads together in conversation. They stood on an open patch of land, a rough-looking concrete structure to their right.