The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’ said Parker, because Griffin’s tone suggested a certain ambivalence.

  ‘I may be less enthusiastic than most, although not so much that I’d want to see Texas benefit over us. Still, I have my reservations.’

  ‘Because you won’t be the law in Cargill any longer,’ said Parker. ‘Kovas will, and your department will exist to serve the company’s interests first, and those of the community second.’

  ‘It’s been suggested that those interests are one and the same.’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  ‘Not completely.’

  Parker sipped his coffee. It tasted like coffee in bars everywhere, which meant it wasn’t so good that anyone would want to drink a second cup. He took in Boyd’s shabby décor, and the smell of old grease and spilled beer. It was about what one would expect from the best bar in a town like Cargill. But if Kovas moved in, Boyd’s would have to change, just like the other businesses in town. Money would transform Boyd’s, even to the point of rendering it unrecognizable, because money would transform the entire region.

  ‘And Jurel Cade?’ said Parker.

  ‘The Cades are the major landowners and property developers in the county. They stand to benefit more than most if Kovas decides to locate here.’

  ‘Which is why Jurel Cade buried the investigation into Patricia Hartley’s death.’

  ‘As chief investigator, Jurel is entitled to make any such calls,’ said Griffin, ‘including whether or not to seek the assistance of the state police. But in this instance, I believe the powers that be in Little Rock would have approved of his decision to leave the state police out of it. Unofficially, Little Rock may even have been involved in making that decision. Nobody up there wants to see the Kovas deal endangered. If that means filing away a black girl’s possible murder as an accidental death, then so be it.’

  ‘What about Patricia Hartley’s family?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘When I was asking around – before you locked me up – I struggled to find any trace of them. Someone said they’d moved away.’

  ‘That’s right: a mother and two young sons. They left town not long after the funeral.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Their house burned down. As a gesture of goodwill, and in light of the loss they’d already suffered, the Cades secured alternative accommodation for them in Lucedale, Mississippi.’

  ‘Lucedale is a long way from Cargill.’

  ‘Hell of a long way. You can see the Gulf of Mexico from it, or good as.’

  ‘What about the fire?’

  Griffin shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘They do around here.’

  ‘What about the Kernigan girl? Did she have anyone?’

  ‘A mother and grandmother. We’re still trying to trace the mother. She works out of town, and hasn’t been seen since Friday morning.’

  ‘Maybe she got offered a place in Lucedale too, and accepted it to save someone the trouble of burning down her house.’

  ‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

  Parker was back to wishing he’d kept on driving. It seemed as though Evan Griffin was one of only a handful of people in the state of Arkansas with any interest in solving these killings, or one of the few with even a semblance of the power required to investigate them. And this was alien territory for Parker: he didn’t know the South and, truth be told, didn’t want to know it. The majority of its population didn’t think like him or share his views. How William Jefferson Clinton had emerged from them, he couldn’t say, except that Clinton was probably more like the rest than he appeared to be. A man didn’t get to be called Slick Willie by his home electorate for nothing.

  ‘You can’t investigate these killings without Jurel Cade’s help,’ said Parker. ‘Whatever evidence exists is held by his office.’

  ‘There is no evidence in the Hartley death,’ said Griffin, ‘beyond scraps.’

  ‘Why? Even if the coroner signed off on an accidental death, the sheriff’s office would still have been obliged to document the scene and file paperwork.’

  ‘It all got left in a sheriff’s office cruiser that was run through a car wash. Their vehicles have at least as many holes as ours. The contents of the boxes were destroyed, including the file, or what passed for it.’

  Parker stared at him for a time, but did not speak. Words were redundant.

  ‘You’ll still need to talk Cade around,’ he said, finally.

  ‘That could be difficult.’

  ‘Perhaps not as difficult as you might think,’ said Parker.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you now have three dead women in Burdon County, two of them murdered in recent months. Whatever the reason for the hiatus between the first and second deaths – because it makes no sense to rule out a link – the killing has now resumed with a vengeance, and it’s going to continue. Estella Jackson, the first, was a cold case, and Cade and the coroner managed to write off the second death, but Donna Lee Kernigan’s murder represents a pattern, and patterns mean publicity. It may be that Kovas Industries has so far accepted Jurel Cade’s assurances that the situation is under control, but this most recent death is going to change that. The only thing worse than a series of unsolved murders is a series of unsolved murders that’s ongoing. If Burdon County is to retain any hope of securing that investment, it lies in finding whoever is responsible for these deaths. Burying your heads in the dirt won’t work any longer.’

  Griffin checked his watch.

  ‘I have a meeting with Cade in about an hour’s time. I think you should come along for a more formal introduction.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘In the meantime, there’s something I’d like to show you. It’s on the way.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘First of all, the place where Patricia Hartley’s body was found. And then,’ Griffin added, ‘the place where I think it was meant to be found.’

  31

  Jurel Cade prowled his father’s study, the silence broken only by the ticking of the Newport tall case clock in the corner, one of just seven known to have been signed by the eighteenth-century clockmaker Thomas Claggett. Jurel had always regarded the clock as too big for the room, and thought it more rightly belonged in the hall, but his father was not to be reasoned with on this subject or any other.

  Delane Cade – or ‘Pappy’ to those who knew him best, including persons beyond his own immediate family – was now in his eightieth year, and displayed few signs of mental decline. His three children all bore his imprint, although his younger son, Nealus, had more of their dear departed mother in his temperament, which revealed itself, in Pappy’s view, as a tendency toward sensitivity that veered frequently into sullenness. His daughter Delphia, by contrast, displayed comparatively few of those traits that Pappy considered typical of, or even integral to, the female sex, either as manifested previously by her mother or by anyone else of her gender; she remained a troubling anomaly to him, like a hermaphrodite or androgyne. Yet it was to Delphia that Pappy had entrusted the day-to-day running of the family’s business concerns, though he had seen fit to ensure that all three of his offspring would receive a generous share of the Cade wealth in the event of his demise, thus avoiding any costly and unseemly wrangling over the succession.

  Until recently, the promise of such a bounty might have held only marginal appeal, given that the Cades were rich in property and assets but less well endowed with hard cash. But for the past two years, Pappy, assisted by his daughter, had been intimately involved in luring Kovas to Arkansas – more particularly Burdon County, and specifically those regions of Burdon County owned and controlled by the Cade family. Only that morning, Pappy had been in conversation with three state senators regarding further modifications to the tax deal on offer to Kovas, and had scheduled a meeting with one of the governor’s fixers to ensure that 1800 Cente
r Street would row in behind any such agreement. Pappy was still finding his feet with Mike Huckabee, who had replaced Jim Guy Tucker as governor following the latter’s conviction for conspiracy and mail fraud over Whitewater. (Which was another fuckup, one that, for a time, had threatened to derail the Kovas deal, until someone close to the Clintons gave assurances to Kovas executives that the independent counsel could look into Whitewater until his eyes bled without finding enough to indict the president. Pappy could only be grateful that he had declined to involve himself in the development of those vacation rentals on the White River. If only Slick Willie and his wife had been similarly prudent …)

  And now, with Kovas on the verge of signing on the dotted line, someone was dumping dead girls almost within sight of land earmarked for the company’s construction projects. If this went on, Pappy would soon be reduced to burying the damn bodies himself, and praying that no one noticed the smell.

  Pappy took in the figure of his older son. Jurel’s problem, Pappy thought, was that he held too much rage inside him. It made him unsuited to diplomacy. Pappy had hoped that the sheriff’s office might be a proving ground for Jurel, knocking some of the rough edges from him before he commenced the ascent to higher office. Instead, it appeared that his son was committed to remaining what he was, where he was: another small-time lawman in a small-time county. Pappy, however, had not lost faith in his ability to mold his middle child into a more evolved specimen. Whatever the outcome, Jurel would still be useful when Kovas moved in, because the company could be assured that the law was on its side in Burdon County, and would do everything in its power to guarantee prosperity and security for all. Unfortunately, this would be difficult for Kovas to swallow if girls kept getting themselves murdered around Cargill.

  ‘Sit down, Jurel,’ ordered Pappy. ‘You’re making me nauseous.’

  Jurel sat, but his left foot maintained a nervous tapping on the floor.

  ‘This Donna Lee Kernigan,’ said Pappy, ‘you sure she died like the last one?’

  ‘A stick at each end,’ said Jurel, ‘like a spit roast.’

  ‘My God,’ said Pappy, although it wasn’t clear whether he was reacting to the nature of the crime, his son’s analogy, or both. ‘And there’s no question about it being in Cargill’s jurisdiction?’

  ‘We could argue geography, but Griffin won’t listen. We might lean on him. One of our banks holds the paper on his home. Plus, he wants to keep his job. He loves it, just as I love mine.’

  ‘Lean on him to what purpose?’

  ‘To encourage him to hold off on any formal investigation until Kovas has committed to the county. Once we have contracts signed, they can’t pull out, right?’

  ‘They can pull out anytime they please,’ said Pappy, ‘especially if it emerges that information pertinent to their final decision was concealed from them. I think serial murders might qualify in that regard. We could end up in court until the Second Coming.’

  Pappy dropped a peppermint Tic Tac into his mouth. He sucked on them continuously, ever since his cardiologist had ordered him to give up smoking and cut down on his drinking. Pappy kept boxes of Tic Tacs in his office drawers, the glove compartment of his car, and the pockets of his clothing. Like a skeleton, he rattled when he walked.

  ‘If there’s an investigation, and publicity,’ said Jurel, ‘they won’t have to pull out because they’ll already have opted for Texas.’

  Pappy crunched down hard on the Tic Tac.

  ‘When are you meeting Griffin?’

  ‘In about an hour.’

  ‘Tell him to come here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If I wasn’t, would I have said it? Evan Griffin’s a reasonable man. He wants what’s best for the county. There might be a way we can make this work for everyone.’

  Jurel understood by his father’s tone that this part of the conversation was now concluded. He moved to the french windows to stare out at the garden beyond. It was in a poor state, even for the time of year. His mother had always tended it well, but Pappy took no interest or joy in plants and flowers, and with his wife’s passing it had fallen into disrepair. A yard service came in during summer to keep the lawn trim, and clean up the leaves in the fall, but any suggestion that Pappy might like to add some color to the beds fell on deaf ears. It was possible, Jurel considered, that only his father’s affection for his departed spouse prevented him from paving over the garden entirely.

  Not that the house itself was in significantly better condition. Ever since Nealus had moved to his own place – although one, by mutual agreement among the siblings, on their father’s land, and within summoning distance of the family home – the dwelling appeared to have grown darker and dustier, despite the efforts of Miss Quinnett, who took care of cooking and cleaning for Pappy. He wouldn’t allow her to disturb the rooms he used regularly, and claimed the vacuum cleaner gave him a headache. He also preferred dimness to brightness, and eschewed any illumination stronger than lamplight. The whole property bore a miasma of mortality.

  And was that such a surprise? For all his apparent haleness, Pappy was catching glimpses of the Reaper. His mind was still alert, but his body was ailing. His enduring legacy would be the Kovas deal, and the consequent transformation of Burdon County’s fortunes. Already he had arranged an endowment for a new library in Cargill to be erected in his name after his death, even though he’d never read a book for pleasure in his life. But he’d also ordained that, should he die while the current governor remained in office, he didn’t want him to turn the first sod, or any other such nonsense, on the grounds that ‘fucking Huckabee will just fill the whole place with Bibles.’ Pappy wanted Jim Guy Tucker to do the needful instead. Jim Guy might have been a crook, but at least he wasn’t always bothering Jesus with his shit.

  ‘Jurel?’

  His father’s voice brought Jurel back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You still think a Negro killed those girls?’

  Jurel considered the question.

  ‘I believe it would be for the best if that was the case,’ he said.

  Which wasn’t really answering the question.

  ‘You have any suspects?’

  Yes, he had suspects. The county wasn’t short of coloreds with criminal records, some of them violent – wasn’t short of white people with records either, but that was beside the point.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Well, leave me to reflect on how we might progress with that.’

  Jurel didn’t make any objection, didn’t attempt to point out that he was the law in the county, not some old man sucking on Tic Tacs because he was too scared to smoke. It wouldn’t have been true anyway. Power and money determined the law, and justice, like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder.

  Jurel left Pappy’s office, closing the door behind him. From the kitchen he heard the clattering of Miss Quinnett. She’d been a fixture in the house for as long as he could remember, back when she was in her thirties and he was still a little boy. She’d never married. He’d never thought to ask why, except that he thought she loved his father – not in a sexual way, or as a dog might love its master, but as a mother loves an errant child that has grown into an equally errant adult. Even though she was younger than Pappy by fifteen years, she seemed to Jurel to be much older, as though this house had stolen the years from her.

  Miss Quinnett was to be looked after in his father’s will, but with a percentage, not a set sum. She, too, would benefit from Kovas’s arrival in Burdon County, if only so that she might pass on her employer’s largesse to various brothers and sisters, and assorted nieces and nephews. But even in this simple way, so many lives would be improved.

  Jurel opened the front door. A man was approaching the house, his build so thin that he seemed almost to pass untouched between the raindrops: Nealus, youngest of the clan. Behind him, a Mercedes was pulling into the drive, a woman behind the wheel: Delphia, arriving. The Cades were closing ranks, securing their future and that
of the county.

  Jurel wondered if Nealus had been watching for his sister. They had always been intimate, these two, eldest and youngest siblings respectively, and more so since the death of their mother. Jurel, the middle child, had been equally distant from both, like the apex of a long, narrow triangle.

  Wreathed in the crepuscular light of home, he waited to admit them.

  32

  Parker and Griffin stood on an escarpment, the result of some tectonic shift in the landscape many thousands of years earlier, with forest behind and sparser growth below. The slope was a mixture of exposed stone and thin grass; it wouldn’t be too difficult to descend, but less risky when the ground was dry. They’d already been forced to walk from the road to this point, and Parker had accepted the offer of a raincoat from Griffin. It wasn’t doing much to keep his head dry, but a man took his comforts where he could.

  Griffin pointed toward a stand of pines below, where the remains of crime scene tape still fluttered.