Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead

by Morgan James

  “Working for Garland Wang again?”

  Gees, I can’t stand this guy, I thought and frowned at him. After all these years, and he still makes me feel inadequate. “Yes,” I conceded. “A trust matter between Paul and his mother.” He waved a thumb towards the house; a motion I assumed was tough guy sign language for me to follow him. Being a dutiful citizen, I fell into step behind him.”

  When we were a good distance away from the uniformed officers, he stopped and looked me up and down, studying for aging signs, no doubt. “You’re looking good, Promise. I hear you moved to the mountains. The higher altitude must agree with you.” I wanted to puke. What is it about some ex-husbands? They just have to try to get back in your good graces, can’t stand the fact that there is one person on this earth who hates their guts for good reason. Of course, they would never think of saying they were wrong, please forgive me. Must be a yet unverified male chromosome. “Hey,” he continued, and produced a photograph from his wallet. “Did you know Cheryl and I had a baby girl? Two years old in December.” He thrust the photograph at me for my approval. I have to say she was beautiful—blond whispery curls and coquette smile. Hard to believe this adorable baby could be the product of Randall Barnes, super jerk, and that Cheryl person, wife number three, or maybe four, whose photograph on Luke’s desk reminded me of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

  “Beautiful,” I said, forcing an insincere smile. “You must be very proud.” What I wanted to say was: you old fart, you’re fifty-eight years old, you’ll be going to her college graduation with a walker. I’m a Southern girl, though, so didn’t say that. I just thought it, real hard. I did ask my ex-dearly-beloved what had happened at the Tournay house and if was Paul okay.

  He pocketed the photo and wallet. “Yeah, Tournay’s fine. Just worked up as hell about finding the body. Says he got home earlier today and found the guy on the basement floor. Claims he wasn’t home all night and doesn’t have a clue how the guy got dead in his house. What do you think, Counselor? Is Tournay’s a truth teller or a liar?”

  “Well, I don’t think he’d murder anyone, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “Who said anything about murder? We won’t know that until we have more information. Right now all I have is a body at the foot of the basement stairs with a sizeable crack in his head and what looks like scratches on his face and arms.”

  “Mitchell Sanders?”

  Randall narrowed his gaze at me. “How’d you know that?”

  “Oh, just a wild guess,” I replied.

  Before Randall could say anything more, a chunky man in a rumpled blue suit and reflector sunglasses bounded from the house, leaving the front door ajar, and called out, “Hey RB. You wanna talk to this dude some more, or are we blowing?”

  Something about the way he spoke to Randall caused a clog to shift and facts to connect in my mind. My heart dipped, a fearful flutter of dove wings, as I remembered my last phone conversation with Luke, our son, my son. The man I overheard call Luke “Bucko” spoke to him with the same familiarity I was hearing now from the blue suit. I recognized that tone of voice from the years Barnes and I were married. It was the intimate language of partners responsible for each another. It was cop-speak. “Randall,” I blurted, “how long have you known Luke is CIA and not really working for Acadian Oil?”

  Randall looked for all the world like he had been slapped with a wet towel. “Jesus H. Cripes, Promise. You know I can’t talk about that. And you shouldn’t either. Don’t ever talk about it, not to me, not to anybody. Nobody! You could seriously compromise Luke’s safety?” He eyed me suspiciously. “How did you find out, anyway?”

  I had to clench my hands into fists at my side to keep from screaming. “You just told me. You know this about our son: our son whom you spent a total of about two hours with during his entire growing up years, and I, who changed his diapers and kissed his skinned knees, have to guess …to guess what dangerous thing he’s doing with his life!” My balled up fists were aiming for RB when a lighting bolt of reality told me I did not want to assault a policeman. Not a good plan. Instead, I whirled around so fast I saw little points of lights in front of my eyes, and stomped away. RB was saying something like, for heaven’s sake, Promise, come on, be reasonable… What an unrealistic thing to say. I couldn’t be reasonable. What mother could? Luke was my baby and the thought of him traveling around the world putting his life in danger was a thing of terror. I wanted him safe, married for a lifetime to the same sweet girl, raising sons and daughters and bringing the whole family for Thanksgiving dinner. I didn’t want him following his father into any type of law enforcement, certainly not one I couldn’t even acknowledge I knew about. But then, what did I expect? Luke had toddled along after Randall trying to get his attention, and make him proud, since he was able to toddle. Sadly, Luke always had too much competition for his father’s favor. By the time Randall finished with sailing, his work, and his latest teenage fling, there wasn’t much attention left for our son.

  I gritted my teeth to fight back the tears, walked silently to the house, and stood in the Tournay hallway while Randall went into the living room to talk to the blue suit. Paul came from the kitchen as soon as he saw me and took both my hands. “Oh, my God, Promise. This is so awful,” he moaned. “Did you hear? It’s Mitchell.” Before I could respond, a man and woman, pushing a gurney burdened by a large black bag, struggled up the last steps of the basement opening and maneuvered their way along side us. The body rolled back and forth uneasily under the Velcro strapping as the two tried to navigate the narrow space. Paul gasped. “Oh, Lord, I can’t watch this. I think I’m going to throw up!” With that he fled back into the kitchen.

  I squeezed against the wall to make room for the gurney. It still brushed against my dress as it passed, sending a shiver up my spine. A third man following behind the body carried a zip lock baggie stuffed with something I couldn’t identify. The third man spoke. He was obviously in charge. “Shit Meeks, will you be careful! You almost rolled the guy. Stop here so we can get his hands. You should have done that downstairs before you moved him.” The pair stopped and the boss unzipped the body bag enough to reveal Sanders’ hands and arms. As he encased each hand with a plastic bag and sealed them at the wrist, I could make out several abrasions on the forearms. I thought it doubtful wounds like that would happen if a person accidentally fell down the stairs. Randall had mentioned scratches; Sanders must have fought with someone to get those marks, and probably the other person has similar marks. The boss gave the go ahead and Mitchell Sanders was wheeled out of the house and into the white van. I joined Paul in the kitchen and Randall followed close behind.

  “Well, Dr. McNeal,” Randall began, all business, “here is the thing. Your friend Mr. Tournay here maintains he found Mr. Sanders this morning around eleven; also says he doesn’t know how Sanders got in the house because he wasn’t home last night. ‘All night,’ he says.” Randall put an emphasis on ‘all night’. “The problem is, looks like Mr. Sanders died sometime during the night, and Mr. Tournay won’t tell us where he spent the night. How do we know your friend here didn’t kill Sanders last night; leave the house this morning, and pretend to come back and find the body? You see my problem here, Dr. McNeal?” Another hard emphasis on ‘Dr. McNeal.’

  Regardless of Randall’s sarcasm, I did see his problem, and Paul’s as well. “Lieutenant, could I talk to Paul for a moment, alone?” Randall smirked, held his hands up in compliance and went back to the living room. I moved a little closer to Paul and he gave me a sheepish look. “Look, I don’t know much about this kind of situation, but it would seem you are about to be a suspect in Mitchell Sanders’ murder, if he was murdered. Can’t you tell them where you spent the night? You need someone to verify you didn’t have the opportunity to kill Mitchell.” Paul’s darting eyes looked frightened and he moistened a paper towel at the sink to wipe his face. “I take it you were with someone you think can’t afford to come forward and give you an alibi?” He
shook his head yes. “Someone who may not be willing to admit you two were together because of what that admission might cost him?” Another affirmative nod. “Oh, Paul, please. It can’t be that bad can it? Atlanta is so open these days, nobody cares anymore who sleeps with whom, do they?”

  Paul continued to pat his face with the damp towel and whispered, “They do if that ‘whom’ is married and works for the governor.”

  My counselor’s alarm went off with a ding, ding, ding. “Oh Paul. When this is over, we need to have a long talk about how you make choices.”

  He wet the towel again and mopped at the same places he’d already covered “I know. I know. My mother is right. I am a fool.”

  “No, I didn’t say you were a fool. Believe me, I’ve been there. Lonely people sometimes do foolish things. But murder is way beyond foolish, so right now you need to give RB Barnes the guy’s name. He made the choice to spend the night with you, now he will have to accept the consequences.”

  Paul was still whispering when he replied. “I just can’t do that Promise. I’ve known him for years; he’s a wonderful man and his life would be ruined. He might weather the gossip with his job. He’s one of the governor’s press secretaries, so he’d tilt the truth to make it work; but his wife would know better. She’s always suspected and she’ll clean his clock if she finds out for sure. She’ll take every dime he has and he’ll never get to see his kids.”

  Randall reappeared in the kitchen. “Well, folks, what’s the good word?”

  I looked from Paul to Randall and back to Paul. “Well, “I answered sadly, “I guess the good word is Mr. Tournay doesn’t want to say anything more until he has a chance to speak to his attorney.”

  From years of practice, Randall skillfully dumped the responsibility of the situation at my door. “I guess I over estimated you, Dr. McNeal. Here now, I’ve been told you were a world class counselor, and you can’t even convince your client it’s to his advantage to share the truth with us, unless of course the truth will…” Randall let his sentence trail off for us to complete. The man always did know just where to twist the knife.

  Maybe because I hadn’t had lunch, or maybe because I’d wanted to say it for a long time, and always lacked the courage, I volleyed back. “Shut up, Randall! You don’t know what the hell you are talking about. And your bully routine is pitiful. Or maybe I’ve just heard it once too often over the years to be impressed.”

  Randall was opening his mouth, no doubt to say something smart-mouthed back to me, when the blue suit came into the kitchen and asked if they were ready to leave. Stole his thunder. I loved it. Randall did not. RB turned to his partner with hands on his hips and bellowed, “Yeah, we’re going! Mr. Tournay here is riding downtown with us to make a written statement, and his good friend, Dr. McNeal, is going to call his attorney. After that, I guess we’ll all have us a friendly little party downtown.” Randall glared at me and continued, “Dr. McNeal here will also be very careful to stay outside the house to make her phone call, far away from the areas surrounded by our crime scene tape, namely the stairs to the basement and the basement itself, and anywhere inside the house, because we don’t need any civilians messing around until forensics is finished with the scene. Right, Dr. McNeal? Outside!” I nodded my agreement.

  After instructing me for the second time not to touch anything and to stay outside, RB shoved a business card in my hand with his office and cell numbers printed on the bottom. “On the off chance you might have something instructional to tell me.” One of the uniformed officers, he added, would be around the house for several hours canvassing neighbors, in case anyone had heard or seen anything unusual, or in case I should forget to stay outside the house.

  As they walked towards their car, I called after him, “Randall, wait, just a second.” I was amazed that he actually paused and turned towards me. “I was just wondering, what was in the zip-lock baggie your tech carried out with Sanders?”

  Flashing another of his self-serving brilliant white smiles, he sniped at me. “Evidence, Dr. McNeal, and I shouldn’t even discuss it with you. On the other hand, I’m such a nice guy what the heck—a Richard Nixon Halloween mark. It was under the body. I guess Sanders was headed to an early spook party.” I knew better, but wasn’t ready to share my information with Randall Barnes. Shortly the three of them drove away, Randall and his partner in the front seat and poor Paul in the back, leaving me standing alone on the front stoop.

  I stayed very still for a few minutes, listening and thinking. Well, wasn’t that convenient Mitchell Sanders just happened to have a mask matching the description Becca gave of her drive-by shooter? It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Mitchell was the person who shot at Becca. I did believe he was the shooter. It was just an odd coincidence he would have the mask with him again last night. Or maybe it wasn’t so odd. If Mitchell was planning to be in and out of the house, he may have wanted to disguise his face, not be recognized. Or, maybe whoever killed him wanted to make sure Mitchell was identified as the shooter. There was so much I didn’t know, or couldn’t prove. I needed to get down into the basement; look around for hiding places RB’s crew had missed, places they wouldn’t be looking for because they didn’t see a connection between what might be in the basement and why Mitchell died. Of course, I couldn’t get down into the basement now because of Randall’s directive and the officer lurking around in the yard. Later, I decided. I’ll come back later.

  Sometimes death lingers for a long time in a place, its residue a bloated heavy absence of sound and energy. That’s what I felt standing on the porch of Tournay’s empty house: a stone silent void, weighted down by Mitchell Sanders’ angry soul, and Stella’s memory. I closed my eyes. Fly away, Mitchell, I whispered, there is nothing for you here anymore. Leave this place and fly away home. I wondered if this new death in the house would change Paul’s affection for it and if he would sell it and move on. I retrieved my purse and cell phone from the car to dial the number Paul had given me for his attorney friend. Sitting on the mossy front steps, I listened to several rings of his office phone and watched dappled afternoon sunlight splinter like stair steps down from the sky through old growth oaks. It was a clear and glorious fall day in Atlanta, not a day to contemplate murder. Another thought crossed my mind. Mitchell’s white SUV was not in the driveway. He must have ridden with someone else, and that someone else was probably the killer. Surely Randall and his partner would have thought it odd Sanders’ car was not here, or did they assume he came home with Paul?

  When the attorney’s office finally answered the receptionist quickly informed me her boss was in conference and could not be disturbed. “Look,” I told her, “I know the drill; please ring through and tell him Dr. Promise McNeal is calling and there is an emergency regarding Paul Tournay.” I waited about five seconds and a man’s voice came on the line.

  “John Edgars here. What’s going on?”

  Good, I thought. This is a no nonsense man. He knows how to take care of business. I began explaining who I was. “I know who you are, Dr. McNeal,” Edgars interrupted, “Paul told about his mother’s accident and about the trust. You gave him some good advice about the house deed, and he seems to trust you. What’s the emergency?”

  I explained about Mitchell Sanders’ death and Paul being taken down to the Atlanta justice complex.

  There was a long silence. Perhaps Edgars was digesting what I’d told him. When he spoke, it was with conviction. “That’s ridiculous. Paul would not kill anyone. I saw Paul last night at a party for the Alliance Theater. We talked quite a long time. After he left I saw Mitchell Sanders, alone, and alive and well. I thought it odd at the time because Mitchell doesn’t usually get invited to the crème de la crËme parties unless he’s with Paul.”

  “Do you think Mitchell and Paul spoke? Do you think Mitchell saw Paul leave with someone? If he did see Paul leave, he might think Paul would not be at home and believe he could walk in here unseen and not be disturbed.”

  Edgar
s thought for a moment. “I’m not sure, on both counts. I didn’t talk to Sanders. Frankly, I didn’t like the guy. I don’t understand though, why would Mitchell Sanders trespass onto Paul’s property? And why would he be in the basement?”

  Oh well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. At the risk of John Edgars thinking I was totally nuts, I explained my theory of why Mitchell Sanders wanted back in the house, about the snake on my door, and about the Nixon Halloween mask. Perhaps Edgars, being a criminal attorney, was accustomed to far-fetched stories, because he didn’t laugh at me. When I finished, he asked a couple of excellent questions. I could visualize him making notes on a pad with bold black script. I answered his questions as best I could, with only my intuition to fill in the missing gaps, and he was silent again. “Mr. Edgars, are you still there?” I was afraid he’d decided I was a nutcase after all and had hung up on me.

  “Oh yes, I’m here. I was just thinking about several things I’ve observed about Mitchell Sanders since he latched onto Paul, and how what you say about him seems plausible. I always thought he was nothing but an opportunist and didn’t give a wit for Paul. As for the other part of your theory, being a history major as an undergraduate, I’m not all together ignorant about occupied France during World War II. The Third Reich was murderous and avaricious, and I don’t doubt some private collectors would care less how something came to be for sale. In fact I understand, according to Interpol, the black market for art is the fourth largest international criminal enterprise. In any event, I know who Paul left with last night. I’ll call him. Ask him to come forward.”

  “Do you think he will? Do the right thing and come forward?”

  “Who knows?” Edgars’ two words were ripe with skepticism. “I think the guy is basically a good person. But then, you never know what a person will do under pressure. I’ve seen crooks do honorable deeds and upstanding members of the community screw their partners for a pittance. I’ll catch up with Paul downtown at APD; hopefully make sure he isn’t charged with murder tonight. In the meantime, you be careful. If what you suspect is true, it is doubtful the killer will just ride away into the sunset and leave anything incriminating behind.”