“I disagree. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’ll excuse me for saying so, Jillian, but so far I’m not convinced. Tell me more about the journal. What about it made you think Belle was murdered?”
“It wasn’t the journal so much as it was Belle’s suicide note,” Jillian said. “In both the note, when she told me she was sorry for what she had to do, and all throughout the journal, Belle referred to me only as J.”
“So?”
“In the journal, that was just an abbreviation she used for me. She would never refer to me by an initial in something as emotional as that note. She’d write out my name, or at least ‘Jill.’ I don’t know how, or why, but I’m sure she was forced to write the note and using just the letter J was her way of telling me so.”
“Thin stuff, Jillian,” Clemmons said, glancing down at the lifeless caller board. “I guess the police didn’t make much of it.”
“Actually, they didn’t make much of anything.”
“Well, did you notice anything strange about the things you found in her apartment? Anything at all?”
Jillian hesitated. She already felt foolish enough presenting the psychic connection, and hearing Clemmons talk about the journal made most of her points sound thin. But there was something else.
I have nothing to lose by mentioning this, she decided finally.
“In a box in the back of her closet, Belle had a stack of comic books—fifty or so different issues of the same kind, and they didn’t make anything of those either.”
“Comic books?”
“I feel I know—knew—my sister very well. I had no idea she was interested in any sort of comics, and I told the detectives how odd that was, but they just shrugged the notion off. In the box, right on top of the comics, were several printouts from the Internet. Belle had been researching them. I have no idea why, and as I said, the police just didn’t care.”
Clemmons glanced once more at the naked caller panel.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?”
“What were the comic books?”
“Oh, I had never heard of them before, but they were all Marvel comics called Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. And on the cover of several of them she had written ‘Doctor’ or ‘D-R period’ right before his name, or ‘Ph.D.’ right after his name. Maybe that means something to your listeners.”
“Well, it doesn’t to me, except that your little sister may have been more eccentric than you knew. Maybe she had a secret life. Listeners, what’s your opinion?”
As if on cue, a blinking light appeared on the studio’s small call-in panel.
“There’s one,” Jillian said, forgetting for the moment that their mic was on.
“Thanks for the help,” Clemmons said sardonically. “Hey! We got ourselves a caller. Hello to Troy from Weddington. You’re on the Rick Clemmons Show, whatcha got?”
“Yeah, this here’s Troy, from Weddington,” the caller said in a dense, backwoods patois.
Inwardly, Jillian groaned.
“What’s up, Troy? You’re on air with Rick Clemmons. You got thoughts on the Belle Coates case?”
“Nah,” the caller said. “I’uz just driving west on Seventy-four. Thought yer guest sounded hot. Figured I’d call.”
Clemmons looked over at Jillian as though he were making an assessment, offering an apology, and issuing a warning, all at the same time.
“Hey, numbnuts,” he said, “this isn’t the dating game. We’re doing real investigative reporting here. And yes, Troy from Weddington, for your information Jillian Coates is hot—tall and slender and absolutely gorgeous. But she ain’t interested in you, Troy, and guess what, neither am I.” Clemmons disconnected the call and cued the sound effect of an exploding bomb. “Look, folks, you got opinions, share ’em. You got information, especially about a Marvel comic hero named Nick Fury, or Dr. Nick Fury, give it up to us. You got a big woody like that idiot who just called, well, that’s what your bedroom’s for.” Clemmons laughed.
Jillian was glad she wasn’t holding a weapon. Agreeing to appear on this show had clearly been a mistake. The time could have been better spent going through Belle’s things again, searching for any kind of clue as to what might have happened that horrible night.
“As I was saying,” she managed, “if you knew my sister, you’d know she wouldn’t take her own life.”
“Have you hired a PI? You know, somebody familiar with the ins and outs of police work, who can review the case file with fresh eyes.”
“I’m a nurse. The detective I called wanted a retainer that would have just about wiped me out. In the weeks since my sister’s death, I’ve taken a leave of absence and made finding her killer my life’s purpose. I’m hoping somebody out there knows something and has the courage to come forward and help.”
Clemmons clicked over to a second caller.
“Go, you’re on the Rick Clemmons Show.”
“Yeah, lady, why don’t you come over to my apartment and I’ll help you do some real detective work.”
Clemmons disconnected the call and signaled for a commercial.
“Sorry. Even though I think it’s true, maybe the tall and gorgeous thing was a little unnecessary. Ralph,” he called out to the producer, a beanpole with a head resembling an ostrich egg, “what in the hell kind of calls are you letting through?”
“We ain’t got a very big selection, Rick,” the man replied from the tiny control booth. “Besides, you know as well as I do, that kind of call is why people keep tuning in. You’re on in three, two, one . . . and . . . now.”
“What happened to respect, people?” Clemmons barked at his audience. “There was a time when you callers at least had some sense of decency. Come on, Night Owls. How about some thoughts about the journal and Jillian’s theory? You know, tonight’s topic? How about some comments on that? How about those comic books she found? Doesn’t it seem weird for Belle Coates to be collecting Nick Fury comics?”
Jillian looked again at the studio walls, adorned with pictures of Rick Clemmons glad-handing with celebrities she recognized. Maybe she had read him all wrong. This wasn’t a dream gig for him. He had mentioned getting fired from a much bigger station in Atlanta, but hadn’t said what he did wrong. Rusted trailer or not, it was starting to sound as if his concern might be genuine.
“Sorry about these callers tonight, Jillian,” he said on air. “Okay, everyone, the truth is what matters most on the Rick Clemmons Show, starring me, Rick Clemmons, broadcasting on WMEW 82.5 FM, where the weather is still the same as it was ten minutes ago when I last told ya’, fifty-five degrees and dark outside.”
Clemmons signaled to Jillian that it was her time to talk.
“I think whoever killed Belle knew her,” Jillian said. “There was no sign of a break-in or a struggle.”
“A young nurse with an obsession for comic books dies under at least suspicious circumstances. Her apartment is locked up solid from the inside. Theories, people. Theories.”
A lone light on the phone bank began to blink, along with a message from Ralph on the small LED display announcing the caller’s name.
“Hey there, Joe from Monroe,” Clemmons said, “nice rhyme. You’re on the Rick Clemmons Show, you got any four-one-one for us?”
The caller laughed. “For this crackerjack? No. Nada. You’re nuts, Clemmons, for having this whack-job on.”
“Joe, get ready to be blown up. That your real name?”
“My real name is Officer You Don’t Need my Name, of the Charlotte PD. And yeah, I got info. I was one of those who investigated this case. And I’ll tell you this much. This lady is way off base. What are you trying to say? That we don’t know how to do our job?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just want somebody to listen to the facts I’m presenting,” Jillian answered, her voice again husky with frustration. “My sister would never, ever have—”
“The fact is that comic books or not, your sister kill
ed herself. Look, we got it bad enough out there with dopers and killings and carjackings, without you making things worse by questioning our ability. We investigated Belle Coates’s death. We investigated it good. Those Internet printouts with the comics were years old. Years. She made the choice. She took the pills. She died. Case closed. Don’t blame us for it, lady. Blame her.”
“I . . . I . . .”
There was a click and a dial tone.
CHAPTER 9
As she emerged from the dimmed lighting of the trailer, the morning sun took Jillian by surprise. Her focus during the broadcast had been so unwavering, she had completely lost track of time. Pausing in the weedy gravel parking lot, she blinked until her vision had adjusted to the glare. Then she checked her watch and sighed.
The only four hours I could get you on any broadcast and I let you down.
She tried, with some success, to convince herself that Joe from Monroe was nothing more than a twisted prank caller. Cop or not, though, his words still cut and had hurt her deeply.
. . . She made the choice. She took the pills. She died. Case closed. Don’t blame us for it, lady. Blame her.
In the studio, she had suppressed the urge to shout names at the callers that would have embarrassed Howard Stern. But she couldn’t risk upsetting Clemmons and possibly having him cut the broadcast short.
When the morning crew arrived, Jillian was in a somber mood, still reeling from the horrific experience. Despite what had just transpired in the trailer, from Clemmons’s wandering eye to his legion of moronic callers, she still managed to pitch the newly arrived morning show producer for more airtime. He politely declined.
It wasn’t until Jillian reached her rental and unlocked the door that she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Rick Clemmons, straw hat in hand, hurrying toward her.
“You did great in there,” he offered. “Thought maybe you and I could head on down to WaffleTown for some eggs or somethin’. Talk about the show and all.”
Then he winked, as if he needed to make the subtext of his offer perfectly clear.
Jillian shook her head in disgust. “Clemmons, you really amaze me. You know that?” she replied. “I mean, don’t you have any appreciation for what I just went through in there? And you’re not making it any easier out here by hitting on me. My sister is dead and you were my best hope for catching her killer.”
“Show still might help,” Clemmons said, seeming not the least bit affected by her harsh words.
“Okay, I’m sorry for snapping at you. Your show wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I wrote and asked for a spot on it, but at least you gave me a chance. I owe you for that. But a thank-you—nothing more.”
Clemmons’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he was about to say something when the trailer door flew open and the pale, ovoid face of his producer poked out.
“Got a phone call ’bout the show, Rick. Guy says his cell ran outta juice afore he could get through. He wants to talk to our guest here. Won’t tell me what it’s about.”
Jillian groaned. She knew the call would most likely be crude or abusive, but she trudged back up the trailer stairs anyway. For Belle.
“Hello? This is Jillian,” she said, slightly breathless from fatigue and the short climb.
“Ah, hey there, Jillian. Name’s Roach, Kyle Roach, from out Oak-bridge way.”
“Yes, Kyle. Do you have information for me?”
Jillian tensed at what she was certain was going to be a crude retort.
“Tough callers t’night. Real bottom-feeders if ya ask me.” He sounded like all the others, and Jillian was about to thank him and hang up when he added, “But I ain’t one of them, I assure you. I have a wife and two kids at home. I listen to Rick Clemmons because I work the night shift at the Daimler plant, and those idiot callers he gets keep me laughing and awake.”
“I’m listening,” Jillian said.
“I would have called in to the show and all, but my cell phone here died on me.”
“Yes, yes. The producer told me that. Now what is it?”
“I think we might want to get together and talk.”
Jillian had had enough.
“Good-bye, Mr. Roach,” she said.
“Wait. I said I was serious and I meant it.”
Jillian was poised to cut him off but something made her stop. “Go ahead,” she said, “but one crude word and you’re gone.”
“Okay. Here’s why I think we should meet. I know who Dr. Nick Fury is.”
“What?”
“I served with him in Afghanistan.”
CHAPTER 10
When Jillian arrived at the Calderwood Diner, Kyle Roach was right where he had promised he would be. He spotted her the moment she stepped inside the folksy roadside grill, and rose from his booth, farthest from the door. He was wearing a baseball cap, tattered along the rim, and a pair of faded olive green overalls that did little to mask his expansive girth. He was nothing like the crackpot Clemmons Night Owl she had been expecting, and his manner and aura immediately put Jillian at ease.
Despite her exhaustion, Jillian had spent much of the past day and evening awake in her hotel room, pondering the link between Belle and Dr. Nick Fury. Finally, after leaving a wake-up-call request for five, she dozed off, twisting her brain into knots over what sort of monster could have done such a thing to such an incredible woman, and how they could have done it. After a brief shower, she stopped by Belle’s apartment before heading for the diner.
Roach extended a hand to her as she neared. His calloused palm was that of a workman, his melancholy blue-green eyes those of a soldier.
“Jillian Coates?” Kyle asked, in a logy drawl.
“That’s me.”
“Kyle Roach, a pleasure to meet you.” He guided her back to the booth and motioned the waitress for two coffees. “First off, let me say how truly sorry I am about the passing of your sister. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I lost quite a few buddies in the war, and one real good friend, but the years have taken the edge off some. That’s about the best I can hope for. Same with you, I suspect.”
Jillian thanked him for his understanding and especially for his honesty. After a string of reflexive “I know what you’re going through” sentiments from friends and coworkers, his remark was refreshing.
In hindsight, her decision to pay one last visit to Belle’s apartment had not been a wise one. Seeing the dark windows from the street had been heart wrenching enough. Her last walk through the empty rooms, now filmy with dust, left her sobbing on the hardwood floor. The closure she had hoped for was absent, and she had trudged back to the street consumed by an insatiable hunger for answers.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet me, Kyle,” Jillian said.
“Heck, it’s nothing at all. I come here most every morning anyway, after I get out of the plant. I couldn’t meet you yesterday because I was working a double. Sorry I troubled you to take an extra day here in Charlotte.”
“It wasn’t any trouble at all, really. As you can tell from the show, I’m desperate for information. Can I get you breakfast?”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“No limits.”
“You should watch me eat before you say somethin’ like that.”
Roach ordered three fried eggs, sausage, bacon, two biscuits, gravy, and grits; Jillian, fresh fruit and yogurt. She felt herself shaking with the notion that she might be close to learning something, anything, that connected to Belle, even if the connection was a tenuous one. Forty-seven different issues of the same comic book, set in Belle’s closet. No copies of even one other title. “Doctor” written in several ways on a number of the covers. Clearly Belle wasn’t in it as a collector. The comics store around the corner from Jillian’s place in D.C. had priced the complete issuance at just over a hundred dollars.
“Maybe we ought to talk before that breakfast arrives,” Jillian said, “unless you can guarantee me you can stay awake after you eat it.”<
br />
“Heck, I was thinkin’ of makin’ the grits a double order.”
“Kyle, you know why I’m here. I’m here because I’m very interested in learning more about this Dr. Nick Fury.”
“Well, what do you know so far?” Roach asked.
“Nothing really,” Jillian confessed. “I spent a few hours in the hotel business center Googling every combination of ‘Nick Fury,’ ‘Dr. Nick Fury,’ ‘N. Fury’ I could imagine. All I turned up were references to the comic book character.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. Like I said, I know only one Dr. Nick Fury and I doubt he’s going to come up in any Web search,” Roach explained. “See, Nick Fury, he’s a comic book character, all right. But Dr. Nick Fury, heck, that boy is as real as these here menus.”
“You convinced me it was important we meet in person to share what you know. Why? Is he some sort of criminal or something? Do you think he murdered my sister?”
Roach laughed in a deep, engaging way. “Ma’am, Dr. Nick Fury is a saint, not a killer. At one and the same time, he ’uz one of the most caring doctors and one of the toughest soldiers I’ve ever known.”
The waitress brought over their food. Jillian studied Roach as he took a sip of his black coffee and a lengthy gulp of water before digging in. For a man of war, he seemed very much at peace—except for his eyes. She remembered the serenity in her own life before Belle died. Getting over their parents’ death had been such a long climb for both sisters. Belle had been a constant source of strength throughout the ordeal and together they kept each other grounded.
“I want to know everything I can about him,” Jillian said.
Roach paused and looked beyond her. She could see the years in Afghanistan cross his countenance like a cloud.
Michael Palmer Page 6