Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  CHAPTER 31

  Friday afternoon

  The high school librarian, Mrs. Garland, remembered me. She was a friendly woman famous for her arguments with the administration over sex-ed books in the library. They told her to get rid of them. She claimed the students needed the information. Most parents were too apathetic to make a fuss, so the books stayed, at least until a student stole one, which happened so frequently she had a carton of remaindered replacements.

  “Stella Lavender, you look exactly the same!” she burbled. “Your hair still has that bounce.”

  “Uh-oh, time for a makeover,” I said.

  “Oh no, you look wonderful. Except for—” She patted her forehead.

  “Well, thanks, Mrs. Garland. May I look at some yearbooks? Twenty-one, twenty-two years ago?”

  “Looking for someone in particular?”

  “Her name was Ursula. I don’t know her maiden name.”

  “I know exactly which one. Here it is,” she said, handing me the 1993 volume of the yearbook. “Someone was in here a few weeks ago looking for Ursula, graduated twenty-some years ago. He spent a couple of hours going over these yearbooks.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Blond crinkly hair, blue eyes, a tan, mid-thirties?”

  “Now it’s my turn to be surprised. You know him?”

  “You might have read about him in the papers. That was Kent Mercer, right before he was murdered.”

  “Well, that takes all. And now you’re tracing his steps. I heard you were with the SBI.”

  “I’m wondering who else he was looking for in this yearbook. Can I sit down with it for a while?”

  “Of course.”

  I found Ursula’s picture in a few minutes. She was a junior in 1993, with the same orangish, kinky hair and tilted eyes, but a lot more baby fat. Then I starting looking for the mysterious TJ, assuming he was also a high school student. I got lucky right away. There was one in her class—Tyler Jenkins Benjamin.

  Only now they called him sir. Mr. Benjamin, sir. He was my boss, the attorney general of the state of North Carolina. A wizard lawyer, politically connected, ambitious. You didn’t think “scandal” when you thought Tyler Benjamin. You thought “straight and narrow” with charisma and southern charm. Whispers of ambition for the governor’s job followed him everywhere.

  I stopped breathing as I realized how poorly my boss Richard would react if I associated Tyler Benjamin with an illegitimate baby, blackmail, and the murder of Kent Mercer. Was Tyler Benjamin the “someone important” Mercer had mentioned to Nikki? Did Mercer approach Tyler Benjamin, or threaten Ursula that he would? How could I find out? I decided to go to the one person who might know.

  Ursula answered my call to her cell phone on the first ring. “I’ve been expecting this call for two weeks. Come on over. I’m at Clemmie’s.”

  She was in the restaurant office, at the computer, surrounded by bills and folders and bank statements. Her black eye had faded to rust and green. We could almost be a matched pair.

  “Just trying to keep this place going,” she said. “You know Lincoln hasn’t been around much. And he hasn’t filled the manager’s job. So lots of things are falling through the cracks. I spent all morning with the chef, going over invoices.”

  “Lincoln must be glad to have your help.”

  “Lincoln will have to pay me. But the good news is, he can. The restaurant makes money. Why did the cops pull him in this morning?” She picked up a stack of papers from the floor and stuffed them in a trash can.

  “Lincoln didn’t kill Kent. But that’s not why I’m here. Did you know Kent bugged this phone?”

  “What? No.”

  There are many signs that someone is lying. The mouth narrows, the forehead wrinkles. Ursula fidgeted, looked down at the desk as she spoke, then sighed deeply.

  “He recorded your conversations with George. Did Kent approach you about Lauren’s biological father?”

  Another deep sigh. “The deadbeat, you mean. Lauren has a perfectly good father in Oregon—the man who adopted her.”

  “Kent heard you say the deadbeat was someone you called TJ. Did Kent ask you about him?”

  “No, he didn’t.” This time Ursula looked me in the eye. “The son-of-a-bitch asked George. Took the recording to the repair shop and played it for him. Asked him did he know about my mistake, who fathered the baby.”

  Just as Nikki had said. “Was George surprised?”

  “He knew I’d had a baby and given her up for adoption, long before he and I even met. That’s all. It didn’t matter to him.”

  “So why did Kent ask George who the father was? Why not you?”

  “Kent didn’t like me. We’d had our run-ins at the restaurant because I accused him of stealing. He asked Lincoln to fire me a couple of times, but Lincoln trusted me and wanted me to keep an eye on things. I bet Kent thought George would be mad, get it out of me, find the guy for him.”

  “How did George react?”

  She giggled. “George got mad all right. He has a terrible temper.”

  “Did he threaten Kent? Attack him?” I asked.

  “George told me—” speaking gruffly, imitating her husband—“ ‘that Mercer fellow asked me a question about Lauren’s father. I paid him a visit, and he won’t be asking us no more questions.’ ”

  I frowned. “What did he mean?”

  “Knowing George, I think he scared the bejesus out of Kent. He probably manhandled him a little. You know, nothing that left marks, just enough to show Kent he was serious. My husband doesn’t rile easy, but when he does, watch out.”

  “When did this visit happen?”

  “The week before Kent was killed, in case you’re thinking George did it. He didn’t. He was at the shop all that day. You can check.”

  “And the recording? What happened to it?”

  “George said it was an invasion of privacy and destroyed it.”

  I had one more question for her. “You called Lauren’s biological father TJ. Was he Tyler Jenkins Benjamin? He was in your class in ’92.”

  Her tilted eyes grew large and she gasped. “What? Tyler Benjamin?” she laughed, choking. I patted her on the back until she calmed down and wiped her eyes. “Oh my,” she said. “Tyler Benjamin and me. No, no, no. I go for the common man. Like George.”

  “Who is TJ then?”

  “No one. No one you need to know.”

  “Ursula, this is important. Kent may have tracked him down, asked for money.”

  “It’s Lauren’s business. I’ll have to get her permission to tell you. Give me a day.”

  Arggggh.

  The dinner crowd was filling up Clemmie’s as I left. I went home and when it got dark—hoping my personal sniper didn’t have a night-vision scope on his rifle—I took Merle out for a run. I ate a peanut butter and fig jam sandwich with a glass of milk, an attempt to mimic the nutritional pyramid.

  Wesley called me and said Bryce was still sleeping. I thanked him for keeping me posted and we updated our plan. I found a bottle of white-out and changed the date on the fake arrest warrant, and he called the recruiter to reschedule Bryce’s appointment. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough. A good night’s sleep would help Bryce appear clean, in every sense of the word.

  I wanted a good eight hours myself. I checked that my doors were locked, though my best protection was Merle’s deep woof. Maybe sleep would unknot the lies, more lies, and audio recordings that had woven a tangle around my brain. It felt like a logic puzzle, the kind where Tribe A never lies, Tribe B lies all the time, and you get one chance to figure out who’s who. My current acquaintances all belonged to one tribe, everyone lying some of the time.

  CHAPTER 32

  early Saturday morning

  Wesley unlocked the door to Bryce’s apartment and I marched in, holding my Sig with both hands, planting myself in the isosceles stance. It was 5:20 a.m., and Bryce still slept, wearing the same clothes we’d left him in thirteen hours ago. The bedroom smel
led like fermented fruit, stale sweat, cigarette ashes. I shook Bryce’s shoulder. “Wake up,” I said.

  “Wha?” He opened his eyes and saw my gun. He couldn’t know it wasn’t loaded. “What the fuck?”

  “Turn over and put your hands behind your back.” I’d brought over-sized handcuffs, but even they were tight on his wrists. I told him to sit up and laid the faked warrant on his lap. “Bryce Raintree, I’m arresting you on charges of narcotics theft, possession of illegal substances, illegal sale of narcotics, and trafficking in narcotics.”

  As I reviewed his Miranda rights, he slumped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. At each “do you understand?” he groaned assent. “I want a lawyer. I’m saying nothing to you.”

  “Fine. Mr. Raintree, you have a family attorney?”

  Wesley frowned. “He’s an adult, right?”

  “Legally,” I said.

  Wesley folded his arms across his chest and stepped back. “He can get his own lawyer. I can’t afford lawyers for him.”

  Bryce flinched. “Betrayed by my own father. Jesus.”

  “You did it all yourself, son. I just found the pills,” Wesley said.

  “You turned me in.”

  “No, your brother was responsible for that,” I said.

  “Those fucking recordings,” Bryce said. “Where are they? Do you have them?”

  “Don’t shift the blame to Kent. You stole narcotics, you sold narcotics.” Wesley leaned down and looked Bryce in the eye. “A man takes responsibility for his behavior!”

  Bryce seemed to be considering this advice. “Like when you killed Mom?”

  Wesley slapped him hard, and Bryce kicked his father’s knee. Wesley pulled his hand back to hit him again, but I grabbed it and pulled him away. “What’s with this, hitting someone in handcuffs?” I hissed at Wesley.

  “The implication that I . . . I . . .” Wesley exhaled loudly in frustration. “I can’t even say it.”

  “Listen,” I said, “this is very serious. Bryce is going to prison for, I don’t know, ten years. That’s if he can plea bargain down to dealing, forget the theft.”

  “Ten years? For selling a few pills? That’s bullshit!” Bryce’s cheek was bright red from the slap, and he looked like he might cry.

  “What a way to spend your life,” said Wesley. “While your friends go to college, start careers, build something, you’ll sit in a jail cell.”

  “Maybe you’ll get into the prison farm,” I said. “It’s outdoor work, picking tomatoes and broccoli. Seasonal, but you’ll get a good tan. Come on, now, let’s head out.” I motioned them toward the door, but Wesley held up his hand.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let’s wait a minute. Son, I’m sorry I hit you. No call for that.”

  Bryce nodded, glaring at him, accepting the apology without giving an inch.

  “Your mother would say I failed if I let you go to prison. Failed in the most important job a man has. And she’d be right. Agent Lavender, how about some coffee and a civilized chat about our options here.”

  “What options? I have a warrant,” I said.

  “Look, it’s dawn. The judge won’t be in court for hours. Just a cup of coffee.”

  Agreed, caffeine would improve my disposition. “Coffee would be nice,” I said.

  “I’ll make it,” said Wesley. He went into the kitchen nook. Bryce sagged in silence on the bed. I leafed through a copy of Cycle News, chock-full of articles on racing stars, motorcycles, and very cool padded leather clothing.

  “Do you have a motorcycle?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a really hot bike, a Ducati 996.”

  “Do you ride it much?”

  “Some. It’s a racing bike. I was gonna get a racing license. There’s a school in Maryland that qualifies you. Shit, I was going this weekend.”

  “Too bad. Guess your father will sell the bike,” I said. Bryce was silent.

  Wesley came back with three cups, milk and sugar on a tray. I uncuffed one of Bryce’s hands and linked the other to the bed frame. Bryce sat down on the floor.

  We sipped the hot brew. “Agent Lavender,” said Wesley, “how far along is this arrest thing? I mean, is it irrevocable?”

  “It’s never irrevocable until sentencing. Even then, there’s appeal.”

  “So even though you have evidence . . .”

  “Lots of evidence,” I said. “From the nursing home, from the narcotics found in his apartment, from the recordings. Plenty of evidence. Open-and-shut case.”

  “Still, it’s his first offense,” Wesley said.

  “It’s a shame to trash a young man’s life this way, I agree,” I said. “And he may not adapt well to prison.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bryce. “I can adapt!”

  “You may be tough, but mentally it gets you,” I said. “No cars, no girls, lousy food. You’re surrounded by a bunch of idiots with turnips for brains.” I sipped my coffee. “This is good coffee. What kind is it?”

  “Nothing special,” Wesley said. “Son, at least you can defend yourself.”

  Groaning, Bryce lay back and pressed his face into the mattress. We ignored him. I put Cycle News back on the table and smoothed out the cover. “Can I take this subscription card?” I asked Bryce. “I have a friend who’d love this magazine. He might even want to buy your bike. How much do you want for it?”

  “Dad, can’t you do something? Help me!”

  “Like what? It’s up to Agent Lavender. She’s in control, not me.”

  “Take her gun! Uncuff me! You’ll never see me again, I promise!” He rattled the cuff against the bed frame.

  “So you want me to join you in jail? No, thanks,” Wesley said.

  I stood up. “Shall we move along? Let’s stop at the public defender’s office, see if anyone’s there. There are two lawyers, but Marie’s out on maternity leave. You may be able to see Womble on Monday, I guess. No, wait, he’s in court. Tuesday, maybe. Depends on his caseload. With Marie out, he’s really backed up.”

  I unlocked Bryce from the bed frame and cuffed his hands in front. His shoulders sagged and he hunched over his hands as he started toward the door. He turned and looked at me, then at his father. “Is it too late for that Navy thing?” he asked in his gravelly voice.

  Wesley controlled his expression admirably, all except his eyes, which glistened. He blinked a few times and cleared his throat. “The military isn’t a place to park societal misfits. They don’t want felons,” he said.

  “They weren’t illegal drugs or anything. And who has to know?” Though his hands were cuffed Bryce managed to extract a cigarette from his shirt pocket and light it with a Bic.

  The smoke made me sneeze. I waved the fake warrant in the air. “Excuse me? Arrest? Let’s get going.”

  “Listen, I know you have a lot to do. But can we talk privately?” Wesley asked me. “Let’s step outside, get a bit of fresh air.”

  “Fresh air, sure. I can spare five minutes,” I said.

  Bryce exhaled a puff of smoke at the ceiling.

  Wesley and I went outside and sat on two lawn chairs, part of a grouping around a fountain, a stone fish eternally spouting water into the basin. The gurgle of the fountain, the cool April dawn air, and the pink-orange glow on the eastern horizon made a magical scene.

  “Will he survive boot camp?” I asked. “Is smoking allowed?”

  “No smoking in boot camp. He’ll be fine. Bryce is tough.”

  Reassured, I asked Wesley why he had joined the Navy, mostly to kill a few minutes while Bryce stewed, but also because it was a topic dear to him. He sat up straighter and talked about the Naval Academy, his first six-month deployment out of Norfolk on an aircraft carrier, returning to get married in Washington, DC. As he spoke, his voice relaxed and a real smile replaced the crooked smirk he usually wore. I imagined him in his Navy whites, walking with his bride, Sunny, under the cherry trees, proud of her and his uniform, optimistic about his life, ready to handle all challenges. Maybe Bryce would rede
em himself and give Wesley something to be proud of again.

  We went back into the apartment. Bryce had lit another cigarette. He stared at the floor as he smoked, as though unable to look at our faces.

  “Your father’s very persuasive,” I said. “I’ve agreed to give you one more chance. This is the last one though, be certain of that.”

  “Thank you,” Bryce mumbled. “Thanks, Dad.”

  I unlocked the handcuffs. “I’ll leave you two alone to work out the details.” I’d already reached my deception threshold for one day, and providing a reference for Bryce Raintree to an armed services recruiter would tip me right over it.

  As I left the apartment, I heard Bryce ask his father, “I want to be a pilot. Does the Navy have jets?”

  “Yes, sir, the F/A-18, a fighter,” Wesley said.

  “Cool.” Bryce said, his hopeful voice like a rasp across sandpaper.

  An hour later, I met Anselmo in the Essex County evidence room, a cavernous dusty basement furnished with metal shelves bearing hundreds of cardboard boxes and plastic evidence bags. Anselmo pulled six cartons out and placed them on a wheeled cart. He pushed the cart into a service elevator and we rode up to an empty conference room on the second floor.

  I hadn’t mentioned my early morning’s work to Anselmo. He wouldn’t approve of my methods. And Bryce and Wesley were related to Kent Mercer, making them unsuitable playmates for me.

  “You’re the investigator. Where do you want to start?” he asked. He started tapping the cartons. “We’ve got Mercer crime scene, Mercer child abduction, Lincoln Teller auto tampering, Lincoln Teller morphine pump tampering, Soto shooting, Soto office break-in and shooting. Anything else?”

  Neither of us mentioned the sniper attack on me. There was no carton, probably just a slim report in a file in the Transylvania sheriff’s office. Hogan said they’d found a couple of bullets at the trailhead, .30 caliber, but that was all. I’d dug one out of the seat of my car, too.

  Anselmo wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and smelled like spicy soap, an ordinary guy with impossibly broad shoulders. In other circumstances I’d be wondering how it would feel to press my face into the flannel, inhale deeply, and snuggle. But the six cartons anchored me firmly in the reality of a murder and four attempts, all presumably related and the work of one person, who showed no signs of being done.