by David Achord
“He would have if he had his way, but the unwritten code with the FBI is not to give credit to independent contractors when you can brag about FBI personnel instead.”
No sooner had Carter spoke when Reuben began praising Senior Agent Dresden Carpenter and his crack team of agents.
“The boss man knows Thomas is not after publicity, so he’s putting a letter of commendation in his personnel jacket instead,” Carter whispered.
I wasn’t sure that was such a good thing, but made no comment on the matter. Reuben gave a shout-out to Officer Leigh-Ann Hopper, the Prospect Hills cop. It was now Dresden’s turn to speak. It was more of the same, lots of praises for his team and the personnel in Chicago before opening the floor to the media for their silly questions. I nudged Anna and stood. Carter stood with us and the three of us quietly exited.
“After this is over, they’re going to have a little get together. Hors d’oeuvre and light refreshments. The deputy director will be there,” Carter said.
I glanced at my watch. “Normally, I’d say yes, but we have another appointment in thirty minutes.”
Carter gave a nod of understanding. “I’ll send them your regrets.”
We shook hands and said our goodbyes. Anna once again insisted on driving and soon we were speeding along in my Mustang to our next destination.
“Do you know what was odd about that press conference?” Anna said.
“What’s that.”
“They danced around who was behind all of this.”
“It’s all very hush-hush,” I said.
“They’re covering it up,” she retorted. “That’s bullshit.”
She was right. They did not say who was placing the orders for women and children, and when asked about the women who were still missing and unaccounted for, they simply said it’s still under investigation. I explained it all to Anna. She listened intently.
“So, what you’re saying is the monarchy of an oil-rich country is behind all of this, but because they are so powerful, nothing is going to happen to them?” she asked.
“That’s probably the gist of it,” I answered. “I imagine the politicians will try to use it as some kind of leverage at some point.”
“How is that justice for these missing women?” she asked. “I mean, what kind of hell is Telisha Thompkins going through right now? Nobody seems to care about her.”
I nodded in agreement, but I had no answer.
“At least the fucker who killed Jason is dead,” she remarked.
I nodded again. I went to Joseph’s apartment late last night and told him about Wolf. I had no idea if Wolf and Jason had a consensual encounter or if Jason had witnessed Telisha with the gypsies and they decided he needed to be killed. It was one of those mysteries that died with Wolf, Pekoe, and the rest of them.
I told him everything except the Mideast connection. He listened quietly, cried a little, thanked me for my help, and then hugged me tightly. His girlfriend walked me to the door and then whispered to me, “So that’s it? Jason doesn’t get justice?”
“Well, Wolf and his buddies are all dead,” I replied. She did not seem pleased with the answer, but it was the only form of closure I could give them.
Anna had sat in on the meeting and remained quiet. She did not speak until we got to the car.
“It went better than I expected.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope it goes that well for Ms. Braxton.”
Esther Braxton, wife of Theopolis Braxton III, lived in an oversized estate nestled in the heart of Belle Meade. A maid escorted us to the sitting room where Esther was waiting. She was on a couch, drinking tea in a fancy China cup, dressed casually but still managing to look like old money. A big fluffy cat was sitting on her lap, purring contentedly.
“Hi, Mrs. Braxton,” I greeted. Anna did the same.
“Hello, Thomas. Hello, Anna,” she said without standing. She then turned to the maid. “Ginseng tea for Anna, extra sugar, and coffee for Thomas, strong and black if I remember correctly.”
I nodded gratefully and looked at the coffee table in front of the couch. It was an elegant antique of dark walnut, as was most of the furniture. It had a couple of knickknacks on it. I pointed at it.
“We have quite a bit of paperwork. If you like, we can lay everything out right here.”
“That would be satisfactory,” she said.
I moved things around and then Anna laid out the paperwork. When she had it sorted and we spent the obligatory amount of time sipping our beverages and chatting, Anna started by pointing at a printout of a family tree. It was impressive, going all the way back to the 1300s.
“Obviously, you already know all of this information, so, per your request, I focused on the Carmike family lineage in the mid to late 1800s, and Penelope Carmike in particular,” she said.
Ms. Braxton did not respond and instead took a sip of her tea.
“Penelope was born March 19th, 1849 in the family home, which was located on the Columbia Pike in Williamson County, Tennessee. Here is the corresponding notation found in the family Bible. As you can see, she had three older brothers, Michael, Mark, and Paul.”
“Yes, yes, I already know this,” Ms. Braxton said with a hint of impatience. “I’m the one who provided you with the family Bible, remember?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Anna said, duly chastened.
“And, as you already know, she gave birth to a baby girl whom she named Claire, in January of 1862. At that time, Penelope was not quite thirteen.” Anna paused, waiting to see if Ms. Braxton had any comment. She did not, so Anna continued. “Apparently, the family lore is the father of baby Claire was a man by the name of Chester Bond.”
“Yes, Chester and Penelope married before he went off to war. He was killed in the battle of Chaplin Hills,” Ms. Braxton said. Anna glanced at me. We’d already discussed how we were going to present this case to Ms. Braxton. It was at this point where I was going to take over.
“That’s the lore, but it isn’t factually correct,” I said. My phrasing was a fancy way of saying the family lore was bullshit.
Ms. Braxton seemed nonplussed. “What do you mean?”
Anna reached for a pile of papers. “Anna is handing you a biography of Chester Bond. You can read it over at your leisure, but in the meantime, I’ll summarize. Chester grew up in Williamson County. His family lived near the Carmike plantation. He was six years older than Penelope. We’re not sure how they met, doesn’t really matter. What does matter is they had a relationship and it was in all probability a sexual relationship.”
Ms. Braxton stared with a sarcastic arch of an eyebrow. “The birth of a child would seem to agree with your astute deduction, Thomas.”
“Yes, well, you have me there, or so it would seem. Here is what we’ve learned that you may not be aware of. Chester Bond did indeed fight in the battle of Chaplin Hills, but he was not killed in battle.”
“Are you certain?” she asked. “The war records list him as KIA.”
“But his body was never recovered, correct?” I asked.
Ms. Braxton nodded slightly. “He was probably buried as an unknown soldier, much like thousands of other soldiers have been.”
Anna produced the photocopy of the journal notation and handed it to me. “This is a page from a journal written by Reverend Hezekiah Smith. He was an African-American preacher who married Chester and Penelope October 12th of 1862. What is important to note is the battle of Chaplin Hills took place on October 8th. The battle continued until dark, at which time the Confederates withdrew. The two of them were married three days after the battle, so one can speculate Chester went AWOL at some point during or immediately after the battle and made his way back to Williamson County.”
Now, Ms. Braxton frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and then made eye contact with Anna. Anna picked up another group of papers. “Anna is handing you a report and official death certificate from the medical examiner. The remains of Chester Bond w
ere found in the bottom of a cistern well recently in Williamson County. The land where the cistern well is located, coincidentally, is part of the original Carmike homestead. Before you ask if I am sure, a gentleman by the name of Robert Bond contacted the medical examiner’s office and provided family lineage back to Chester Bond.” I paused a moment. “I believe this is the same Robert Bond who recently announced his candidacy for mayor.”
“He is indeed,” Ms. Braxton replied. She said it with a slight tone of distaste. I got the impression she had a poor opinion of Chester Bond. “Tell me, was a DNA test performed to verify Chester Bond and Robert Bond are related by blood?”
Anna glanced over at me. “I don’t believe so, ma’am. We can follow up with Doctor Gross, if you’d like.”
“Not necessary,” she said quickly. “Please continue.”
“Based on our research, it appears Chester Bond walked away from his military unit during or after the battle of Chaplin Hills and made his way back to Williamson County. He married Penelope and soon thereafter was murdered and buried in a cistern well on your family’s plantation.”
“I see,” she said after a long moment of silence. She then moved the cat off of her lap and stood. “You’ve done excellent work. I have my checkbook in the office. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get it.”
“There’s more,” I said.
Ms. Braxton stared a moment before slowly sitting back down. This time, I reached out and picked up the last stack of papers.
“During our research, we came across a diary written by an African-American woman who lived during the same time period. If she were alive today, she would have been an excellent gossip columnist.”
“By your comment, am I to assume she repeated gossip about my family?” Ms. Braxton asked.
“She did indeed,” I said, and handed her the sheets of paper. “These are photocopies made from her diary. She described the Carmikes as a seemingly prominent, church-going family who had some dark secrets going on behind closed doors.” I paused, searching for a diplomatic way to phrase what I was going to say next. Ms. Braxton sensed my thoughts.
“Go on, just say it,” she said.
“Very well. Paul, the second oldest brother, was sleeping with Penelope. Baby Claire was the product of that relationship. It was only after she became pregnant that she seduced Chester Bond and led him to believe he was the father of her child.”
I waited for some kind of reaction from Ms. Braxton. There was none. She remained stoic and kept staring, so I continued.
“Chester was young and naïve, or perhaps he was aware of everything, but it did not matter because he was so much in love with Penelope. He decided to go AWOL during the fog of battle. We can only speculate why. Perhaps Penelope had sent him a letter and convinced him to come back. Or maybe he had gotten word that she was being treated badly because she was an unwed mother. What we know for a certainty is he did in fact come back and the young couple sought out Reverend Smith. Two white kids being married by an African-American man of the cloth was virtually unheard of in the south back in those days.”
“So, why would they do that?” she asked. She seemed slightly upset now, but the old gal still had a lot of starch in her; she was maintaining a stiff upper lip as the Brits used to say.
“Perhaps their preacher, the Carmike family, and the Bond family went to the same church. Perhaps that preacher did not approve and refused to marry them. Like I said, we can only speculate about that aspect. Anyway, Reverend Smith was murdered shortly after performing the wedding. Chester Bond was also murdered, presumably during the same time period and by the same person. Interestingly, the lady who wrote the journal said the murderer of both men was Paul Carmike, the older brother of Penelope Carmike and the father of her daughter, Claire Carmike.” I waited for that bombshell to sink in before continuing.
“Penelope never remarried. She referred to herself as a war widow and lived in the family home the rest of her life. Interestingly enough, so did Paul Carmike.”
Ms. Braxton sat as still as a statue. Her cat rubbed up against her several times, seeking attention, but was ignored. I sat back and finished my coffee before standing. Anna hastily followed.
“I’m sure this is a lot of information to digest. Take your time and read it all over. If you have any questions, or if you desire any follow-up investigation to be performed, we’re at your disposal. In the meantime, let’s get that payment squared away and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“You were a little gruff with her,” Anna said after we’d left.
“She’s a big girl, she can take it,” I replied. “Besides, we need to get you home, you have a date with Percy tonight.”
“How did you know that?” she asked.
“I called him up this morning at about five and we had a long conversation. I told him everything I’d been holding back about Lilith.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“I had a phone call from her a while back. She admitted to killing that old man. She claimed it was self-defense, but you know how that goes. Anyway, I’m going to give a formal statement next week so he can officially clear the case. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it later.”
“They said in the press conference that the FBI woman is conscious and is expected to recover.”
“Yes, they did,” I replied. “Did you hear what Carter said about her?”
“That she had no recollection of that night,” Anna said.
I nodded. She’d also stopped talking to her comrades and lawyered up. Strange behavior for a person who claims to have amnesia.
“What do you think will happen to her?” Anna asked.
I scoffed. “I’d bet a dollar she’ll take a medical pension, avoid any possible charges, and probably hire a publicist to write a book about her.”
Anna snickered. “They’ll probably make a movie out of it and she’ll make millions.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Chapter 47
I wanted to spend the rest of the day by myself, but after dropping Anna off, I found myself at Mick’s Place, sitting on my favorite barstool. A couple of reprobates sat at the far end in their own respective stools. Each gave me a nod.
“You don’t look right, Dago,” Mick remarked. “Do you need some Irish therapy? I’m an expert you know.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the man. “Nah, I’m good.”
“What are you up to? You got a client to meet or something?” he asked.
“Not today. I have a clear schedule.”
“Good, then you’ll be needing a fine cigar and a delicious beer to go with it,” he said and soon had a glass of Nashville Lager draft sitting in front of me. Marti came in a few minutes later. She was wearing Daisy Dukes and a bright pink tank top that hugged her puppies tightly. The regulars were drooling all over themselves. She gave them all a friendly hello before focusing on me.
“I’m working the rest of the night. Are you going to hang out a while?” she asked.
I looked outside the plate glass windows. A front had moved in. The temperature had dropped several degrees and Nashville was currently being soaked by one of those famous April showers. It was a dreary afternoon. A good afternoon to sit somewhere dry with an adult beverage and a fine cigar.
“I believe I will.”
She stepped close, pressing her breasts against my shoulder. “I’d love your company, and you don’t have anything to worry about. If you drink too much, I’ll drive you home.” She then kissed me on the cheek and walked around behind the bar.
I chuckled to myself. She sure was friendly with me. I had no idea if she had ulterior motives, but at the moment didn’t care.
I sipped my beer and absently watched some golf on one of the big screens while I thought about Esther Braxton. When we’d told her that her family lineage had a line of incest, she seemed unfazed. For some reason, that seemed peculiar.
My thoughts jumped to Lilith. She was sleeping with her cousin, Wolf. It wasn�
�t like they were hillbillies living deep in the mountains, separated from the rest of society. I thought I knew Lilith well enough to say she would have never done something like that. I suppose incest is not something that is casually talked about. Things like that are kept under the covers, no pun intended.
That led to my next thought. Little Penelope Carmike was only twelve when she and her brother began having sexual relations. I thought about different scenarios and plausible explanations for Paul to rationalize molesting his little sister, but could only come to the conclusion that he was a sicko.
So many unanswered questions.
It wasn’t until I’d finished my second beer that I had a eureka moment. “She already knew,” I said to myself and gave a sardonic chuckle.
“What’s that, handsome?” Marti asked.
I glanced at Marti on the other side of the bar and smiled. “Did you ever have one of those moments where you realize you’ve been hoodwinked?”
“Um, yeah, I guess so. Why, did someone hoodwink you?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
She gazed at me and waited for an explanation. I gave none.
“Alright, I guess your lips are sealed. You want a fresh beer?” she asked.
I looked down and realized I’d drank my second beer quicker than I realized. “I believe I will,” I said.
Marti set a freshly filled glass down in front of me. “So, who hoodwinked you?”
“An old gal who I’ll never play poker with.”
She grinned. “You must mean Ms. Braxton. When I first met her, I could tell right away she’s a shrewd woman.”
“That she is,” I said.
I took a swallow of beer and wondered what Ms. Braxton was up to. She was scheming, and I bet it had something to do with Robert Bond running for mayor. Needless to say, my level of respect for her went up a notch or two and I wondered if I would ever learn of her true intentions.
My phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID before answering, but I didn’t recognize the number.