A Murder In Passing (23 page)

“We are, Miss Montgomery. Does the name Donnie Nettles mean anything to you?”

“No, sir. Who's he?”

“Just someone who might have been familiar with the Kingdom property back then. A friend of William's.”

“I've never heard of him. I don't think William ever mentioned his name.”

“Thank you for your candor.” I stood and took her hand. “And one last thing. This has been between the three of us. No one else has seen the photograph and, at this point, no one else will while Nakayla and I think about what you've told us.”

Nakayla rose from the armchair, bent down, and kissed the elderly woman's tear-streaked cheek. “Don't worry. Things will work out for the best.”

Miss Montgomery shook her head. “If things had worked out for the best, Jimmy would have grown old along with me.” She looked at her lover's portrait on the table by the television. “There was no new beginning for us, only an unhappy ending.”

She wept quietly.

Nakayla and I left her with what might have been.

Chapter Twenty-four

“What do you think about Lucille's faith in John Lang?” I raised the question as we drove down the ridge from the Golden Oaks Retirement Center.

“Probably misplaced,” Nakayla said. “He had everything to gain by keeping her happy. She had a five-year-old daughter and the man in her life had left. She was vulnerable.”

“Do you think there was more to their relationship?”

“My gut instinct says no. If anything, they're close like siblings but both so steeped in their racial charade that their public personas mirrored their segregated society.”

I thought about the intervening years since Jimmy's death. John Lang had provided Lucille with a job. He enabled his illegitimate niece Marsha to have a good career with his company. Was that altruism or guilt?

“Do you think Lucille is deluding herself?” I asked. “She refuses to accept that John could have murdered his brother?”

Nakayla turned in the passenger's seat. I glanced from the road long enough to read the sadness in her eyes.

“I think every time Lucille stared into the face of John Lang, she saw his twin. How hard would that be?” Nakayla looked away, contemplating her own question. “To grow old with the aging image of the man who should have been her life partner. I'm no psychiatrist, but I think it would be nearly impossible to accept that face as the mask of someone so evil.”

“And is John Lang capable of such evil?”

“That's the question, isn't it? Did the drive and determination he had to build such a successful company include eliminating the greatest threat. His brother.”

“I don't know.”

“But you have a plan to find out,” Nakayla said. “I could see it in your eyes when you asked Lucille what she would have done if Jimmy had revealed his true identity.”

“Not a plan,” I said. “But perhaps the beginning of one. Jimmy Lang's new beginning.”

We headed straight for our office. I was anxious to check in with Detective Newland and still hopeful I'd receive a call from Fort Benning. I believed a request from a Chief Warrant Officer would be a priority, unless someone checked and discovered I was no longer in the military.

Nakayla offered to walk to the City Bakery Café to pick up sandwiches for lunch. While she was gone, I placed two calls. The first went to a former CID colleague now stationed in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I asked him to run a check on Donnie Nettles, his tours of duty and anything that stood out in his record. I requested he do the same for William Lang, even though he'd been in Vietnam at the time. You can learn a lot about a man from his service record, and I might have to confront him over the possible actions of his father.

My second call went to Detective Newland. He answered on the first ring.

“Sam. What's up?”

“Nothing really. Just checking in. I had a call from Mick Emory pleading for me to get you off his ass.”

“I bet. Nothing that scumbag fears more than police cars in his parking lot.”

“Is he still a suspect?”

“He has no alibi and a store full of guns, scopes, and ammo. He claims he never talked to Fretwell.”

“That's what he told me. He said Fretwell left a message on his answering machine.”

“Well, I'm tracking down the length of the call with the phone company because Emory said he erased the message. He also can't find the bill of sale for the Beretta PX4 he told you he sold.”

“Maybe he sold it to someone he shouldn't have,” I said.

“Maybe. Or he used it himself and doesn't want it ever found. I'm going to let the sheriff lean on him for that in case it ties into the Nettles murder.”

“Has your investigator friend made any progress?”

“He said Nettles' wife gave them a description of the stolen jewelry. They'll check the pawnshops starting with Emory's. The garage owner where Nettles left his car said he gave Nettles a lift to his American Legion Post. Nettles was getting a ride home from there.”

“Does he know with whom?”

“No. They're still following it up.”

“William Lang's a member. That's how he learned about Nettles' death.”

“I'll mention it. And I've already given my friend Jimmy Lang's name like you asked.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Any leads off ballistics for Jason?”

“The slug was pretty well mangled. A few rifling marks survived. I don't know if it's enough for a match, but I didn't tell Emory that. We're pretty sure it's a thirty-aught-six, one of the most common guns in the mountains.”

“Not like a Remington fourteen and a half. You talk to John and William Lang yet?”

“Yeah. Efird and I are just leaving William's house. We spoke with the old man earlier.”

“And?”

“John Lang says he went straight home from the plant last night, watched PBS Newshour and the Nightly Business News, and turned in a little after eight. William went to a charity fundraiser for Mission Hospital. Some gala dinner and silent auction at the Renaissance Hotel. It lasted till ten. William won the high bid on an abstract painting by one of the artists in his daughter's gallery. He showed us the piece. The most artistic thing about it is the frame. We're headed to see the daughter now.”

“When did that charity event start?” I asked.

“Seven.”

I realized whoever pulled the trigger at the Kenilworth wouldn't have made it to a ritzy affair downtown at seven. “Do you think the old man could have managed it?”

Newland thought a second. “He's spry. With a bipod support for the rifle and a good scope, yeah, it's within the realm of possibility. But why Jason Fretwell?”

“I don't know. He either thought Jason was me or he shot at me in the car and hit Jason by mistake.”

“And motive?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then watch yourself,” Newland said. “You must know something important and don't realize it.”

I knew more now than I did the previous night. The Ulmann photograph revealed the Langs' secret. Had John Lang somehow known we were on the verge of that discovery? Had Brose's friend in Charleston tipped him off? The possibility of so elaborate a conspiracy stretched credulity to the absurd. But I wasn't ready to share that information with Newland. I'd made a promise to Lucille and I'd keep that promise until I had no alternative.

“Well, if you figure out what I know, Newly, please tell me.”

“Only if you promise not to go it alone.”

We hung up after agreeing to check with each other at the end of the day.

Nakayla returned with sandwiches and two bottles of root beer. We ate our lunch in the sitting area and I brought Nakayla up to date on my conversation with Newland.

“Do you think holding back the information about the photograph is hurting his investigation?” Nakayla asked.

“No. His line of questioning would be the same. If Mick Emory or his father had known the Langs' secret, they would have used it against them forty-five years ago. If old man Lang killed Jason, then Newland needs something concrete for a motive. They never met or even spoke with one another. If he was trying to kill me, then I'll wait till Newland has run all his interviews and has gotten his lab reports.”

“Wait to do what?”

“Wait to confront him. Show him the photograph and tell him I'm going to the police. I won't be expanding the circle of knowledge because John Lang already knows the truth.”

“What will that accomplish?”

I shrugged. “I'll have poked the tiger, and maybe he'll come out of the underbrush.”

The office phone rang. Nakayla started to get up to answer.

“Finish your sandwich. Whoever it is can leave a message.”

We heard the beep and then a voice said, “This is William Lang. I'd like to talk with—”

I didn't hear the rest of his words because I jumped from my armchair and ran for the office line. “This is Sam,” I managed to say before Lang finished speaking.

“Mr. Blackman. Uh, the police were by.” He suddenly sounded flustered like he was better prepared to talk to a machine. “They told me about the shooting and that your friend was severely wounded.”

“Yes.” I said nothing further. He'd made the call.

“I guess they came to me because of our meeting at the plant. I realize I wasn't the most gracious in my response to your questions. And I was devastated when I got that call about the murder of a friend of mine.”

“Donnie Nettles. I knew him. Great guy.”

“Right. He mentioned he was there when you found the skeleton. And that's the other thing. I was upset when I thought my uncle's remains had been discovered. I overreacted. With you and with Lucille Montgomery. I knew she'd been angry with my uncle, and, well, I read more into that than I should have.”

“All right. If you didn't fire the shot, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“I didn't. Do you have any idea why someone would try to kill that young soldier?”

“No. Not a clue.”

“Did you go see Mick Emory after you asked my father and me about him?”

I wasn't about to give William Lang a play-by-play of my investigation. “Why would that matter?”

“Just thinking out loud. Emory's a pretty good shot. We've crossed paths at some of the local turkey shoots. Believe me, it doesn't take much to set him off. He's as unstable as a Mason jar full of nitroglycerin. And he doesn't like people snooping in his business. No offense, but if you grilled him about my Uncle Jimmy, he'd have taken it personally. And someone who's only a pretty good shot could have hit your friend by mistake.”

“If I talked to him.”

There was a long, silent pause.

“Well, that's all I wanted to say. Sorry for what happened.”

“I'm sorry for what happened to your uncle.”

“We've been told those remains weren't my uncle. They're from a black man.”

“I'm sorry for what happened to your uncle,” I repeated. “That's all I wanted to say. Goodbye, Mr. Lang.” I hung up.

“What was that little game?” Nakayla asked.

“It's called poke the tiger's cub. I want to see what gets back to John and how he reacts.”

“You're playing with fire.”

“I know, but at least I'm taking the heat off Lucille Montgomery. John Lang will be more worried about what I might do.”

The phone rang again. This time it was my cell. The number had a 706 area code. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Chief Warrant Officer Blackman.”

Nakayla rolled her eyes.

“Yes, sir. This is Staff Sergeant Walker Gilchrist from the sniper school.”

“Yes. You're calling about SPC Fretwell?”

I heard him swallow.

“I am, sir. It's true then? Fretwell's been shot?”

“Yes. He's hanging on, but it doesn't look good. I'm trying to fill in the background for our investigation.”

“Man. I heard he lost an arm and now this. Poor Little Ghost. Can't catch a break.”

The hair on my neck rose. “Little what?”

“Ghost. Little Ghost was the nickname I gave him.”

Little Ghost. Who then was the Ghost? Jason must have been on a fishing expedition.

“You spoke with him yesterday?”

“Yes, sir. In fact it was about the Ghost.”

“His nickname?”

“No, sir. The original. Willie P. Lang.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Nakayla stiffen. She couldn't have heard Gilchrist's end of the conversation, but my astonished expression must have alerted her something big had happened.

For her benefit, I asked, “Willie P. Lang was the Ghost?”

“Yes, sir. One of the best snipers to come through the training program. I'm second generation and my father served in Vietnam with Lang. Dad said the guy was so good that by the time you knew the Ghost was there, you were already dead. The North Vietnamese Army had a fifteen-thousand-dollar bounty on his head. Eighty-six confirmed kills.”

“What did SPC Fretwell want to know?”

“If I knew where the Ghost lived now. He said he'd run across the name in Asheville, and if that Willie P. Lang was the same man, he'd like to meet him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I'd double-check with my father, but I thought he said Lang was from North Carolina.”

“Have you talked with your father?”

“Not yet. He's on a fishing trip with some buddies in Idaho. Not exactly territory with great cellphone coverage. I can call you back after I hear from him.”

“That's all right. You've cleared up my questions.” At this point, I didn't want to get the military involved, especially since I was impersonating an officer.

One thing still bugged me. “Fretwell was looking through a list of the top ten snipers in history. Would the Ghost be on that list?”

“Maybe. If it was just Americans. My dad said Lang could have been in the top tier, but he missed a mission. In fact, my dad went in his place and killed eight high-asset NVA officers. Those would have been Lang's and put him ahead of White Feather.”

I remembered that was the name of the top sniper on the list Fretwell read on the Internet. If Lang was in that league, the shot at the Kenilworth would be little more than point-blank range.

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant Gilchrist. I appreciate your help.”

“Just get the bastard, sir.”

“We will.”

Nakayla sat patiently, waiting for me to collect my thoughts,
thoughts that were zooming around in my brain at ninety-miles-an-hour.

“William Lang was one of the military's top snipers. That was the information Jason wanted to tell us.”

“And William Lang killed him?”

“I don't know. Jason heard Lang's name when I questioned Mick Emory.” I flashed back to the confrontation in the pawnshop. “In fact, he started to ask about Lang but I cut him off, afraid he would give Emory more information than I wanted.”