Devil Sent the Rain

by Lisa Turner

  He sat in his recliner with a Corona and switched on a James Bond movie he’d seen before. He watched car chases and bombs explode while he ate his blackened catfish and crawfish chowder out of a foam cup. He drank a second beer and finished off the jalapeño chips before the movie ended, thinking the beer would help him unwind. He considered the pack of Camels he kept in a drawer, but thought better of it and poured three fingers of Jack Daniel’s before walking out on the aft deck.

  He looked out over the broad Mississippi, the most untamed, indifferent entity in the region. The moon cast white light on the water, and in the distance a bonfire flared on a sandbar on the Arkansas side of the river. He scanned the Memphis skyline with its unique sense of place. He wasn’t born in Memphis but felt downtown, the bridges, the river—all of it belonged to him. He’d given up a lot to be a cop in this city.

  Two years ago he’d fallen in love with an extraordinary woman named Mercy Snow. He’d met her during an investigation involving her older sister who’d gone missing. Mercy had a growing business in Atlanta that she loved, so when the case was solved, he went there on an extended leave from the force to give their relationship a try. After nine months, things between them had cooled off. Mercy didn’t want to leave Atlanta. He wanted to be a homicide cop in Memphis. They called it quits, and he’d come back to live on the barge alone.

  Leaving Mercy had just about flattened him. Now Caroline was gone. A wave of loneliness hit. He took a deep breath, centering himself. He took a swallow of the Jack and sucked cold air over the warming liquid, tasting the soot and burnt toffee. The night folded around him like an old friend. He needed sleep. He needed a lot of things—sex, a weekend in a bass boat, and that New York strip in the fridge grilled to medium rare.

  He was ready to go inside when his mobile rang.

  “Where are you?” Frankie asked.

  He could tell she was out for a run, her rhythmic breathing layered with traffic noise. “I’m on the aft deck taking it all in,” he said. Now he could hear her running in place, probably waiting on a light.

  “Glorious moon out,” she said. “Two things. The report came back on Caroline’s sweater. It’s a match to the fibers caught in the car seat protector. They must’ve rubbed off on the lace of the dress.”

  “So that’s a dead end.”

  “Appears to be. Second, I’ve emailed some documents on Highsmith. The light’s changed. Catch you later.”

  Frankie hung up and slipped her phone into the zippered pocket on her hip. After so many days of rain, the clouds had given way to the moon and stars. Driving home, her choice had been to collapse in bed or go for a run. The bed nearly won, but she’d thrown cold water on her face and put on running gear. She was glad now to feel her lethargy disappearing with every step.

  She turned south and jogged under the trestle into the Cooper-Young district passing by Soul Fish Restaurant, her favorite place for fried catfish, hush puppies, and Southern style vegetables. Down the block she passed the hundred-and-forty-year-old Burke’s Books, one of five independent stores that had supported John Grisham with signings before he became famous. Grisham returned to Burke’s Books with every new release to sign books for the line of people who circled the block.

  She was about to loop around and head home when she noticed a man across the street lumbering toward her. He was wearing Dockers and a light jacket, his arms swinging slightly out of rhythm with his steps. Judd Phillips. He lived several blocks away and apparently had decided to give jogging a try. He stopped in front of a bar a half block from her and bent with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He straightened, his gaze rolling upward to the underside of the awning. Then he looked at the door. The flask at the CJC came back to her along with the sound of his retching in the bathroom.

  Don’t, she thought. Don’t go in.

  The door swung open. An older man, pear-shaped and walking with a cane limped through the door and turned to hold it open. Judd nodded and went inside. She wanted to kick Mr. PearBottom in the shins. Nothing she could do. Judd’s drinking problem wasn’t her business. She was about to start jogging again when the door swung open. Judd came out followed by a man with a potbelly and a bulbous nose. Judd picked up something from the frame of the window, handed it to the man, and pointed to where the awning was attached to the wall. She got it. Judd must have spotted a problem with the awning and gone inside to tell the owner. Good for him. The men talked for a moment then Judd slapped the man on the back and took off down the sidewalk at a speedy walk.

  She caught herself smiling as she crossed over Cooper Street and headed for home.

  Billy went back inside the barge and sat in his recliner with his laptop. The documents on Robert Highsmith contained nothing of interest, so he switched to the last half of the game between the Grizzlies and Mavericks.

  The room was warm. He kept drowsing off. Next thing he knew he was startled awake by a knock at the door. The game was over. The clock read 11:39. The knock came again. The cat jumped off the sofa and stalked to the door with his tail puffed up.

  Billy dropped the chair’s footrest. “Who is it?”

  “Robert Highsmith. Attorney with the Lee Law Firm.”

  Highsmith? What the hell. He came to his feet, retrieved his SIG from the drawer, and slipped it in the waistband at his back. Leo was standing in front of the door. He nudged him away with his foot to open it. Highsmith stood beneath the overhead light, hands visible at his sides. A former prosecutor would know that a cop answering the door this time of night would be armed.

  Highsmith was taller than he appeared to be in the Toys for Tots photo, well over six feet. He had a paunch, probably from too many hours sitting behind a desk, but he looked solid through the chest and shoulders, the kind of guy who could surprise you with his strength.

  Highsmith squinted under the glare of the bulb as if it was giving him a headache. “This a bad time?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Billy said.

  “My assistant texted that you wanted to talk to me about Caroline Lee.”

  “How did you find my place?”

  “I have my resources,” Highsmith said.

  “This could’ve waited till tomorrow.”

  Highsmith jammed his hands in his pockets. “I was driving back in town. I went out of my way to get here.”

  Billy scanned him. No bulges that might be a weapon, no smell of booze. Dirty, rumpled slacks and a two-day beard. A swipe of white paint marred the arm of his Cubs jacket. He looked like he’d been through the wringer. Showing up this late, he had some kind of an agenda. Might as well find out what it was.

  “Watch the cat,” he said, and stepped back.

  Highsmith came through the door, his nose twitching with distaste as if the barge was a doublewide with the smell of stale beer coming from the sink. Billy smelled it too, the chowder container he’d failed to rinse out before throwing it away.

  He didn’t offer the man a seat. “You’ve been out of touch since Tuesday. Your assistant was concerned when you didn’t respond to her texts. Where’ve you been?”

  “I took a few days off. There’s no cell service where I was staying. I just learned of Caroline’s death on the drive in.”

  “Must’ve been a shock.”

  “Yes. It was.” Highsmith’s eyes went vacant as if he’d disappeared inside himself.

  Detectives and prosecutors think they’re prepared for when death comes close to them. Billy knew that wasn’t true. Especially when it’s murder.

  Highsmith wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” he said. “I’ve got some Jack.”

  Highsmith got a stern look and shook his head. “You have my file on Sharma so you’re aware of the escalating harassment. Why isn’t he in custody?”

  Billy let a couple of beats pass. “You know I can’t answer that.”

  “Caroline came to me for protection. I feel I deserve answers.” His fingers curled at h
is side.

  Prosecutors learn to mask their emotions. Highsmith wasn’t even trying. “I get that you’re invested, but I’m not discussing the case.”

  “Has Sharma hired an attorney?”

  “Jerry Vanderman.”

  “I hear he’s tough. That should tell you something,” Highsmith said.

  “It does. It says Sharma knows he’s a suspect.” Discussing Vanderman was going nowhere. Maybe he could get something useful out of this guy. “Is there anything you haven’t entered in the file?”

  “Last week Sharma accosted Caroline in the firm’s parking lot because she refused to wear the clothes he’d given her. I saw it happening and ran out. He had this wild look and took a swing at me. I grabbed hold of Caroline, and a couple of the other attorneys showed up. They kicked him off the property. If I was the prosecutor, I’d lock him up for life.”

  “You don’t run the show anymore, remember? You jumped the fence.”

  “I know homicidal rage when I see it. The doc realized Caroline wasn’t coming back. In that scenario, a lot of women end up dead.”

  That’s how Billy saw it. A man with Sharma’s ego wouldn’t let Caroline walk away without doing something about it. However, this guy showing up at midnight and throwing accusations around made him wonder. He’d been the new hire working down the hall when Caroline was considering bailing on the marriage. Something personal could’ve developed between them.

  “You’ve been at the firm for what … five months?” he asked.

  “About that.”

  He studied the man’s lank hair combed to the right side, the glasses sitting askew in front of round, rabbit gray eyes. Cleaned up, dressed in a suit, he had looked more like a Presbyterian minister than Caroline’s type. But with women you never knew.

  “You think Caroline was seeing someone behind Sharma’s back? I mean intimately.”

  Highsmith’s chest swelled. “That’s insulting.”

  “The other guy could’ve been just as jealous as Sharma if she told him she’d decided to go back to the doctor.” He pointed his index finger at his temple and pulled the imaginary trigger.

  Highsmith flinched.

  “You were advising her,” Billy said. “Did she tell you about the letter she wrote to Sharma?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It began ‘Dearest Raj.’ She told him she called off the wedding because she’d fallen for another guy.”

  Highsmith’s head jerked back like he’d been punched. He went to the sofa and dropped as if his equilibrium had been shot out from under him. He looked like an electrical storm was passing through his brain.

  Billy had exaggerated the details in the draft letter to get a reaction. By damn, it worked. “You didn’t say where you’ve been for four days.”

  Highsmith ignored the comment. He nodded to himself as if he’d made a decision and stood. He pulled a business card from his wallet and dropped it on the table. “Give me a call when you arrest Sharma. In the meantime, I have another angle to pursue.”

  “Meaning?”

  Highsmith moved toward the door patting his pockets for his keys. “Sorry I disturbed your evening.”

  Billy hadn’t anticipated this switch, and he didn’t like it. “I want you at the CJC tomorrow at nine to discuss your whereabouts.”

  Highsmith’s hand went to the doorknob. He gave Billy a small, stony smile. “That’s the shitty part of this business, isn’t it? I don’t have to tell you a damned thing.”

  Chapter 27

  Early Friday morning Rosalyn’s mobile rang during her drive downtown for a probate hearing. Martin wanted her to come to his house immediately. She didn’t have time for this, but in thirty-six years he’d never made such a request. She contacted the judge’s clerk, was granted an emergency postponement, and drove straight to Chickasaw Gardens, which happened to be only a few blocks away.

  The entire historic neighborhood had begun as an estate belonging to Clarence Saunders, founder of Piggly Wiggly, the first self-serve grocery store in the country. After losing a battle with Wall Street speculators in 1923, Clarence Saunders had been forced into bankruptcy. His 36,000-square-foot mansion—built of pink Georgia marble and including a pipe organ, ballroom, a shooting gallery, eight bedrooms and baths—had gone up for sale. Known as the Pink Palace, it became the city’s natural history museum. Rosalyn’s grandfather had been one of the developers who’d snapped up the twenty-two-acre property and the man-made lake to create what is now known as Chickasaw Gardens, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city.

  Two years ago, Martin had purchased a 1940’s Tudor style home. He’d torn out the leaded casement windows, stripped the walls down to the studs, and refurbished the house with a minimalist hand and outrageously expensive finishes. He couldn’t boil an egg, but he’d spent two hundred thousand on the kitchen remodel.

  Rosalyn picked up the newspaper at the front door and let herself in. Martin was working on a laptop at his desk in the living area, unshaven and still in his bathrobe. His scruffy appearance alarmed her even more than his call. As a teenager, he’d taken interminable showers and thrown clothes on the floor until he’d found what he wanted to wear. Their cleaning bills had been staggering, but they could never break him of the habit. She’d begun teasing him, calling him Martina and Meticulous Martin. He’d hated it.

  While he worked on the laptop, she roamed the expansive living area with its modern furnishings and startling art. A nightmarish abstract by Marcel Eichner hung over the buffet. A digitally hybridized image by Jon Rafman took up half of one wall. A life-sized sculpture of a truncated female torso smeared in black, green, and blue gesso stood in the corner. The twist of the torso’s spine evoked agony. Martin thought the house was tasteful. She thought it was hideous.

  The buzzing sound of a blender coming from the kitchen caught her attention. A gorgeous young woman Rosalyn had never seen before came into the room carrying a frothy drink that she placed on the desk next to Martin. He spoke to her quietly in what Rosalyn recognized as Italian, instructing her to bring an espresso for his guest. The young woman left without acknowledging Rosalyn’s presence.

  Rosalyn walked over to the brushed steel fireplace with its gas flames, the only thing in the room with warmth. “You didn’t introduce us,” she said to Martin.

  “Elena Lucchesi. She does a little cooking and housekeeping. She’s a convenience.”

  Elena returned with an espresso for Rosalyn and chocolate biscotti on a china plate. The young woman picked up the newspaper on her return to the kitchen and slipped Martin a smile that was too intimate for the position he’d described. Rosalyn knew he preferred his women to be accessories, not attachments. None of them stayed very long. This one would be out the door soon.

  Rosalyn sipped her espresso. “You had me rush over. What’s this about?”

  “In a minute, Mother.” One corner of his mouth lifted.

  Her son enjoyed occasionally calling the shots.

  When he was young, she would come home exhausted from a long day at the law firm. He’d follow her around the house whining and demanding attention until she was emotionally drained. She rationalized yelling at him as a way to toughen him up. Saunders didn’t know what to do with him either, so he never interfered.

  Sometimes Martin would flare up by slamming doors and smashing plates. She punished him by locking him out of the house until supper. Once he’d stabbed a butcher knife through a valuable painting left to her by her grandfather, a Childe Hassam portrayal of a shoreline full of blue water and light. She’d taken Martin’s Scottish terrier to the pound as punishment. Later she felt bad about the dog and had given him two hundred dollars. Money was the best apology. What could he have done with words?

  He closed his laptop, straightened his robe, and motioned her to a seat on the sofa across from his flat screen TV. He joined her there.

  She leaned in. “If this is about business, be careful what you say. That girl may
be listening.”

  “Elena doesn’t speak much English. Besides, I trust her.”

  “My Mexican gardener acts like he can’t speak a word of English, but I’ve heard him on the phone chatting away.”

  “I’m not interested in your gardener, Mother.”

  “You can never be too sure about someone who works for you.”

  “You should take your own advice.” He pointed a remote at the screen. “Balkin Security recorded this at two this morning.”

  The video footage showed Robert Highsmith entering the firm’s foyer and taking the stairs to the second floor.

  “You’ve given keys and individual alarm codes to your attorneys,” he said.

  “Our attorneys work late and come in very early,” she said. “Their codes tell us who’s been in the building and when. We’ve installed hidden cameras in every office. If there’s a problem, we’re protected.”

  “I asked Balkin Security to review your after-hours footage. They called me at five this morning. Watch this.”

  He clicked the remote. Robert Highsmith entered Caroline’s office and walked directly to her built-in file cabinets. He opened and closed each empty drawer then took a seat at her desk and dropped his head in his hands.

  “What’s that jacket he’s wearing?” she asked.

  “A Cubs windbreaker. He’s probably been to Chicago.”

  She’d never seen Robert Highsmith in anything less than a three-piece suit. Here he looked disheveled and unsteady.

  Martin fast-forwarded the recording. “He goes through everything in Caroline’s office then searches her assistant’s desk. He seemed particularly interested in her files.”

  “They don’t have any clients in common.”

  “I’ve checked the firm’s database,” he said. “Caroline signed out twenty-three sequestered trust files on Monday. Highsmith used his remote access last night to track those files to her office. I think he went there to steal them. Thank God you moved them out.”

  “Detective Able wanted access to everything, so I took all of her files to my office instead of to the file room. They’re untraceable. Why would Robert want them?”