by Diane Capri
Roscoe’s brows arched and she tilted her head and jutted her chin, like a dog identifying the source of a distant sound. Her lips lifted slightly at one corner, amused.
She’s laughing at me now? Kim felt played. But she didn’t understand the game. Heat rose in her chest.
Roscoe said, “Reacher’s not here. You’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid.”
Gaspar said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a cop cry when shown a missing persons photo, Chief Roscoe. In fact, I think this is a first for me. How about you, Agent Otto?”
“A first for me, too,” Kim snapped.
Roscoe replied with a little sarcasm of her own. “Sorry. Really shocking, my behavior. Seeing as how you’ve been so upfront with me. So I should definitely have been more helpful.”
Gaspar didn’t let up. “So you’re refusing to cooperate with an FBI investigation?”
Roscoe’s back was up now, too. “Look, you barge into my town, into my office. Unannounced. Unexpected. Lie to me. You knew Reacher wasn’t here when you asked me, didn’t you? I don’t owe you anything.”
Quietly, Kim asked, “What caused you to cry? What did Reacher do to you?”
Roscoe took a breath, and another, and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got emotional because, well, I was… relieved.”
“I’m lost,” Gaspar said. “Some guy assaults you, or worse, and you’re relieved that we think he might be back in your jurisdiction?”
Roscoe said, “He didn’t assault me. And I’m relieved because the FBI thinks he’s still alive. I haven’t heard from him since he left Margrave.”
“You expected to hear from him?” Kim asked.
Gaspar seemed to get it, too. “You knew him well, then?”
Roscoe hesitated too long.
Kim could almost see her rejecting one reply after another. Why so much concern over what to say about a drifter who passed through her jurisdiction briefly more than a decade ago?
Finally, Roscoe offered a weak, “I knew him well enough.”
Which made perfect sense and no sense at all. So that’s the way it was. Followed swiftly by, But how could that be true?
“Where did you meet him?” Gaspar asked.
Roscoe’s pleasant expression returned. She’d collected her poise once again. Kim felt the momentum shift to Roscoe. She would cooperate, but only on her terms. Whatever those terms might be.
“In the interview room across the hall in the old station.” Roscoe tilted her head in that direction. She grinned. “I took his fingerprints and his mug shot after he was arrested.”
Gaspar looked surprised. “Our files don’t contain any arrest records.”
“No arrest records?” Roscoe’s desk phone rang. “Hard to believe the FBI missed something like that.” She glanced down to see where the call came from and then ignored it.
“We’ll need copies,” Gaspar said. “Can we get them now, while we’re here?”
Roscoe feigned chagrin. “Afraid not. We had a fire. The station and everything in it was destroyed, unfortunately.”
Gaspar ran his hand through his hair. He looked as peeved as Kim had felt a few moments before. “What was he arrested for?”
“Something he didn’t do.”
Not likely, Kim thought. If Reacher was arrested for anything, he’d done ten times worse and not been caught. Reacher was the kind of guy who solved all problems as permanently as possible.
Roscoe’s phone kept on ringing. A low, insistent buzz. Two, three, four, five times.
Gaspar pressed on. “What didn’t he do?”
The phone kept buzzing. Someone really wanted Chief Roscoe to pick up that receiver.
“Murder,” Roscoe said.
Kim wasn’t surprised. An army-trained expert killer prowling under all available radar for fifteen solid years, invisible even to the mighty FBI. What else had Reacher been doing besides murder? That was the relevant question. Gaspar looked equally skeptical. He’d read the same file Kim had. No way would he believe Reacher innocent of murder, either.
Maybe disappointed in their reaction, Roscoe offered something that did astonish. “And then he saved my life, too.”
Roscoe smiled at their surprise. Finally she picked up her phone. She said, “Yes, Brent?” And then her smile died. She said, “What?” All business now. Short concise questions, longer periods of listening. Controlled. No tears. “He’s sure? When?” Concentration, closed eyes, deep furrows in her brow. “OK, call crime scene, paramedics and medical examiner, too. Phones only. Keep listeners out as long as we can.”
Roscoe stood up, rested the receiver against her shoulder with her chin to free her hands, patted her waist in two places, one where her gun would be holstered and the other where her badge would likely rest. She said, “Good plan. Both in the air?” She looked around for a cell phone, found it, picked it up, and dropped it into her jacket pocket. She put the phone down and picked up her car keys. She glanced across the desk and said, “My sergeant, the one who didn’t come in today? He’s been killed.” Her voice was soft, but the rest of her behavior was purely professional. “So can we pick this up later?” she asked, on her way to the door.
Gaspar moved fast. “We could ride along, like a couple of extra hands. If you like. Purely informal.”
Roscoe hesitated, pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes again, breathed deep. Then she said, “Yes, that would be great.”
Before Kim had a chance to say anything at all, Gaspar headed out, Blazer keys in hand. “I’ll drive. You can brief us as we go. Have Brent bring your car out.”
Roscoe followed close behind, issuing instructions to Brent along the way.
Kim remained seated in the abandoned man-cave. She checked her watch again to confirm the timing. She collected Reacher’s photo from Roscoe’s desk and looked around to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
No reason to rush. Plenty of reasons not to. For the first time in eight hours she felt she finally understood where this assignment was going.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roscoe and Gaspar were already belted into the front seats of the Blazer. The engine was running, the air conditioning was blasting, and the left rear door was open. Kim stepped up into the back seat half a second before Gaspar took off. She didn’t fall out, so maybe she was getting used to his style. He drove as fast as he could without a bubble light to clear traffic, straight back the way they had come less than an hour ago. They’d reach the interstate in about fourteen minutes.
“The deceased is Sergeant Harry Black,” Gaspar said, glancing into the rearview mirror to meet her eyes, catching her up on what he’d heard while waiting. “Shot and killed at home. With his own gun. By his wife, Sylvia.”
“Did you know him well?” Kim asked Roscoe.
“Since we were kids,” Roscoe said. “Harry Black grew up here. He’s worked in our department about five years, I guess. Second marriage. Sylvia worked as a secretary in our shop a while. That’s how they met. Married three years or so.”
“So what happened today?” Gaspar asked.
“You were there when I took the call. I have limited data. Sylvia called 911 at 11:28 a.m. I haven’t heard the tape yet. At some point, we’ll get a copy and a transcript. I’m told she said, quote, ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’ The operator asked her all the appropriate questions, and Sylvia just repeated those three sentences over and over again. She hasn’t uttered another word.”
“Anybody at the scene?” Gaspar asked.
“At the time of the shooting? I don’t know. But now, yes. The 911 service here is routed through Atlanta. The operator called Georgia Highway Patrol first. Maybe not sure who had jurisdiction out at Harry’s. Could have been the County Sherriff. Both of us are at least twenty miles away. GHP had a car fairly close. They called us.”
Roscoe’s voice had a slight edge to it, Kim thought.
Gaspar asked, “Something wrong with calling
the GHP?”
“Not by itself, no.”
“What, then?” Kim asked.
Roscoe turned around in her seat. She met Kim’s gaze with a steady stare. She said, “GHP is a professional organization. They’ve got good officers and good training. Just like the FBI, I’m sure.”
“But?”
“But their jurisdiction is mostly crime on the highway system. You should know that's different from murder of a small town cop. And they ride one man per car, so they have to call in for backup. And they use radio to communicate. And people listen in and show up. Which causes problems. Things can get out of hand in terms of crowd control.”
Kim nodded. She'd handled more than her share of homicides, gang violence, domestic assaults. Law enforcement was a dangerous job everywhere, especially for women. The last thing Roscoe needed was chaos at the crime scene.
Gaspar asked, “How soon would you have heard if the 911 dispatcher had called you first?”
“Within a couple of minutes, probably.”
“Literally?”
“More or less,” Roscoe said. “Two minutes would have done it.”
“Eleven twenty-eight plus two is eleven-thirty exactly,” Gaspar said, and he met his partner's reflected gaze again. Kim nodded back.
Gaspar saw it too.
***
The Black Road intersection was about two miles shy of the interstate. Roscoe told Gaspar to turn left, southwest, onto the dirt road. About fifty feet in the road became a mess of washboard grading, dust, and previous washouts. Gaspar slowed the Blazer to forty, which still bounced them around more than Kim found comfortable. She asked, “What did the GHP officer find when he arrived at the crime scene?”
Roscoe said, “Sylvia came out onto the porch with her hands on her head before the GHP guy got out of his car. She didn’t say anything to him.”
“Textbook,” Gaspar said. “For a perp, I mean.”
“She worked with us a while and her husband was a cop. She knew what to do.” Roscoe peered ahead down the narrow alley between the Georgia pines. Kim could see nothing worth the stare.
Gaspar asked, “And then?”
“The GHP guy put her in handcuffs, confirmed Harry was dead, called for backup, medical examiner, crime scene, and paramedics.”
“And then he called Officer Brent,” Gaspar said.
“All using the radio,” Kim said.
“Right.”
“Anybody question Mrs. Black since GHP arrived?” Kim asked.
“She’s not talking. We’ll arrest her, take her back to our station. And go from there. Once we see what’s going on.”
Gaspar concentrated on navigating the deserted country road around its multiple hazards. All three of them were bounced around in their seats. Gaspar said, “I remember Margrave as a pretty well maintained place for a rural community. Lots of newer buildings and fresh paint when I was here last.”
“Things change,” Roscoe said, a little coldly.
“Just asking. Nothing personal.”
Roscoe didn’t smile. She just stared on down the dusty road. Looking for what, Kim didn’t know. There was nothing to see. Piney woods either side of the road hid everything beyond its ditches.
Kim asked, “What did Sylvia mean by not being able to take him anymore? Is she claiming abuse and self-defense?”
Roscoe said, “Hard to say before I talk to her. Crazy talk, possibly.”
Gaspar glanced back again and met Kim’s gaze with a look that confirmed Kim’s impression. Harry was abusive. Kim had no use for a wife-beater. None. Even less use for friends and co-workers who covered up. She wondered whether Harry was a drunken abuser or just a power tripper control freak. And whether battered spouse defense was a legal excuse for murder in Georgia.
Roscoe said, “About five more miles, I think. Harry’s family owned this land for generations. He built the house himself about twenty-five years ago. He liked being away from people. He said the quiet was restful.”
Gaspar looked back at Kim again. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing: Rest in Hell, Harry. You sick bastard.
CHAPTER NINE
They drove on. The car bounced and lurched, hitting potholes with regularity. Kim said, “Chief, we need to know about Reacher. Whatever you can tell us. Whatever you know. We need to find him. It’s important.”
It seemed to take Roscoe a couple of seconds to switch her mind back to Reacher. She asked, “What do you want him for?”
“He’s a potentially valuable asset. The FBI is telling you it needs him. Whose side are you on?”
Roscoe turned and stared a long time directly into Kim’s face. Still wary. Maybe searching for some hint that Kim could be trusted. The Blazer hit a big pothole. Roscoe smacked her head on the roof. She raised her hand to rub the sore spot, and glanced out the back window and realized where they were.
“Back up,” she said to Gaspar, and she pointed to a mailbox so obscured by weeds and kudzu only a previous visitor could find it. “The house is about a mile down that driveway you just passed.”
Deep dents marred every surface of the mailbox. Once painted white, now veined with rusty cracks, it dangled from its thick re-rod pole, held by a single remaining U-bolt and the grasping kudzu. The door to the mailbox was missing completely. “It wasn’t like that the last time I was here,” Roscoe said.
“When was that?” Kim asked.
“Couple of years ago, I guess. Maybe longer. Before they were married, I think.”
“Looks like extreme mailbox baseball,” Gaspar said. “Kids in a car with a bat. Vandalism, in other words. A federal crime, actually. If memory serves, $250,000 fine and three years in prison for each offense. And each blow counts as a separate offense.”
Kim asked Roscoe, “Was Black targeted in some way? Kids would have to be pretty determined to come all the way out here just to beat the snot out of a mailbox for the fun of it.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Roscoe said. “I don’t know.”
The Blazer’s tires bounced from one hole to the next. Dead skunk perfume came in through the air vents. Kim held her breath. Then she saw a good-sized dirt lot and a pea-gravel driveway full of two GHP cruisers, two marked Margrave squad cars, an unmarked sedan with a portable bubble light on the dash, and a county ambulance. A coat of red dust already covered them all.
Kim asked, “Anything special you want us to do?”
Roscoe paused a moment and said, “Do whatever you think you should, I guess. I’ll catch up with you inside. Check in before you leave and we’ll see where we are.”
Then she said, “We’ll talk more about Reacher later. After I get this situation sorted out. OK?”
***
Kim watched as Roscoe followed a line of cracked sandstone slate pavers by taking a little hop from one to the next and over the dirt between them, like she was crossing stones in a running stream. Withered plants filled cracked red-dirt beds along each side of the pavers. Uncut yard weeds thrived, impersonating a lawn. Thirty feet ahead a frame shotgun style house rested on a cement block foundation. Its metal roof reflected the glare of the sun. Between the roof and the foundation were four windows cut into the walls, all grimy. A porch ran the twenty-foot width of the house. On one end, a gray weathered bench swing hung crooked on a rusty chain, and on the other end sat two white plastic dollar-store rockers with an overflowing ash tray between them.
Roscoe stepped over the last weed gap, up the single plank step to the porch, and entered the house through the open front door.
Kim stayed where she was.
Gaspar, too, seemed momentarily transfixed.
“What a hole,” he said. “My wife would never have moved out here in a million years. What kind of woman lives like this?”
“The killing kind, apparently,” Kim said. She reached into her bag and found her camera. Then she opened her door and stepped onto the hard red ground.
The first thing she noticed was the quiet noonday, biza
rrely still. She was a city girl. Noise was normal; quiet was not.
Out in the woods, no one can hear you scream.
“Did you know?” she asked.
“Know what?” Gaspar said.
“Why he gave us the eleven-thirty deadline. Why he put us in that room at that time.”
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“He wanted us to be there when the call came in. He wanted us out here at the crime scene. That how you read it?”
“Yes,” Gaspar said.
“What about Reacher?”
“Reacher’s irrelevant.”
“To what? This homicide? Or is the whole assignment bogus?”
He shrugged. “You’re number one. You figure it out.”
She could feel sweat above her lip. She couldn’t figure it out. She hated that. She said, “Take pictures, OK? And don’t be obvious about it.”
If Gaspar resented her orders, he didn’t show it. He just turned back to the Blazer and got his own camera. She watched him from behind her sunglasses.
Was he limping? FBI field agents didn’t limp. Physical fitness was one of the basic requirements of the job. Definitely no limping allowed. She reached up and dabbed the sweat from her lip, and then she headed for the house, matching Gaspar’s longer stride step for step. As they walked his limp became less pronounced. Maybe it was just a cramp.
Maybe she could rely on him.
Only one choice.
CHAPTER TEN
Inside the house the tiny hallway was full of people and full of familiar muted crime scene sounds. Then one guy moved right and another moved left and Kim got a clear line of sight into a messy bedroom. Time stood still, like a single freeze frame in a video.
Harry Black’s body was face down on bloody sheets, right where his faithful bride had shot him seven times less than two hours ago.
Not a chance.
Complete bullshit.