The rest of the file contained four short articles about the lynching, two of which expounded on the ‘crimes’ for which the three men were punished: leering at a white woman and illegal gathering. One reporter speculated briefly on which Klavern the five robed men belonged to. The last piece of newsprint was only a paragraph, apparently clipped from a longer article and glued to an index card: “The Sheriff said, ‘The death of these men was a tragedy, and we’ve done all we can to apprehend the perpetrators of this crime. This file will remain open until new evidence comes to light.’”
Munk sat back in the plastic chair and absently rubbed a coffee stain on his uniform. He understood a bit better now why Martha Franklin brought her sons to Texas all those years ago, and why she wanted to take her first husband’s name back. Although Charles Franklin was ripped from her life in the most hideous of ways, Munk envied her. At least she had closure, something he wasn’t sure that he and Gabrielle would ever find.
CHAPTER 57
JOSEPH OFFERED A SILENT prayer of gratitude as a phone vibrated in his pocket. He thanked the officers offering sympathy and worked his way to the hall before checking the incoming call. It was from the same number that had called earlier.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Where the hell are you?” a male voice hissed.
“Beg your pardon?”
Silence, followed by a long sigh. “Sorry, man. I mean, I’m really sorry about your mom and Joseph. I can’t imagine what you’re dealing with, but I need to see you. Tonight.”
Joseph weighed his options. This man had a connection with Moses. Was he a snitch? A criminal Moses had arrested? Someone who objected to Moses’ relationship with Moore to the point he was willing to murder them both? Whoever it was, this was the only number Moses called on this phone. Whether benefactor or foe, this man held a unique place in Moses’ life and was someone Joseph needed to meet. “Where?”
“I’m in that motel as you cross the county line into Watuga.”
Joseph knew the place. It was a filthy little dive he thought had gone out of business years ago. “Room number?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“What time?”
“After dark. Bring the medical kit from your car and get extra bandages, tape, and gauze. Pick up clothes, enough for two or three days. Think you can get all that?”
“What do you want –” Joseph began. A group of officers walked past him on their way to evening shift roll call, muttering their condolences. He turned the phone into his neck and thanked them.
“Where are you?” the voice whispered when he raised the phone to his ear again.
“At the station. Why?”
“Are you stupid?”
“What?”
Joseph heard a rustling in the background. “Somebody’s at the door. And Moses?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring food. I haven’t had anything to eat since last night.”
CHAPTER 58
MITCH COMPLETED THE LIFT and shift from his wheelchair to his desk chair with a grunt. Cass looked him over and pulled out her cell phone. A business card tumbled from her pocket and Mitch snatched it from the air.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Darla. It’s time for you to go home.”
“I’ve got work to do. Give me that thing.” He reached for the phone but Cass moved away.
She took in the dark smudges under his eyes and his sallow skin. “Mitch, you look ready for the morgue.”
“Said like a true friend,” he muttered, poking the mouse to wake his computer.
“You need to go home and, if you’re up to it, come back tomorrow. Otherwise, you won’t be any use to anybody at all.” She spoke into the phone. “Darla? It’s Cass… Yeah, he’s done for today… He’s so tired, sexy cardinals are the last thing on his mind. Do you want me to bring him home?... Yes, thanks, I’d love to.”
Mitch heaved a great sigh as Cass snapped the phone shut. “I guess that’s it, then.”
She lifted her chin at his computer. “Turn that thing off. It might cheer you up to know that Darla’s frying chicken, mashing potatoes, and making cream gravy. Just for you.”
He maneuvered out of the system and reversed the movement from his desk chair to the wheelchair. He held the business card up between two fingers as Cass grabbed the handles and shoved him forward. “Maxine’s card. You gonna call her?”
“Get your crutches,” Cass said, tucking the card in the breast pocket of her blouse. “After supper.”
“You’re eating at our house?”
“I’m not turning down Darla’s fried chicken. And Bruce is bound to be pissy since I left him working on the kitchen by himself. It’ll be cold cereal for supper at our house.”
_____________
CASS BACKED OUT OF the Stone’s driveway and waved at Darla. Her stomach was as full as she could remember, and Cass was still savoring the taste of Darla’s blackberry cobbler. Her body ached after her first full day back at work, and her mind was spinning with details of the four open cases they were working. She wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed.
Instead, she turned the volume down on the Beatles’ “Get Back” and pulled the little white card from her shirt pocket. The first ring had barely sounded when Cass heard a whispered, “Hello?”
“Max?”
“Cass?”
“I know it’s short notice, but are you free now? I can come by and we can talk.”
“No, no,” Maxine said in a breathy voice. “I mean, yes, now is a good time, but we can’t talk here.”
“Where is here?”
“I have an apartment in that new development off the Loop. Do you know it?”
Stone Briar was a massive complex, expensively designed and executed. Cass’s brother Harry and his wife Carly had done work as subcontractors on the project, designing and decorating the club house. “I do. We can’t talk there?”
“We need somewhere private. Where are you now?”
“I’m just coming into town. How about Live Oak Park? The one near downtown.”
“Okay. It’ll take me about an hour to get there.”
Cass started. “You’re ten minutes away, why so long?”
“I’ll ride my bike through the trails.”
“Why?”
“So he can’t follow me. Bring some of Stan’s coffee, would you? Extra large.”
Cass pulled up to a stop light on Arcadia’s square and looked down at the now silent phone. Who was following Maxine?
CHAPTER 59
JUNIE NIBBLED ON THE tip of a breadstick. Officer Hugo Petchard shivered as she closed her lips and then bared her teeth to take a bite. He looked down at his plate of spaghetti and adjusted the napkin in his lap. Junie fought a satisfied smile and ate more of her lasagna. Forney County’s only Italian restaurant served good food, and she asked Petchard to bring her here often. The breadsticks provided solid entertainment, too.
“You don’t know who murdered the Franklin family?”
The single candle flickered as Petchard leaned into the table. “No, but we do know that the same unsub killed Donna Moore last night. She’s one of the top accountants in Arcadia.”
“Unsub?”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Police jargon. Means ‘unknown subject’.”
“I love it when you talk shop. So, no leads?”
“Not yet, but we’ll catch the bastard who did this. You mark my words.”
“Language, Hugo. It’s crass.”
He reached across the checkered tablecloth and took her hand. “I’m just a lump of clay, Junie. You’ll have to keep working to get me into any kind of shape.”
“You’re perfect, Hugo, you have a few rough edges to smooth off. We all do.” Junie ran her thumb across his knuckles and freed her hand. “It must be difficult to work on so many investigations at one time. You have the Franklins, and the accountant, and that poor man at the gas station. What happened to him? Was it as awful as pe
ople say?”
Petchard looked up from his plate. “What are they saying?”
“That he burned to death.”
“It’s worse than that.” He glanced around the restaurant and leaned in again. “He was hanged and set on fire.”
“How horrible. Do you have any leads?”
A handsome young waiter approached with a basket of warm breadsticks. Junie smiled at him and caught Petchard scowling as the man turned to another table. She reached out to stroke his cheek. “There’s no need for that, lover.”
“I don’t like the way he was looking at you, Junie. You’re so attractive, men can’t help themselves. One day –”
“Shhh,” she said. “You’re the one I want, Hugo. That’s why I’m here with you, and not with someone else.” His face eased and she picked up her fork. “Now, you were telling me about leads related to that poor man.”
“It’s frustrating. We don’t have anything solid yet, but we’re working through the evidence. We’ll catch this guy, too.”
“I know you will, Hugo. You always get your man.” She watched him from beneath her lashes. “Did you take time to think about what happened with Detective Elliot this morning?”
He shifted in the chair and grimaced. “You were right. I let my softer side take over with Mojo when I should’ve stuck to procedure. Which means that technically, Cass was right.”
“That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
“What’s that?”
“Your willingness to look at your actions impartially, and make changes.” She touched her lip with the tip of her tongue. “You have such a beautiful soul.”
Petchard beamed.
“And you know what comes next, right?”
His face went blank. “A movie?”
She laughed and squeezed his hand. “I meant that you should apologize to Detective Elliot.”
“I should do what?”
“Apologize. Show her what a strong man you are. A man who can admit his mistakes.” She took a sip of iced tea. “She’ll respect you for it.”
Petchard concentrated on twirling spaghetti around his fork. He scratched behind his ear and looked up, his lips pursed. “You might be right.”
A soft ding sounded and Junie pressed a button on her cell phone. The screen was a harsh glow in the dark restaurant. “I’m so sorry, lover, but I have to get home and call my mother.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It’s nothing that a phone call won’t solve. I just hate that we can’t talk about your work any longer. It’s fascinating.”
“I’ll come by the café first thing in the morning and fill you in.” He motioned to her plate. “Let’s get your lasagna packed up to go. I can’t have people saying that I don’t take care of my woman.”
CHAPTER 60
THE COUNTY LINE MOTEL was about as skanky as they came. A low-slung building sloughing off paint, it hunkered forlornly between a battered liquor store and The Dolphin’s X strip club, whose sagging marquee announced that ‘Roxanne West with the Million Dollar Chest’ was performing for one week only. One light provided stuttering illumination to the empty parking lot and gravel pinged the side of Moses’ car as Joseph skirted the gaping pot holes. He drove behind the one-story building, past a small dark pickup, and parked away from number twenty-nine. Cutting the engine, he listened to its quiet ticking and watched for movement along the building and in the barren expanse butting against the parking lot.
After five minutes, he got out and gathered the medical kit, shopping bags, pizza box, and a six-pack of soda from the back seat. The lights were off in room twenty-nine but several dark spots marred the step and a bloody handprint was smeared across the door frame. Joseph tapped lightly and spun at the sound of feet hurrying across loose gravel. A hooded figure, shorter and a bit broader than Joseph, had emerged from behind the dented dumpster and stepped over the basketball-sized stones ringing the parking lot. Joseph touched Moses’ gun where it rested against his left hip, and a flash of desperate wonder streaked across his mind: did this thing have a safety, or was it a point and shoot model?
As the man came closer, he reached up and pulled the hood back, revealing a head shaved as bald as Joseph’s and a set of ultra-white teeth gleaming in the faint moonlight. Joseph started as a face bearing caramel-colored skin and a sprinkling of freckles across the nose materialized from the night. This was a face he had known all his life. Emmet Hedder and the Franklin boys had grown up together, attending the same school, playing basketball, chasing girls, and sneaking their first tastes of alcohol together. Joseph couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized Emmet’s voice on the phone earlier.
“Move,” Emmet demanded, shouldering past Joseph to the door. He kept a close watch on the space behind the motel as he unlocked the door, seemingly oblivious to the blood on the step and door frame. He slipped inside, unaware of the larger man’s surprise. Joseph followed and waited as Emmet closed the door and checked the curtained windows before flipping on a low-hanging overhead light. Emmet unzipped the hoodie and peeled it slowly from his body, exposing a deep gash across the meat of his upper right arm. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel.
“What happened?” Joseph asked as he dropped the bags on the grimy bedspread.
“The same guy that killed your mom, Joseph, and Donna came after me.” He dug in the medical kit and dry swallowed four painkillers and two antibiotic tablets. He held a bottle of alcohol out to Joseph, then positioned the towel under his injured arm. “I woke up just before he fired. He nicked me. I got one shot off and he ran.”
Emmet winced as the liquid hit his wound, a string of curses streaming from between his lips.
“Sorry, man,” Joseph said. “Celia was at her mom’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Why?”
“To let her know you’re okay.”
“Like she cares,” Emmet answered, flashing a confused look.
Joseph focused on pouring the alcohol. “Enough?”
Emmet motioned to his own medical kit on the room’s only chair. “Wash your hands, really good, and stitch me up.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re the nurse.”
“Hell Moses, I can’t stitch it with my left hand.”
“No anesthetic?”
“Just do it, man.”
Joseph raised an eyebrow and wondered, as he lathered his hands and then tore open a suture packet, how he could manage to do this without throwing up. Emmet sat on the edge of the bed and Joseph stood over him, needle poised. “What do I do?”
“It’s like fixing ripped jeans. Pinch the sides together and use a continuous stitch.”
Joseph used his right hand to squeeze the wound closed and felt faint as blood oozed from the gash. He drew a deep breath and plunged the needle into Emmet’s arm.
“Holy mother,” Emmet growled, freckles stark against his paling skin. When Joseph hesitated, he barked, “Finish it.”
Joseph pulled the needle through, brought the thread over the wound and made another stitch. “What about the blood on the door?”
Emmet frowned through the pain. “What door?”
“There’s blood outside the motel room door and on the frame. Is that from you?”
“Naw, man,” he grunted. “Somebody banged on the door when we were talking. It was a drunk, looking for a free bed. He got nasty and I smacked him in the nose.” Emmet looked at his arm. “Three more stitches, then tie the thread off.”
Emmet collapsed back onto the bed after Joseph snipped the thread but let Joseph spread a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over the stitches and cover them with gauze. Joseph ran cool water over a wash cloth and gave it to Emmet, who wiped the sweat from his face. He lay quietly for a moment, studying Joseph. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Joseph grabbed the pizza box and sodas, sat on the ed
ge of the bed, and took a slice. “You probably need food. I do.”
Struggling upright again, Emmet braced himself against the headboard. His hand hovered over the open box before dropping to his lap. His voice was quiet. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to do a hell of a lot better than this if you want to pass for Moses.”
____________
JOSEPH CHEWED, HIS EYES flat.
Emmet snorted at the stony silence. “You two have always looked just alike, moved the same, and even sounded alike, but I never really struggled to tell you apart. I know we haven’t seen much of each other since you left to go hit the Big Apple. We probably haven’t seen each other more than twice since you’ve been home.” Emmet smiled in reluctant amusement. “Even after all these years, you can’t fool me, Joseph. You sewed me up with your left hand, didn’t barf while doing it, your wallet is in the wrong pocket, and you got mushrooms on the pizza. Moses wouldn’t touch a mushroom to save his life.” He pulled a slice from the box. “But your biggest problem is the gun.”
Joseph looked down at his waist. He had slipped Moses’ holster onto his belt after leaving the pizza place. It was positioned on his left hip, ready for a left-handed draw. Looking closer, Joseph realized that the holster was ambidextrous, with belt slots positioned so the gun could be worn on the right- or left-hand side. He looked up.
Emmet shrugged with his good shoulder. “Moses is a righty.”
Joseph lowered his head into his hands and rubbed his temples.
“This is not smart, man. Being Moses will get you killed. With this shooter, being Moses’ twin is enough to get you killed. Joseph. What were you thinking?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out who would be after Moses or me. Working with the cops gives me access to their systems.”
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