by Rod Reynolds
‘Yes, sir. Hold a minute till I find it.’ There was a rustling sound as though he was shuffling papers around the desk. ‘One for you, called just a few moments ago. Dame by the name of Borland. Didn’t leave nothing but a telephone number—’
I snatched a pen out of my pocket. ‘What is it, please?’
He read the number out to me and I thanked him and hung up. I slotted the nickel I had in my hand into the phone and dialled, pressing the receiver to my ear as if it would make her pick up faster.
Instead, a man answered. I could hear voices in the background – people in conversation. I asked for Ella Borland and the man didn’t respond. It was a second or two before I realised he’d gone to get her.
Then a new voice came on the line.
‘Ella Borland speaking.’ Husky but soft. Her accent more Texas than Arkansas.
‘Miss Borland, this is Charlie Yates. Thank you for returning my call.’
‘Mr Yates . . . you sent me a message. Maxine told me. What is it you think I can do for you?’
‘I think we know someone in common – Jimmy Clark.’
She hesitated. ‘May I ask what this is about?’
‘Jimmy died a few days ago, were you aware of that?’
Her tone hardened. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off blunt. Jimmy was a friend of mine, and I want to know what happened to him. I wondered if you could help me.’
‘Are you a policeman, Mr Yates?’
‘No, nothing like that, ma’am, I’m a reporter. We worked together some.’
‘A reporter.’ She said it to herself and then was silent a few seconds. I couldn’t get a read on what she was thinking. ‘I heard about Jimmy, it upset me a lot.’
‘Can I ask how you came to know him?’
‘We were acquaintances.’ At first I thought she was going to say something more, but she held her tongue.
‘The reason I’m calling is I was hoping you could shed some light on what he was doing here. Jimmy asked me to come to Hot Springs to help him, but by the time I got here, he was dead.’
‘Oh, I’m— That’s awful for you. I’m sorry, Mr Yates, truly.’ The emotion in her voice sounded genuine, but she was still guarded.
‘He only told me a few details about what he was working on because he didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone—’
‘He was like that. Old fashioned.’ For the first time, there was a hint of fondness in her voice.
‘So if there’s anything you can tell me, I’d be in your debt.’
The line went quiet, and then she drew in a long breath. Some kind of commotion kicked up across from me, the sound of a plate smashing on the floor. I turned away from the din just as she started to speak again.
‘A friend of mine was killed some months back and Jimmy—’ Her voice trembled and she took a moment to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, it’s still difficult for me to talk about this. Jimmy was looking into it.’
My skin prickled – on the verge of something now. ‘What was your friend’s name, ma’am?’
‘Jeanette Runnels. Jeannie.’
I scribbled it down awkwardly, pinning my notebook to the wall and writing with the same hand.
‘Jimmy came to me some months ago and said he was writing a story about her. He wanted my help and I obliged, and we became friendly over the course of those conversations.’
‘My condolences on your loss, ma’am. Both losses.’ A rush of questions came to me, but I was mindful of not pushing so hard that I scared her away. ‘Can I ask when you last saw Jimmy?’
She thought about it, then said, ‘Monday, I think.’
‘How did he seem to you?’
‘You know what he was like – he could be up one minute and down the next. He was always that way.’
‘Did he seem troubled at all?’
She gave a rueful laugh, no humour in it. ‘Always. But no more so than usual.’
‘Do you know if he had any enemies here? I know Jimmy could rub people wrong.’
‘None that I know of. If you’ll allow, why are you asking me this, Mr Yates?’
I thought about how to respond. ‘I’m trying to know his frame of mind before he died.’
‘Forgive me, but that sounds a little hollow.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I was told his death was an accident, but unless I’m mistaken, you have doubts that it was.’
I kept my tone even, surprised at how perceptive she was. ‘I have some questions I’d like answered, that’s all. Would you consider meeting with me in town? I don’t want to cause you upset, but I’d like to ask you some more about Jimmy.’
‘What kind of questions? Are you suggesting I was involved in his death?’
‘What? No, not at all. That’s not what I meant.’ The thought had never occurred to me, but I wondered now if it should have. ‘I have questions about whether the fire was an accident. Until I figure out how he spent his time here, I can’t know if someone might’ve had cause to do him harm.’ I dropped another coin in the slot. ‘Please, ma’am.’
I heard her light a cigarette. ‘But I don’t know anything. I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.’
‘Then I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. Spare me that, at least.’
She took a drag. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Yates. I spent a lot of time raking over things for Jimmy, I don’t think I can put myself through that again.’
‘Wait. Just let me—’
‘I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.
I stared at the receiver, feeling uncertain. The conversation was one-sided – it felt as though I’d given up too much information without getting anything in return. Then I took a step back from it, realised I was being an ass. The woman didn’t know me from a hole in the ground, and I was asking her to dish about two dead people she knew. How else was she supposed to react?
I looked at the notebook in my hand again. The name she’d given me, Jeannie Runnels – a place to start, but something more than that: a wrong assumption. I turned back a page and looked at the recurring initials I’d jotted down from Robinson’s notes. J.R. – what I’d assumed to denote Jimmy Robinson, but could just as surely be Jeannie Runnels.
Both Dinsmore and Layfield had told me there were no open murders Robinson could have been investigating. I couldn’t see how they could both lie or make the same mistake, and it made me suspicious as hell.
*
The girl at the front desk of the Recorder didn’t recognise me from the day before, but she went to summon Dinsmore anyway. He showed no surprise when he came through the door and greeted me, and I wondered if he knew I’d be back. ‘More questions?’
‘I’ve got a name for you, maybe the murder my friend was working on.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Jeanette Runnels. Seems like she went by Jeannie, too.’
‘Runnels? Yeah, I remember that one. Strangled four or five months back.’ I felt my blood rising at the man’s barefaced cheek. I swallowed, tried to keep my temper in check and let him talk. ‘Horrible story. They found her in her bedroom – son of a bitch used her own nylons to garrotte her.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Hell, what was the other girl’s name . . . ?’
‘What other girl?’
He held his hand up, gesturing to give him a minute, his head tilted back to the ceiling. I waited, fighting to keep a lid on my temper. ‘Bess something, like the president’s wife – some of her regulars called her the First Lady on account of it.’
‘“Regulars” – you’re talking about a working girl?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Prescott, that’s it. Bess Prescott.’ He turned his gaze to me again. ‘Same thing happened to her about six weeks later. Strangled in her own home, the same perp. Police chalked it up to some manner of sex maniac.’
‘Was Jeannie Runnels a working girl as well?’
‘Sure. Right out of the gate, the cops figured they were
looking for one of their Johns, someone they had in common, but you start turning over those stones in this town and a lot of folk get uncomfortable real fast. That’s why the police didn’t spend a whole heap of time investigating; that and the fact it was a couple dead whores, so who cares, right?’ I felt my fists clench up. He saw it and spread his hands. ‘I’m not saying that, you understand – just telling you what the prevailing thinking was.’
I closed my eyes, the picture coming clear now. Two dead working girls – embarrassment looming for anyone who’d paid for their services if the cops started knocking on doors. Family men with wives. Maybe men with influence. It was a bum deal for the dead women, but easier all around just to hush it up and move on. Made me sick to my stomach. I looked at him again. ‘Who was the third?’
‘The third what?’
It felt like he was still trying to stall me, my patience about shot now. ‘The third victim, Dinsmore. My friend told me before he died there were three murders.’
He looked puzzled. ‘That’s what I was going to ask you about. I remember you telling me that, but there were only two.’
I pointed at his chest. ‘Quit messing with me. Yesterday you said there weren’t any murders, now you’re telling me there’re only two – what game are you playing?’
He took a step back, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Hold on now, Jack. You’re the one told me your friend was investigating these murders.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Why didn’t you tell me—’
‘They got the man that did it.’ His face was red with exasperation, veins showing in his neck. ‘Why the hell was your friend investigating a case that was already solved?’
Chapter Nine
Dinsmore slid into the booth and signalled the waitress for a coffee without waiting for me to even sit down. I wore it – suppose I’d earned the slight. He leaned back and took a Lucky Strike from his pack and held it upside down between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You got some nerve, I’ll give you that.’
The diner was a half-block from the Recorder’s offices, just south of the point where Central Avenue shed the last of its glitz. Dinsmore had been all set to ditch me in the reception to go back to his desk, but I’d talked him down with the offer of buying him lunch. I’d never known a newsman to turn down a free meal, but figure what he really wanted was to watch me eat crow.
The booth was cramped, my knees butting into his as I sat down. He stared at me, tapping his smoke on the table to tamp the tobacco down.
‘Cut me some slack,’ I said. ‘You can see how it looked.’
‘That I was holding out on you? Why would you assume that? Seems like a dumb way to go about your business, you ask me.’
‘Enough, already, I’m buying you lunch, aren’t I? You can drop the wounded soldier act.’
His eyes twinkled, celebrating scoring a point off me. ‘You know, I feel like steak all of a sudden.’
‘Sure. Live it up.’ I looked off to one side, towards the counter, tapping my thumbnail on the table. Only half the stools were taken; all of the occupants were men, and most wore blue shirts and work pants. I turned back towards Dinsmore. ‘All right, let’s start over.’
He shrugged and clamped his cigarette between his front teeth. ‘Okay.’ He lit it, blew a stream of smoke sideways from the corner of his mouth; it curled against the window pane and came back towards us. ‘Where’d you turn up Jeanette Runnels’ name?’
The question caught me off guard. I didn’t see what it mattered, unless my first instinct was right and he was trying to keep tabs on who I was speaking to. ‘That’s not important.’
He stuck out his bottom lip. ‘No, I guess not.’ His tone said he wasn’t satisfied with that answer.
I pulled out the photograph. ‘You’re sure that’s not Miss Runnels or Miss Prescott?’
He took it to look at, then slid it across the table to me again. ‘Sure.’
‘Who killed the two women?’
The waitress set his coffee down in front of him, the mug gleaming white but chipped around the rim. She asked for our order, but Dinsmore surprised me by waving her off. ‘A nigger lowlife called Walter Glover. He already had a rap sheet full of minor offences, then sometime last decade he broke into the big leagues when he assaulted a woman in his car. He claimed she’d gone with him willingly, but the jury didn’t believe him.’
‘Any chance he was telling the truth?’
‘The dame was white, so what do you think? Anyway, they convicted him and he served eleven-and-change for it, got out in June. He’d only been free a couple weeks before he killed Runnels. Parole board had shaved his sentence some because he found Jesus in the clink. Made them look real bad, in light of what he did next.’
‘You said the cops soft-pedalled the investigation into the murders.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So how’d they get hip to Glover?’
‘Hot Springs PD didn’t want anything to do with it, but the Garland County Sheriff’s Department decided to involve themselves.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Hot Springs is the county seat of Garland County, they can do what they like.’
‘I meant why did they get involved if the city cops ignored it?’
‘Who knows why?’ He held his hands up as he said it. ‘Sheriff was a hoss by the name of Cole Barrett; he got a tip to look at Glover for the killings and he went after him. Tracked him to a dogtrot cabin out by Lake Catherine and gunned him down. Afterwards, Barrett said Glover confessed to the murders on the spot but tried to draw on him, so he had to shoot him in self-defence.’
I had the first thought I always did with anonymous tips: who was the tipster? ‘Did he kill him?’
He tapped his chest. ‘Sure did. Put two right in his heart.’
‘You believe Barrett’s version of events?’
Dinsmore pursed his mouth and spread his hands. ‘I have no reason not to.’
He saw the look on my face.
‘I know, I know, there are parts that sound fishy. Could be the case they’re not giving us the whole truth, and that’s why, but that wouldn’t be unusual. What’s done is done.’
‘Were there any witnesses to the shooting?’
He shook his head. ‘But there’s no reason to disbelieve Barrett. He was sheriff six years and a deputy a long time before that. He was well respected and never known as a gunslinger. And besides, why would he lie?’
‘Because he shot a man in cold blood?’
‘Come on, Yates, think it through – what cause would he have to do that? When backup arrived, the deputies found Glover with his gun in his hand. I’m inclined to believe it went down how Barrett said.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Couple months back – August, around then.’
August. Prior to Robinson’s time at Duke’s. I traced my fingernail absently across the tabletop, back and forth, wondering what the hell had drawn him to this mess. Seemed like Cole Barrett was someone I needed to talk to. Hearing Dinsmore speak about him brought to mind another sheriff – Horace Bailey, late of Texarkana. I wondered if that was the link – if Robinson had heard about Barrett, got a line on some dirt on the Glover shooting, and decided another crooked sheriff was more than he could stand.
Thoughts of Bailey summoned to mind my last image of him: his corpse on the floor of Winfield Callaway’s study, his hat fallen next to him, a smear of blood on the crown. My gun arm still shaking. The memory made my hands tremble again now; I folded them in my lap, out of sight. ‘Where’s Barrett’s office?’
Dinsmore tapped his cigarette on the chrome ashtray. ‘Forget it, he’s retired.’
‘Retired?’
‘Yeah. He was forced out, the rumour goes. Seems like you and our prosecuting attorney-elect think alike; he made it known he wasn’t buying Barrett’s story and that he’d be looking to empanel a grand jury when he takes office in January so he could bring unlawful killing charges against Barrett. Fro
m what I heard, the mayor stepped in to broker a deal – Barrett retires immediately and gets to keep his pension. In return, Masters – that’s the prosecuting attorney – promises he won’t go after Barrett. At first I couldn’t see why Masters agreed to it – he’s leading this GI Ticket, says him and his boys are going to clean the whole town up, but then he’s doing deals with Teddy Coughlin before he’s even in the door. But then you think about it, and realise it’s a smart move; Masters got what he wanted all along – Barrett out of office, clearing the way for one of his own men to be elected sheriff come November. For all his talk about justice, he didn’t give a damn what Barrett did or didn’t do. He just wanted him out of the way so he could—’
I held my finger up. ‘Why would Barrett take the deal if he had nothing to hide?’ I imagined Robinson hearing the same story I just did, and having the same thoughts – that Barrett was dirty as hell. Another lawman above the law. His blood boiling as he heard it.
Dinsmore shrugged. ‘Avoid the embarrassment. Protect his pension. Who knows?’
‘Anyone from your outfit think to ask him about it?’
‘Who, Barrett? Sure – I tried a couple times, but he wouldn’t talk to the papers.’
‘Maybe I’ll go ask him for myself.’
He laughed, billowing smoke as he did. ‘Good luck with that. Retirement’s done nothing to brighten his disposition.’
I looked him in the eyes. ‘I’ve dealt with worse. Where’s he live?’
‘Y’already owe me lunch, Yates. How many markers you want to build up here?’ He smiled when he said it, but it quickly faded when he realised I was serious.
He checked his watch, slid along the bench seat and stood up. ‘I oughta scram. Take some time to cool off. You’ll thank me for it.’ Then he stepped back from the table, cracked a smile. ‘And don’t think I’ll forget about lunch.’
When he was gone, I slumped back against the booth and closed my eyes, all of it dancing around in my mind. Political warfare and dirty deals. A dead sex fiend, supposed murderer. A sheriff forced from office under a cloud. Dinsmore playing coy, like it was for my own benefit – perking my suspicion about him. At the centre of it all, Jimmy Robinson and all those dead women.