Honor Code

by Perkins, Cathy

  “Sit down.”

  She returned to the chair and glared while she massaged her wrists. “What kind of policeman are you?”

  A pissed-off one. “Why’d you go see Hayes if you’re so scared of him?”

  “I wasn’t scared then.” Washington hugged her arms across her chest.

  Jordan dragged the chair over.

  Robbins sat down toe to toe with her. She turned her head, glanced at Jordan, as if hoping he’d bail her out.

  “Why’d you go see Hayes?” he repeated.

  Her voice when she spoke was defiant. “Tyrell said he was a friend of my nephew. They served together in Iraq. Tyrell wrote to me from prison. He said he was lonely. In prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Prison is full of innocent men.”

  “We corresponded.” Washington ignored his cynical comment.

  “Why? He’s your mother’s second cousin?”

  “Obviously, he isn’t a relative.” She crossed her arms and heaved a dramatic eye-roll.

  “You make a habit of writing strange men while they’re in prison?”

  “Of course not. I was trying to reach out to my family. Dr. McKinley said I should. Of course, most of them slapped the hand I extended, so I didn’t have a lot of choices.”

  That sounded more consistent with her earlier bitchiness. “So you reached out to Hayes.”

  “Yes. He asked me to visit him. Apparently, the military won’t let just anyone talk to their detainees. They took forever to approve my visit.”

  I wouldn’t have let her in either, Robbins thought. He leaned forward and spoke deliberately. “Why’d you go see him?”

  “I was curious.”

  “About?”

  “What he could tell me about Akeem.”

  “And you went? To see some criminal you didn’t know?”

  “I needed information.”

  “On what? Price? Availability to grab your father?”

  “My father…? No.” She shook her head in vehement denial. “You’ve got this all wrong.”

  “Yesterday you were angry with your dad—claimed he killed your mom and got away with it. You hire Hayes for some payback?”

  “No, no. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Tears again filled her eyes. “Yesterday morning, after I talked with you, Tyrell showed up at my house. I was so surprised, I just opened the door and let him in.”

  What woman let a guy fresh out of prison into her home? “How’d he know where you lived?”

  “I told you. He wrote to me. At first, I thought he expected to stay with me since he was out of prison.”

  “Must have been a cozy visit down there at the brig.”

  “Stop it.” She banged a fist against her thigh. “He grabbed me. Threatened me. He forced me into the car—my car—and brought me here.”

  Her voice rose again, screeching toward hysterics. “I thought he meant to rape me. He pushed me inside this horrible room. My father was here, tied to a chair. He tied me up”—she extended hands, the wrists raw from the rope that had bound her—“and gagged me.”

  If she was telling the truth—and Robbins still wasn’t convinced—then Hayes just upped the ante.

  She grimaced, twisted her lips and shuddered, as if she could still feel a rag in her mouth. “Then Hayes took a nap like none of it even mattered. Like my father and I were just…part of the furniture.”

  “Where are they now? What’s their plan?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Everything you’ve said tonight has been about you. What about your father? If anything happens to him, how are you going to live with yourself?”

  His words rolled right off of her. “I didn’t have anything to do with this. I told you, I’m innocent. A victim.”

  Robbins wanted her to get the rest of her story out there before he challenged it. “When they left, how did they seem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The men. Were they excited, afraid, nervous?”

  She bit her lip. Her eyes drifted as she thought.

  Remembering or making up a story? Robbins hadn’t figured out her body language yet—when she was lying or telling the truth.

  “My father seemed resigned. He didn’t fight Tyrell when he untied him.”

  Beason was nearly eighty and Hayes was a very fit twenty-eight. What did she expect her father to do?

  “Tyrell seemed jazzed up. Maybe he was on drugs.”

  “Jazzed about what?”

  “Whatever they were doing.” She again raised her hands, this time in a dramatic shrug. “I heard him say he’d let my father go after they got ‘them.’ Do you think he will? Let him go?”

  Probably not, Robbins thought, but didn’t say.

  She slumped in the chair as if the emotion had finally drained her. “You have to find my father. Before that man does something terrible to him. You’re the police. Why aren’t you looking for him?”

  “We need to know where to look. They aren’t here.” He spread his hands indicating the cheap hotel room. “When did they leave?”

  “It seemed like forever, but maybe an hour?”

  “We have to find them before Hayes decides Beason is a liability.”

  “A liability? What does that mean?”

  “It means a copper urn instead of a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.”

  “Tyrell might kill my father?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your father dead for killing your mother?”

  “No!” Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “He’s all I have left.”

  Her concern for her father seemed over-played. Seemed like she had family when it was convenient—for her.

  “Let’s go back to your visit to Charleston. Did Hayes ask you about the cylinder seals or did you already know about them?”

  “What are cylinder seals?”

  She maintained her innocence as Robbins pushed and prodded her story, trying to figure out what the men were doing and where they might go next.

  “What are you saying?” she demanded. “You think I was involved in whatever Tyrell is doing to my father?”

  “I find your connection to both of them interesting.”

  “Am I under arrest?” She rose, indignant now. “I’m leaving.”

  “You need to stay here—for your own safety. As you pointed out, Tyrell kidnapped you once. He could try again. And you’re now a material witness to a series of crimes.”

  Robbins stood. He’d let her chew on that a while.

  He had enough for a forty-eight hour hold, but was it enough to arrest her?

  He crossed the room to where Jordan leaned against the wall. “Call in a BOLO for her car.”

  “I already did.”

  “Ask the guys over in Kershaw County if there’s an abandoned Caddy near Washington’s place.”

  Jordan nodded. “You really think she’s working with Hayes?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. She’s so self-centered… She could’ve said something without thinking it through and set Hayes off. Or she could be an effective way for him to keep Beason in line.”

  “Do what I say or I’ll hurt your daughter.” Jordan frowned at the seated woman. “What do we do now?”

  “Other than pray someone sees them? Get Washington to start at the very beginning and look for any shred of evidence. Or gap in her story.”

  He crossed the room and sat back down. “Start at the beginning.”

  Chapter 12

  Damn.

  Robbins slumped in the driver’s seat. Discouragement leaned heavy on his shoulder. They were no closer to locating Beason and Hayes than they were before they found Washington.

  He watched Frazier escort the woman from the motel room. Her sister had driven over from Marion when Washington called. The women embraced—a quick hug—and the sister led Washington to a dark blue Kia.

  Gotta watch those hand-biters, he thought sourly. If you aren’t careful, they’ll take you home and feed you. From
the way she was moving her mouth, Washington was giving her sister a blow-by-blow description of events.

  He cranked the engine and headed for home. Rather than pick up the Interstate, he turned onto US-76, heading south. The miles passed, as dark as his thoughts. Washington bugged him. More than her self-absorption, her complete disregard for her father—for all authority—annoyed the hell out of him. He saw the same lousy attitude in ninety percent of the kids he arrested.

  Maybe that was why he had a hard time believing her protests of innocence.

  He left the highway at the outskirts of town and wound through back roads. At the cemetery, a light where it shouldn’t be caught his eye.

  “Goddam taggers.”

  He grabbed his cell and called it in. “We got lights at the cemetery.”

  Dispatch notified the sector car.

  Slowly, Robbins drove the length of the graveyard. His conscience battled his fatigue. He could keep going, be home and in bed in less than fifteen minutes. The taggers were Jordan’s problem.

  Jordan’s and the patrol officer’s.

  Jordan’s, the patrol officer’s and the whole damn community’s.

  If the sector car was clear—not already working an incident—it would still take the officer five or ten minutes to arrive. The kids would see the blue lights and scatter like a bunch of cockroaches.

  He jerked his car to the side of the road. “I can step on at least one of them,” he muttered.

  The car door closed with a quiet click, but Robbins knew how sound carried out in the country. He grabbed his flashlight, scrambled over the fence, not as agile as when he was Rocket Robbins, and headed across the lawn.

  A quarter moon rode low on the horizon, offering more illumination than the security lanterns near the admin building. Eyes adjusted to the darkness, he moved toward the spot of light. The headstones cast irregular shadows. He dodged in and out of the dark spaces, sticking to the grass to muffle his steps. He wished there were a few more trees to cover his approach, but trees would give the kids cover when they ran.

  Thwunk.

  Thwunk.

  Robbins stopped and cocked his head. Hearing sharpened along with his night vision, he listened to the rhythmic sound.

  Clouds scudded across the moon. Damn, it’s dark out here, he thought as he waited. Ghosts and zombies weren’t on his suspect list as the noise-producers. He’d pulled too many drunks and horny teenagers out of the cemetery to be spooked, but he couldn’t place the noise.

  The sound stopped.

  Robbins crept closer and maneuvered around a large headstone for a clearer view. The lantern glow revealed a back-lit figure—a man standing in a hole.

  What the hell?

  The man bent low, working a shovel.

  Thwunk. The shovel hit something hard and then scraped with a grating sound.

  Goddammit. Punks were digging up a grave. From the pile of dirt, the guy had been working at it for a while. Robbins unsnapped the cover of his service weapon and stepped forward.

  The man thrust the shovel into the pile of dirt. He placed his hands on the lip of the grave and effortlessly vaulted from the hole. Dusting his hands, he turned toward the light. “Where are they?”

  Robbins froze. Holy shit. It’s Hayes. He’d found Hayes.

  With the next heartbeat, he eased back into the shadow of the headstone. He probed the darkness around the desecrated grave site. He suspected—make that hoped—Beason was nearby and still among the living.

  “I told you. They’re buried with Akeem,” another voice said from the shadows.

  An old man’s voice. Beason?

  Robbins moved away from the opened grave and hit a speed dial on his cell.

  “Detective Jordan.”

  He cupped his hand around his mouth and the cellphone speaker. “Hayes and Beason are at Akeem Beason’s grave at the cemetery. Get everybody.”

  He glanced at the men beside the gaping hole, hoping their continued argument covered his quiet words. “Now.”

  He closed the cell and eased toward the men. Backup—either Jordan or the sector car—would arrive soon. He watched Hayes pace between the grave and a spot in the shadows behind the stone.

  Was Beason part of this theft after all? A pang of disappoint arrowed through Robbins’ thick layer of cynicism. He’d hoped the old guy was different.

  “I’m down to the box,” Hayes said. “There ain’t no bag in that pile of dirt. Where are they?”

  “In the casket.”

  Hayes strode into the shadows, jerked Beason to his feet and dragged him to the open grave. Beason’s arms canted at an awkward angle, his bound wrists lifted high. Hayes clutched the old man’s upper arm and shook him the way a dog shook a rabbit. “What did you do with them?”

  “They’re in the casket, I told you.”

  “You told me lots of shit. Most of it’s been bullshit.”

  The first blow crumpled the old man. Hayes reached for the shovel. Before it reached the top of its arc, Robbins lunged forward, weapon drawn. “Drop it, Hayes.”

  Hayes jerked like he’d been shot. He pivoted, his face a mask of anger. “Who’s that?”

  “Police. Put the shovel down.”

  Hayes’ hands flexed on the handle. The lantern cast shadows that twisted over his arms as he tightened the muscles.

  Robbins stayed still, letting Hayes wrestle with the decision. If he moved any closer, Hayes would react defensively. The downward stroke of his shovel would crush whichever of Beason’s bones it landed on.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, coming fast. Hayes flicked a glance toward the admin building. In his peripheral vision, Robbins saw one set of spinning lights at the entrance to the parking lot. From the noise, at least two more units were in-bound.

  When he said everybody, Jordan apparently took it literally.

  “Stay over there.”

  Hayes words narrowed Robbins’ focus. Watch his eyes. Watch his hands. If Hayes planned to make a run—or a stand—this was the moment. “Put the shovel down.”

  Another tense pause, while Hayes debated.

  “You haven’t hurt anyone. Don’t start now.”

  His choice made, Hayes stepped across Beason’s sprawled form. Bending down, he laid the shovel on the dirt hill.

  Robbins drew a deep breath. “Step away from Beason.”

  When Hayes straightened, instead of retreating, he held Beason by the arm. The old man scrambled to his feet. He stumbled and would’ve fallen if Hayes hadn’t wrapped an arm across his chest.

  “Let him go.”

  Hayes jerked Beason in front of him, using his hostage as a shield. His other hand reached behind him and pulled a pistol from his waistband. The barrel ground into Beason’s temple. The old man winced, but held steady.

  In seconds Robbins had his weapon trained on Hayes. “You don’t want to do this. Guns don’t solve anything.”

  “You ain’t giving me any choice. Back off and the old guy lives.”

  Robbins eyed down the barrel, but he had no shot. Beason may be old and frail but he was tall enough to cover Hayes’ vital spots. “You haven’t done anything yet except drag an old man all over the state. Don’t make it worse.”

  “I ain’t going back to prison.”

  Stall. Give the officers time to get into position. “Let him go, Tyrell. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

  “He ruined my life. What’s left of it.”

  Hayes ruined his own life as far as Robbins was concerned. He heard rustling and footsteps behind him, officers moving into support positions. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to get past this.”

  “How? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I got no family. No friends left. Nobody’s gonna hire me with my felony record. Those seals are my way out.”

  “That isn’t the way to do it.” He inched forward. Still no shot. If he fired, he might miss—or hit Beason.

  And if he fired, so would Hayes. Hayes wouldn’t miss.

&nbs
p; “Get back.” Hayes’ tight voice betrayed him. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill you, too.”

  Robbins could’ve sworn he saw tears on the guy’s cheeks. “Put the gun down, Tyrell.”

  How could he appeal to the guy? No friends, no family – none that claimed him anyway.

  “You put your gun down.” Hayes jerked his chin toward the darkness behind Robbins. “Tell those guys back there to leave.”

  “That isn’t going to happen, Tyrell.” If he could edge forward, a little more to the side… that shot might be makeable. He couldn’t count on the officers around him having a better angle.

  “Come on, Tyrell. Put the gun down.”

  Hayes had to know after tonight he would go to prison for a long, long time. Either prison or he’d die. Right here.

  Hayes lifted the gun from Beason’s temple. Inches, but a start.

  Beason raised his hands, tucked them under his chin. Robbins wasn’t sure if the old guy was praying, but he kept his focus on Hayes. “Take your finger off the trigger and move your hand to the side.”

  Hayes hesitated and in that moment Robbins knew.

  Don’t let it be suicide by cop. “Don’t do it.”

  Hayes jerked the gun away from Beason’s head.

  Chapter 13

  Robbins dove forward, pistol trained on Hayes’ forehead. He caught a flash of movement, Beason’s hands reaching upward. Hayes’ pistol rose, turned.

  A rifle fired behind Robbins. In the same moment, Hayes’ pistol went off, the explosion ripping through the SWAT sniper’s sharp report.

  Hayes slumped to the ground. Beason fell with him, landed spread-eagled across his body.

  Robbins sprinted forward. He lifted the old man and pulled him aside. Beason was breathing heavily. Fear. Adrenaline.

  Officers swarmed the grave. One checked Hayes for a pulse as another moved the pistol away from his hand. Robbins glanced at the body. One bullet hole entered Hayes’ forehead. Another wound shattered his jaw. There would be a larger wound at the back of his skull and blood and gray matter sprayed over the dirt and graves beyond them.

  “Damn,” Beason said.

  Robbins looked over at him. Blowback dampened Beason’s face and shirt. Robbins had halfway expected him to start shaking, but Beason was a tough old guy.