William pulled out the pack of smokes again, but this time he lit up. As the flame of the match cast harsh shadows over his face, he nodded. Slowly. Firmly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pineville, Alabama, Present Day
“YOU’VE SIGNED MY death warrant. You know that, right?”
I sat down slowly on one of the bistro stools near the door. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month. His uniform hung on him, crushed and wrinkled. Even his hat looked abused, smeared with mud and grease. Dean’s gun lay loosely on his lap, and his fingers played over the gun’s surface as if it were a fidget spinner. I felt every muscle tense as I expected it to slide off and hit the floor.
I cleared my throat and found my voice. “Not my intent, no. Why do you think that?”
He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Well. We know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell, don’t we?”
“Dean—”
“Sergeant Sowers. You owe me that.”
“Sergeant Sowers. Why do you think—”
He jerked straight, leaning forward, his shout blasting through the trailer, along with the strong scent of whiskey. “Because you stirred all this up again! Why couldn’t you let them rest? They’re dead! All of them! Let them go!”
The gun did a slip-and-slide on his lap, and I stiffened, bracing my back against the table. Words failed me, and I waited as he sank back onto the cushions of the recliner. His right hand closed on the pistol grip, steadying it.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know—”
“Of course you don’t. You couldn’t. You weren’t here. But you got Roscoe Carver killed. And you’re going to get me killed.”
“By asking questions.”
He nodded. “Of course by asking questions.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “These skeletons have been locked away for almost forty years. Everybody in town knows they’re there. Knows about that grave at the Baptist church. Knows about the other graves at the end of the road. Knows about the lawyer who stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, stirring up more than he bargained for.”
Curiosity spiked through my fear. “More? What other graves?”
His eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know, do you? My mother-in-law thinks you’re just here about your grandmother. I didn’t think anyone could be that naïve.”
“Tell me about the more.”
He glanced down at the gun again, his fingertips on the grip. “I didn’t know you were really that much of an idiot. They think you know it all, that you’re just dragging it out, leading Luinetti down a garden path, wanting all the glory for yourself. Your daddy made over, just waiting for the next ‘special agent’ to show up so you can expose it all. You’ll never make them think otherwise. I certainly haven’t been able to convince them. You’ve been hanging all over Miss Doris, picking her brain, asking about me. Looking for anyone who’d confirm what you know. All the while pretending it’s just about that old man’s slut. Who apparently didn’t know that a Jewess doesn’t just show up here with her bastard and expect her soldier boy to step up.”
“No one warned her?”
Dean scoffed. “Of course he warned her. Told her to stay away. That he was already married. But no, she believed he was a man of honor, like he’d made her believe over there, that he’d do the right thing by their son, even though he already had two who were half grown. And they certainly weren’t going to share their daddy’s money with any half-breed.”
“Inheritance.”
He shook his head slowly, as if accepting my total ignorance. “Not just inheritance. Business. She … and that boy … would have interfered with business. Brought unwanted attention where it didn’t need to be. They’d already killed a half dozen. More would be in the future. They didn’t care. Some good people died. Wrong place, wrong time. Buried at the end of the road and forgotten, like nobody should be.” Tears clouded his eyes.
A glimmer of light dawned. “That’s where you go. When you disappear.”
“You mean when I can’t stand that witch of a wife anymore? That disappearing?”
“Yes.”
“Did your darling Miss Doris tell you that I never wanted to be a cop? That I had bigger plans? I sure never meant to get caught up in all this.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
He stared down at the gun. “I’d like to think because I’m not that kind of man. That I’m the one who’s honorable. But I am. I’m a coward. I wanted to leave. Even had a scheme to get me the money to do it. But it tangled me up with Buck and Chris and the old man, and I wound up working for them, just like JoeLee did. Then it was too late. Folks who crossed them just disappeared. I didn’t want to be one of them.”
The sad weariness in his voice sounded like a man who had surrendered. Given up even trying to make things change. He looked up at me again. “Your daddy and that other man—”
“The investigator.”
Dean paused and studied me. “Alex Trawler. He was Secret Service.”
My breath caught and a deep cold settled into my bones. That information had not been in any of my father’s records. My mother and I both assumed he’d been a private investigator with Daddy’s law firm. If the Secret Service were involved …
“They would have disappeared too, if Roscoe’s old man hadn’t been such an early riser. Good old Ebenezer was already out, good farmer that he was, running the tractor in the fields behind their house before sunup. They didn’t expect that. Had to improvise.”
“Duplicating the first murder.”
A quick nod. “That’s what they told me. Since they couldn’t bury them, they’d let Ebenezer take the blame. Those two weren’t even strangled like she was. Shot. Chris’s brother was still furious about Chris getting killed in the accident. Doc said he had to stop him from torturing them half to death. He shot ’em to stop it. Stripped off their belts to put around their necks. Doc fixed the autopsy reports, and JoeLee processed the scene. Made it all go away. Just like the others.”
A deep numbness stilled me. What my father went through … Doc’s involvement … how deep did all this go? “What happened to the paperwork on the case? The files my father had?”
“They burned ’em. Doc insisted we keep the autopsy reports. State stuff needed to get the bodies sent home. Everything else, they said they burned.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
He laughed, low and under his breath. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re dead. We’re both dead.” He pointed at me with the pistol. I flinched, and he laughed, a low bark. “You aren’t afraid of death, are you? The way you’re courting it, you should be old friends.” He pointed at himself. “You and me. They were supposed to kill you when they shot Roscoe, but they missed. And they are not happy they had to bug out before the job was done. You can bet they’re going to try again. And they’re coming for me too, thanks to you and your big mouth. I’m just not going to give them the chance.” His arm draped over one knee, his hand slack on the gun again. A tease, making me wonder if I could get to it in time.
“Sergeant, if they’re coming after you, help me. We can stop them. Who are they?”
He shrugged. “Everybody. Anyone who is anyone in this town. All of them. Take your pick. And you can’t stop them. I can’t. You can’t. They are the irresistible force in this town.”
“But only one pulled the trigger on Roscoe.”
“True. But that was probably just one of the hired hands. Like William, Roscoe’s brother. Or me. That’s who they use and lose. Bury deep in those woods. Secure the base. Protect the family. Save the money.”
A fist thudded against the door, and a rough male shout echoed through the trailer. “Open the door!”
I didn’t recognize the voice. Mike? No …
Dean obviously did. His face lost all color. “This is it then.”
The pounding continued, rocking the trailer. I moved toward it, then froze as Dean sat straight, every muscle tensing as he
pointed the gun at me. “Sit down!”
I put up my hands, an almost involuntary reaction as fear froze every muscle. “Sergeant—”
Whoever was outside tugged hard on the door, twisting the knob. The sharp jerks rattled the door in its frame.
He took off his hat and flung it at me. I caught it between my palms. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. They’ll take care of that. But I’m not going to let them take it out on me. No one gets that pleasure but me.” He turned the gun suddenly, bracing the end of the barrel under his chin.
“No!” I screamed and lunged for him, but I couldn’t reach him fast enough.
He pulled the trigger.
For the second time in one weekend, I watched forensic techs swarm over the scene of a man who’d been killed in my presence. For the second time in one weekend, I’d been tested for gunshot residue. I now felt grateful the first test had been negative; even more grateful that I hadn’t gotten close enough to Dean to catch much blood spatter; forever grateful that the techs let me change from my church dress to a T-shirt and jeans and walk out with my purse and phone. They bagged the dress, of course, but I’d never wear it again, even if they returned it. One of the responding officers had ordered me away from the trailer but not to leave the premises. I’d taken one of the lawn chairs to the far side of the yard and perched under a thick-canopied beech tree. Mike arrived straight from the church, still in his suit, but he never approached me.
Doc and Maude arrived home right behind him, and after Doc conferred briefly with Mike, Doc and Maude went inside and took up a position at the kitchen window. Watching.
Whoever had been trying to get into the trailer had vanished. The pounding stopped with the gunshot. Despite the ringing in my ears, I had heard a loud string of sharp curses, which had sounded muffled and muddied. Then silence. By the time I’d gotten the door open, the man was gone.
Sitting out in the open, in the middle of the yard, was probably tempting fate, but at that moment I didn’t much care. Sergeant Dean Sowers had laid a lot of disjointed, confusing information on me, and I felt blindsided. My brain seemed to slow to a snail’s crawl as I tried to sort through where all of his details fit into what I already knew. Nothing seemed to congeal. But two of his statements had struck hard, and I desperately needed more definition on them. One was that Doc had falsified the autopsy reports. That detail had hit like a ton of bricks.
My doc. Doc Taylor. The man who’d welcomed me into Pineville, gave me a job, a place to live and to park my trailer. Who had known my identity and kept it a secret. The sweet man who’d loved his bride since she was a child and who played the town’s Jimmy Stewart to her Donna Reed. Doc, who acted as a father/uncle/granddaddy to most of the town. Who often got up in the middle of the night to fill a prescription for a frantic parent with a sick child.
The man who had lied about how my father and his investigator had died. Why would he do that? Why would it matter how they were killed?
And that was the second stunner. My mother and I had long believed that the man who had died with Robert Spire had been an investigator from Daddy’s law firm. Apparently not. Secret Service, according to Dean. Why the Secret Serv—
All thoughts again screeched to a halt as a small, dim light bulb went on in the back of my head. I was going to need backup. I shifted in the chair and pulled my cell phone from my back pocket. Darius answered on the first ring, almost as if he’d been expecting my call. His Sam Elliott voice—deep from the heart of Texas—resonated in my phone.
“Why, hello, darling Star. Why are you calling me? I thought you were deep under somewhere in the wilds of Alabama.”
He could always make me smile, but I fought the urge. “Deep in Alabama, yes, although the ‘under’ part didn’t work out so well.”
“Why am I not surprised? Oh, that’s right. You have all the poker face of a toddler at Walt Disney World.”
He knew me too well. Darius and I had met during a cross-agency investigation when I was still with the Metro Nashville PD and he’d been on the local Joint Terrorism Task Force, on loan from the Secret Service to deal with the movement of counterfeit money to a sleeper cell. He still worked out of the Nashville field office.
“Thanks, bud.”
He laughed. “So how can I help? ’Cause I know you’re not calling just to chat.”
“What do you know about counterfeiting operations in northern Alabama in the 1970s and 1980s?”
The silence that followed went on for a while. I watched the forensics team work while I listened to Darius tap on his keyboard.
“You know you could search these databases yourself,” he muttered.
“Not what I’m about to ask of you.”
The tapping stopped. “Oh?”
“Ever heard of a Secret Service agent named Alex Trawler as a part of one of those investigations?”
This spate of silence was followed by a somber question. “Where did you get that name?”
“From a guy who just shot himself in front of me.”
More silence. “What in the world have you dug up, Star?”
I took a deep breath. “I think I’m in over my head, Darius. This goes way beyond what I was expecting. I’m finding things I’ve never seen in any of my father’s files.”
“You have if you’ve dug up Alex Trawler’s name. Tell me everything.”
I did. Darius and I had dated for a few months after the JTTF investigation had finished, so he knew all about my insane obsession to solve the three murders and reclaim Daisy Doe as my grandmother, Esther Spire. He understood it—every cop had a case or two they could never let go of—but he’d tried to stay out of it. Keep personal and professional separate. But eventually he’d listened to all the details. Now I told him about Mike Luinetti, Doc Taylor, Buck Dickson, what Roscoe had said at the cemetery, and Dean’s ramblings before his suicide. About Miss Doris and the anonymous request for a meeting at Panera the next day.
“Are you going?”
“If Mike doesn’t arrest me.”
“I’m a little surprised he hasn’t.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, you have been found beside two dead bodies.”
“I didn’t help either of them get that way.”
“No witnesses.”
“Any ideas, assuming I can stay out of jail?”
“Come back to Nashville before you get killed?”
“Other than that.”
Darius paused. “Let me see what I can find out about what Alex was up to down there with your father. I doubt it was official business, but it might have been the start of some. Maybe just a conversation or two as a favor. But I’d be surprised if there’s not another autopsy report somewhere. I can’t believe they’d accept the word of the local country doctor.”
“How did you know Alex Trawler’s name?”
Mike had been talking to the first responders. Now he looked at me, frowning. He headed my way.
Darius’s voice was even and quiet. “You know the name of every Metro Nashville cop who ever died in the line of duty?”
I got his point. “Like the back of my hand.”
“Uh-huh. Keep your head down, girl. I don’t want to be adding you to my list.”
“Will do my best.” I ended the call as Mike closed the distance.
He pointed at my phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“A friend at the Secret Service.” I wasn’t sure what Mike expected me to say, but that obviously wasn’t it.
His eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
When I nodded, he asked why. I told him everything that Dean had said, as much as I could remember. I would make notes later, see if anything else popped out of my memory. “It all happened quickly, and I was primarily focused on that gun.”
“If he’d really wanted you dead, you couldn’t have exactly dodged it. Not in that space.”
“No. I guess I was hoping for a chance to take it away from him. Did all of that make sense to you?”
“We’re missing too many pieces.” He looked down at me through narrowed eyes. “But he obviously thought it made sense to you.”
I put up my right hand, as if swearing in court. “Honest on a stack, Mike. I didn’t understand half of it. I wanted to press him, but I was afraid he’d lose it and shoot me.”
“He probably would have. Did your friend at the Secret Service know Alex Trawler?”
My eyebrows arched as I waited for him to do the math. He didn’t. He waited. I finally cleared my throat. “My friend Darius was born in 1986.”
“Oh.” Mike paused a moment as he did a different kind of math. “So this means you like younger men?”
“You already knew that part.”
The fleeting grin that flashed across his face told me we were all right, even if we needed to keep it totally professional right now. I got it. So did he.
He cleared his throat. “I need you to come down to the station and make a formal statement. On both incidents.
“I will. How about tomorrow afternoon?” He scowled, and I went on. “Obviously I can’t stay here tonight. I’ll go to Gran’s in Birmingham, come back late tomorrow.”
He didn’t like it, but he finally nodded. “You’ll probably be safer down there anyway. Stay in touch. Let me know if your friend turns up anything.”
“I will.”
“Or if anyone else shoots at you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Birmingham, Alabama, 1983
“THANK GOD FOR an abundance of Waffle Houses.”
Alex and Bobby laughed, and Alex motioned to the server for more coffee. Roscoe shook his head. That boy must have a bladder the size of a watermelon, he thought. Every time they met, the young agent downed at least ten or twelve cups and always got one to go. The servers didn’t seem to mind. Alex, even taller and more athletic looking than Bobby, had a shock of floppy blond hair, which made him look like Robert Redford, and a baritone voice as smooth as butter. And no wedding ring.
This was their fifth Waffle House, their preferred venue because of a proximity to a major highway and a lack of local customers in the middle of the afternoon. As usual, Alex had passed Roscoe an envelope of cash and Roscoe had signed the receipt for it. They’d settled in for a late lunch, with Alex taking notes on Roscoe’s latest information.
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