The Elder: Mississippi Kings

by Aaron, Celia

  “It’s Detective Matthews. Any news?”

  “Hang on. Honey, put that down for me, would you?”

  I waited as a child mumbled some cute gibberish in the background.

  After a few moments, I heard a door shut. “Sorry about that. I just got home, and my son has needed all my attention.”

  A pang of guilt reverberated in my chest. Vivi was at home. I hadn’t seen her since this morning, and if I were being honest, I wouldn’t see her before her bedtime.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Pauline. I just wanted to know if you found anything of interest?”

  “I’m sitting in on the autopsy in the morning, but I didn’t find any other obvious injuries other than the single gunshot wound, likely fired at close range, but not close enough for any major stippling or scorching around the entry point. I’d say whoever it was stood on the other side of the desk when they pulled the trigger. Death was instant.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Given the rigor, I’d say late last night, but with a window of maybe six hours.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The only other item of interest was the note in his back. The wound barely bled, so it was definitely done post mortem. Of course, I saved the note for handwriting analysis in case we ever get a sample worth comparing it to. There was no shell casing, so whoever did it cleaned up behind themselves. I took—” Clanging erupted in the background. “Scotty baby, Mommy’s on the phone.”

  “It’s fine. If you think of anything else, or if the autopsy turns up anything, please give me a call.”

  “Will do. I should have the”—clang— “preliminary report ready for you late tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” I ended the call with no more information than when it started. I wanted to bang my head on the dash.

  “Nothing?” Logan slowed as the woods began to clear back from the road.

  “Nope.”

  On either side, trailers sat on wide plots of acreage, many of them abandoned with long grass growing in the yards. A tarpaper shack had fallen in on itself, and a single wide trailer right next to it had done the same. Junk cars rusted in the southern heat, and lightning bugs blinked in the deepening night.

  Logan’s phone claimed we’d arrived at our destination, but he eased forward, his eyes trained on the mailboxes to the right.

  After about another hundred feet, I pointed. “1209. Right there.”

  The mailbox had no door to it, and the numbers on the side had been sloppily done in green, the paint running down from the bottom tips of the numbers. A dirt drive led up and over a small rise.

  “Let’s do this.” Logan turned, the cruiser jumping as we left the smooth pavement. The suspension whined, the earlier rough ride still fresh.

  We didn’t have to go far. Once we crested the hill, we found a trailer sitting at the edge of a stand of pines. The front yard was overgrown and littered with children’s toys and bits of garbage. A dog lumbered around the side of the rusted structure, its nose in the air as it approached our car.

  “Isn’t this how Cujo starts?” Logan killed the engine.

  “I don’t think they had one of these.” I patted the shotgun locked between the two front seats.

  Light flickered through the front blinds, as if a TV were on inside. A beat-up Chevy pickup sat off to the side.

  “Someone’s home.” Logan pointed as a shadow passed behind the blinds.

  The dog, apparently disinterested in the visitors, wandered back the way he’d come, disappearing around the side of the trailer.

  Logan whistled. “Did you see the balls on that thing? Jesus.”

  “Yes, Logan.” I didn’t even bother shaking my head. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  We opened our doors and stepped into the tall grass. I took the lead, walking toward the cinderblock steps rising to the metal front door. The dog came trotting from the other side of the house, his hair standing on end and his teeth bared. His low growl cut through the hum of frogs in the trees.

  “Shit.” Logan pulled his pistol.

  “Wait.” I held a hand out toward him and crouched to get on the same level as the dog.

  “Not smart.”

  “Come here.” I clucked my tongue and gently patted my knee. “It’s okay.”

  The dog crept closer, its teeth still bared, the hair on its nape like porcupine quills.

  “Up, Arabella.”

  “We aren’t going to hurt you.” I patted my knee again.

  The dog snapped its teeth. I realized that maybe this wasn’t my best idea. I slowly rose. The dog increased its pace, heading right for me.

  “Shit,” Logan spat.

  The metal door opened and slammed against the metal side of the trailer. “Beans, get out of here!” A large man stood on the top set of cinder blocks, his head buzz cut and tattoos snaking up his arms and disappearing behind his gray wife beater. His face bore more ink, prison tattoos from the looks of them.

  The dog stopped its advance and looked up, its head cocked to the side.

  “Go!” The man gestured toward the woods, and the dog took off running.

  Logan holstered his pistol and let out a deep breath. “I think it would have been easier to shoot a human. Damn, I didn’t realize I was a dog person till right then.”

  “What are you two doing out here?” The menace in the man’s voice matched the dog’s.

  Shaking off the close encounter of the canine kind, I strode to the bottom of the steps. “I’m Detective Matthews and this is Detective Dearborn. We’re looking for Theodore Brand.”

  “Found him.” He stared down at us, his face in shadow. “What do you want?”

  “I have a few questions about a restraining order that Randall King got against you about five years ago.”

  Even in the dark, I could see the frown deepening the lines of his weathered face. “What about it?”

  “The court file isn’t clear on the events leading up to it. I was hoping you could explain to me what happened.”

  “Ask King.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s the one that got it.”

  I listened for the lie in his tone, for something to tell me that he knew King was dead because he was the one who killed him. It was absent.

  Logan cleared his throat. “Look, we know about your record. More violent crimes than I can count on my fingers and toes and—”

  Brand snorted. “The fuck are you? The bad cop?”

  I held a hand behind me, silently begging Logan to shut his trap.

  “Mr. Brand.”

  He switched his attention back to me.

  “We aren’t here about any of those things.” I glanced around at the well-used toys. “Huh. My daughter has the exact same one.” I pointed to a motorized pink scooter lying near the Chevy pickup.

  His posture changed slightly, his shoulders lowering. “That’s my Brynn’s. She loves that scooter. She only gets to come every other weekend, but when she does, she rides that thing like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Mine does too. Did you get the extra battery pack for it? Ours goes dead in no time.”

  “Yep, had to. I keep one on charge at all times, just in case her mom ever decides to drop by with her.” The sad note in his words told me that her mom never brought Brynn by more than necessary.

  He shifted from one foot to the next, his gaze on me. After a few moments of quiet, only interrupted by the frogs and the cicadas, he tossed a glance behind him. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to invite cops into my house. I’m not stupid. But you can come in.”

  “Thanks. I promise this won’t take long.” I climbed the first step.

  “Just her.” He pointed at Logan who’d moved to follow me. “You can stay out here.”

  “No way.” Logan bristled.

  “It’s fine.” I shot him a hard look over my shoulder. “Just watch out for the dog.”

  “Seriously?”

  I didn’t answer as I followed Brand into his house and shut the doo
r behind me.

  10

  Benton

  I left the house once Charlotte fell asleep on my couch—the cocktail of Xanax and wine strong enough to dull her misery so she could fall into oblivion. Porter’s idea, and one that I agreed with after I witnessed Charlotte coming apart, her grief like a physical knife through her chest.

  She’d been the closest to Dad. The youngest, the only girl, and the sibling that had heart like Porter and brains like me. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I got into my car and simply sank for a minute. Blood roared in my ears along with the echo of my sister’s anguished cries. Her horror served as a reminder that it hadn’t truly hit me yet. My father was dead. I repeated the phrase over in my mind, trying to get the sense of finality in the words. But it wasn’t there. Not yet. My mind knew he was gone, but I didn’t know it. Grief isn’t linear.

  But I had to keep moving. The only thing that would bring some sort of end to this mess was to find out what happened to Dad. I turned the key in the ignition.

  Brody Elliot, the youngest cop in town, sat in an unmarked car across the street from my house. Arabella had ignored my request for no police presence. I wasn’t surprised in the least. I gave the kid a small wave as I drove away, leaving him and Porter to watch over Charlotte.

  My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel and maneuvered through Azalea’s quiet streets. Frustration welled inside me. Anger, too. All of it aimed at my father. How could he have done this? My thoughts didn’t make sense, and I knew it. Blaming the murder victim for his own demise, but the thoughts and emotions were there, all the same. His loss was a betrayal—the things I didn’t know about him were proof of it. What else had I missed? What else had he failed to tell me, or covered over, or hid from my view?

  “Fuck!” I slammed my hand on the wheel. Something tickled my face, and I swiped at it. My hand came away wet. Tears. I hadn’t cried since Mom died. That was what, ten years ago?

  The burden fell on me. I was the oldest. And I’d already decided to keep certain cards close to my vest. The less Porter and Charlotte knew, the better. Maybe I could shield them from whatever it was our father had gotten mixed up in.

  I pulled into the firm’s parking lot. The ends of yellow police tape rippled in the small breeze, the rest of it secured in an ‘x’ across the front door. My father’s life work—and mine—was now nothing more than a crime scene. I sat for a moment, fatigue weighing me down, my stomach on empty and my mind a mess of memories and worry.

  On heavy legs, I got out and walked to the rear entrance, finding the same yellow tape there. I gripped the center of the ‘x’ and yanked it away, tossing it on the porch behind me. The firm was silent as I entered, the air stuffy. I used to enjoy working in the dead quiet, not a sound but my thoughts as I read over case files or the scratch of my pen on paper. Now, the silence oozed around me, filthy and dark.

  Flipping on the hall switch, I headed toward the file room as the lights overhead flickered to life. My eyes were drawn to my father’s office, the doors closed, even more crime scene tape blocking entry. I swallowed hard. Going in was a necessity. I’d need all his files, and there had to be some inside.

  First, I turned into the file room, the long rows and high shelves filled with the last ten years of cases. I ignored the back two rows—those files were done, the layer of dust on them attesting to their disuse. The front two sets of shelves contained our active files. I swiped my fingers across a series of banker’s boxes. I knew most of the cases already, having worked on them right along with my father.

  A few boxes perched along the top of the shelves caught my eye, so I pulled over the rolling ladder and climbed up to take a look. The neat labels had been done in Margaret’s practiced hand, the letters almost square in their perfection. The old Michaels Accounting files, nothing of interest. I climbed down and kept walking along the row, recognizing case names as I went. The domestic relations section, probate, land deals, insurance litigation—nothing seemed out of place. But there was something missing. I stopped in front of the land deals section, the banker’s boxes lined up neatly, but not quite as neatly as the rest of the room. There was too much space. A box was missing, and someone had spread the others to make it less obvious. A cold bead of sweat trickled down my spine. Maybe it was in my father’s office.

  After one more perusal of the rows, I headed back into the hallway. The light at the very end near the reception desk flickered the slightest bit, as if a moth was caught in the glass.

  I pushed down the tide of emotions that threatened to rise inside me as I approached my father’s doors. This had to be done. And it had to be done by me. Though I’d been somewhat heartened by Arabella’s investigative skills so far, I wasn’t going to trust her to root through my father’s work.

  Hesitation wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I grabbed the tape and yanked. It came free easily and ribboned to the floor with a faint schick sound. I braced myself for the blood, not that there was a way to do that. Not really.

  Pushing through into the room, I felt a slight surge of relief to see his body was truly gone. Remnants of blood remained, but the pool of it on the desk and floor had been wiped away. It didn’t stop me from gagging, from leaning forward and bracing my hands on my knees as my stomach tried to eject its contents onto the wood floor. But there was nothing inside me.

  After a few moments, I straightened and trained my gaze on the bookcases, searching for any hint of a clue about what happened. It was the same old books—unchanged ever since we began to use an online legal database for all our case law needs.

  “Benton?”

  I jumped and whirled in a move reminiscent of my basketball days, though the ache in my ankle was new.

  “Sorry.” Arabella held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you heard me come in.”

  “No.” I ran my fingers through my hair and narrowly avoided the urge to yank on the strands. “I didn’t.” At least I hadn’t pissed myself.

  “Sorry.” She glanced around. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Files, remember? What are you doing here?”

  “Saw the light on.” She cocked her thumb over her shoulder toward the hallway. “Figured I’d check it out.”

  I shrugged, not exactly enjoying the suspicious tone of her voice. “I just wanted to take a look and see what he was working on.”

  “You should have contacted me before entering the scene.” She plucked at what was left of the yellow crime scene tape on the door frame. “Find anything?”

  I ignored the scolding. “Not yet.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, then sighed. “I guess it’s fine. Pauline and her tech got everything they needed.”

  My fatigue drew out a temper I didn’t even know I had. “I don’t need your permission to be in my own law firm.”

  Her brows drew together, two storm clouds about to thunder all over the place, but then a thoughtful look crossed her face and she relaxed. “I know it’s been a long, hard day for you. But you need to believe I’m on your side here. I’m going to do everything in my power to find out what happened to him.” She moved closer, her eyes plaintive, though still sharp enough to catch every detail. “And I don’t think I’ve had a chance to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss.” She raised one hand, as if she were going to pat my arm, but then dropped it. “I really am.”

  My throat seemed to close up momentarily. “Thank you.” It came out strangled. Something in her demeanor threatened to crack the wall I’d built to keep my grief at bay. I stepped back, and turned to face the window. Somehow, her warmth was far more daunting than the cold office splashed with my father’s blood.

  I cleared my throat. “What about your trip to see the ex-con? Any leads there?”

  “Not what I’d hoped. Brand has a solid alibi. He had his little girl with him until early this morning. I’ve checked in with the girl’s mother and at the restaurant where all three of them ate dinner as well as the church where they went for s
ervice. He’s covered.”

  “Why did my dad have a restraining order against him?”

  “That’s a bit more difficult.” She walked over to the nearest bookcase.

  I was finally able to move once her eyes were off me. Skirting around the desk, I opened the nearest cabinet, intentionally keeping my eyes off the blood smears along the top. “What do you mean?”

  “Brand definitely had a checkered past. The charges and convictions on his rap sheet are pretty heavy stuff. But the thing with your dad was about a piece of property.”

  I pushed aside firm letterhead and dug around in the cabinet. “What property?”

  “Some tract out in the pulp woods. About four hundred acres that had belonged to Brand’s family for the past hundred years or so. When he went to prison the last time, it was for five years. While he was in the clink, the taxes came due on the land. He claimed he was never notified about the taxes. Anyway, he didn’t pay, the county took the property, and then sold it at an auction to your father for pennies on the dollar.”

  “What about his redemption rights?” I peered at her over the desk.

  “Brand still had two years to serve when your father bought his land. His right of redemption expired before he even got out and knew what had happened.”

  I wracked my brain for any memory of new timber land my father had purchased. Nothing came to mind. Another secret. Fuck. I sat back on my heels, spots swimming in my vision.

  “Hey.” She hurried over and hooked a hand around my elbow, helping me to my feet. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I felt like shit on burned toast.

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  I didn’t remember. “I’m okay, really.”

  She peered up at me, her green gaze following the lines of my face. “You don’t look okay. Pale as a sheet.” Her warmth felt good on my clammy skin, and I could have sworn she leaned into me the slightest bit.

  “When I’m done here, I’ll head back to my place. Charlotte and Porter are there.”

  “How did Charlotte take the news?”