Tin God

by Stacy Green

  “Jaymee’s,” Cage choked out. “The night Rebecca was killed, she stopped at the diner to confirm Jaymee’s cleaning appointment. Jaymee asked about the sunglasses, Rebecca said she’d already laid them on the kitchen counter. Next morning they were gone, and Jaymee’s been looking for them ever since. Royce planned on taking her all along.”

  Nick looked at the box. A sweltering breeze rolled between the Greek columns. He tasted the sweet magnolias and fresh air on his tongue. And something in his brain switched on.

  “Why are they on the bottom?”

  Cage and Charles both looked at him in confusion.

  Nick grabbed the pen sticking out of Charles’s pocket and carefully lifted the envelope and papers. “The order is all wrong. He killed Lana first. If he started keeping this box then–which he would have, if he were a collector–Lana’s envelope would have been on the bottom and her cross with it. Then Rebecca’s papers, Crystal’s ring, and Jaymee’s sunglasses. Yet her sunglasses are on the very bottom.”

  Cage shrugged. “Maybe things got shook up when he put the box away.”

  “That envelope barely fits in there,” Nick said. “Sunglasses aren’t going to crawl underneath it and hide.”

  “That’s true.” Charles rattled the box again. The envelope stayed resolutely in place. “S’all backward.”

  “Royce is no serial killer,” Nick said. “The Roselea murderer isn’t, either. Not in the true sense. He’s killing to protect himself. He’d take Lana’s papers and Rebecca’s evidence, but he wouldn’t give a damn about Crystal’s ring or Jaymee’s things.”

  “Unless he was trying to lead police in the wrong direction,” Charles said.

  “You’re saying the killer planted this?” Cage said. “To make Royce look guilty? That Paul did this?”

  “Planted, yes. But Paul was accounted for during Jaymee’s disappearance.” The feeling he was missing something flittered in Nick’s brain with the skill of a heat-seeking fly.

  “Ballard was in and out,” Charles said. “Home and then at the hospital with Holden. We’ve had a tail on him. If he’s got her, I don’t know when he would have done it.”

  “Cage is right about one thing,” Nick said. “When he killed Rebecca, the murderer took Jaymee’s sunglasses. She’s his emotional end game. But why?”

  “Paul Ballard hates her,” Charles said. “You should have seen him in the hospital, calling her the devil’s child, blaming her for Gereau exposing the truth and bringing shame on the Ballard name.”

  “But he’s been tailed.”

  “Newton’s only one who makes sense,” Cage said.

  “Nick’s right,” Charles said. “This evidence stinks. Too neat, too easy.”

  “Rebecca’s killer knew Evaline well,” Nick said. “Did Royce have the locks changed after the murder?”

  “No.” Charles shook his head in disgust. “Said it was Rebecca the murderer had been after, and he’d be damned if he would show any fear. Another reason to make him look guilty.”

  “Rebecca knew her killer,” Nick said. “That much we’re sure of. She let him in, assuming it’s not Royce. Aren’t there rumors of an affair?”

  “No proof. She knew Wilcher,” Cage said, “but he obviously didn’t take Jaymee. Ballard’s whereabouts are known. Royce is the only person unaccounted for.”

  Nick ran his hands through his sweaty hair slicking it back. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth trying to maintain control of his rushing emotions. The blue jay still sang, and the beauty of its song made the intense moment surreal. The muggy air seeped into his head, clouding his thoughts. He walked to the edge of the porch and sat down on the top step. In the east, a faint strip of pink streaked across the skyline like a delicate brushstroke.

  Dawn.

  They’d been wasting their time. Royce wasn’t behind Jaymee’s disappearance. He was probably hiding in Jackson. No, they were looking for someone who’d been watching from the sidelines all along, someone who knew about the illegal adoptions and wanted to protect Holden Wilcher.

  Maybe there was another accomplice. Maybe Paul Ballard hired the muscle.

  And maybe Nick was too late, again.

  “Forensics won’t find anything.” Nick said. “They should be searching Jaymee’s trailer.”

  “Charles has a second unit going,” Cage said. “County sheriff’s assisting.”

  They stood off to the side of Evaline’s immaculate front yard, out of the way of the forensics team. Dawn had fully emerged, bringing with it more heat and yapping birds. Charles remained on the porch, phone to his ear.

  “Tell me about the typewriter again.” Cage wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “It still doesn’t make sense,” Nick said. “Why send that letter at all? Without it, I wouldn’t have realized Rebecca and Lana were connected. Jaymee wouldn’t have made the connection to her daughter and the adoption. If he hadn’t sent the letter, the killer could have stopped with Rebecca.”

  “Royce took Jaymee’s sunglasses. He planned–”

  “The killer took them. And the letter had to have been mailed before he killed Rebecca. The moment he put that in the mailbox, he set all of this in motion.”

  “He wanted to get caught.”

  “He wanted to attack,” Nick said. “But he’s passive-aggressive. He stays on the sidelines, manipulating until he’s ready to strike. Jaymee’s his last target. But he had to take care of everyone else who posed a threat to Holden first.”

  “All right,” Cage said. “So we’re back to Holden calling the shots. Hired gun.”

  That wasn’t it. Too simple.

  “What kind of typewriter was it again?”

  “IBM Wheelwriter 3,” Nick said. “I never got the chance to look it up.”

  Cage opened the browser on his phone and tapped in the search bar. Images popped up. Cage clicked on one to enlarge. Nick peered over his shoulder.

  And forgot to breathe.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “What?”

  “That picture. The one of Crystal and Jaymee–where was it taken?”

  “Looked like Crystal’s trailer. Why?”

  “We need to get inside. Now.”

  Cage shook his head. “Why?”

  “That picture of the two of them,” Nick said. “They were standing next to a table. That table had a typewriter that looked just like this one,” he pointed at the phone. “God, why didn’t I notice it then?”

  “It’s a typewriter. Not what you were looking for.”

  “The one used to type the letter has a ‘K’ that sticks. Only way we’ll know for sure is to get to the typewriter.”

  “Trailer’s locked. It’s no longer considered an active crime scene, and the landlord’s an ass.”

  “I got a crowbar.”

  “What if Crystal was somehow involved in this?” Cage argued. “Say she typed the note for Royce–or whoever the killer is–and sent it. He kills her later. We go breaking in there, and any evidence we find is useless in court.”

  “Then put on your uniform and use your powers of persuasion.”

  Nick stood behind Cage while he talked to Reggie Shaw, manager of Ravenna Court, who fit every stereotype of redneck southerner: tall, stick-legged, and a full beer-belly with stained white tank top and cigarette hanging from his mouth. He palmed a chipped yellow lighter in his dirty hand and looked at Cage with disinterest.

  “I had a nasty-ass mess to clean up in that trailer. Crime scene clean-up from Jackson cost more than the piece of shit’s worth. Don’t need you going in there taking anything she might have had I could use to make some of my money back.”

  “Her belongings go to her family.”

  “She don’t have no family. None that we can find.”

  “You haven’t given her family much time,” Cage said.

  “That’s not your business.”

  Cage pulled out his badge. The rising sun glinted off the gold shield. “It is my business, S
haw. And you know it wouldn’t take much for me to raid your little manager’s trailer. I’ve heard rumor you got a nice side business here, selling pot and maybe some of the hard stuff.”

  Nick knew the drill. He’d played this game with lowlifes on the streets of Jackson a hundred times. He usually enjoyed the banter, but Jaymee didn’t have time for the ego swap. He pulled out his wallet. “Fifty bucks. All the time we need.”

  Shaw raised a scarred eyebrow. He took a long drag off the smoke and then used the cigarette to point at Nick’s wallet. “Fine.”

  Nick tossed the money at Shaw and held his hand out for the key.

  The smell of death is unforgettable, and Nick had covered enough murders during his career to recognize it on contact. It’s the kind of smell that infiltrates the clothes, seeps through pores and into the brain so that a man still smells it long after the body has been removed.

  Add that foulness to a closed-up, overheated tin can, and the scent is stomach churning.

  “She had a window air conditioner.” Cage spoke behind his hand. “Shaw must have yanked it out and sold it.”

  Nick grunted. He didn’t want to open his mouth. The taste would coat his tongue for a week.

  Crystal’s body had been removed days ago and the blood and any other bodily fluids scrubbed away with chemicals. Yet the smell of decay permeated the trailer’s cheap walls and Crystal’s meager furnishings. The vinyl floor had been cleaned, but the rust-colored stain remained.

  “Right there.” In her bedroom, Nick pointed to the mismatched dresser against the wall. A jewelry box stood open, and nothing was in its place. Shaw had obviously been rifling. Scattered over the dresser were old snapshots, a few pieces of costume jewelry, and several business cards–most likely Crystal’s clients.

  Nick smacked his palm on the left end of the table. “Sat right here. That’s the wall behind it. Same curtains in the window, same dirty glass, same plywood wall.”

  “Hasn’t been here in a while,” Cage said.

  “Why?”

  “No dust ring.” Cage motioned to the rest of the room. Everything that had been moved by investigators or the grubby-handed Shaw was designated by a ring of dust.

  “So Shaw didn’t steal it.”

  “Crystal probably sold it,” Cage said.

  Nick dug his fingertips into his temples rubbing the growing knots of pressure. “Keep looking.”

  “Not too many places she could hide a typewriter.” Cage looked in the closet, standing on tiptoes to search the top shelves.

  “Crystal wasn’t stupid,” Nick said. “She knew how to get what she wanted–she threatened Jaymee to protect herself, yet she considered herself a friend. Double-sided. She’s kept records, and I’d be willing to bet she’d worked hard to cover up her tracks. Probably doesn’t even have a bank account.”

  “She had a computer.” Cage toed the wireless router and modem sitting on the nightstand.

  “Where’s the computer?”

  “Probably in the manager’s office or already in a pawn shop.” Cage kicked the old dresser making it rattle precariously. “Any records she might have had were probably on it.”

  “Not necessarily.” Nick moved into the main living area. “Too easy for someone to discover.”

  Cage looked unconvinced but kept searching. Every cabinet opened, cushions moved. Nick hoped he’d find a loose slat in the bench’s wooden seat or a piece of vinyl floor easily removed. Nothing.

  Sweating and desperate, he dropped to his knees, slid the cabinet beneath the sink open, and ran his hand around the inside. A few bottles of cleaning supplies, a clean dust brush, two stiff sponges, the plumbing hoses. He twisted his arm to the right, and a splinter jammed into his index finger. He swore and jerked back.

  The thin board underneath the sink wobbled and slid to the right an inch–maybe two. A digital recorder small enough to fit into Nick’s hand bounced off the bottle of generic cleaner and landed on the bottom of the cabinet.

  Nick fell back onto the floor. A bead of sweat dripped onto his hand. He ignored it and reached for the recorder. Cage knelt beside him, breathing heavily with excitement.

  Hands shaking, Nick pressed play.

  34

  Jaymee’s throat hurt. Not the rawness that comes from screaming, but burning pain, as though the muscles had been crushed and were trying to stretch themselves back into position. She wet her dry lips. Moving her mouth sent a throb across her jaw and up into her skull.

  A stale scent drifted past her nose. Old wood, musty clothes, mothballs. Heat licked her skin. Her mouth fell open, trying to cool her burning body, and she tasted damp air tinged with the unmistakable scent of lake water teeming with fish.

  Fuzzy memories rolled through her rattled mind. Holden, bloodied against a dirt wall and Penn, tears in his eyes and telling her he was her real father. She saw Sarah, and something dark with inescapable hatred.

  Darren.

  Jaymee’s eyes struggled open. Her blurred vision slowly cleared, and she saw rotted wood slats with streaks of blue sky peeking through. She tried to speak. A gasp, and then a pathetic groan. On instinct, her hands went to her throat. It was on fire. Her wrists were still bound. Again, she wrestled with her voice. This time, her groan was more of yowling mew.

  “Want some water?”

  She rolled her pounding head in the direction of Darren’s voice. Six feet away stood the man she’d once adored. His clothes were covered with dried mud. He’d washed his hands, but his fingernails looked painted with dirt. Red welts decorated his collarbone, courtesy of Jaymee.

  He shook the bottle of water.

  She nodded.

  He stepped across the space. Looking wary, he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her into a sitting position. The entire room tilted and then swayed, a blur of dark colors and terror.

  Darren thrust the water in her face. She grasped it with weak fingers. The tepid water soothed her aching throat, but she didn’t dare try to muster her true voice. Her whisper was meek as a mouse. “Why, Darren?”

  “I already told you. Had to protect the one person who was always there for me.”

  “By becoming a killer?”

  He towered over her, transformed into a marauding demon. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, no one would have gotten hurt.”

  Jaymee took another drink, trying to focus on the feel of the water to stay calm. “You knew the truth. All these years.”

  “I didn’t believe it. But I knew what you and that damned Lana Samuels were trying to do.”

  “How?”

  “I ran into her in Jackson. She was leaving the restaurant I was supposed to meet Holden, Royce, and Dad at. She was mad as hell. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me everything. I played dumb, shocked. Concerned. After all, you were my sister. Inside, I felt murderous rage. You’d caused so much trouble for the family. Holden had done so much for us. And then she said she had proof of the other woman, Elaine. That she was going to nail Holden, and he’d have to admit to fathering your child.

  “I knew then what I’d have to do. I arranged to meet her later that night.”

  “How did you get Lana to go with you?”

  His shy smile sent chills crawling over her like hairy spiders. “She believed I was on your side. I convinced her to meet me that night and show me the information. I’d go to the police with her in the morning as your spokesman. Stupid, naïve girl.”

  “She trusted you.” Jaymee paid the price of the force of her words, her throat crying out in agony.

  “Made it easy.” Darren toed the duffle bag at his feet. “Still have the papers.”

  “At least you know the truth.”

  “I know you and that other jezebel seduced a good man and then plotted to send him into ruin.”

  Her laugh brought fresh torture. “Holden’s a predator. And a liar. A false idol. You chose wrong, Darren.”

  “That’s what Rebecca said.”

  “But why? Why’d Rebecca tell you?”<
br />
  “A person usually shares life-altering information with their lover.”

  Jaymee didn’t have the energy to be surprised. “You knew I’d be there to find her body.”

  “I didn’t enjoy killing her. Rebecca made me happy. Once again, you destroyed something I cherished. It’s only fitting you be burdened with the memory.”

  She didn’t ask about Crystal. Didn’t want to know. Right now, she had to figure out how to get the hell away. She rocked on her butt and tried to roll to her feet, but instead fell onto her side.

  Darren laughed.

  He’d tied her feet. She rolled to her back, tied up like a helpless calf. Darren’s harsh laughter made Jaymee’s head throb. Was Nick looking for her? Had he or Cage noticed her feeble attempt at identifying Darren with the picture?

  The tears she’d been warring with oozed in her eyes. Her throat swelled and ached. She ground her teeth until her jaw muscles cramped. Jaymee entwined her hands, letting them fall to her chest. Hopelessness sank in now.

  “Why didn’t you kill me four years ago instead of Lana?”

  Darren picked at the dirt in his fingernails. “I didn’t think you were a real threat. Lana had the connections. She was so pissed off and ready to make an example of Holden. Once she was eliminated, everything went back to normal. Holden was safe.”

  “Until Rebecca figured out Royce’s game,” Jaymee said.

  “She might not have if it weren’t for you telling her your pathetic problems.”

  “Rebecca didn’t know about Holden or Sarah. She only knew I needed a family attorney.”

  Darren glared at her. “Rebecca wasn’t stupid. And she liked to snoop. She asked around, found out you’d been sent away when you were younger. When you asked about a family attorney, she assumed it was for a child.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “No. I’d hoped she’d forget about it. But when she discovered Royce’s bank accounts, she dug deeper.”

  “Why did you send the letter before you killed Rebecca? It could have all ended with her.”

  Darren knelt beside her. His eyes were bloodshot and full of hate. He raked his nails over her bruised arm, sending tremors of pain and chills over her frayed nerves. “I had to kill Rebecca because of you. I decided it was time for you to pay.”