Wallis was on a tear, and he began waving his arms round, which pulled out something stuck in one of them. Just then a different nurse slammed into the room.
“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” she barked at me.
“We’re talking about saving lives,” I answered, my voice not as strong as I’d’ve liked.
“Well, leave that to us. You can save Mr. Harding’s life by going home. Now get out!”
I gave Wallis an apologetic look, but he just chuckled and waved goodbye.
As I rushed outta his room, I couldn’t believe who I almost ran into: Dr. Gerald Navarro. The very one. His name hadn’t been mentioned in our home for a good eight or nine year.
That was about to change.
Chapter 36: Abit
“Keaton’s been missing for five year,” I told Alex, as though that made my case against him. Alex wasn’t having it.
As promised, we met Monday afternoon at Adam’s Rib. While we waited for our order, I filled him in on the rest of my evidence: Keaton had been back long enough to have killed our three victims, and he wrote a book about mountain music and murder ballads. (I left Wallis outta the book business to bolster my case.) “And I need your help because I can’t go to the law about this—or to Wallis. He’d never speak to me again, either way the truth plays out.”
“Okay, Abit, we’ll go back to Della’s and look into this. I’m sure we can find out something on LexisNexis or some of my other resources.”
When the waiter arrived with our dinners—barbecue chicken plate for both of us—we ate in silence for a good while. Oncet Alex was halfway through his meal, he started asking me more about Keaton. After I told him all I knew, I felt a little better. Especially when the waiter arrived with our pecan pie and coffee.
I’d known Alex since I was a kid, and he hadn’t changed much, except for a few wrinkles each year and more streaks of gray in his hair. (The same went for Della. She stood tall and still had that pretty reddish gold hair, though by now I reckon she was helping the color along.)
Alex loved what he did, and more than likely that kept him younger. He talked about working out in a gym, which sounded awful to me. Between chopping and sawing wood, lifting heavy furniture, tilling and tending a garden, and lugging music instruments and equipment, I couldn’t imagine adding workouts in some gym. But then I didn’t sit at a computer all day.
I tried to hurry him up, but he ordered more coffee. Finally, he slipped a twenty on the table and left before I could argue about who paid the bill.
I waved to Della on my way past the store and took the steps two at a time. Alex already had two computers fired up. “Abit, I’m happy to help, but you know, you could learn how to do this and do it whenever you needed. You can use the extra computer I leave here anytime you want.” I shrugged my shoulders, and he laughed. “Don’t pull that aw-shucks stuff with me, Abit. You can learn how to do this.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. He had me there. “I’m sure I’ll learn when the time’s right. But just this oncet more, please?” He was still looking at me when I told him I’d think about it, which was what I always said just to get him offa my back. I think he knew it too.
We started with the “Omie Wise” murder over in Randleman in Randolph County. Alex worked a while and cursed colorfully a time or two. I knew the woman killed in April had drowned, just like Omie, but Alex said first she’d been struck with a tire iron. And she wasn’t pregnant like Omie. Those new facts bothered me, but I needed to know them; Airhorn (that’s what we called the sheriff behind his back on account of his loud voice) would bring them up—and more.
Alex kept digging. After a while he said, “The first victim did work as a housekeeper for a family in Randolph County, which does jibe with the ballad’s backstory.”
My heart started banging when we moved on to checking out Keaton. I gave him Keaton’s full name and the title of the music book he wrote. Alex put his head down and typed and clicked and cursed some more. Then he looked up. “Abit, I’m glad you didn’t tell anyone else those ideas you’re harboring about Keaton.”
“Why? Is the FBI already looking into him?”
Alex smiled, the kind you do when you’re tolerating an idiot you happen to like. “Looks as though he’s been serving his country for the past five years, some of that time in Afghanistan. He was in special ops, so no wonder there was a bunch of secrecy surrounding his whereabouts. Besides, I don’t have to tell you that mountain folks keep to themselves.”
He worked a while longer. He didn’t seem to mind me looking over his shoulder as he brought up all kinds of new leads. “Here’s something about his book. Hey, you didn’t tell me his father co-authored it. Anyway, it was well reviewed in Now & Then magazine out of East Tennessee State University.”
I was sorry for Keaton, having lived through a war and all, but I still wasn’t convinced he was innocent. I kept seeing the way he crept outta the room at the first mention of the murder. “Okay, but what about five year ago? Was he stationed in Tennessee, maybe?” I was thinking about “Knoxville Girl” and “Barbara Allen” over in Chattanooga.
“Nope. When he was stateside, he was based in Fayetteville, on the other side of North Carolina.”
“He coulda driven ...”
“Come on, Abit. What have you got against this guy? That’s way out in left field.”
“But he was carrying a coil of rope and, well ... he’s creepy.” The words were barely outta my mouth before I shuddered. I thought about how I’d feel if I’d spent time fighting strangers in Afghanistan. To be honest, I couldn’t even imagine it. His shying away from murder talk now seemed only natural.
Alex and I talked some, and he eased me back on track. “Look, just because it isn’t Keaton doesn’t make the mystery go away. Somebody’s killing people, and your theory about the murder ballads seems sound to me. Look for other people who are familiar with bluegrass.”
“Well, technically, it’s folk music, and in these parts that doesn’t narrow it down much,” I said. “Guys you’d figure couldn’t recall their own names know the exact year Bill Monroe formed the Monroe Brothers and the year Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt left the Blue Grass Boys to form Foggy Mountain Boys.”
All this made me wonder if maybe I did need to learn about computers. Sure was easier than sneaking round somebody’s cabin to find info—and coming up with wild and hurtful ideas. You could probably still find crazy notions on a computer, but it wouldn’t take the toll of time and trouble.
Alex sat quiet-like as I worked out my feelings. He was good like that. After a while, I thanked him for his time and our dinner. Then I slipped out, chased by feelings of shame.
I noticed the store wasn’t too busy, so I stopped by to say hey to Della. She was looking over some papers at the counter, but when she saw me, she put them down where she stored paper bags. I wanted to ask about them, but I had more important things on my mind. I told her what had just happened with Alex.
“I can’t believe I almost accused an innocent man who’d been fighting in a godawful war of committing five murders.” But then something hit me. “Hey, but what was he doing in Kona? And why did he have a big coil of rope?” Della looked baffled, so I brought her up to date on my Keaton sightings.
“Sounds to me as though he’s a researcher,” she said. “Probably writing an article. And didn’t you say he was moving? More than likely he needed rope for that.”
I started fiddling with the coffee cup she’d given me. “Man, I’ve gotten everything wrong. I wished I’d never started looking into all this.”
“Oh, come on, Abit. Only Alex and I know what you were thinking, and we don’t count. Don’t let this misstep stop you. Like you keep saying, your ideas, in the right hands, could save lives. Share them with Sheriff Horne. He’s a fair man. He’ll listen to you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’re headed in the right direction. Keep at it. I was reading in the paper just this mo
rning about how clueless, in the literal sense, law enforcement is about these murders. Go talk to the sheriff. Get it off your chest and then get back to your real work, the work you love.”
“I can’t seem to get up the nerve,” I said. “It always feels like someone is looking over my shoulder, ready to cut me down or find fault. You ever have that happen, Della?”
“Not really, honey. I’m afraid that’s your cross to bear.”
“Okay, but will you go with me to see Sheriff Horne?”
“Make that two crosses to bear.”
Chapter 37: Della
When Abit left, I pulled out the envelope the postman had delivered and carried it to the backroom. I sorted through pages and pages of names and deposits from Westonia Bank printed on an old dot-matrix printer. I didn’t know those were still around, but I imagined my guy—I’d given him the moniker DEEP POCKET—had chosen it and his cut-out words to make everything harder to trace. And he’d likely worn latex gloves while handling it all. I thought about taking these documents and those I’d found in Jessie’s trashcan directly to the authorities, but before I did, I needed a better understanding of what I had.
The bell over the door had been jingling, and from the rising level of chatter I could tell the store was filling up. I spent the rest of the day out front. The store didn’t clear out again until right before closing time. Once I locked the front door, I grabbed a cup of lukewarm coffee before settling down again with the packet.
Three pages contained long lists of small deposits into dozens of accounts—what I’d learned was a scammer’s way of avoiding regulatory thresholds. That must have been where Johnny Ray Meeks and his crew of small-time crooks came in. Another page contained a list of names, some of which I recognized: people of influence and money in the area. My heart did a tap dance as I pored over the remaining pages that included photographs of property for sale and other real estate transactions.
But in the end, what did I have? Just a lot of suspicions, nothing I could take to local authorities, who I reminded myself had already signed off on the burned shack that nearly took Nigel’s life. I couldn’t help but worry that county officials, maybe even Sheriff Horne, were somehow in on this, or at least looking the other way for kickbacks.
Other transactions I recognized as properties Nigel had forged documents for. No way could I mention those to Horne; Nigel was lucky to have gotten out of the country without that tagging along after him. Or keeping him from ever returning.
Dammit. This all felt like crazy tail-chasing. I stuffed the papers back in the envelope until I could talk with Alex. He was upstairs packing to go back to D.C., but I’d see what we could figure out tonight after dinner.
I used to feel sad when Alex left, but not so much lately. I worried there was something cold about that, but I figured we’d been together long enough for a lazy comfort with one another to infiltrate our lives. Maybe that was why we were still together.
I would miss his cooking. For our farewell dinner, he was making shrimp scampi with linguine and a late-season tomato salad on lettuces from my back garden. I’d hired Louis, Elbert Totherow’s grandson, to plow a good-sized section of the meadow behind the store after I’d found an old copy of Ruth Stout’s How to Have a Green Thumb Without an Aching Back on Elbert’s front porch; he let me take it for the barter of a dozen tomatoes. I covered the soil with a good foot of rotted hay (Louis taught me that—so I wouldn’t grow a lush garden of fescue grass) and planted a salad garden—five kinds of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and herbs. Our summer had been a wet one, so I hadn’t needed to water the garden. The results were more than satisfying.
After dinner, Alex brought out port and a small chunk of Stilton he’d brought down from D.C. (I used to stock it, but it never sold well.) I didn’t know if feeling tipsy would hurt or help our musings about DEEP POCKET, but I was about to find out.
Not surprisingly, Alex had written a series on money laundering several years ago. That was the reporter’s mantra: “I wrote a story on that ...,” which usually cued friends to roll their eyes or leave the room. The situation he wrote about was different—more money, bigger crooks—but the M.O. was the same.
“I lucked out,” Alex said. “Like Nigel was for you, my source was one of those culprits-turned-expert. He’d been convicted of money laundering, and once he’d served some time, he switched sides. That began an impressive career in the identification and detection of financial crime with a focus on money laundering. I was grateful for his inside knowledge, though I’ve got to tell you, that guy rankled me. He oozed decorum and charm but I knew he’d graduated from White-collar Crime University. With dishonors.”
When Alex stopped to sip his port, I broke in. “Johnny Ray Meeks forced Nigel to be a part of something similar. Best I could tell from what Nigel said, they also involved shell companies in other states.”
“Yeah, and your lazy sheriff refused to look deeper.” I hated to lay that on Sheriff Horne, but I couldn’t disagree. “Now let’s see what your whistleblower sent you.”
The document that proved especially helpful was a four-page primer DEEP POCKET created for me about what made real estate deals easy and profitable for money launderers. Compared to other methods, real estate was less complicated and required little planning or expertise.
I felt myself getting steamed by the ease with which these crimes could be pulled off. “Why don’t the banks and government agencies do something about this?”
“Lobbyists outnumber representatives, and banking has one of the biggest cadres of lobbyists. They know this is going on; they just choose to look the other way.”
The primer included other ways money launderers did their dirty work, such as overpriced renovations on high-end properties that can be resold for way more than their worth. Or taking advantage of mortgages, something DEEP POCKET called the money launderers’ favorite “safe” method. Once approved for the loan, the mortgagor settled the debt after a short period, thereby getting rid of tons of cash “legitimately.” Other crooks chose successive selling, which meant exactly what it sounded like: selling the property many times to confuse the audit trail.
“Time to stop, for now,” I said, leaning over and kissing Alex. I was thinking about his leaving early the next morning and how riled we were getting over the boldness—and abundance—of these scams. “I really appreciate your helping me with all this. It’s hard to get my relatively honest head around these machinations.”
“You’re welcome, babe. But I want to know why this whistleblower chose you. Why not go to the authorities?”
“Maybe he did. We both know whistleblowers who were blown off by authorities, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes not. As for why he chose me, I have no idea. I’ve never covered financial stories in D.C., though it was well known I had excellent sources in various government agencies. But that was ages ago. No one would remember me now.”
“It’s got to be someone from Charlotte, though maybe with ties to D.C.” He looked lost in thought before adding, “But you don’t really need to know, do you? It’s not about the whistleblower—assuming you trust him—but what he’s delivered. That’s the story.”
And there it was again. That frisson of excitement that fueled the almighty story. I guess I wasn’t ready to give up, after all.
While I was still on a roll, I wrote out a new ad for the Observer: I GET IT. NOW WHAT, DEEP POCKET?
I looked over at Rascal curled up on the couch. His little head popped up, curious about what was next. A walk? A treat? His coat was growing out in the cutest way, which boded well for his adoption. I placed an ad about him too.
Like clockwork, the postman brought an envelope the fourth day after my ad ran. When I opened it in the backroom, I saw a simple dot-matrix note attached to more printouts.
DEEP POCKET? Ha! I remember your sense of humor, but don’t think this is a game. You’re playing with fire.
I felt a chill work its way down my spine—and back up aga
in. He remembered me? Just who was I entangled with?
At six o’clock, I locked the front door, poured a glass of pinot, and read his latest report: more pages of names, but these included phone numbers and account numbers. I’d start calling tomorrow, my day off. For what, I didn’t know. Yet. But if it meant enough for DEEP POCKET to send it, it must be important.
Chapter 38: Abit
The next evening, Fiona finally got a night off from the hospital. I usually looked forward to our evenings together, but not that night. I couldn’t put off Dr. Navarro any longer; I’d been stewing long enough.
Vern was staying over, and we’d had a nice supper I’d made of fresh squash and tomatoes from the garden alongside macaroni and cheese—a recipe I’d gotten from Eva and Lurline, the cooks at The Hicks. They were two of the finest cooks I’d ever met—even if they were a coupla wildcats. I still had the scar where they accidentally cut me when I broke up their fight with kitchen knives.
We were clearing the table and doing the dishes; the boys were upstairs, doing more horseplay than homework. I screwed up my courage and said, “I see the doctor’s back.” Fiona flinched. She didn’t need me to explain which doctor. “I wished you’d told me so I wasn’t surprised when I saw him. And it would help me think it didn’t matter to you. But you hiding it, well ...” I turned my drying towel inside a glass so hard I was surprised it didn’t bust.
When I thought she wasn’t gonna answer, just leave this big black cloud hovering over us, she spoke. “He’s only working part-time in Newland, the rest of the time in Spruce Pine.” As if that made any difference. “And I was thinking of you. I didn’t want you to get upset.”
“I’m not the one you should be thinking about. Think about little Conor whenever you see that doctor, and think about who his daddy is.”
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