River of Secrets

by Roger Johns

  “Tell me about your little outing.”

  “Nothing to tell. It’s a popular fishing spot. I got a valid fishing license.”

  “Were you fishing for birds? It’s those binoculars that make me ask.”

  He waited a few seconds before answering. “You don’t know a lot about fishing, do you, Detective?”

  “I’m more of a hunter.”

  “Well, see, nice boats got fish-finders. It’s like underwater sonar that locates where the fish are schooling. The boat in that picture is a rental. A low-cost rental, at that, so it ain’t equipped with fancy electronics.”

  He paused. Wallace knew he wanted her to ask him to continue, as if by making her drag things out of him he was somehow in control of the conversation.

  “And all this has something to do with you and the binoculars?”

  “Looking out for pelicans. You know, the state bird? They eat fish. Live fish. Scoop ’em up in them big bills they got. If you can spot a formation cruising low over the water and diving, you know there’s fish close to the surface. A poor man’s fish-finder.” A smug grin spread across his face.

  “Seems to me, such an expert fisherman as yourself would have his own boat and fishing equipment.”

  Harpin laughed and looked back at his mower, then at Wallace. “You priced out any decent bass boats lately? Even used ones might go for more than the substantial sums a memorial garden lawn care specialist rakes in. And you can bet the city don’t hand out a lot of cash bonuses to people like me. All that green stuff you see out there—them’s grass clippin’s, not stock options.”

  “Tell me about Peter Ecclestone.”

  “Who?” Harpin held her gaze. “That a friend of yours?”

  Wallace studied his face as he spoke. He hadn’t flinched at the name.

  “He might be a small-time meth peddler,” she said. “From one of those picturesque little towns out in the Florida Parishes.”

  “And what? You think ’cause I do low-end manual labor for a living that I’d just naturally know every crank dealer in the tri-state area?”

  Wallace could hear the edge creeping into Harpin’s voice. It might be aggression. It might be camouflage for some other emotion. “Think hard,” she said. “This could be a bad time to have a lapse of memory.”

  “If I thought I could pull off a gig like that, I can promise you I wouldn’t be chasing that motherfucking lawn mower all over creation.” He snorted and his smug little smile was back.

  “What about Eddie Pitkin?”

  “That fellow who’s in jail for nailing that politician? What could I possibly know about him?”

  Wallace continued to scrutinize him. The raspy bark of a fussy squirrel, in the branches overhead, drew his attention. She looked at Harpin’s hands, which hung at his sides. Her eyes touched briefly on the Buck knife strapped to his thigh and then moved back to match his stare.

  “Good of you to stop by, Detective. You have yourself a good day now.” He leaned forward and placed the unopened bottle of water on the ground in front of her and then turned and ambled back to his mower.

  She watched him walk away. There was a slight stiltedness in his walk, which she hadn’t seen before.

  The mower rumbled to life. Harpin’s back was to her as he angled the machine between two headstones and started pushing.

  As soon as a row of Italian poplars blocked Harpin from view, Wallace reached down and slid a plastic bag over the bottle at her feet.

  Once she was back in her car, she emailed the image of Harpin in the boat to Mason, along with a note asking him to see if he could do some quiet digging into Harpin’s background.

  She opened an email from her mother that had come in while she was with Harpin. “We need to talk,” was all it said.

  NINETEEN

  The gym was crowded and loud. Fluorescent fixtures hanging from the ceiling flooded the place with harsh, irritating light, and the stink of sweat and damp towels and fear was everywhere. The air was full of noise—the iron-on-iron clank of weight machines, expletive-laden shouts of encouragement, groans of effort, the rhythmic tapping of jump ropes, the bloodless slapping sounds of fists striking flesh. Everything echoed, sounding far off and up close at the same time.

  Carlton Lister stared through slitted eyes at his opponent across the ring. He fanned the fingers of both hands, then resumed his side-on position, hands curled loosely in the guard position in front of his face.

  As his opponent moved left, he tracked the movements of the man’s feet and shoulders, looking for the stutter steps and muscle twitches that foreshadowed punches and kicks and head fakes. This was only a practice bout, but Lister took every fight seriously. When someone stepped into the ring he was giving you permission to beat the shit out of him—if you could—and that was always serious business.

  Here it comes, he thought. The man lunged. He opened with a straight left, then another left. He feinted a kick with his right leg and then came with a full left leg kick at the ribs instead.

  The guy had mastered about a dozen such combinations. Some of them were well thought out and some were even finely executed. But they were easy to anticipate, and that made them ineffective.

  The man was, however, big and fast and he could be difficult to hurt. If one of those hot left hands of his ever landed clean on a squarely presented jawbone, Lister knew it would be lights-out, followed by a good deal of reconstructive surgery.

  Lister’s physical speed wasn’t as great as his opponent’s, but he could certainly think faster. And once he got into the flow of a bout he could be as quick as he needed to be. Besides, he knew how to deliver a blow with a lot of power behind it—where to strike to inflict maximum pain and damage.

  He was also methodical and creative and very attentive. There was never any mistake about when the tide of a fight had turned in his favor. And he wasn’t shy about letting his opponents know how things were going to play out. He was a submission artist.

  They carried on for a while, exchanging meaningless blows, each trying to maneuver the other into a vulnerable posture.

  Lister was getting bored with the fight when he saw his shot. His opponent was starting to work his mouthpiece around in his mouth. This had happened twice before. First to the left, then to the right, then the guy’s mouth would open just a touch as the mouthpiece came back to center.

  The routine was starting again. Left, now right. And just as the big dumbfuck relaxed his jaw muscles and his mouth began to open, Lister struck. A downward-looping overhand right, snapping the man’s jaw all the way open. Then a smooth left hook unhinged the jaw. The big man dropped to his knees and, before he could turn his back in surrender, Lister was on him, swarming punches and kicks until the trainer intervened.

  Lister made the trainer work hard to stop the match. He never just stopped on a dime, even though he certainly could have. He always took a few more wild-eyed shots. His opponents needed to believe that once the spirit was upon him it wasn’t so easy for him to flip the psycho switch back to the Off position. Although, in truth, he never actually went berserk. The more heated the battle became and the crazier the crowd sounded, the more he geared down.

  Lister stared at his erstwhile opponent. He couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He doubted he would need to.

  He slipped out between the ropes, peeling off his gloves as he went.

  “Hey, hey, wild man.”

  The voice came from his right. It was Oliver Harpin.

  “Brother, you done a number on the jolly green giant, out there.” Harpin jerked his thumb toward the ring as he trotted over, his arm extended, ready for a fist bump.

  Lister waited until Harpin was a few feet away, then turned toward the locker room. “What the hell are you doing here?” He nodded, snapping off index finger salutes to some of the men he passed.

  “You don’t look all that happy to see me.”

  “Is that right?” Lister turned to face Harpin, forcing the man to pull up short.


  “Maybe you and I should spend a little time having ourselves a high-level conference.”

  Normally, Lister didn’t mind putting up with a little of Ollie’s jawing. It was a small price to pay for generally excellent work.

  Ollie’s skills were as limited as his perspective, but he followed instructions with uncanny precision and he could be counted on not to go off-script. Ollie could do what needed to be done, he just couldn’t figure out what needed to be done. He had to be told. Only once, but he had to be told.

  At the moment, however, Lister wasn’t in the mood for Ollie and his jabbering. He was focused, instead, on getting cleaned up and heading over for a spirited game of hide the jackhammer with his girlfriend’s little sister. It was entirely the little sister’s idea, but it was a good idea because, just like him, she was a thoroughly committed rough-stuff junkie.

  Lister pulled open the door to the locker room and walked through. Ollie, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops on the front of his jeans, scooted in behind him to get inside before the door closed.

  “You gonna tell me why you’re here, or you just like following me into the shower?” Lister sat on a bench between rows of lockers.

  Ollie looked around. “I was mowing out at the cemetery this morning when I got me a visit from somebody asking if I knew Peter Ecclestone or Eddie Pitkin.”

  “So?” Lister’s jaw clenched.

  “She can put me at the lake, last Friday.”

  “She who?” Lister pulled off his outer shorts and tossed them into his locker.

  “The cop.”

  Lister’s head inched up. He locked Harpin in a sidelong stare.

  Ollie scanned the room again. “That female detective. She’s the one who showed up this morning.”

  “Well now, that’s an unexpected development, wouldn’t you say?” Lister skinned off his compression shorts and his jockstrap and pitched them into the locker with the rest of his gear.

  “She had a picture of me out in the boat.” He lifted his cap and smoothed his thinning hair back over an expanse of bare scalp and then reseated his cap.

  “And exactly where did that picture come from?” Lister stood and wrapped a towel around his waist.

  “How the fuck should I know? Judging by the direction it was shot from, it’s a pretty good guess that it come from one of Ecclestone’s cameras.”

  “Well now, that would be a motherfucking miracle, wouldn’t it? Because I distinctly remember seeing every piece of his equipment sink out of sight as I was motoring back from Parker’s Island.” He massaged his forehead above his left eyebrow.

  “Well, I’m all out of ideas, then.”

  “So, tell me. What did you and the detective go on about, during your little graveyard symposium?”

  “She showed me the picture, and there wasn’t any quibble about who it was. I explained to her how I was just out there fishing. And then, just as casual as you please, she dropped Ecclestone’s name into the conversation. Then, Pitkin’s. Trying to see if I’d react. But I didn’t.”

  Lister scrutinized Harpin’s face, looking for signs of deception. He saw fear but not dishonesty. Ollie was probably holding back, but he probably wasn’t telling any untruths. And maybe not any half-truths, either.

  “What you thinking, boss?” Harpin crossed his arms across his midsection and began massaging his elbows.

  “I’m thinking you should’ve taped over the registration numbers on the front of that boat, because that’s about the only way I can figure she made a connection between you and that picture she’s got.”

  Ollie shifted from foot to foot and Lister noticed he was having a little trouble swallowing. He guessed Ollie was dying to say something stupid like “You never told me to do nothing like that,” but the crazy fuck didn’t have the stones to try to lay off the blame.

  “That’s alright, Ollie.” Lister gave him a comradely punch on the shoulder—a hard punch. Ollie tried smiling to cover the pain, but he didn’t quite pull it off. “Besides, I never told you to do that. Some game warden come by and see that, you could’ve been in big trouble.” He socked Ollie again—a little harder.

  “You’re right about that.” Ollie brightened a bit, in spite of the second punch. “Taping over them numbers? That would’ve been asking for nothing but trouble.”

  “So what’s next, big guy?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted you to know what’s what. That’s all. She can put me at the lake, but she could probably put a million other people there if she wanted to. It ain’t like I was the only one there, that day.”

  “You’re right about that,” Lister said with greater enthusiasm than he felt. He rubbed his hands together and gave Ollie a lifeless smile.

  “She can’t connect me to Ecclestone or Pitkin and she can’t connect me to you. So, there ain’t nothing to worry about.”

  “Then I’m not worried.” Lister looked toward the ceiling, then let his eyes dart around the room. “You didn’t happen to ask her where she got that little picture of hers, did you?”

  “No way. Uhn-uh. I ain’t about to open some can of worms by asking questions I don’t already know the answers to. There’s no telling where something like that might lead, but it wouldn’t be anyplace worthwhile, I can tell you that.”

  “Then my advice would be for you and me to forget good old Peter and go on about life as if he never existed.”

  “Sounds like a winner to me.”

  “Well, good. Now why don’t you get on out of here, so I can get myself prettied up for a little bit of fun I got planned for later on.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ollie backed up a couple of steps and then turned toward the exit. Lister waited until Ollie’s hand came up to grab the door handle.

  “So, tell me something. In that picture she showed you, what exactly were you doing?”

  Ollie’s hand froze just short of the door. He half turned and stared at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of Lister.

  “Holding up a trophy fish? Scratching your ass, maybe?”

  “I’s looking through my field glasses.”

  Lister waited to see if there was more. Ollie shuffled from foot to foot, cutting a quick glance at the door.

  “May I assume you had an innocent explanation for that?” He tightened the towel around his waist.

  “You better believe I did. Came straight out with it. And she bought it too.”

  “I bet she did, Ollie.” Lister knew the guy would stand there until he got some signal that he was free to go.

  “Well, carry on, soldier.”

  As Ollie turned and sped through the door, Lister slumped against the bank of lockers behind him. He was sure the photograph itself was just a piece of really shitty luck. The fact that it was discovered, however, wasn’t only a bad omen, it was also a weak spot. If the detective had followed Ollie from the cemetery to the gym, it could turn them both into liabilities.

  Lister would be glad when he no longer had to deal with the Oliver Harpins of the world. If he was careful, and smart, that time was not far away.

  For the moment, though, he was worried. He had no doubt that even if the detective believed whatever Ollie told her about the binoculars, she would eventually figure out the truth. And if she had access to one photograph, she might have access to others. The source of the photograph would have to be investigated. Maybe even eliminated. And maybe the willful detective needed some additional guidance on where to aim her investigatory efforts.

  TWENTY

  Wallace drove straight from the cemetery to Cavanaugh with the bottle of water Harpin had handled and the paper cup that the camera chip had been inside of.

  She gave them to Melissa Voorhees and asked her to compare the partial print she had lifted from the glove box latch in Peter’s SUV to the prints on the bottle. She also wanted to know if there were any prints on the paper cup and, if so, who they belonged to.

  “I’ll be happy to do this.” Melissa took the bagged item
s from Wallace. “On that partial print comparison, it’s going to take a while because I’ll need to do a manual comparison. I already ran it through AFIS and came up dry. And I don’t have the software to compare outside-the-system prints to each other.”

  “I seem to be putting a lot on you. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who I can trust on my end, and—”

  “Say no more. I’m glad I can help. And it’s not like Cavanaugh is being overrun by a crime wave at the moment. The prints on the bottle, do you want me to find out who they belong to?”

  “No need. I was with the owner when he handled the bottle. And I already know that he’s never been printed. But I do need to know if anything you find on the cup can be linked to anyone we’re interested in.”

  “I’m on it, Detective.”

  * * *

  The minute Wallace returned from Cavanaugh she was summoned to Jason Burley’s office. From there, they moved to one of the small conference rooms on the floor above the Homicide Division.

  “Whatever you called me in here for, can’t we talk about it later? Glenn Marioneaux’s going to be arriving at the courthouse soon to put on his dog-and-pony show and I need, let me repeat, I need to corner him on something.”

  “You’ll have a ton of time after it’s over. And this is important. So sit.”

  Burley brought up a video on his laptop.

  After about ten seconds, Wallace reached up and turned the sound off. She couldn’t bear to hear the word. She didn’t even want to lip-read it, but that was unavoidable. And she would have preferred to live out her life without having to see the effect the word was having. But that was unavoidable too.

  The white faces screaming and laughing. The faces of the black kids, some angry, some hurt, the smaller kids taking shelter behind the older ones. The casual savagery of the aggressors raised goose bumps on Wallace’s arms.

  “Seen enough?” Burley asked.

  “Too much.” She clicked the Stop button and closed the browser. “You’re not showing me this instead of just giving me the ‘you need to get this thing wrapped up fast’ speech, are you?”