by Todd Morgan
“It could have been the other Starling brother.”
“The one with the hole in his leg?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “I’ll check.”
Randall started to leave. I reached out with my hand, grabbing him by the wrist. “Hang on. Andy said there were three brothers. We don’t know who he is.”
Randall made a face. “Then what? You start looking at cousins? I told you I would check on this Little Bird, but…”
“But?”
“Beason, we know you’re in this somehow. You have to know we’ll get something.”
“I know nothing.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
“Where is Steven from? He ain’t from around here.”
“Florida. Jacksonville, maybe.”
“Steven have any connection to Louisiana?”
“Louisiana? Not that I know of.”
“How about Amber? She ever say anything about Louisiana?”
“No. Why?”
“Chasing a lead. Where did they meet?”
“At the restaurant. Amber went in one night and Steven swept her off her feet.”
“I bet. Amber told me the restaurant was in trouble.”
“It was always in trouble. A few years back, the bank almost took it off their hands.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m not their accountant. I can ask him if you like. I’ve got to meet him in a little while.”
“Why?”
“Make arrangements.” She unentangled herself from the couch and walked naked across my office. It was unnerving, how similar she was to her sister—especially nude. And especially from the rear. They were both long and lean, well toned, both blond. Madison was a little thinner, a tad taller, her hair was cut shorter. They were both beautiful. And they were both untamed tigers when the moment came.
Madison stood at my window. The window without blinds or curtains. She would make some mail carriers day.
“What are we doing here?”
“Nothing.” She turned, smiling. The same as her sister’s. “We’ve already done it.”
“What do we do next?”
She came back to the couch, lying on top of me, her flesh pressed against my bare chest. “Next, we get dressed. Eventually.”
***
“You read the journal?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Learn anything?”
“Your wife was a very busy woman.”
“No doubt.” I pushed back in my chair. The blasted journal sat unopened on the desk.
“I tried to tell you,” Nero told me, “to leave it alone.”
I shook my head. “Her killer might be in there.”
“He might be,” Nero agreed, “but it ain’t spelled out in there.”
“Shit.” I was hoping it was, that Nero could point me in the right direction and I could wrap this up without having to read any more. “Figure out who any of these men are?”
“Yeah. I think I figured out A and B.”
“I’ll make a detective out of you yet,” I said. “Any idea who the jerk is?”
“No. How much of it have you read?”
“Not enough. Too much.”
“Identify anybody?”
“L.”
“Who’s he?”
“Luther Drake.”
“As in Judge Drake?”
“Yeah.”
Nero whistled. He had removed his long coat. His hair hung loose, almost touching his shoulders. “Isn’t he something like a mentor to you?”
“Was. He taught me Tae Kwan Do. His son and I, back in the day, two nights a week.”
“Is he…”
“Couple of cracked ribs.”
“Man.” Nero sat back, crossed his arms. “I don’t get you sometimes, Beason.”
“What do you mean?”
“This man—this family friend—was sleeping with your wife and all you did was hit him—what—once?”
“Yeah.”
“I just figured you would do…something more.”
The embers flared up. I had to take a deep breath, count back from ten and do it again. “You saw Stella?”
“Yeah.”
“She was a good looking woman.”
“Oh yeah,” he quickly agreed.
“So let’s just say my thinking on that has developed. Most of the blame was on Stella. She was my wife.”
“Still. She’s not here and he is.”
“Like you said, she was a busy woman. If I took out every guy she had relations with, Chickasaw Falls might have a population problem.”
He chuckled, shaking his head.
“I’ve got a little girl to think about. What happens to her if I go to prison?”
“You a stronger man than I am.”
I didn’t feel like it. I felt weak, shaken, even afraid.
“According to the journal, Luther had it bad for her. He didn’t take it too well when she dropped him.”
“He’s still pretty shook up about it.”
“Think he could be the one? He wouldn’t be the first that took out a woman who rejected him.”
I stood up, walked to the same window Madison had stood at. No chance of making a mail carriers day. “I don’t know.”
“What about this other woman? Drake connected to her?”
“No.”
“Any idea who did her?”
“I’m thinking her husband, but the law doesn’t see it. He was in the hospital when she died.”
“He could have had help. Caspar the littlest ghost.”
“He was in Mississippi the night Amber died. His partner, too.”
Nero thought about it. Darkness was creeping in, the sun giving up its fight. Nero said, “His partner is the one you put in the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“No doubt about them being out of state?”
“None.”
“They hooked up with the husband?”
“Yes. Somehow.”
Nero shook his head. “I don’t see it. He a citizen?”
“Business owner.”
“Maybe one connect to outlaws, but not two. You might need to open the search a little wider.”
“Like I said, a regular detective.” I turned away from the window. “I’ve already looked into the wife and I couldn’t find anything else going on.”
“Except for you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “except for me.”
“Think I understand now.”
“What’s that?”
“Your developing thinking,” Nero said. “Once you crossed that line, you unwilling to judge.”
“Probably has something to do with it.” Nero might have been a young man, but he was wise beyond his years. Before my affair with Amber, that journal would have put me on the warpath—consequences be damned. “Detective Rogers was asking about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Wanted to know if you’ll be going after Jeremiah.”
“That’ll be up to Jeremiah.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The truck crawled slowly up the rutted track. Sarah was tucked safely in her bed, Erin and her beau doing God knows what on the sofa. I was stone cold sober. Against my better judgment.
I parked and got out of the Jeep. The night was clear and cold, no wind, the full moon chasing away the stars. The quarry was deserted, no teenagers sneaking beers and doing God knows what. The ground was hard, frozen solid. The man in the moon stared back at me from the face of the water.
I had always felt drawn to this spot, since that first night with Stella in the back of my father’s car. It was a special place to me, the one spot where life had been perfect—if only for a short time. It was somewhere I could think. And remember. I didn’t try to control my thoughts, marshal them to where I wanted them to go, but let them loose, allowed them to run.
Jeremiah had not killed my wife. The odds of him snatching Adrian and Stella on their way out of town, after they emptied their checking accounts before starting their new life together, were so low as to be nonexistent.
Stella had left twelve hundred and four dollars in our checking account.
Steven Noble hand an ironclad alibi for the time Amber went in the lake. The timing didn’t work—even if it had not been for the stopped watch. My neighbor was drunk, his hand was broken, and Amber wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him anyway. Clarence Starling and Derik Fletcher were in Mississippi. I didn’t know where Little Bird had been on the night of the murder, but even I had to admit his involvement in her murder was thin. Big Bird and Providence had shown up at my office in an attempt to intimidate me. If the brother had been in town, he would’ve been there. Unless he had already gone, planning on never returning.
I chewed on that for a little while. It was all I had.
My friend and mentor had been involved in an affair with my wife. Was Luther Drake capable of killing? He was a martial arts expert, a sixth degree black belt in Tae Kwan Do, had done his hitch in the military. Yet in all the time he had spent training me, he always tried to teach honor and respect—especially to women. You never hit a woman, Bees, he had told me on more than one occasion. You can never use what you learn from me for that. Luther was distraught now—not four years ago. He was upset over Stella’s death. I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I couldn’t recall Luther’s state of mind when Stella had gone missing, but it was obvious he was in mourning. Of course, mourning and guilt could look a lot alike.
I chewed on that for a little while.
Nero: You might need to open your search a little wider.
Maybe.
My address was twelve oh two Hunters Glen.
Randall Rogers: Helluva coincidence.
It hit me like a bolt of lightning.
I wasn’t the only one who had a wife and lover found in the bottom of the same lake.
***
“Hello.”
“It was Steven.”
“Beason? What are you talking about?”
“Steven killed your sister and he killed my wife.”
“Slow down. You’re not making sense. You saying Steven killed Amber and Stella?”
“Yeah. He killed Amber for the insurance money. He was sleeping with Stella and killed her when she dumped him.”
“How do you—why do you think that?”
“The journal. Stella kept a journal to keep track of all her lovers. It’s all in there. He is going down.”
“Don’t do anything rash. Please, Beason, tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”
“No. I wish I could, but I can’t. I have a daughter to think about. I can’t take the chance.”
“Good. Let the authorities handle it. Have you given the journal to the police yet?”
“No. It’s in my office. First thing in the morning, I’m handing it over.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
I was driving Erin’s Volkswagen, early the next morning. Sleep had been a stranger to me. I had tossed and turned on the single mattress all night, my mind unwilling to relax, what I knew for sure and what I believed.
Fact: Steven had killed Stella for breaking it off and it looked to me that he had used the money from her and Adrian to save his restaurant from financial ruin. How had he forced both Stella and Adrian to empty their accounts before putting them in her car and to the bottom of the lake? Adrian was a cop, and whatever I might have felt about him, he was most unlikely to walk quietly to his own death. I hadn’t figured that part out.
Fact: Steven had killed for Amber having an affair with me and for the insurance money. How had he done it? He certainly had appeared drunk when he confronted me that night. He had to have been faking it, had been sober enough to changer the time on her watch before putting her in the car.
Erin had asked me to swap vehicles. She’d pulled out Sarah’s car seat the day before because she’d had to haul something to school. When the fuel light came on, I had my doubts. My niece had been a blessing to me, the way she moved in and helped me with Sarah. I provided her with room and board and slipped her some cash now and then, but we both knew I was getting the better end of the deal. I had no idea what I would do once she graduated and moved on with her life.
There was enough gas to get me to the sock factory and back. I pulled over anyway and topped it off (as I’m sure Erin knew I would.) In my profession, with everything going on, I might have to leave in a hurry and wouldn’t have time to stop. Plus, I didn’t mind doing a good turn for my niece who had done so much for me.
The morning was still and cold, the sun barely cresting the eastern sky, frost encasing the grass and the parked cars unfortunate enough not to spend the night in a garage. The streets were mostly deserted, the few people out moving quickly and with purpose. I racked the pump, screwed on the cap and got back in the still running car. The heater had finally warmed up.
Ice crystals glittered on the parking lot. I climbed the metal stairs, eager to get inside and get the coffee going. The heavy door had been swung closed, but not completely shut, the frame shattered, probably by a crow bar. Or a three hundred and fifty pound man.
The smart thing to do was to back down the stairs, call the police and wait for the prowl car. I pulled out the .45 and thumbed off the safety, pushing silently through the ruined door. The door to the office hung in the same fashion as the one outside. Cracked and splintered wood. Clarence Starling stood over my desk. A sawed off pump shotgun sat on the desktop. Fletcher? Where is Fletcher?
Starling sensed my presence and looked up. He moved slowly, stiffly. He smiled.
“Looking for something?”
He reached for the twelve gauge.
“Don’t.”
A flash of movement to my left and I dropped like a rock, straight to the ground. Gunfire came from the corner of the office. I rolled twice in that direction, not away from it. The shotgun roared, the door disintegrated. Still prone, gun in hand, I shot Fletcher twice in the chest, center mass, then once in the head. The back of his skull sprayed across my couch.
The shotgun fired again, high and behind me, the chunk-chunk of the slide chambering another round. I twisted on my side, fired three quick shots at Starling. The first hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around, the second missed completely, shattering the window behind him. The third punched a hole in his throat.
Starling tumbled back, knocking out what remained of the glass and fell heavily to the floor. He did not move.
I took a deep breath, fighting to calm the sudden dump of adrenaline, listening. Starling and Fletcher lay still. They were both dead. I didn’t know where Little Bird was. I waited, my ears straining.
I scrambled to my feet, checking Fletcher. His eyes were wide, a not so small hole high in his forehead. Starling was on his side, his face frozen forever in shock that it could end like this. That death could come so suddenly.
Another deep breath. I looked out the window. That full sized van was parked next to the Toyota.
I yanked back the bottom drawer of my desk, pulled out a fresh clip and slammed it into the Colt. I wasn’t about to run out of ammunition, not with Goliath out there waiting on me. I didn’t think a bag of smooth stones would be enough.
I went to the door, poked my head out and back quickly. The stairs were empty, nobody in sight. I crept down, as silently as possible. The van’s motor ticked, as if someone sat in it, waiting to pick up Starling and Fletcher. I trained my pistol on it, hugging the wall and slowly eased towards it. I came to the corner. My breath was visible. Nothing. I took another step.
And suddenly my right hand was trapped in a vice grip, Reggie Starling emerging from where he had been hidden on the other side of the wall. The gun clattered to the ground. Starling grinned.
I grabbed my right hand with my left and pulled as hard as I could. To no effect.
“Gotta do better
than that.”
I launched myself at him, driving my elbow into that grin, grabbed my hand again and broke the hold. I backed up.
Little Bird followed, a hole now in his smile, bright red blood flowing over his dirty beard. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
“So have I.” I side-kicked him hard in the leg. The leg with a .45 hole in it. I backed up. He followed.
I kicked him again in the same spot. He advanced, dragging his injured right leg behind him. I kicked him in the left leg, in the hip socket. His advance slowed.
If you watch an MMA match, you always see them going for the legs—especially in the early rounds. Same thing in a boxing match, except they go for the body. It’s not because they’re looking for a knockout, but to wear the other guy down, to set him up for later.
There was nothing to stop me from turning and simply running down the street. Starling could never catch me, not even on two legs. Get some distance, stop and call the police. I continued to step back and shrugged out of my jacket. I round-kicked his back leg. A red stain had begun to seep into his blue jeans.
I continued to retreat into the parking lot, avoiding the van. He continued to follow and I continued to kick his legs. His arms dropped and I moved in for three quick shots, jab, cross, hook to the head, sure to get in and get out. Move like a butterfly. His hands came up and I kicked him in the ribs. We reached the end of the lot and I circled around him and we started back toward the sock factory. Kicks to the legs, quick strikes to the head, an occasional body shot.
Starling was taking a hell of a beating, blood running down his face, his right shoe bright with it. His breathing was labored, his movements increasingly slower. I avoided the half-hearted swings and easily eluded the feeble attempts to grab me. Yet he continued to follow, continued to take the pounding. I admired his courage, the way a hunter might admire the lion, almost pitied him. Almost, because I knew if he got those ham sized hands on me, he wouldn’t hesitate to break me in half.
“Give it up, Starling.” My breathing was easy, a light sweat breaking out on my forehead. A left-right and back. Quick, quick, keep it quick. “You don’t have a chance.”