A Murder In Passing (16 page)

He beamed. “That'd be great.”

“Well, we've got to get you a full-time job first. Nathan might not work out. But if you're serious about staying in Asheville, we'll find something. You're welcome to stay at my apartment till you get on your feet.”

His brown eyes filled with tears. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't trust himself to speak.

“Don't get misty on me. You have to take out the trash.”

“And clean the toilet,” he managed to say.

I slapped him on the thigh. “You got it.”

***

Nakayla was on the phone when I returned to the office. From her side of the conversation, I deduced she was talking to someone about the Ulmann photograph. I closed my door and went to work lining up the next day's agenda.

An Internet check revealed Double G Pawn opened at ten. A call to Nathan Armitage led to a breakfast meeting with Jason Fretwell. We planned to meet at the Sunny Point Café in West Asheville, a favorite morning haunt for Nathan, so that the two men could have an informal conversation before taking the next step of an official job interview with Nathan's Director of Human Resources.

I told Nathan that Jason would be staying at my apartment for the immediate future and looking for other opportunities in case nothing worked out with Armitage Security Services. I didn't want Nathan to feel pressure to give the young vet a job.

A quick call to Sheila Reilly elicited her promise to make sure Jason knew I would pick him up at eight. Nakayla must have seen the light go out on my line because as soon as I hung up, she opened my door.

“Got a few minutes to bring me up to speed?”

We sat in the middle room, Nakayla on the leather sofa with her bare feet tucked under her and me in the armchair across from her. Holmes and Watson. I was pretty sure I was Watson.

She smiled. “So, how'd you do?”

“I'm afraid I've got some bad news.”

Her smile vanished. “What?”

“Someone shot and killed Donnie Nettles last night.”

Nakayla's right hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Not Donnie?”

“Yes.” I shared the information Newland had given me.

“Do they have any leads?” she asked.

“I don't think so. I wonder if it was someone who knew he'd be alone. Maybe someone at the garage where he left his car.”

“Maybe. Or someone who thought he'd gone to D.C. with his wife.” She shook her head. “Such a nice man. It had to be someone who didn't know him. Everybody liked Donnie.”

“Newland's going to keep me posted.”

“I wish there was something we could do. Donnie really went out of his way to make me feel part of the club. And when Tikima died, he was the first person who called.”

“I understand how you feel,” I said. “But we're already locking horns with the Henderson County Sheriff's Department. At this point, we need to let the Buncombe County investigation proceed on its own. We can't be everywhere.”

She nodded. There was nothing more to say.

I moved on to my meeting with William Lang, remembering how stunned he'd been by Nettles' death. Nakayla listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she asked, “I wonder who owns controlling interest in Lang Paper?”

“Why?”

“It will determine how much clout John has over his son.” She thought a moment. “The interesting thing about this case is all the testimony revolves around dead people. Julia Peterkin calls John Jacob Niles a leech, Lucille says she refused to marry Jimmy Lang while William claims just the opposite, and John Lang characterizes Earl Lee Emory as desperate enough to inflame racial prejudice against Jimmy for his relationship with Lucille. Each conflict involves a person no longer among the living and thereby beyond interrogation.”

“What are you suggesting? We buy a Ouija board?”

“No. But when we started this agency you said there were three key aspects of detective work.”

“Right. Physical evidence, testimony uncovered through Q and A, and deductive reasoning.”

Nakayla raised her index finger. “Number one—physical evidence. We have an unidentified skeleton, a rifle slug, and a matching rifle tied to Lucille Montgomery. We have a letter from Julia Peterkin to Lucille's grandmother Loretta referencing a photograph and her distain for John Jacob Niles. And that's it as I see it.”

She raised a second finger. “Number two—testimony. We have Lucille and Marsha saying the photograph in question disappeared the same day as Jimmy Lang. No one refutes that, but the theft wasn't reported for forty-five years. We have John Lang and Lucille claiming Lucille wouldn't marry Jimmy. We have William Lang saying the opposite, that Jimmy told him he wouldn't marry Lucille. We do have consensus that business competitor Earl Lee Emory was a son of a bitch. Finally, everyone agrees that John and William Lang bore no hard feelings against Lucille and Marsha.”

“Earl Lee and Mick had nothing to gain by killing Jimmy,” I interjected. “Keeping him alive kept his relationship with Lucille a sore point in the contract bid.”

“Right,” Nakayla said. “But who can count on a hothead to think rationally. As for opportunity, everyone except John Jacob Niles and William Lang was in the area. Niles could have been, but that's a real stretch, and William was in Vietnam.”

“As you pointed out, with so many dead people in the mix, what are we likely to learn that's new?”

Nakayla smiled and held up a third finger. “Which brings me to deductive reasoning. What conclusions can be drawn from this mishmash?”

“That a confused jury is more likely to either be hung or find for acquittal?”

Nakayla pursed her lips. “A possible consequence, true. But not a deduction we can use. Not a conclusion that you and I can build from.” She swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward. “The corroborating testimony is this: Lucille, John, and William Lang agree on the character of Earl Lee Emory. Lucille strikes me as someone who doesn't speak ill of others without strong motivation.”

“I agree.”

“So, I think your investigation into the confrontation that ensued over the garbage contract is a top priority.”

“I'm seeing Mick Emory tomorrow as soon as the pawnshop opens.”

“Good. I'll do a background check on both men.” Nakayla stood, slowly paced back and forth along the length of the sofa, and then stopped in front of me. “Now the other deduction we can make is that the Doris Ulmann photograph existed.”

“You found it?”

“No. I'm basing that on the testimony of Lucille and Marsha and my belief that the handwriting in the letter from Julia Peterkin matches the images of her signature I found on the Internet. And there's the indisputable fact that Ulmann loved photographing the people of the region. The Kingdom of the Happy Land would be a story that appealed to her, especially if its former residents and descendants assembled one final time.”

Nakayla stopped and searched my face for a reaction. “You're frowning.”

I waved her to sit down. “What you've said is true, but it doesn't provide any proof that the photograph was stolen the day Jimmy Lang disappeared. The prosecution will claim the timing was fabricated to suggest the rifle was also stolen.”

“Because Marsha told that story after you found the remains.”

“Exactly.”

Nakayla smiled. “I called several museums that have Ulmann photographs in their collection. The Getty in California was particularly helpful.”

“You said you didn't find it.”

“I didn't. And they weren't aware of its existence. That is until about a month ago when they received an inquiry from an art gallery seeking the same photograph. The woman I spoke with had taken the other call. No mistake. She told me the photo was described as a group shot of descendants of the Kingdom of the Happy Land. The woman told the caller she'd never heard of such an Ulmann photograph or the Kingdom.”

“Did she remember the name of the gallery?”

“She did. Dimensionless Horizons. Not only have I heard of it, I've been there. It's down Lexington five blocks from here.”

I stood. “Then let's go.”

“Not so fast. The gallery's closed Wednesday afternoons. They open at ten tomorrow.” Her smile broadened. “I believe you're supposed to be pawning a guitar or a gun.”

“I'll postpone that. You know what this means?”

“I do. Someone was looking for the photograph before the skeleton was discovered. It wasn't just a sham Marsha created to explain away the rifle.”

“So why delay?”

“Because I know who owns the gallery and I want us to go together. Stick with your original schedule. She won't be going anywhere.”

“She?”

Nakayla made an invisible checkmark in the air.

“Score one for me. The co-owner of Dimensionless Horizons is Jennifer Lang. William Lang's daughter and John Lang's granddaughter. Asheville's a small city but it's not that small for it to be a coincidence.”

“And William Lang denied knowing anything about the photograph.”

“I thought you'd find that interesting.” She blew me a kiss. “I believe my hard work deserves dinner tonight.”

“Whatever you want, Sherlock.”

Chapter Sixteen

The most difficult part of eating at the Sunny Point Café was getting parked. The restaurant encouraged patrons to either walk or ride bicycles because their small lot and the limited street spaces quickly overflowed.

Jason and I scored a spot a block away, not bad at eight-twenty in the morning, but as we neared Sunny Point, we saw Nathan Armitage pull his black Lexus into an open space not more than thirty feet from the front entrance. He stepped out wearing his usual dark blue suit, white shirt, and muted burgundy tie. His well-coiffed steel gray hair gave him the aura of sophistication and business acumen, two traits that were more than image. Nathan was a self-made man in his late forties who had managed to become successful without becoming arrogant, an accomplishment as admirable as the company he built.

I waved. “Do you pay someone to hold that spot?”

Nathan threw up his hands. “What can I say? Some people are lucky in love, others in finance. I'm lucky in parking.” He walked around the rear of his car. “I'm Nathan Armitage, Jason. A pleasure to meet you.” He dispelled any awkwardness of the moment by immediately offering his left hand.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Jason said. “Sam's told me a lot about you.”

“Not everything I hope.” Nathan winked at me.

Jason thought Nathan was kidding, simply making the remark nine out of ten people would say. What he didn't know was Nathan and I had our secrets, secrets forged in a deadly showdown with some very bad people that nearly cost Nathan his life.

“I'll put our name in for a table.” I left the two men at the edge of the parking lot talking in the morning sunshine. A young woman took my name, handed me one of those buzzers that looks like a miniature UFO, and told me it would be about a fifteen-minute wait.

When I returned to Nathan and Jason, they were well into a conversation that meandered from their common roots in the rural Midwest to Jason's special training in sniper school. We were summoned to our table as Jason talked about his time at Fort Benning, Georgia, and some of the more demanding sniper exercises.

When the waitress came, Nathan and I ordered our favorite, the MGB. The initials stand for Mighty Good Breakfast and the MGB consists of two free-range eggs and local sausage. Nathan always goes for the cheese grits for his side and I take the herb-seasoned spuds. Jason selected an egg and cheddar biscuit that was easier to eat with one hand.

As we ate, Jason described having to get close enough to a target in the woods to make a kill shot while his commanding officer scanned the terrain for any sign of his approach. Success meant patience, ingenuity, and determination. Those qualities weren't lost on Nathan.

“We're making you do too much of the talking,” Nathan said. “Eat up.”

Jason didn't hide his prosthesis. With his mechanical fingers, he gripped the plate to steady it while he used a fork to cut his side order of sausage.

Nathan told Jason about the scope of services offered by his company. He took the conversation in an unpredictable direction when he asked if the young vet might be interested in sales and customer service.

“You mean like calling on people? In person?”

Nathan laughed. “Yeah. I've found that works better than randomly tweeting them. No substitute for a flesh and blood encounter.”

Jason reddened and glanced at his hand.

“And that's not what I mean,” Nathan said. “I'm talking about people looking you in the eye and seeing you stand behind what you're saying. You can have no hands or no legs and still make a personal connection. Did Sam tell you how we met?”

“No. Just that you helped him start his detective agency.”

Nathan looked at me. “Sam's giving me too much credit in that regard. We met through the sister of his partner Nakayla.” He shook his head and dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “Tikima was a great woman, a Marine like me, only with real courage. She lost an arm in the early days of Iraq when insurgents first started car bombing during the post-Saddam power struggle.” He studied Jason's prosthesis for a second. “Tikima didn't have something as advanced as that. Maybe too much of her arm had been blown away. Instead, she had a mechanical pincher that closed when she shrugged her shoulders. She could make it click like a damn castanet.” Nathan halted as his voice choked.

Jason stared at his plate in silence. Then he looked Nathan square in the eye. “I heard she was murdered. You and Sam found who killed her, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Nathan said. “But my point to you is this. No one was better in sales than Tikima. No one else was even close. The sheer force of her personality and exuberance for life obliterated any perception that she was handicapped in any way. I think you have the same qualities, Jason. Sales and customer service might not be your thing, but I encourage you to think about it.”

“Don't get me wrong,” Jason said. “I'm grateful you'd consider me for any job, but snipers are loners.”

Nathan pointed at Jason's chest. “So are salesman. It's you and your quarry. We just try to keep you supplied with good ammo to help you bag him.”

“What kind of ammo?”

“Top on-site security personnel who know their jobs, strong customer support, professional sales literature, and, most importantly, a training program so that you'll have confidence in your skills. Think of it as Fort Benning except you've got a security contract in your sights instead of a human being.”

“And I won't have to stand out in the rain or be eaten alive by bugs?”

“Nope. Not unless you lock your keys in your car.” Nathan scooted closer to the table. “We'll have HR give you an aptitude test. We do that for every potential hire. And maybe your talents are in a different area. But, I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I think you've got potential. Just like Tikima Robertson.”

Jason looked to me for reassurance. I kept a smile on my face. Tikima had been in a league of her own, a person who made a lasting impression on me even though I was with her for only ten minutes. Jason was a good kid but I'd seen the dark brooding side of him that Nathan hadn't. I recognized how it could cloud your judgment because it had clouded mine. Jason had a tough road ahead, but I smiled and nodded, determined not to undermine Nathan's gift, the gift of hope.

We left Sunny Point Café a little after nine thirty. Nathan apologized that he had an appointment in Sylva about forty minutes away or else he would have taken Jason back to his office. I promised to get Jason to HR as soon as I could, and Nathan assured us he would see that Jason returned to the hospital that afternoon.

As we walked the block to my CR-V, I said, “Are you okay hanging with me a little while?”

“Sure, whatever you need. Are you still working on that shooting in the woods?”

“Yeah. But this is just a conversation with a guy who might have known someone who disappeared from that area.” I thought a second. “He runs a pawnshop heavy on guitars and guns. Why don't you come in with me? We'll talk about guns a few minutes before I find a way to steer the conversation where I want it to go.”

His eyes widened with excitement. “You mean like undercover?”

“No. Like a veteran who knows guns and is just looking over the inventory.”

“Okay. I can do that. We'll say I'm looking for a rifle most adaptable for my hand. How's that sound?”

I slapped him on the back. “The CIA couldn't have come up with anything better.”

Double G Pawnshop was in one of those small strip malls that blighted the American landscape in the sixties and seventies. The store was at the far end next to a dry cleaners. Other establishments included a nail salon, a tanning booth, and a tattoo parlor that at one time must have been a barbershop because a faded red and white pole sat dormant by its door. The strip mall was an oasis of image improvement: beautify your nails, tan your skin, ink your body, press your wardrobe, and then buy a pawned, knockoff Rolex.

I parked right in front of the Double G. At five after ten, customers weren't breaking down the door. Not that they could have. Iron bars shielded its plate glass and the display windows flanking it. Over the door glowed a red neon sign shaped like a classic Fender guitar with a rifle in place of the fretted neck. Two large capital Gs bordered the guitar like bookends.

An electronic chirp sounded as I pulled open the door. I waved Jason to enter ahead of me. The room was deeper than it was wide. Cheaper items were displayed on tables and wall shelves. A lot of the merchandise appeared to be army surplus: canteens, ponchos, USMC KA-BAR knives, and mess kits. There were clocks and camera bodies, estate jewelry and old coins, used band instruments and archery equipment. In short, a military, musical, sportsman's flea market.

A gruff voice called out, “I'm in the back if you need some help.”

We followed the sound to the rear counter. The wall behind was covered in gun racks hosting a variety of rifles and shotguns. A locked glass case displayed handguns ranging from single-shot derringers to forty-five caliber semi-automatics. I surveyed a row of Berettas ranging from pocket to full-size models. They lay on a blue velvet display cloth with a gap in the line-up where a pistol had been removed.

Flanking the guns on either side were racks of guitars: electric solid and hollow bodies, twelve-string acoustic, bass, classical, dobro, and even a rare seven-string model.

No one was behind the counter. I saw saloon-style swinging doors that must have led to a storage room. Above them a sign read “Employees Only.”

“Hello?” I called to the empty doorway.

“Be right there,” came the reply.

Jason leaned over the glass counter of handguns to get a closer look at the rifles. “I wonder if a bolt action or lever action would be better for me.”

The saloon doors swung open. “Depends on how you use it.” A thin man with a scruffy gray beard and stringy gray hair eyed us like we might have hidden merchandise in our pockets. He walked closer to Jason. “Don't push up against the counter, son. Your belt buckle will scratch the glass.”

Jason stepped back and we both stared at the countertop. The crisscross of prior etchings looked like a flock of chickens had stampeded over it.

“Sorry,” Jason said.

“So, what are you boys looking for?”

He used the word “boys” in that down-home way that could be directed at anyone from age seven to seventy-five. He wore baggy camo pants and a black t-shirt that hung loosely around his scrawny chest. A faded eagle held up a middle claw over a red, white, and blue banner proclaiming “Don't F K With The USA!” Classy guy.

“Something to do a little deer hunting,” Jason said. “Maybe a thirty-thirty.”

The man scratched his chin. “How good a shot are you?”

“At one time, I used to be real good.”

“My friend was a military sniper,” I said. “He never missed.”

“Well, put her there.” He stuck out his bony hand. “I'm Mick Emory and I'm always glad to give a discount to a man who served his country.”

Jason held his gaze as he reached out and grabbed the offered hand with his prosthesis. A low whir sounded as the mechanical fingers wrapped around the other man's palm.

Mick Emory jerked his hand free as if he'd touched a red-hot stove.

“This is why I used to be real good,” Jason said flatly.

Emory's sallow complexion reddened. “Jesus, man. You startled me. I didn't mean nothin' by jumpin' like that.”

“Forget it. I startle myself every time I look down.” Jason pointed to the racks of rifles. “I'm thinking the lever actions would be faster and load more cartridges but this damn hand could get hung up. A bolt action might be easier for me to grip and to get a finger inside the trigger guard.”

“You'll just have to try some.” Emory's desire to make up for his embarrassing handshake was obvious. He walked to the wall and surveyed his inventory. “I've got a nice thirty-thirty Henry that would be my choice of lever action. And then I've got a real clean Winchester Classic 70 from 2005. They don't make 'em like that anymore.”

Jason scanned the guns. “What about a Remington fourteen and a half?”

Emory turned to him. “That's a collector's rifle. I ain't seen one of those come through here in years.”

“It's light and the pump action with my left hand might be something I could handle. I hear they're pretty accurate. You ever shoot one?”

I stepped closer to Jason, afraid he was pushing Emory a little too hard in an area tied to the murder.

“Yeah,” Emory said. “But it's been years ago. Maybe you ought to consider the Remington 7600. Nice pump action. I ain't got one in stock, but I can probably find one for you. I know every pawn dealer in western North Carolina.” He turned to me, making sure I was impressed with his standing in the hock-your-valuables community.

“Sounds good,” I said. “But as long as we're here, Jason, you ought to handle both the Henry and the Winchester.”

Emory pulled down the two rifles and laid them on the counter. So much for protecting the glass top. Jason lifted the bolt action first, getting a feel for its balance.

“That's a nice collection of Berettas,” I said. “I might be in the market for one if I ever stop living paycheck to paycheck.”

“I hear you.” Emory looked down at the display. “Sweet piece of action.”

“From the empty spot looks like you sold one recently.”

Emory grinned. “A Compact PX4. They move real good. Nothing gums up a Beretta. Dirt, mud, sand.” He looked at Jason who had switched to the Henry. “Soldiers knew they could count on them to fire.”

“You shoot a lot?” I asked Emory.

“Not as much as I used to. But I'm a pretty good shot.”

“Were you in the service?”

“No. Bad feet. I tried to enlist. Maybe I could have gone with the Navy but who wants to sit in the middle of the god-damned ocean? You know what I mean? If I was goin' in, I was goin' in all the way. This was back during 'Nam and I was primed to hunt me some gooks.”