Cass heaved a tired sigh as the weight of Bernie’s comment settled in. “We’ve got loads of circumstantial evidence – his truck is nearby, the fresh marks on the branch, what Blackie saw, someone’s urine and phlegm, the swept ground. But you’re right, we have nothing of Garrett’s that places him here.”
“Given the head wounds and cut wrists, chances are that the same person killed both men. If we believe that Garrett was here, it could also be possible that our buried man was killed, or at least his blood was collected, here.”
Kado cocked an eyebrow at Bernie. “The only consistent points of contact are the fire, which will have destroyed most evidence; the bloodied soil, which will contain little evidence if the blood was collected; and,” he said, looking up the thick trunk, “the branch, where Garrett and the other man could’ve hung.”
“Indeed.”
Kado circled the tree and pointed to fresh rub marks around the back of its thick trunk. “Block and tackle?” he asked as Mitch leaned in for a look.
“Maybe,” Mitch agreed. “With a pulley system, one person could’ve got Garrett and that cross up on the tree by themselves.”
“Give me a leg up to that first branch,” Kado said, tucking a digital camera in his shirt pocket. He scrambled up the gnarled trunk, stretching to reach the lowest limb, and stepped easily from one branch to the next. Reaching the limb that spread over the clearing, he flattened himself along its length, examining the marks across its surface. He pulled the camera from his pocket and snapped several photographs before inching his way farther out.
“What is it?” Mitch called.
“I’m not sure yet,” Kado replied, twisting slowly to pull a pair of tweezers and a paper bag from his back pocket. “There are two sets of marks up here. One is raw. The other is fresh, but starting to heal over. And there’s,” he added, tongue poking from his lips as he extended his arm out with tweezers at the ready, “something stuck on a nail.”
He squirmed back along the branch and worked down the tree, landing with a soft thud at its base. Mitch took the bag and tipped the contents into a freshly gloved hand. It was nothing more than a scrap of leather, stained golden from use. “Any good?”
A smile lifted the corners of Kado’s mouth as he plucked the fragment from Mitch’s palm. “Those are sweat stains. More DNA.”
CHAPTER 56
MITCH AND CASS WAITED on the bridge’s guardrail, feet dangling over the murky Sabine River. Kado and Bernie had returned to the courthouse to process the meager evidence they’d collected from the killing site. Truman rolled to a stop behind Cass’s truck before he and Munk climbed from the cruiser.
“Find anything?” Mitch called.
“Only Garrett’s prints in the truck,” Munk answered. “Whoever got him lured him away from it first.”
Truman climbed over the guardrail and sat next to Cass. “Nothing from Garrett’s house, either,” he said. “But boy, you should see it. He has some serious entertainment equipment.”
Munk nodded. “Something was going on with him. We flipped through his bank statements. He was making cash deposits now and again. Was he moonlighting?”
“Not that I know of.” Mitch answered. “Was Charlene working?”
“The only regular deposit was Garrett’s paycheck.”
“How much cash?”
“A few hundred here, couple thousand there. Seemed to start last year. And,” Munk added, “they have some hellacious credit card bills. That woman can spend money.”
“Where was it coming from?” Mitch asked.
“We need to ask Charlene. You found the spot where Garrett was killed?”
“We’ve got a scrap of leather, some ash and a few solids from the fire, lots of dirt soaked with what’s probably old blood, and a swab of urine and some snot.”
“Kado found pee and boogers?” Munk asked.
“He’s pretty thorough.” Munk grunted in reply as Mitch continued. “Best chance we’ve got is if Kado can pull some DNA out of that leather or from the urine. Might get a match through a database. In the meantime, we start on interviews. Can the two of you come with us this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Munk said.
“We need to talk to Garrett’s wife Charlene, and to Maureen Davidson.”
“Why Mo?” Munk asked. Mitch told them what Blackie had said about Garrett spending time at The Ronkey Donkey. Munk chuckled grimly. “You ever met either woman?”
“I know them by sight,” Mitch answered.
“Wildcats, both of them. This should be fun. All right, who else?”
“Mr. Peavey and Mr. Salter. Maybe John Earl Shepherd, but I don’t know if we’ll get anything out of him. I thought Cass and Truman could take the men; you and I can take the women. Sound good?”
“You current on your rabies shots?”
Mitch barked a startled laugh. “Why?”
“With those two girls and what we’re gonna ask about, you’ll need ’em.”
____________
MO DAVIDSON WAS HUDDLED on a tall stool, slouched over the gleaming bar, one arm stretched along its length, the other clutching a tumbler of amber liquid. Tendrils of smoke curled from a cigarette resting in an ashtray near her blonde head. Munk glanced in her direction as he spoke to the bartender, a beefy man, the sleeves of his crisp shirt rolled back to reveal thick patches of hair matting his arms. A long runway dotted with gleaming brass poles sliced through groupings of small tables. Paint blackened windows gaped open to allow fresh air to circulate, and the sawdust scattered over the floor was clean. Fading afternoon sunlight spilled through the still air. The scent of mown grass mingled with the bite of Brasso and a lemony furniture polish.
Munk nodded his thanks as the bartender poured another drink for Mo. He motioned for Mitch to follow and ambled along the bar, one hand gliding over its polished surface. He paused next to the woman and cleared his throat quietly.
“Not today,” she mumbled from beneath a heavy hank of hair.
“I’m not here to buy, Mo,” Munk replied.
She drew her arm along the bar, skin stuttering against the surface, and scraped the platinum strands back to swivel a bloodshot eye toward them. “Great,” she said in greeting. “Pigs.”
Munk took the full tumbler from the bartender, lifting it into her line of sight. “We need to talk about Chad Garrett.”
She pushed herself abruptly upright, hair swinging over her face with the effort. Snagging the cigarette, she plunged the filter between matted strands toward her lips, and slowly lifted the hair from her face, pushing the heavy weight over her head. The white-blonde wig slithered to the floor, revealing wispy brown curls flattened against her skull. A startlingly attractive woman was revealed, her face a mottled red, angry eyes swollen with tears threatening to tumble down her cheeks.
“What, you think I did it?”
“No. The bartender confirmed that you worked until five this morning. We just need to talk about Chad.”
“There’s nothing to say, is there? Not anymore.”
Munk slid onto the barstool next to her. Mitch sat quietly at a nearby table. “I think there’s a lot to say. How long were you involved with him?”
Mo drew an angry drag, chin quivering as she held the smoke deep in her lungs. A blue-white stream flew from her lips as she challenged him. “Who says we were involved?”
“Lots of folks. Bartender for one,” Munk said. “The Donkey’s not the most discreet place to carry on, and you wouldn’t be crying your eyes out over a nobody, would you?”
With a savage thrust, she smashed the remainder of her cigarette into the ashtray. “What happened to him?”
“He was murdered, Mo,” Munk said gently.
“I know that. How was he murdered?”
“Brutally.” Her eyes snapped shut at the word. “We need your help to figure out who. And why.”
Mo drained her tumbler in several trembling gulps, replacing it carefully on the bar. She fingered the rim. “I don’t
know who would do that. Or why.”
“Tell us about your relationship.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said, wrapping a thin arm around her waist in a defensive gesture.
“We’ll keep you out of it as much as we can,” Munk replied. “It’s obvious that Garrett was important to you. The more you tell us now, the less likely it is that we’ll need to involve you any further. Okay?”
“Fat chance,” she snorted. “You’ll have me on prostitution charges. Got to make your arrest goals, right?” Munk sat impassively, waiting. Finally she nodded once, trancelike. “I don’t suppose it matters now. Neither of us meant for it to happen. We’ve known each other forever, me and Chad. There’s always been something between us. I knew, just in the way he looked at me. But he married Charlene. And that was that.”
“When did it start?”
“Last spring,” she answered slowly. “The attraction never went away, even though he was married. I guess it just got the better of Chad. He showed up out here and we sat in that booth,” she lifted her eyes toward one corner of the room, a single tear sliding down her cheek, “and just talked between my sets.”
“And then?” Munk prompted.
“And then one day he was waiting outside after my shift ended, and we went back to my apartment.” She stood suddenly, bare feet balanced on the brass boot rail, and leaned over the bar’s gleaming surface to pluck a handful of paper napkins from a stack. Tight jeans pulled down from her waist, revealing a tempting fraction of red lace. Mitch’s eyes widened as he took in her curves – full hips and breasts, trim waist – and he understood Garrett’s attraction. She lowered herself back onto the barstool and patted her eyes.
“Were you still seeing each other?”
Mo shook her head, reaching a shaking hand for the new tumbler. “He stopped coming by early this year, all of a sudden.”
“Why?”
She lifted a slight shoulder, irritation on her face, voice sharp. “He didn’t call to tell me why he was dumping me. I didn’t see him again until a few weeks ago, when the family got together. He didn’t want to talk to me, but I made him. All he said was that it was better this way, for everybody.”
“How did he seem to you?”
They watched as she struggled with a new cigarette, lighter quivering in her hand. Munk took it from her and held it steady. She took a quick drag and released the smoke through her nose. “Nervous.”
“How?”
“Always watching, eyes darting all over the place.”
“You know who or what he was watching for?”
“No, but he’d never been like that before.”
“Did Garrett ever mention anything he was worried about? Any one he was worried about?”
She shook her head, eyes filling again. “No, never. We talked a lot about me, what I was doing here, what I’d do when I got older. Chad was sweet. Brought me flowers, talked about the future. For a while I even thought he meant it.”
“What about Charlene?”
Mo snorted. “Charlene never knew nothin’ about it.”
“You sure about that?”
“Chad was scared to death she’d find out. He only came out when he was on night shift, so she wouldn’t wonder where he was.” She took another drag, chased by a healthy belt from the tumbler. “No,” she continued. “Charlene didn’t have a clue.”
CHAPTER 57
CASS AND TRUMAN PULLED to a stop in front of the Peavey’s rambling farmhouse. He and his wife were childless, and old man Peavey was the last of his line. Their wealth was invested in land, oil and cattle, and Cass idly wondered what would happen to it all when they died. She cut the engine and a trio of hounds roused sleepily from their position under the wide arms of a shady elm, baying in greeting as they loped out to the truck.
Truman trotted up the porch steps and rapped on the front door. When he got no answer, they walked around the side of the house and were met by the bleating of a nanny goat straddling a row of early tomato plants. Her twins cavorted among the pansies growing near the house. Old man Peavey emerged from the barn’s gloom, pulled a pipe from his mouth and waved. “Grab that goat for me Cass, bring her out here.”
“Yes, sir,” she hollered. She took hold of a small, curved horn and gently led the goat through the gate to re-join the rest of the herd, Truman following. The kids bounced happily behind their mother to the nearest feeding trough where she butted through the throng to dinner. Cass picked her way around the cow patties and goat droppings, dodging a busy chicken as she and Truman came near the barn.
“That goat’ll be the end of me. I don’t know how she gets out of the pen, crafty little devil. Eating Mrs. Peavey’s garden before it even gets up. Won’t have a moment’s peace until I sell her,” he said, wiping an arm across his wrinkled brow. He was looking older now, back showing a slight hunch, but he still radiated strength and assurance. “Hate to, though. She drops twins every time.”
“Is Mrs. Peavey out?” Cass asked, suppressing a smile.
He pulled a cell phone from his grease-smeared overalls and lowered his glasses from his forehead to check the screen. “She’s at the church cooking and getting ready for a revival meeting tomorrow evening. Don’t know why they try to do a full revival in one night. The opening prayer starts at six o’clock and we usually don’t finish until gone midnight. It’s hard on the families with young children.” He tucked the phone into a pocket and turned toward the barn. “Come inside, it’s cooler. I’m working on the tractor. Don’t build anything to last nowadays.”
Cass looked past him into the dusky barn and caught sight of his ancient John Deere as she followed him into the weathered structure. “This is Officer Scott Truman, Mr. Peavey. We need to ask you a few questions, if we may.”
“Hello, son,” old man Peavey greeted him, pushing his glasses back up to their perch on his forehead. “What do you need?”
“We’re looking into a group called The Church of the True Believer. Have you heard of it?”
“No, can’t say as I have,” he answered, bending to examine the tractor. Truman stepped to his side and squinted into the engine before pointing into its grease-blackened depths. Old man Peavey nodded and pulled a wrench from a pocket, putting it to use where Truman had pointed. “Why?”
“You’ve heard about Lenny Scarborough’s death?”
“That something to do with this church?”
“We’re not sure. But we found some information at his house that links your father to it.”
“Daddy?” he asked, standing from the tractor’s engine, wrench gripped in one hand. “What are you talking about?”
“We found a book, kind of like a Bible. It had Lenny Scarborough’s signature in it, and your father’s. Did he belong to a group of men with some sort of religious affiliation?”
Old man Peavey frowned, eyes piercing from beneath hoary eyebrows. “My daddy was messed up in the Klan, that’s no secret. But all that ended a long time ago. And in spite of that, he was a good man. He did a lot for the community, Cass. Especially the children. He donated the money for Arcadia’s playground.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, wondering just how much old man Peavey’s father had loved children. She held her ground in spite of an urge to step back. “Your father was very respected. People still talk about the Peaveys and what your family has given Arcadia.”
He sniffed, mollified. Truman reached for the wrench and squatted down to work, sneezing at the dust the movement stirred.
Cass continued. “This is a different group. We’re not sure what their purpose is, but we believe that they meet in the evenings, about once a month. Your father would have had possession of this book, it’s a great big thing, and he might’ve had a lawyer type briefcase that he kept it in. One of those big rectangles with flaps on the top. Does that sound familiar?”
Peavey grew still, seemingly captivated by the motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight spilling through the open barn door. When he sp
oke, it was as if from a trance. “Haven’t thought about that briefcase in years. Got myself in a world of trouble when I tried to open it once. Daddy tore me up, told me to mind my business, not go digging into other folks’.” His eyes narrowed. “And he did go out at night, had a robe he wore. Always thought that was unusual, but what do you say to your daddy about something like that?”
“Does the year 1947 mean anything to you, or would it have been important to your father?”
“Daddy would’ve been thirty-two that year. I was six. Can’t think of anything important about it. Why?”
“That was the date written next to your father’s name. We believe that’s when he took possession of the book from its previous owner.”
“Who else is involved?”
Cass shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not at liberty to say. For the same reason that you might prefer your name, or your father’s, not be mentioned to anyone else.”
He grunted in acknowledgement and considered his next words before speaking. “Has someone in this group done something wrong?”
“Possibly.”
Old man Peavey’s mouth dropped open, revealing long teeth. “Not that po-lice officer?”
“Again sir, I can’t talk about details.”
He shook his head as he bent to watch Truman work, lowering his glasses for a better look. “That’s a terrible thing. You two should be careful.” He motioned Truman out of the way, grabbed a ball peen hammer from a workbench and whacked the engine, a solid gong vibrating through the old barn. They leaned in again and, satisfied, Truman went back to work. “Don’t know what else I can tell you, Cass.”
She hesitated. “Did your father have a scar on his rib cage?”
Peavey shrugged. “Never saw him without his clothes on. And I don’t remember Mother ever talking about him being hurt.”
“When did your father pass, Mr. Peavey?”
“Nineteen hundred and eighty-five. He was seventy years old.”
The date clicked in Cass’s mind as the year Mr. Shepherd took possession of the book. “What happened to the briefcase after he died?”
The Devil of Light (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 1) Page 24