by Rod Reynolds
‘Yates, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘I think I figured out what my friend was doing here. Something to do with the Walter Glover murders.’
‘Glover? That was bad business.’ He raised his eyebrows indicating I should get to the point.
‘Who worked the case, do you know?’
‘We caught the calls and had a file open on the victims, but it was Garland County Sheriff’s Department punched his ticket. Some kind of tip-off, I believe, and it placed Glover in their jurisdiction. Sheriff Barrett rode out there himself to bring him in. You know what happened after that, right?’
I nodded. ‘What about his victims, though? Runnels and Prescott – did you have any evidence to implicate Glover?’
‘Is our present conversation off the record?’
‘Sure.’
‘He was a person of interest, yes.’
‘Were there others, or did you think he was your man?’
He tried to swallow a yawn, holding up his other hand to excuse himself. ‘I’d have to familiarise myself with the file again.’
‘Think I could get a look at it?’
‘Are you crazy? What do you think? You can’t breeze in off the street and start reading police files.’
‘Where’s the harm?’
He scoffed. ‘The chief would have my badge, for starters. Where you driving at with this, Yates?’
‘I can’t find a whole lot of detail about the two women that died, and I’m curious what led Barrett to Glover.’
‘I told you, his name came from a tip-off.’
‘Happen to know who the tipster was?’
‘How should I know? Ask the Sheriff’s Department.’
‘A case as high profile as this and you don’t know? A man was shot—’
‘Hey, go spin, okay? It wasn’t our case.’
I held my hands up and bowed my head, signifying an apology. He shot me a glare, but he came off more weary than angry. I waited a beat to let him calm down, then said, ‘When we spoke, you told me there were no murders on the books—’
‘Yes, I did.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘You didn’t say nothing about cases they already put to bed. Why would I—’
I raised my finger. ‘Hold on, I wasn’t busting your chops. Hear me out.’
He closed his eyes and took a breath. ‘Sorry, long night.’
I waved it off. ‘Is there a chance Glover had a third victim somehow? Either a murder that was attributed to him later on, or maybe a body that fit the profile of his other victims?’
He looked at the floor, chewing on his lip as he thought about it. Then he shook his head. ‘This is on account of what your friend was saying, huh? You talked about three murders before.’
‘Right.’
He shook his head again. ‘Glover killed two women. That’s what he confessed to Sheriff Barrett. I can’t see no reason he’d have cause to lie.’
‘Who? Barrett or Glover?’
He tilted his head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean we’ve only got Barrett’s word for it, right?’
He furrowed his forehead, looked at me through his eyebrows. ‘I know you just lost a friend and you’re looking for answers, but you won’t find none by talking trash about a brother officer of the law.’
His reaction made me realise the futility; asking a cop to spill on another cop – even a retired one – was like trying to figure out which dog had the most fleas. ‘You work closely with Garland County Sheriff’s Department?’
‘If you’re asking me if I know Barrett, the answer’s no, not well. But I know his reputation and he’s as straight as a rifle barrel.’ He started backing away in the direction of the squad room. ‘Now, is there something else I can do for you today?’
His tone said it all, but the photograph in my pocket felt like it was throbbing, and I decided to take the risk. ‘Sure,’ I said, pulling out her picture. ‘Is this woman familiar to you at all?’
He stepped closer again, took the photograph between his thumb and forefinger. He stared for a long moment, and I thought he recognised her. Then he shook his head. ‘Who is she?’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say she’s the third victim.’
‘You know her name?’
‘No, but I’d damn sure like to.’
He looked at it again, then his eyes flicked to mine, and I knew what was coming. ‘Where’d you get this?’
‘A source.’
‘A source that gave you a photograph but didn’t tell you who all’s in it?’ He dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Don’t come that with me, if you’re sitting on information—’
‘I’m not. It belonged to the man who died, he gave it to my source for safekeeping.’
He stared at me, breathing hard through his nose. ‘What else your source give you?’
‘That’s it. It might not even be related.’ I tried not to blink under his gaze.
He passed the photograph back to me. ‘I shown you every courtesy, Yates. I’d appreciate the same in return. Now, we on the same page here?’
‘We are.’
He offered his hand and we shook. Then he walked off.
The gamble hadn’t paid off, and it chafed – I worried I might’ve burned Layfield as a source. But it cut both ways; I wondered how truthful he’d been about Barrett, and if the conversation would get back to him. Part of me hoped it would.
Chapter Twelve
It was almost ten by the time I got to the Arlington to call Lizzie. The lobby was crowded – families checking out before heading home and diners scarfing their breakfasts. The smell of coffee and bacon made my stomach growl. A bellhop zipped in front of me with a cart overloaded with bags and cases, making for the exit.
I passed by the restaurant and saw William Tindall at the same raised table he’d occupied the day before. There was only one other person with him this time, a woman. At a guess, about the same age as him, decked out in pearls and a shimmering aquamarine dress, her fair hair intricately pinned. Tindall was reading the newspaper, while the woman picked at a plate of fruit. She said something and he laughed, his eyes dancing in genuine humour. He reached across to chuck her chin and went back to his reading.
I watched them for a few seconds, the throng around me keeping me inconspicuous. The waiters fawned over Tindall, taking his chair when he stood to shake hands with a fellow diner, and refreshing his drink every second sip. He seemed to enjoy the attention, sharing a joke with them as he sat back down and handing out tips as easy as handshakes. His presence unsettled me; the locals seemed to buy him as some kind of bigwig, but I only saw the killer reputed to have slain at least five men.
I walked across to the phone booths and placed a call home. When the call went through, Lizzie answered straightaway. It felt good to hear her voice – and it brought back a nagging doubt whether I was doing the right thing by staying.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m so glad you called, Charlie. It’s empty here without you.’
‘I miss you too.’ I took my hat off and dangled it from my finger. ‘Hold that thought till I can be back there.’
‘Are you coming home soon?’
‘I can’t. Not yet.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I found some things out. I just can’t make them fit together yet.’
‘Please don’t be obtuse with me, Charlie.’
I let out a breath, knew she was right to call me on it. ‘The more I dig, the more I think Robinson was murdered. I just can’t prove it yet.’
She was quiet for a moment as it sank in. Then came the questions. ‘Who would do that? Are you in danger?’
‘No, no. I’m not in any danger.’
‘How can you say that with certainty? If he was killed because of what he knew – what you know . . .’
‘Just wait a minute. I don’t think it was to do with Texarkana – not directly anyway. My best guess is Robinson went after another crooked sheriff, and he g
ot in over his head.’
Her breathing was ragged down the line. ‘Isn’t that proof enough that you should get out of there, then? Please, Charlie. We didn’t come all this way just for . . .’ She let the thought wither and die, too hard to finish.
The silence hung for a moment, neither of us knowing how to persuade or reassure the other. Then I laid it out for her. ‘There were two women, Jeanette Runnels and Bess Prescott. They were both twenty-four years old. They were murdered.’ The words I didn’t need to say: same as your sister.
‘Then let the police do their work. I know why you don’t trust them but they’re not all like Bailey and Sherman.’
‘The police killed a man they said did it. They said he confessed but no one witnessed it. I don’t think Robinson believed he was guilty, and I need to know what made him think that way.’
‘Why, Charlie?’
‘Because if this man didn’t do it, then more women are going to die.’ My voice was urgent now, too forceful. Trying to convince myself as much as her. I closed my eyes and counted to five, trying to level off. ‘The police don’t care. These women mean nothing to them and it galls me. As far as they’re concerned, they got their man and they’ve closed the book on it.’
‘I meant why does it have to be you? This isn’t your hill to die on.’ She said it softly, cutting right through my anger.
I gripped the telephone cord. ‘Because I’ll be damned if I’m going to have any more blood on my conscience.’
It went quiet again. I listened to her breathing, could have sworn I felt it against my cheek. She said, ‘Is it always going to be this way?’
‘What way?’
‘I know your work here bores you, Charlie, and I know you’re only happy when you’re chasing a story—’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Okay. Perhaps I should have said happiest. But I worry that I’m always going to lose you to whatever’s next.’
‘That’s not how it’ll be.’ To my own ears it sounded like I was pleading. ‘I’ll be back as soon as this is done.’
‘And then what? What if Sal calls you from New York with a story for you? Or goodness knows who else?’
‘Then nothing. This is different. Robinson came here to make things right. It cost him his life and he entrusted me to finish what he started. You can see why I have to do this, can’t you?’
‘Not if it’s at the cost of your life too.’
I had no comeback. If Robinson was murdered, it stood to reason I was putting myself in the firing line by poking around in the same hornet’s nest – and she knew it. I saw it was no use trying to convince her and made up my mind to move matters along, focus her attention elsewhere. ‘Lizzie, I need you to do something for me.’
‘Are you changing the subject?’
‘No. This is related. It’s important.’
‘What is it?’
I glanced back towards the restaurant. ‘There’s a man here, his name’s William Tindall. He used to be a racketeer in New York, a big one, but he disappeared. Now he’s here acting like he’s royalty. I want to know how he came to be here and what his game is. Men like him don’t retire.’
‘I don’t understand, where does he fit into all this?’
‘I don’t know, and that’s what’s troubling me. But this place does crooked for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and I don’t like the coincidence.’
‘Is this busywork? Are you trying to divert me?’ She sounded doubtful and eager at the same time.
‘No. I’ll see what I can turn up this end. I want you to cover off the background. Start with Sal. He’ll be able to give you the New York dope, and he’ll know who to speak to for the rest. Check the wire services too, and the cuttings files, see if you can turn up anything there. I’ll square it off with Acheson.’
‘Are you sure? I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘I know what you’re capable of, and so do you.’
‘All right, but only on the condition that you come home at the first sign of trouble. Do we have a deal?’
I lodged my hat back on my head. ‘I’ll call again soon.’
I broke the connection and checked my watch, thinking about another run at Ella Borland – not ready to give up on my best lead just yet. I pulled out my notebook and found her number, dropped a nickel into the slot. The same man as before answered, almost immediately this time.
‘This is Yates calling for Ella Borland.’
Again he said nothing, and again she came on the line a few seconds later.
‘Miss Borland, this is Charlie Yates – we spoke yesterday.’
‘I remember you, Mr Yates.’
‘I don’t mean to badger you but I had one more question I was hoping you could answer for me. It’s about Jimmy.’
‘I assumed that was the purpose of the call. What is it you want to know?’
‘Can you tell me when Jimmy first approached you?’
‘I don’t— Give me a moment.’ I waited, not sure if she was thinking about it or about hanging up. Then she came back on the line. ‘Sometime in August. Maybe towards the end of the month.’
Bingo. Confirmation that Robinson was coming to Hot Springs long before he moved to Duke’s to live. The timelines jibed as well; Barrett shot Glover in mid-August – if Robinson had read about it and that had drawn his attention, it would make sense of why he came on the scene around that time. It still didn’t explain why he suddenly came here to stay in early October. The obvious answer: he felt he was getting close to something. ‘Ma’am, did Jimmy ever talk about Sheriff Barrett to you?’
‘What’s the significance of this, Mr Yates?’
I tried to keep it breezy. ‘Just loose ends I want to tie up, is all.’
‘I rather doubt that. I thought some more about our conversation yesterday.’
I pressed the receiver tighter to my ear. ‘Yes?’
‘I told you, it’s still very hard for me to talk about Jeannie and what happened to her, so when you called before, it was a shock to bring it all to mind again.’
‘I understand, I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. I’ve had time to think about it now, and if you still want to meet to talk about Jimmy, I’d be willing to consider it. What I’d like to know, however, is what your intentions are, as relates to his death.’
‘My intentions . . .’ I tried to bring order to my thoughts, suddenly thrown into a jumble by her about-turn. ‘Look, I’ll tell it straight. I want to know what he was doing and if it got him killed. And if it turns out there was foul play involved, then I’m here to see that the parties who did it get what’s coming to them.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I sensed that was it. So this is about revenge.’
‘Not revenge. Justice.’
‘You sound like you’re certain he was murdered.’
‘I’m not certain about anything. But I won’t go away until I am.’
‘You talk the same way Jimmy did. He was always talking about justice.’ Her voice was distant as she said it, and I thought I’d scared her off; that the idea of gouging open the same wounds as Robinson had done was too much for her to contemplate. But then she said, ‘I’ll agree to meet with you, but I’ll want to know what makes you think he was killed. Everything. If you hold something back, you won’t hear from me again.’
‘Fine.’ It sounded like she’d been burned before, and I wondered if it was by Robinson – and what he would have tried to hide from her. ‘Can you meet me today? Somewhere in town?’
‘Very well, but not in town. Let’s say five o’clock this evening at Jaycee Park. It’s still under construction, so we’ll have privacy enough. There’s a bench at the south-east corner, right where the railroad crosses the creek. I’ll be waiting.’
‘I’ll be there.’
I put the receiver back in its cradle and tapped the top of the unit, staring at nothing across the lobby. The amateur spook bullshit was a wrinkle I wasn’t expec
ting, made me wonder what I was walking into. It was as though she was afraid to be seen talking with me.
Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t want to risk another foray to the Recorder’s archives, so a return to the public library was the next best bet. The librarian smiled when I tipped my hat to greet her.
Inside, I made for stacks that held the old newspapers, pulled out a pile of Recorder copies, and gave myself ninety minutes to glom as much dope as I could on the political dogfight that was happening in Hot Springs.
It was slow going trying to form a picture by sifting through weeks of election stories, but an hour in, I felt I had enough that I could pitch the story to Acheson without tripping myself up. As I read, it was notable that any mention of corruption alleged against Coughlin was handled with a light touch – ‘Unsubstantiated rumours of electoral malfeasance’, ‘Fiercely refuted suggestions of fiscal impropriety.’ Nothing to even hint at the kind of wrongdoing I suspected him to be involved in. It was discordant with Dinsmore’s speculation about the mayor’s involvement, and I wondered if Coughlin’s activity was an open secret the papers left alone, just like the gambling dens and brothels that flourished in the town.
I pressed on a little longer, trying to take in as much as I could about the broader issues at stake, and that’s when I stumbled across a name that gave me the perfect hook. I creased the page to mark it, then walked to the telephone kiosk.
I called Acheson at home. Even at seventy, he alternated six- and seven-day weeks at the Journal, taking only every second Monday off; by my reckoning, today was one of those off-days. He’d been in newspapers his entire life and worked at outfits all over California. If he’d slipped some since his heyday at the LA Times, he made up for it with the weight of his knowledge, and he could run a rag like the Journal in his sleep. Above all else, he still knew a good story when it found him – if you knew how to pitch it.
‘Buck, it’s Charlie.’
‘Charlie? To what do I owe the pleasure?’