Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  Actually, it sounded good. She could use a few squats and kicks right now. Or twenty minutes of hard sex.

  “Do I have to answer tonight?”

  His hesitation stretched until she wondered if he was still there, then he replied, “A ‘yes’ now would be terrific. And if you find later that you can’t make it, we’ll only need an hour’s notice to find another twelfth.”

  The mellow tones of Mike’s voice bounced against her ribs like the soft beat of bongo drums. Why not be a “twelfth”? She gave Mike her fax number, a qualified “yes,” and listened to his voice some more as he described the difference between his men’s and women’s workouts.

  When she finally cradled the phone, Dixie felt better than she had all evening. Watching the movie, she painted that final nail, reviewed Ted Tally’s drawings, and decided for once not to follow her instincts.

  Keep your nose out of this, said the cautionary voice in her head—which sounded a whole lot like Rashly’s, at the moment. You’ll piss off the entire cop community.

  Nevertheless, she intended to finish the job she’d started that day. She might squirm at questioning the bereaved families of police officers, but if the murders were related to Art Harris or Ted Tally, rather than the Granny Bandit robberies, then somebody had to do it.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Sunday

  Officer Theodore Tally is survived by his mother Barbara and his brother Raymond. The obituary didn’t provide an address, but the B. Tally listed in the phone book lived close enough to young Ted that Dixie took a chance. After her usual brief Sunday visit to Carla Jean in the nursing home, she’d already struck out again with Ann Harris. No answer to her knock. No car visible through the garage window.

  A Cyclone fence surrounded a rather plain white shingle house at the Tally address. In the yard, an enormous live oak tree prevented grass from growing, and the St. Augustine that did grow could use a mowing, but none of that mattered with such a rich tapestry of greens to enjoy—ivy, monkey grass, and other ground cover.

  When Dixie knocked, a woman with gray hair and steady gray eyes answered the door. She looked twig-brittle and much smaller than in the photo on Ted’s bookshelf.

  “Mrs. Tally?” Behind the woman, Dixie recognized the couple who had surprised her and Marty at Ted’s house. “I’m Dixie Flannigan. I apologize for calling at a difficult time, but I—”

  “She’s a bounty hunter,” said the man. Officer Raymond Tally had his brother’s good looks, with or without the uniform. He moved to stand behind his mother. “I’ve heard your name around the station. You turned in Jimmy Voller last week.”

  From his face and tone of voice, Dixie figured a bounty hunter was a step up from a two-headed toad, but he’d like to take a good look at the toad before he squashed it.

  “Would you mind if I came in for a few minutes?”

  “What for?”

  “Ray! Mind your manners.” Tiny Barbara Tally gave her towering son a look that sent him back a step. “Come on in, Ms. Flannigan.”

  “Thank you. I promise not to take much of your time.” Amy expected her at Edna’s viewing in less than an hour.

  “That’s all right,” Barbara assured her. “Ray, move that sweater so the lady can sit down. Ms. Flannigan, this is my daughter-in-law Catherine, and my son Raymond.”

  In her panic to escape the previous day, Dixie hadn’t noticed the woman at Ted’s house was pregnant—several months along and as clear-skinned gorgeous as pregnant women are expected to be. Beneath a smooth cap of dark auburn hair, narrow brown eyes gazed at Dixie with interest. She sat at a bar that separated the compact living area from the kitchen. Dixie nodded a greeting as Barbara continued speaking.

  “Bounty hunters find people, if I’m not mistaken. Criminals. Do you intend to find my son’s murderer?”

  “Not without a bounty,” Ray said. “And I haven’t heard of any reward being offered.” He smiled at Dixie without a trace of humor. “Or is that why you’re here?”

  “No.” Dixie returned his hard smile. “This is one killer we all want to take off the streets.”

  “Then keep out of the way. Let people who know what they’re doing get the job done.”

  “Ray Tally! You will not speak impolitely to a guest in my home. I want to hear what the lady has to say.”

  “Actually, all I have are questions, Mrs. Tally. Ted and Art Harris were both interested in local gang activity. I’m wondering if their killer might have used the robberies as a blind, to draw suspicion away from personal motivation.”

  “The task force will investigate that possibility,” Ray insisted.

  “And if so,” Dixie continued, ignoring him, “could the motive be related to a gang or a gang member they’d singled out?”

  Ray’s hard gaze turned thoughtful.

  Barbara focused a challenging stare at her son. “Will you tell her, or will I?”

  He threw out his hands. “Go ahead, Ma. You’ve got the floor.”

  “Then make yourself useful. Bring us a cold drink. Ms. Flannigan, we have Dr Pepper, orange soda, and iced tea, all sugar-free. Which would you like?”

  “Whichever you’re having will be fine.”

  “We didn’t always live in this lovely neighborhood,” Barbara said. “My sons grew up in my husband’s family home. When their grandparents built the house, they were surrounded by good people. But things changed. The good people moved away, or died, and trash moved in. Don’t take that as an economic slur, or a racial, or religious, or any other kind of slur. When I say trash, I mean trash. Nasty, hateful, wicked trash. My husband worked long hours, but he always had time for his sons. That wasn’t true of other fathers. Single mothers lived all around us, most of them on drugs.”

  Ray returned with their drinks, diet orange.

  “Thanks, Ray.” His mother smiled up at him.

  “You bet.”

  Dixie liked the look that passed between them, full of humor and love and respect. “Thank you,” she told him.

  Barbara took a long pull on the soda before continuing her story.

  “Ted’s best friend was being harassed by a bunch of young bucks who thought the world ought to bow down and lick their sneakers. I don’t know exactly what happened—something to do with money the boy refused to give up. Ted and Peter—that was the boy’s name—walked home from school after staying late for Peter’s band practice. Seven boys grabbed them, pulled them back behind a fence. Ted got bruised up good for fighting them, but it wasn’t him they were after. They took Peter’s saxophone for the money they said he owed, but that wasn’t enough. They kicked and punched the boy until he couldn’t move. Spray-painted his face red. And then they stabbed him. All the while, they’re holding Ted and forcing him to watch it. When they finally ran off, Ted was afraid to leave his friend and find help, so he picked the boy up and carried him the three blocks home. Peter was dead before they got there.”

  Barbara had told the whole story with those steady gray eyes aimed straight at Dixie.

  “I suppose you could say Ted was strong on bringing down gangs and terrorists,” Ray added.

  “Strong, yeah,” his wife put in. “I saw him stop a kid once for wearing a blue bandanna around his ankle. Ted drove him home, ripped the bandanna in half, gave it to the kid’s father, and explained for nearly an hour what the gang colors and hand signs mean.”

  “Do you know of any specific groups Ted tightened down on?” Dixie asked. “Groups who had the means to retaliate with a high-powered rifle at nearly five hundred yards?”

  “Not something we talked about,” Ray said.

  “When I spend time with my sons,” Barbara added, “it’s family time. I tell them, leave work outside the door.”

  “I suppose that’s all I have, then.” Dixie rose. “I appreciate your time and … your willingness to talk.”

  “We’re the ones to thank you,” Barbara told her. “Maybe you’ll find my son’s killer, maybe you won’t. But the more good p
eople like you who’re looking, the harder for that demon to hide.”

  As Dixie said her good-byes, she thought of one more question, but hesitated. She saw Ray notice the hesitation.

  “I need to stretch my legs,” he told his wife. “Think I’ll walk Ms. Flannigan to her car.”

  Outside, Dixie said, “I’m familiar with most of the gang symbols. But one I haven’t seen before. A red triangle on a blue background, with a gold letter ‘P’ in the center.”

  Ray shook his head. “Ted had some sketches. Probably the same ones you stole from his house.”

  Dixie could’ve lied, but Ray’s eyes said he wasn’t guessing. He knew. She kept silent.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to,” Ray told her. “What I’ve heard about you is you’re fair and you’re good. So I’m taking a chance on you. But don’t come here again. Don’t go to my brother’s house again. And if you step in the middle and screw up the official investigation, I’ll fuck you over until you won’t see another bounty contract in this town.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “I didn’t tell the newspapers,” Amy wailed when Dixie met her inside the funeral home. “No guests, just as Edna requested. The funeral director swears he didn’t tell them. Nothing’s working out!”

  Seeing the desperate look in her sister’s eyes as she glanced at Marty, Dixie knew the strangers trailing past the casket weren’t the worst of her problems. She firmly closed the viewing-room door and stood alongside to open it for strays to leave until only her family remained.

  “Our turn,” she told them.

  Marty hung back. “You all go ahead. I’ll be along … after a minute.”

  “He won’t,” Amy whispered. “I’ve had to kick him here all the way.”

  “It’s all right.” Dixie waved her sister toward the dais and put a hand on Marty’s arm.

  He jerked it away.

  “What good have you been?” he demanded. “I thought you’d help. Did you find out why she did this? Did you find her journal? Here we are, about to turn her into ashes. Stuff her in a jar. Did you find anything? What good were you?”

  Oh. So now your mother’s important again?

  “Marty, I’ve learned plenty about how your mother spent her time these last few months, but it doesn’t tell us why this happened.” She glanced at Ryan, looking all grown-up in his blue suit, nearly as tall as his dad, but maybe not grown-up enough to hear this. Then again, if he’d decided to be adult enough to trade in cyberporn, how could a dose of hard, honest facts hurt him?

  “Your mother was grieving,” Dixie continued. “As you’re grieving now. And she was trying to deal with it.”

  “By killing herself?”

  “We don’t know—”

  “Give me a break. I read the papers. Mom and that Ames woman—now that’s who you ought to be investigating—cooked up this whole charade to trick the cops into blowing them away. Suicide in a blaze of headlines. The insurance pays off—”

  “Did it occur to you that maybe the insurance company dreamed up that story? They haven’t sent a check, have they?”

  “Why else would she pull such a harebrained stunt? She couldn’t believe she’d escape with the money. A bank isn’t dumb enough to let an old woman hold them up and ride off a winner. They have alarms. They have marked bills and … and … and … all kinds of tricks. How could she think they wouldn’t catch her? Was this some kind of … of … of last-ditch thrill? Or was she … punishing me … for disappointing her?” His face twisted.

  Dixie put her arms around him.

  “She hated me, Dixie. She hated me for … being who I am and … for killing Dad—”

  “She didn’t hate you, Marty. She was confused, maybe, and incredibly lonely. But nothing I’ve learned leads me to believe she blamed you for the way her life turned out.”

  “She called me. The night before she …”

  “Monday night?” Dixie pulled away to look at him. “The day before the robbery?”

  He nodded.

  “What did she say?”

  “I … wasn’t there. I came home late. And the next day I kept planning to call her back later. And then the … the cops phoned, said she—” He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and blew into it.

  Was this the guilt he’d been dragging around all week? “Marty, what did her message say?”

  “Nothing, I mean … nothing that helps. She said—” He tightened his lips. “She said, ‘I understand now, son. And I love you.’ Then she said, ‘Marty, your father loved you, too.’”

  Dixie patted his arm. She’d been damned pissed off at Marty Pine the past two days while his life fell apart around him.

  “Come on,” she told him. “We need to do this.”

  He walked beside her to the dais.

  The viewing casket presented itself well, with vases of flowers at each end, spring flowers, the kind Edna grew in her own garden.

  Dixie gently pushed Marty ahead of her. Carl and Amy had already moved on, but Ryan still lingered. He plucked a bearded iris from one of the vases and placed it at Edna’s shoulder on the white satin quilting. A collage of images raced through Dixie’s head—campfires, pecan trees, peanut-butter cookies—but the one that stuck was Aunt Edna’s proud smile the night of the senior prom, as her handsome son pinned a pink rose from her own garden around Dixie’s wrist.

  After a brief hesitation, Marty placed his hand over his mother’s.

  “If my mom died,” Ryan said softly, “I’d miss her a lot. And we’d both miss Dad if he died, but I think maybe they’d miss each other most. Mom and Dad don’t know how to be without each other.”

  “Yes,” Marty said after a moment. “I guess that’s right.”

  When he moved on and Dixie took his place, she couldn’t help comparing this woman to the one she’d seen under similar circumstances only days earlier. Both had clear, translucent skin and a firmness to their flesh that even death hadn’t stolen.

  “Sleep well, Edna,” Dixie whispered.

  When she touched the still hand, a coin rolled from beneath it. She picked it up. Not a coin. A brass disk, engraved with three words:

  WE THE PEOPLE.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Jean Gibson served her husband a perfect martini in the Waterford crystal, with two olives, chilled precisely the way he liked it. Her own glass contained olives, a touch of vermouth, and Evian water.

  “Gib, there will be plenty of time before the next election to smooth over any doubts the voters may have.” She spoke carefully, logically. “You attended the officers’ funerals. You made a moving statement. Why stay here now?”

  “I believe Wanamaker may resign.”

  That stopped her. “Because of the letters?” The Chief of Police had always struck her as something of a coward. But Ed would never get another important position anywhere if he quit now. “What makes you think he’ll resign?”

  “Banning and Wanamaker spent an hour with the task force today. Afterward, work slowed down on preparations for Banning’s Memorial Day presentation.”

  “You think he’ll call it off?” Then there’d be no reason she and Gib couldn’t leave town for a while.

  Jean stared distractedly at the olives in her glass. After the Mayor’s commemoration to Wanamaker and the dead cops tomorrow, Gib planned to set the press straight, to enumerate the stupid mistakes the police department had made since the Chief’s appointment and explain the sorry state their city government was really in. But with the commemoration canceled …

  Gib chuckled. “You can bet Wanamaker’s shaking in his shoes about climbing on that platform. By tomorrow the sniper’s thirty-six hours will have long run out.”

  Jean didn’t exactly blame the Chief for being fearful. She feared for Gib. Her Gib was determined to call the sniper’s bluff, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “Thirty-six hours from the time the letter came is just before the ten o’clock news tonight. What makes you think they’ll wait until to
morrow?”

  “They’ll wait.”

  Jean touched the long, faint surgical scar on her husband’s cheek that marked a skin graft. He had escaped death when a land mine exploded, seeing the trip wire and diving to cover just in time, he’d said. But he hadn’t escaped the bits of flying metal. Was he seeing the trip wire now … aware of something no one else noticed? He seemed to believe so emphatically that he was not the target. She wished she shared his conviction.

  “Chief Wanamaker’s resignation makes leaving here even easier.” She set her glass down and stroked his arm. “Everyone will agree Banning made a bad decision appointing him in the first place. Who’ll even notice you’re gone?”

  From his instant flush, Jean knew she’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean it like—”

  “You think nobody notices me? That I’m a blowhard? That I couldn’t have beat Banning in that last election? If I had won by a narrow margin, I’d be the one having to prove myself over and over. I made a wise business decision—to pull out and let Banning screw himself.”

  “You did!” Jean said desperately. “And it’s working. Granny Bandits. Killer cops, cop killers! The voters are seeing their mistake, Gib, just as you said they would.”

  “If I leave now, I miss a window of opportunity. That’s a business term, Jean. Something you don’t understand.”

  No, she didn’t understand business. Or politics. She should, then maybe her husband would respect her more. But she believed in her heart that The People would deliver on their threat. And she couldn’t bear to lose Gib.

  An inspiration struck her. “What if I had a heart attack? Remember how sympathetic the press was last year when I went in with that tremor? I can fake a heart attack, then you could—”

  “Jean, don’t be stupid. Nothing is going to happen to me. It’s not me The People want.”

  “How can you be so sure? You received the same letter as Banning and Wanamaker. And nobody else on the Council got one.”