by Layton Green
He eyed the novel. “Law and Literature class?”
“One can only study for so long.”
“Give you a lift home?”
She closed the novel and stood. “I took your advice and drove.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
He followed her out the rear entrance. A trace of her perfume, citrus and rose and cinnamon, drifted to his nose.
She unlocked her car, then turned. “How’s the case going?”
“We have a few leads,” he said evasively.
“Any more headway with Dostoevsky?”
“I’ve come to an agreement with my existential angst, if that’s what you mean.”
Her eyebrows arched.
“I won’t question its existence,” he said, “as long as it doesn’t question mine.”
Her smile was quick and devilish. “If you’d like to discuss the novel any further, tonight’s a good night. I’ve got a light study load.”
He hefted the canvas bag full of books. “I have to get this into evidence. And I’ve got someplace to go after that.” When he saw her flinch, just barely, he added, “For the case.”
He opened her door, and she slid inside. A jolt of attraction arced through him when she looked back and their eyes met. Something else seemed to pass between them as well, a glimmer of newfound knowledge, as if they had both just realized they might be reading the same book.
After Ari pulled away, the feeling of attraction blossomed further, spreading through him as he got into his car and swerved into the street. He took a deep breath to shake it off.
Working a case did that to you sometimes: heightened emotions, made everything feel sharper and more intense. He knew he wasn’t her type, and she clearly wasn’t over her ex.
More importantly, he had a case to work, someone to find that evening.
Someone who drove a restored, maroon-and-white ’57 Chrysler New Yorker and who had made regular visits to Farley’s back office. Someone who Preach would bet his last dollar knew something about the stacks of bills stashed inside the Dickens novels.
14
As Preach drove around Creekville, searching the parking lots of the weekend haunts for Wade’s car, he thought about the key Ari had found. The obvious conclusion was a post office or safe-deposit box.
He knew Farley had maintained an account with the Creekville branch of PNC Bank. Some states required banks to microstamp routing numbers on their keys, though Preach wasn’t sure about North Carolina. When he returned to the office, he would check the key with a magnifier.
If that didn’t pan out, he would have Kirby call the rest of the local banks to see if Farley had set up a second account, then watch Farley’s mail for incoming statements. Keeping a key secret meant someone else had a reason to desire it—and that Farley was afraid of that person.
Yet how did it relate to the stacks of cash, the murder, the two crosses?
He needed more pieces to the puzzle, and it was time the person who possessed them coughed them up—whether he liked it or not.
After swinging by the Rabbit Hole and Wade’s apartment, Preach widened his search. It was Friday night, and his old friend was sure to be out on the town. Some of the places he checked for Wade’s car had been their old stomping grounds. The slew of college dives on the east end of Main Street, unchanged over the years. A pool hall turned wine bar that catered to single professors, the honky-tonk bar at the edge of town that still catered to single rednecks.
He even tried the lookout spot by the lake, a forested picnic area where bald eagles sometimes soared over the water in the dying light of the day. The night of Ricky’s accident, Preach had been at the lake with Lisa Welsh, a statuesque redhead Preach had dated for most of his senior year. The night before that, he’d been with Carly Vezzani, captain of the cheerleading team, the kind of girl who had been comfortable in her sexuality since the seventh grade.
No sign of Wade’s car. Memories pressed against Preach like trapped spirits. The midnight call from Ricky to come drink beer and help him with his car, a 1967 Mustang Fastback. God, how his cousin loved that car.
Get us a couple more beers, he had said to Preach, lifting the container of gasoline to pour into the carburetor. I’ll have it started by the time you get back.
You sure that’s safe?
Ricky had laughed. I do it all the time.
His parents were out of town. Preach went inside, popped two Budweisers, then heard the engine backfire and the first scream.
Preach ran outside just in time to watch his cousin’s face melt.
s Shuddering even after all these years, he would never forget the sound of Ricky’s screams, not long and drawn out but ragged bursts of sound, involuntary, as if they were being ripped out of him.
After another half hour of driving, Preach finally spotted Wade’s Chrysler wedged into the crowded dirt parking lot behind the String Shack, a popular live music venue. Preach parked and went inside.
The long, scruffy bar was just inside the entrance, along with a pair of pool tables. Just past the bar, the club opened into a cavernous space packed with people clapping and stomping to a loud Americana band jamming onstage at the far end of the club. The floor was sticky, and the place smelled of sweat and cheap beer.
The String Shack had been around since Preach was a kid, and as far as he could tell, not much had changed—including the three people shooting pool near the bar who were staring at him as if he were some mythical creature made real.
A hulking slab of aging football-player flesh named Eric Danforth slammed his beer bottle on an oak barrel serving as a cocktail table. “By Gawd, if it ain’t Psycho Joe himself, boots and all!”
Eric was from the sticks and had been one of the chief officers in Preach’s high school “army,” the kind of raw-boned country kid who would smash a couple of heads without asking questions. He wasn’t stupid or even mean, he just preferred that someone else told him what to do.
“I heard you were back,” Dennie White said, his voice bloated with festering anger, “though I got no idea why.” A good-looking kid, slim and tough, Dennie had been a star pitcher who boxed on the side. He was the mean one and had hated blond Joe Everson until, on the last day of ninth grade, Preach had confronted him behind the school and beat him senseless, then offered him his hand.
That was a language Dennie spoke.
The third, Lisa Welsh, said nothing. Her face looked sallow, as if Preach’s presence made her ill. He had broken up with her on an answering machine two days after he returned from the hospital.
Though they looked different—Eric with a shaved head and tattoos wrapping his biceps, Dennie with a Van Dyke beard and thirty extra pounds, Lisa with more makeup and wider hips and modern clothes—they also looked the same, as if Preach had stepped into a time machine and walked into the String Shack after winning another wrestling tournament, ready to shoot a few games of pool and sneak beer in plastic cups from the bartender, who happened to be Carly Vezzani’s older brother.
All three made subtle shifts away from Preach as he approached. The band had switched to playing an Irish jig, and two silky-smooth fiddlers were battling onstage, chins gripping their instruments.
“It’s good to see you all,” Preach said. “I wish I could catch up, but I’m looking for Wade.”
Preach caught Dennie’s eyes darting to the side, toward the hallway Preach knew ran behind the bar. The glance was so quick he probably wasn’t aware of it. “Who?” Dennie asked.
“Funny,” Preach said.
“I’m surprised you remember our names.”
“Don’t,” Lisa said.
“Don’t?” Dennie said. “You’re the last person that should be telling me to stop. He drops us all like a bad habit, fifteen years without a word, and then strolls in here and asks for Wade? Good to see you, too, old buddy.”
“I’m sorry,” Preach said. “I was a dumb kid. I handled it poorly. All of it,” he said, looking at Lisa.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, you did,” Dennie said.
“Let’s grab a beer soon, and you can give me hell about it,” Preach said. “Listen, about Wade. I know he’s here. I saw his car.”
Eric gripped Preach’s elbow. “Maybe it was someone else’s, you know?”
Preach looked down at Eric’s hand on his elbow, then slowly back up, until his gaze locked onto the face of the larger man. Eric jerked his hand away, then lowered his eyes and took a step back.
“God, you’re still afraid of him,” Dennie said, then stepped into Preach’s face. “What are you today, Joe, a cop or a preacher? Or did you finally realize what a two-faced dick you are, and it’s back to being a hell-raising ladies’ man? Is that it? We gonna start up the old crew again?”
Dennie shoved him in disgust, but Preach didn’t so much as wobble. Dennie cursed and picked up his pool stick, then leaned down and took a shot. “What do I care about Wade? He’s probably in the back office, drinking Scotch and smoking it up with one of his new friends. He’s too good for us, too, these days. Or maybe it’s just that we don’t cook meth.”
“Dennie!” Lisa snapped. “Shut your mouth.”
“It’s not like they don’t know.”
On his way past the pool table, Preach stopped beside Lisa. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but she didn’t give him a chance to say anything, refusing to meet his gaze and stepping behind Eric, who folded his arms and glared at him.
Mouth tight, he continued walking, past a line of club kids posing along the back wall, then through a swinging door and into a hallway. Behind the last door on the left, he found Wade sitting in an overstuffed chair and sharing a joint with an emaciated older man wearing a blue silk shirt and leather pants.
Wade’s companion jumped to his feet.
“You need to leave,” Preach said, before the aging rocker could speak.
“Excuse the hell outta me? This is my brother’s club. I—”
Preach flashed his badge. “Now.”
The man swallowed whatever he was about to say. “You got a warrant to come back here?”
“You really want me to get one? I doubt your brother would be too happy about that.”
The man sputtered a few curses, put out his joint, and glared at Preach on his way out of the room. The muffled sounds of the band floated through the walls.
“My attorney will have you for breakfast,” Wade said, his loathing for his old friend sparking in his eyes.
“And who’s paying that bill?” Preach grabbed an empty chair. “Looks to me like Mac’s the one living large, while you do his dirty work. Running drugs and working a cash register at thirty-five?”
Wade stubbed his joint in an ashtray and picked up a beer. “Look man, what’s your beef? I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Have you? I found thirty grand in Farley’s office. You used to disappear in there with him. What’s the money for, Wade? Was he dealing, too?”
Wade smirked and reached for his cell. “You just don’t listen, do you? Never did. I’m calling my—”
Preach smacked the cell phone out of his hand. It clanged and settled on the tile. Wade jerked back, his mouth hanging open. “Still the same old Joe, huh? Roughing someone up when you don’t get your way?”
The detective leaned forward. “You think this is a game, Wade, because you haven’t been caught. I know you—you’ve got attitude and you’re a little selfish, but you’re not a bad seed. Mac and his boys, they’re from a whole different world. A different universe. Did you know I was a prison chaplain for a few years before I was a cop? When I was at the Cummins Unit in Arkansas, there was a guy on suicide watch who reminded me of you. Lionel Simmons. Small town guy, same age, same aloof demeanor. Lionel was found with twelve ounces of pot during a traffic stop, caught a bad judge, and got sent away for six months.”
Wade wasn’t looking at him, so Preach snapped his fingers in his face. “Lionel was raped at knifepoint his first week in prison and nine more times over the next five months, usually by a gang of cons, sometimes by guards. Lionel finally snapped and stabbed a guy in the neck with a fork, which resulted in the first extension of his sentence. By the time I got to him, he’d been in jail for eleven years. Three months after I left, he committed suicide by stuffing toilet paper down his throat.”
Wade was staring at the far wall. He hadn’t touched his beer during the story.
“Where’d Farley’s money come from? Did you bring it in?”
Wade sniffed and finally took a drink, then wiped a trickle of beer off his moustache.
“Lionel wasn’t an outlier, Wade. Hate me if you like, but I don’t want to see you fall.”
Wade jumped up and started pacing the room. “I told you what I know about that night. We both know why I went there. But that’s it, man. I swear to God.”
Preach softened his tone. “If you think you’re protecting Mac, you’re not. He’ll leave you to the wolves without a second thought.”
“You’re not listening. If something else went down that night, I didn’t know about it.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Even if I did, I can’t cross him, man.”
“The books full of money?”
Wade plopped back into his chair, threw his beret on the floor, and plucked at his short, cowlick-laden, thinning black hair. His voice sounded defeated. “I carried the money, yeah, but not for Mac.”
Preach sat back in surprise. “Then who?”
Wade pressed his lips together. “This didn’t come from me.”
“You have my word.”
The barista looked from side to side, then down at his hands. “Damian Black,” he muttered.
Preach’s surprise grew. “I don’t understand.”
“We had a . . . business relationship. Over the last few months, he asked me to carry a manila envelope now and then to Farley. He never told me what was inside, swear to God.”
“We also found a key in Farley’s office.”
“What?”
“A small key, maybe to a safe deposit box.”
“So?”
“So what was it for?”
Wade’s face flushed red. “Bust me if you have to, but I’ve told you everything I know. On my honor, on whatever we had between us in the past, on my mother’s damn grave—I didn’t have anything to do with Farley’s murder, I have no idea what that money was about, and I don’t know a goddamn thing about any key.”
15
Preach felt on edge as he drove away from the String Shack. Jittery with nervous energy over the case, restless with worry for Wade. He had seen no deception skittering in his old friend’s eyes, and he could only hope, for his sake, that he was telling the truth.
A front had blown in, stirring up the fog and resulting in a lukewarm fall night, pregnant with clouds and static electricity. The giant oaks along Hillsdale loomed on either side of the street, and he felt as if Creekville had disappeared and he were driving through an ancient forest, in a time before cities and towns and villages, before swarms of people had invaded the earth.
A mile from the city limits he pulled into the parking lot of his gym. Preach was not a workout fanatic, but sometimes tossing around large plates of iron for an hour was the only way to clear his head.
At this time of night, the gym would be deserted, which suited Preach just fine. It was a relic from another era, a single-room shack with rusty iron weights, no mirrors, and hard rubber mats covered with a layer of dust and dried sweat. The members all had keys, paid a nominal monthly fee, and used it whenever they liked. The owner was Ray Logan, Preach’s old wrestling coach. A devout Christian, Ray had taken Preach to his church after Ricky’s death, when he saw him struggling to cope. They had remained close over the years.
The first drops of rain spattered the windows as Preach slid the plates onto the bench press bar. His mind roved elsewhere during the workout.
The news about Damian had muddied the waters. Preach drew the only reasonable conclusion: Farley was blackmail
ing his old friend. It would explain the bookseller’s sudden enrichment, the clandestine nature of the payments, and the abrupt cessation of contact.
But what did Farley have on Damian?
Unlike most murder cases, Preach now had an abundance of suspects. He finished a set and threw on more weight, loading the barbell down with three forty-five pound plates on each side. Lightning backlit the trees outside the window as he slid onto the bench. He gripped the bar and knocked out six hard reps, paused to take a few quick breaths, then prepared to push out one more.
After a deep breath, he lowered the bar to his chest as a crash of thunder rocked the gym. Just as he began to push, four men in black ski masks poured through the doorway.
The entrance was twenty feet away. Preach had locked the door behind him, and he didn’t have time to ponder how the men had gotten inside. All he knew was that if they reached him before he got that weight off his chest, he would be at their mercy.
He blew out a breath and thrust as hard as could, channeling a burst of adrenaline.
Push, he urged himself. Push.
The intruders’ muddy work boots swished over the mats. The first was halfway there. Preach’s gun was on the bench behind him, within arm’s reach if he could just rack the bar and free his hands.
He thrust his heels against the ground and lifted his butt off the bench, arching his back as he pushed. If he had used a lighter weight, he could have thrown off the bar or risked sliding out from under it. But this was three hundred and fifteen pounds of solid cast iron. He had to rack it.
The first man reached the foot of the bench, a worn military jacket flapping behind him. Preach felt his elbows lock, and he braced to throw the bar back. Just before it fell into place, the man grabbed the bar and leaned on it, forcing it down.
Preach’s arms buckled as the bar fell against his chest. He spent his final ounce of energy making sure the bar’s descent didn’t crush his sternum.
All four men hovered over him, reeking of whiskey, greasy hair hanging beneath the ski masks. Preach knew the flinty stares leering from the eyeholes belonged to men who had either served hard time or weren’t afraid to.