Murder One

by Allen Kent

  “Afternoon?” Grace asked.

  “Yup. Let’s go get a few hours sleep. Tomorrow morning we’re headed up to Bartlesville.”

  32

  The fourplex on South Creek Avenue in Bartlesville was a red brick box of a place that looked exactly like three others strung end-to-end along the east side of the street. Each had a walk-through passage between apartments on both floors, leading to rear balconies on the upper level and patios below. Apartment A was on the bottom left. We circled the block and could see a gas grill and two plastic lawn chairs sitting on the concrete apron behind the Latty unit. Curtains drawn. No sign of anyone home. But a white Honda Civic pulled into a short drive that connected to an alley between streets.

  Before turning in the night before, we’d held a quick strategy meeting.

  “You’ve been waiting for a chance to wear civvies on the job,” I grinned at Grace. “Tomorrow’s your day. Did you bring any with you?”

  “I brought jeans to wear home,” she admitted. “I like to be in uniform, but thought we were just driving home.”

  “Just uniform shirts?”

  She reddened slightly. “No. A T-shirt too.”

  “Anything written on it?”

  “It’s a Chiefs T-shirt. I’m tired of seeing Saint Louis getting all the attention in the office.”

  “I’d hardly say one morning with Joseph in a Blues shirt is lots of attention.”

  “A wet Blues shirt. And you’re always wearing that Cardinals shirt.”

  “Only wet because we’d just climbed out of the creek.”

  “Yes. And she still had hers on.” Grace grinned as if this was all just being playful, but the undertone of resentment seeped through.

  “Well, wear the jeans and T-shirt tomorrow. I’ll be dressed the same. This guy hasn’t seen either of us. I don’t want him thinking ‘cops’ if he looks through the curtains.”

  “It’s supposed to be cold in the morning. Maybe rainy.”

  “All the better. We’ll swing by WalMart, get a couple of light jackets and some gloves.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be ‘gloves’ cold.”

  “If it’s even chilly, he won’t notice. And I want gloves when we go to the door.”

  We had been sitting across a table in the breakfast area at the Holiday Inn Express, watched by a curious night clerk who wondered what we had to talk about at 3:00 a.m. Grace had mixed a cup of hot chocolate and took a sip, watching me over the top of the jacketed paper cup. “I should go to the door by myself,” she said cautiously.

  “No way. We go up together.”

  “Why is it,” Grace said indignantly, “that you can go out on potentially dangerous calls all the time without backup, but you always make sure someone’s with me? I’m almost safer if Frankie doesn’t go. And he goes by himself. Rocky does. But never me. Did you allow your little partner from the state to go up to the Greaves by herself?”

  I leaned back in the molded plastic chair. “No. I didn’t. In fact, she’d disappeared into the woods when I confronted the Greaves. Came up behind them.”

  “But you wouldn’t have. You don’t think we can handle these things alone.”

  “That’s not it at all. I just don’t want to put you in harm’s way without backup.”

  “Because you think you did that once.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It has everything to do with tomorrow. It makes the most sense for me to go to the door alone. A young woman, looking a little confused like she can’t find the right apartment? He’ll open for me when he won’t for a couple. You cover the back.”

  “We’ll figure that out when we get there,” I begged off. “Better get some sleep.”

  The weather and the layout of the apartments made the decision simple. A cold front out of West Texas was making its way up I-44, bringing with it low, moody clouds and occasional drizzle. Jackets and light gloves made sense. The passage between apartments allowed me to stand in the cut-through, close enough to hear what was going on and get around to the front if Latty gave Grace trouble. It also put me in good position to run for the back if he bolted out a rear door.

  We parked a block away. The rain was giving us a break. I slipped across the front of Apartment B and into the breezeway while Grace decided to play her role to the hilt. She walked up and down the street sidewalk, holding one of the mug sheets we’d been given as if it were a street guide and checking apartment numbers in apparent confusion. She finally shrugged in frustration and walked resolutely up to the first apartment in the set, rapping sharply on the door. It opened quickly enough that I knew Grace had been right. The occupant had been watching the pretty brunette in the snug jeans through the window, wondering if he should step out and offer assistance.

  “Can I help you?” The voice was a raspy male.

  Grace continued the role as we’d planned it during the drive. “Yes. I think you can.” She separated a second sheet she held behind the first photo and handed both to the man, forcing him to take one in each hand.

  “I’m Officer Grace Torres from Crayton, Missouri. I assume you’re Calvin Latty. We spoke a few days ago on the phone about Galen Suskey’s stay with you. I wondered if you could give me a little more assistance?”

  There was a pause, then the man said, “What’s that you got on you there? That a bodycam?”

  I knew Grace was looking down with visible surprise at the small, black box she had clipped to her jacket pocket. “Oh, yes. That’s routine now. Mainly for your benefit. I forget it’s there.”

  “So, you’re filming me? What do you want? I told you what I know.”

  “Just a couple of questions. I don’t need to come in. We can talk right here. Did Galen have any visitors while he was staying with you? Either of these men?”

  Grace had handed the photos to the man upside down, and there was a moment of muffled shuffling as he turned the two mugshots in his hands. “No. Never seen either of these guys. And no one come to see Galen while he was here.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said gratefully, taking the sheets and folding them together, tucking them back into an inner jacket pocket.”

  “Did he talk regularly on the phone with anyone while he was here?”

  “He’d call some people. But not a lot. And I don’t know who, for sure.”

  “You didn’t know who any of them were?”

  “Well, some, I guess. He called the union office at least every day. The company had messed up his pension somehow and they were helping him. I heard him talk to them. I don’t know who else.”

  “Did he ever mention a sister?”

  “You asked me that when you called before. Like I said then, he didn’t say nothing about a sister.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot I asked. But as I remember, you told me he left here to take care of some family business back home in Missouri. He didn’t say what it was?”

  “Something about an old family farm. Somebody told him they was going to flood it for a water deal of some kind.”

  “And what did he think he was going to do about it?”

  “No idea. He just felt like he needed to go over there.”

  “Well, thank you,” Grace said graciously. “I think you’ve told me what I needed to know.”

  “You come all the way over here for that?”

  “For the pictures,” she said, patting her pocket. “I needed to show you the pictures.”

  “Who are they?” It struck me as a bit unusual that Latty hadn’t asked when she first showed them.

  “A couple of people of interest in a case we’re investigating,” Grace said.

  “Oh, yeah? What kind of case?”

  Grace had started to turn from the door, but swung back to answer. “Galen had a sister who was still living on the family farm. Somebody killed the woman.”

  “You’re shitting me! When did this happen?”

  “A couple of days before Galen came back to town. That’s why I was curio
us about calls. It’s kind of surprising no one called him about it.”

  “I don’t think Galen talked to anyone over there. He’d been gone a long time.”

  Grace gave that a moment’s thought. “Someone told him about the farm being flooded.”

  “Yeah. But that was a while back.”

  “And whoever that was didn’t think it would be just as important to let him know his sister had been killed?”

  I could hear Latty shuffle nervously in the doorway. “Like I said, he talked to people sometimes, but he never said nothing about a sister—or her being killed.”

  “Hmm,” Grace murmured. “Well, I think that’s everything. Thank you, Mr. Latty. I’ll give you a call if I think of anything else you might be able to help us with. You going to be around town?”

  “Yeah. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  Grace turned down the walk until the door closed behind her, then took a sharp left back toward the parked car. I slipped through the breezeway and cut down the alley behind the fourplexes, beating her to the Explorer.

  “Very nicely done,” I said as she approached.

  She grinned broadly. “And without backup. Interesting looking guy. Not what I expected.” She unclipped the bodycam. “I’ll plug it into the computer while we drive.”

  “The station’s only ten blocks away. Let’s drop these prints off with the card I picked up in Mexico, get them made up and sent to Officer Joseph, and head home. I’m sure you don’t want to spend another night on the road.”

  “It’s actually been kind of nice,” she said.

  32

  The rain followed us up I-44, slowing traffic on the Will Rogers Turnpike to what still seemed to me racetrack speeds for wet pavement. One of the great lessons of law enforcement is that going 80 miles an hour is dangerous under the best of conditions. When the road surface is wet and when semis are throwing up spray, the slightest mishap can send a car spinning sideways out of control. And I’d say maybe one percent of drivers know how to steer out of a skid. The other ninety-nine, when going too fast, are accidents waiting to happen.

  Grace played the bodycam video as we drove, showing the man standing in the doorway of Apartment A. He was almost twice Galen Suskey’s size, a typical roughneck who had once been tough as the job he did, but had now begun to go to seed. Belly sagging. Shoulders beginning to stoop. Arms still thick, but showing some looseness in the leathery skin.

  “You said, ‘Not what I expected,’” I said to Grace. “What were you expecting?”

  She flashed an embarrassed grin. “There was something else I didn’t mention about our man Galen when I checked up on him. I learned that he’s had a few male friends in for the evening while he’s been staying at the Super 8. Some you’d know from around town.”

  I guessed from her tone that she wasn’t talking about some of his old contacts. “Some evening entertainment?”

  “Exactly. And I guess it shows some stereotyping on my part, but Calvin didn’t look like I’d imagined.”

  My thought jumped to the two teenaged boys who had been each other’s only friends in Blackjack Holler years ago: one who felt like he needed to get out of town as soon as he could break away, and the other who’d turned into a bitter, mean old recluse. Grace again seemed to read my thoughts.

  “You’re thinking LJ, aren’t you?” she guessed.

  I didn’t answer. Just kept thinking.

  We left the interstate at Afton and headed due east on highway 60 into Missouri, passing another three or four casinos before we crossed the state line. Grace suddenly seemed more interested in talking local school politics than reviewing the case, leaving me with the feeling that as we neared home, she wanted this to feel more like a couple of friends out for a cross-country drive than like two colleagues gathering evidence.

  “So, what do you think about this new four-day school week proposal?” she asked.

  I’d been mentally calculating odds of one of our three print possibilities coming up positive. It took a minute to recalibrate.

  “I don’t like it,” I offered finally. “Dumb idea.”

  “Why? The argument is that it reduces bussing and utility costs and gives teachers an extra prep day to take an in-depth look at individual student needs and performance.”

  “You sound like the little video they’re running on their Facebook page.”

  “Well, those are the arguments.”

  I shrugged, finding I was also enjoying talking about something other than business. “I don’t have a dog in this fight—or a kid, I should say—so I probably shouldn’t be vocal about it. But it all seems bass-ackward to me in all kinds of ways.”

  “Yeah? Like what? My youngest sister and brother are still in school. They think it would be great. Fridays off to get an extra day they can work.”

  As we’d separated ourselves from the interstate, the weather seemed to have decided to stay with the faster traffic. The overcast was breaking above us and, ahead, we could see patches of blue sky.

  “Looks like things may be clearing up,” I said, leaning forward over the wheel to peer upward.

  “Don’t change the subject,” Grace complained. “I really want to know what you think about this.”

  I leaned back and cast her an amused glance. “Why? Like I said, I’ve got no kids and don’t plan on any for a while. This isn’t going to affect me.”

  “Now, you’re starting to sound like the voters you complain about all the time. What happened to ‘What’s good for the community is good for all of us?’ And you’re never planning to get married?”

  “I thought we were talking about a four-day school week.”

  “You brought up having kids.”

  “No. I brought up not having kids. And you’re right. I do care about the school decision because of what I think it means for the community.” It was time to get things back on track. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I’m asking because you’re one of the more thoughtful people I know. You’ve been lots of places and have pretty well thought-out ideas. What don’t you like about it?”

  “What are the major complaints you hear about schools right now?” I asked, hoping I could get her to answer her own question.

  She frowned thoughtfully. “That they aren’t preparing kids to be good workers.”

  “Or. . . ?”

  “That they aren’t getting kids ready for college.”

  “Or. . . ?”

  “That kids aren’t prepared to deal with all the stuff they have to face when they step into the real world. Family. Finances. Civic responsibility. That sort of thing.”

  “Okay. So we’re falling short in three pretty critical areas of life preparation. Does that suggest we should spend less time at it? We already have kids in school for fewer days and hours than any country except maybe Uganda. So we want to give them even less preparation to compete with those other kids in the work world than we’re giving them now?”

  Grace laughed in a way that made her eyes shine and her face even prettier. “And you say you don’t have a dog in this fight? That’s quite a thought-out speech for someone who doesn’t care about the decision.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t care. Just that I wasn’t sure I should be influencing other’s decisions about it.”

  “Well, you’re influencing mine, and that’s why I asked. Are you going to. . . .”

  Before she could put me on the spot again, my cell rang. I had it slaved to the Bluetooth in the Explorer and the number showed as Marti’s. I poked the answer button.

  “Hey, Marti. Do you have some news for us?”

  Marti chuckled through the phone. “Some good news and some not-so-good news.”

  “We’re on the road, as you can probably hear, and you’re on speaker. We’re probably an hour away. Give us a little good news.”

  “Officer Joseph called from Springfield. They’ve matched the three print sets you sent in with our mystery prints and had a positive.
”

  I slapped the wheel and would have whooped out loud if Grace hadn’t been with me. She wasn’t as restrained and let out a gleeful “All right!”

  “So, who was it?” we asked in unison.

  “Well, that’s where the no-so-good news comes in. She wouldn’t tell me. She’s headed down here and said she wants to tell you in person.”

  My mind raced through the possibilities. Why wouldn’t Joseph just say who it was? Or call on my phone and tell me while I was on the road? Looking over at Grace, I could see the same thoughts running through her head.

  “How long ago did she call, Marti? When do you expect her to get there?”

  “She just called. But it sounded to me like she was calling from her car. It could be any time.”

  “Well, if she beats us there, tell her we’re right behind her.”

  “I’m sure she won’t say anything until you get here. She was pretty tight-lipped.”

  I glanced at the GPS. “Forty-eight minutes, Marti. That’s when we’ll be there.”

  “Okay. See you both then.”

  I touched the red disconnect button and looked over at Grace who had shifted beneath her seatbelt to partially face me. “What do you make of that?” she asked before the call disappeared from the dash display.

  “She may just be being cautious. Knows how fast word moves around town, even when you think there’s complete secrecy.”

  “Surely she would trust Marti. No one is more careful than Marti.”

  “She wouldn’t know that.”

  Grace shook her head. “I think it’s because it’s the girl. The Pogue daughter. I could tell from what she said about that visit that she really liked the girl. She wants to think this all through herself before you talk.”

  “Nah. It’s the Mexican enforcer. That man, Miguel. She realizes he’s essentially out of reach and wants to talk about next steps. We’d never get anyone extradited from Sinaloa State if we could even locate the guy again. And if it’s his print, it means old Rufus Pogue was involved. My guess is it will be just as difficult to get him back in the country.”