Ashes and Bone

by Stacy Green

  “We’ve got the necessary warrants. The Jackson police are going to search your apartment today,” Gina said. “And I’ll need your laptop.”

  “It’s in Jackson. I decided not to bring business with me on this trip,” Ben said. “I needed a break.”

  Gina pressed him on Nick’s disappearance for a second time. Ben shook his head so fast his neck must have ached with the effort. “He pissed me off last year, yes. Nosed up to my secretary for information. But I’m the one who screwed up in the first place. Nick’s a good reporter. He knows how to get to the truth and get it out. I respect him for that.”

  Cage could tell Gina wasn’t buying it, but he’d known Ben since they were kids. Once, they’d been real friends, at least until puberty and all its issues kicked in. Ben got real charming when he lied, playing up the righteous, wounded act in such a smooth way most people felt sorry for him. In high school, Ben once convinced the principal the teacher was at fault for Ben getting into trouble.

  Cage didn’t think he was lying now.

  His phone buzzed. He glanced at it expecting to see Dani or Jaymee calling for news, but it was the Delta Correctional Facility.

  The hell?

  “Excuse me.”

  An automated monotone announced a collect call from an inmate. Cage accepted, trying to figure out why he’d get this call now.

  “Cage, this is Penn Gereau.”

  He’d figured as much. “You’re pretty much the last person I expected to hear from.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time, so forgive me if I skip the niceties. Have you found Nick?”

  “No.”

  “I assume Jaymee told you she and her friend paid me a visit and asked if I could learn any information.”

  “You found some.” A current of electricity streaked across the back of Cage’s neck.

  “I did. Gilbert—the man the girls wanted me to find out about—likes to talk. Never ceases to amaze me what a man will do for smokes. Plus, he’s religious and feeling guilty and wanted me to absolve him of his sins. Apparently didn’t matter I’m not Catholic.” Penn barked a laugh.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Quite a bit about the creation of the fakes. Buckles are easy—buy a reproduction, pee on it for a couple of years and boom! Looks perfect. Another trick is to bury it in a septic field. Or use acids, if you’re careful. He said there are more fakes out there than people realize and not enough experts to spot them.”

  “How can people be so easily fooled?” Cage couldn’t believe it was that easy.

  “How many people take the time to be educated on antiques? And how many people are damned good talkers? Someone wants something bad enough, they’ll believe anything. Gilbert claims he sold a Gatling gun reproduction for twenty grand to some guy with very little effort.”

  Christ. Cage was in the wrong line of work. “So there’s big money in it, just like Dani said. Is that the most expensive thing he’s ever sold?”

  “That’s when he started to clam up. He finally said selling the fakes is big money. Good storefront organization to have. Big enough the bigs from Appalachia are getting into it. He kind of jerked then, like someone had slapped him,” Penn said. “I pushed him more, and he kept saying he shouldn’t have mentioned Appalachia, that I’d better forget about it. The fakes were nothing compared to their other interests.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Whose interests?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. But what do you know about the Dixie Mafia?” Penn’s voice lowered.

  “Before yesterday, not much. Today, a little more. What can you tell me?”

  “They originated in the lower Appalachian states in the 70s. My aunt used to claim her cousin was a member, but we never had any proof of that,” Penn said. “They did their business in places without real law enforcement, like the small-town South.”

  “Thanks,” Cage said dryly.

  “We both know that’s how it used to be. They started all sorts of businesses as fronts, including using junk antiques to fence stolen items.”

  “Okay, but you’re talking almost forty years ago. They’re supposed to have died out.”

  “From what I’ve heard around here, they’re going strong, with their hands in all sorts of businesses.” Penn’s voice lowered so that Cage had to strain to hear. “Listen, it’s not about family with these people—it’s about whoever has the most money. That’s who rises to power.”

  “Sounds like politics,” Cage said.

  “It is. My time’s about up, but one last thing. I asked if the Dixie’s reach extended into the Mississippi Delta.”

  “Jesus, Penn. You shouldn’t have said the name outright.”

  Penn snorted. “I’m getting impulsive in my old age. Gilbert got right in my face. Warned me not to speak of that again, made a big show of yanking me up by my shirt before stalking off. I thought that would be the end of it. But I got a message last night from one of the prisoners who’s attached himself to Gilbert. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I’m passing it along to you anyway.”

  “What was the message?”

  “Just a name: John Wilkes Booth. What do you make of that?”

  Instinct dropped through Cage like the stones he never could manage to skip over the pond, heading straight to the bottom and landing with a plop. His stomach turned with the unsatisfying feeling of getting something he really wanted only to realize the prize scared him shitless.

  “I think you’ve given us a real lead. Thanks, Penn. Watch yourself in there.”

  By the time Cage returned to the interview room, jittery with adrenaline, Ben had stood to leave. “If I can help you any further, Captain, please call.”

  “You’re awfully calm for a man whose apartment is about to be torn apart. We may not be able to arrest you for the fakes, but if you’re making money off your dead father’s name, that’s a whole other story.”

  “Did the Dixie Mafia get in on your business?” Cage fired off the question, and Ben jerked as if a bullet had struck him.

  His eyes skittered from Cage to Gina and then back to Cage.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t answer that.” He halfheartedly tried to step around Cage. He didn’t move.

  “Ben, if they wormed their way into your business, put pressure on you, we can protect you. Just tell us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Nick was digging into your fakes,” Cage said. “If you were in bed with the mafia, and he found out, that’s the story he’d run with. And that’s what would get him in trouble. For all the nasty shit you’ve done, I don’t think you’re a killer. A coward for sure. Not a killer. And if Nick’s not already dead, he’s headed there. So if you know anything about anyone…”

  Sweat dotted Ben’s pasty forehead. He licked his lips, shifted his feet, breathed hard. Finally, he reached for the picture of the Confederate bills taken from Jaymee’s email.

  He shoved it against Cage’s chest. “Look harder.” He stepped around Cage again, and this time Cage allowed it. The door thumped shut behind him.

  “He’s in this up to his eyeballs,” Gina said. “That’s the picture our tech said had something embedded into it. So what brought on the mafia talk?”

  Cage related Penn’s information. “John Wilkes Booth, Gina. Wyatt Booth told me today he was a direct descendant. He acted like it hurt his political career, but he was clearly proud of it. He likes telling people. No way was Gilbert telling Penn that a coincidence.”

  She blew out a hard breath. “All right, so we’ve got to look deeper into the Dixies being involved and into the former senator. But I’m telling you, going after Nick in the storm is a dumbass, unprofessional move.”

  “Maybe it is,” Cage said. “Maybe they sent a rookie to do it. Booth’s just here to make sure it gets done right.”

  “Like Ben,” Gina said. “I figured you’d get to that.”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t feel like he’s gone after Nick. Ben
’s scared. And I think he’s looking for a safe way out. That’s why he’s being so compliant.”

  “I’ve got a contact at the Jackson FBI office. I’ll give him a call and see what he thinks of Penn’s information, see what else I can find out. Meanwhile, I’ve got a city council member interested in chatting. Red Thomas. You know him?”

  Jim “Red” Thomas had been a member of the city council for nearly twenty years and was a major advocate of preserving Roselea’s history. Red lived in the heart of the town’s antebellum district, in a modest, colonial-style home. He’d be one of the die-hards to stay and let the town burn around him. Everyone knew Red.

  “Sure. I’ll head over there and talk to him.”

  “Good,” Gina said. “If we can’t get to Dylan right now, let’s see what the council thinks about his efforts to save the Semple land.”

  19

  Red was waiting on his porch for Cage, sipping lemonade, and like most of the rest of the town watching the smoking horizon. He waved as Cage approached. “Good to see you. How’s your mama and daddy?”

  “Just fine, thanks.” Cage took the seat next to him. “Just heard the fire’s dying down a bit. For the moment.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’m not leaving. Born and raised here like most everyone else. Grandfather built this house, and I’ll be damned if I’ll walk away from her.” He took another sip of lemonade and then gestured to the pitcher sitting on the patio table, eyebrows raised in question. Cage shook his head. “But you’re not here to talk about an old man’s stubbornness. You want to know about the Semple zoning.”

  “Red, why’d it even go through in the first place? You’ve been on the city council for twenty years. When the co-op was trying to save the Semple place, we’d heard there was little chance of the council zoning it commercial. And then all of a sudden, Norton came in and the zoning changed.” Cage shifted in his seat.

  “And the mayor’s happy as a pig in shit about it, ain’t he?” Red’s southern drawl thickened, more pronounced when he was upset. His words came out fast and stunted. “How do you think the farm went into foreclosure so quickly? Those poor boys, the cousins who are the last descendants of Isaiah Semple, hadn’t been farming the land for a long time. They got their own lives, but they were trying to keep up the payments. They were sixty-seven days behind. I know that for a fact.”

  “That’s all? A lot of places don’t go into foreclosure until they’re twice that or more.”

  “Exactly. Day after news of the foreclosure broke, Mayor Asher sent an email to us council members, explaining why he thought the property needed to be zoned commercial.” Red’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “Boiled down to the money he felt could be brought in. He was so sure of it, and yet no company had ever expressed any interest in the land. It was never great for farming. And it’s not on any main road, not easily accessible from town. And being smack in between some of the bigger plantations don’t exactly make it a great spot to build. And yet the mayor pushed. Convinced the majority.” He stamped his foot.

  “And then Norton showed up.” Cage could have slammed his head against the house. It was all so obvious now. Probably obvious then too, if he’d been paying attention. Where did Dylan fall into all of this? Surely he knew what his father was doing, at least had some idea of it. Cage understood not wanting to stand up to his father over the sexuality thing—that’s a personal rejection a person may never get over—but preserving Roselea history was Dylan’s life. Cage couldn’t match his standing by while the land was destroyed with what he knew of Dylan.

  “Slipperier and quicker than a wet fart,” Red said.

  “Mayor Asher had them lined up, along with Ben,” Cage said. No surprise Ben Moore started all of this. Cage might whip his ass yet.

  An idea formed in Cage’s head. Ben Moore was the real estate broker who handled the sale of the land to Norton. He was also the person running a Civil-War replica scam that Nick was investigating, and he may have been involved with the Dixie Mafia. The Dixie Mafia was infiltrating the Delta Crossroads area, and their M.O. was a variety of legitimate businesses used as fronts.

  Is that what Norton was? Nick wanted an interview from Stanley. Is this what he’d figured out? If Nick was investigating the mafia angle and Cage was right about Booth liking to brag about his ancestor, had Nick caught wind of the same idea? Had he mentioned that to Stanley? It would be just like his brother-in-law to be that brazen if he was sure.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Red said. “Margaret Asher is the majority stock holder of Roselea Financial. Her late uncle left it to her. She’s mostly a figurehead, leaves the decision making to the men. Old-fashioned girl and totally put in her place by her husband.”

  “You think that’s how the land went into foreclosure so quickly?”

  “If it smells like shit, usually is.”

  “And you were the only holdout on the zoning?” Colorful as Red was, Cage doubted he held that much sway.

  “Myself and Ted Pickett. But we was outvoted. I thought it was a done deal until the Ironwood story broke. Imagine, the Laurents and the Semples, with John James Laurent right in the middle of it. But I never thought it would matter, until Dylan came around with his idea.” Red grinned, clearly appreciative of Dylan’s efforts to sabotage his own father.

  “So he really isn’t on his father’s side?” Then why had he stayed silent for so long? Why even allow his father to bring Norton in? Why not grow a pair and stand up right at the beginning?

  “Of course not. They don’t like each other. Mayor can’t accept Dylan for who he is, and Dylan appreciates this land and our history more than most. He’s damned ashamed of what his father’s doing.” Red took another sip of lemonade and then licked his lips. “He spoke to me and Ted, told us his idea. We needed one more council member to agree, and Heather Cathrall at the historical foundation was it. She’d been on the fence anyway, and when she heard Dylan’s idea, she agreed to halt the zoning for as long as we can.”

  “What exactly is Dylan looking for?” Cage asked. “All the structures are gone. I know the foundations for some of the buildings are there, but that’s not much.”

  Red shrugged. “He’s trying to find Isaiah Semple’s grave is what he told us. Along with his grandson—the one Camille left behind when she was murdered at Ironwood.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Isaiah Semple was the first black man to own land in Adam’s County, yet he wasn’t allowed to be buried in the Roselea cemetery because of his skin color, and they couldn’t afford it anyway.” Red grunted his disgust. “I’d say finding his grave would be a big interest to the National Historical Register, as well as the history department at Ole Miss. It’s worth a shot. And even if it don’t work, it keeps the mayor’s panties in a twist. That alone makes it worth it.”

  Cage didn’t disagree with that. And Wyatt Booth would be fit to be tied if he found out Dylan’s plan, not to mention the mayor. “Have you been on the Semple land with Dylan? Done any prospecting yourself?”

  “I have.” Red stuck his chin up. “Back-breaking work, but invigorating. Fact, Dylan and I were working when that damned derecho headed in.”

  Cage’s ears perked up. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Dylan about his alibi. “Yeah? Did you make it back?”

  “We barely made it to Ashland before the storm struck. Good thing I drive hard.”

  Cage glanced at Red’s silver truck sitting in the driveway. No dents and no blue. “Y’all sit out the storm there, then?”

  “With the mayor himself and his wife. Poor Margaret, stuck with that bastard. I don’t think they like each other at all, but she’s stayed by his side all these years. Suppose it’s the power. Guess I shouldn’t feel too sorry for her. Anyway, storm’s raging, Dylan’s all worked up about damage to the house, and the mayor more worried about insurance premiums.”

  So Dylan hadn’t plowed into Nick’s car. At least Cage could check that off his list. Begrudgingly. Still, the mayor was de
ep into some kind of rot, and Dylan was still a question mark.

  “When you guys were prospecting, ever notice any red dirt on the Semple land? Rust colored?”

  “Nah. Plain old soil there, just thin. Rocky. Why?”

  “Just wondering. What about Joseph Stanley? You get the feeling he and his boys at Norton are worried about the zoning?”

  “He’s a pencil-necked shit eater with no appreciation of what’s important in life. Money only. And he’s not got enough balls to head that company. I’d say he was a mouthpiece, and he and the mayor don’t like each other.” Red drained his lemonade and sat the glass on the table.

  Cage snorted. Stanley really did have a pencil neck. Next time he saw him, he’d hear Red’s voice in his head and play hell not laughing outright. “Ever met his boss, Wyatt Booth?”

  “Nope, but I’ve heard of him. My daughter’s in D.C. She’s an architect. You know Norton’s based out of there, and construction’s a big part of their business. They’ve been building in the projects.” Red rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s all for show. Last year, big stink was raised about Norton using damp wood, which meant mold was growing in those houses. Few people got sick. All black. Swept under the rug. Rumor was the former senator got involved and kept everything quiet.” Red gave him a knowing look. “Amazing what money can do, ain’t it?”

  Cage nodded. “He only served a single term, twenty years ago. And power’s a dime a dozen in Washington. Why would anyone do him any favors?”

  Red shrugged. “I don’t know, but my daughter said the story was buried, and fast. Senator’s got a lot of money. Guess he knows how to make it talk. Also likes to brag he’s related to Wilkes Booth. Stupid circle to do that in if you ask me.”