A Murder In Passing (24 page)

“So, Jason tried to contact Emory later from our office,” Nakayla said.

“That makes sense. And when he didn't hear back, he pressed on yesterday with a call to his former instructor at Fort Benning. The question is whether William Lang knew Jason was tracking him down. If Jason left a detailed question on Mick Emory's machine, then Emory might have informed Lang and not told the police about it.”

Nakayla frowned. “What's in it for Emory? Blackmail? Why should he think one sniper trying to connect with another is blackmail material?”

“Right. If Emory's not involved, then William Lang heard it directly from Jason.”

“Call Newland,” Nakayla said.

“Okay. But I'm only going to ask that he obtain the records for my apartment line from the phone company so we can see Jason's outgoing calls.”

“And if there's one to William Lang?”

“Then we have to figure out how he was in two places at once.”

“The Kenilworth and the charity ball?”

“That would explain Jason's shooting. I was thinking about Jimmy Lang and how the Ghost could be in two places at once. The Mekong Delta and the Kingdom of the Happy Land.”

“You have a plan?”

“No. But Jimmy Lang did. I'm just going to implement it.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Greed. Did the motive behind the deaths of Jimmy Lang and Jason Fretwell come down to so mundane a word? Nakayla and I reviewed everything we'd learned to date, eliminating all the usual suspects—love, jealousy, blackmail, revenge—to be left only with greed and its coverup.

My theory was constructed on a foundation of circumstantial evidence, incriminating but not conclusive. The case would have to be made by the perpetrator, which meant I had to bait a trap, and I didn't know if Detective Newland would sanction an operation that could either go wrong in its execution or taint evidence for a court of law. I also didn't relish being shot.

Nakayla and I divided up duties. She went shopping for the supplies while I made two phone calls. I reached Hewitt Donaldson at his home and asked him to research inheritance laws in North Carolina. Then I tracked down Nathan Armitage and explained the resources I wanted to borrow from Armitage Security Services. He was shaken by Jason's shooting and readily offered his assistance.

Newland called toward late afternoon reporting that the interviews with Jennifer Lang and Judith Crenshaw at the gallery yielded nothing. Neither claimed to know Jason Fretwell even existed. At the time of the shooting, Jennifer had been at the same charity event her father attended.

I suggested a followup question Newland might ask Jennifer about the charity auction, and I told him I was checking some background information through my contacts in the army that might shed light on Jason's military service. Newland interpreted that to mean I suspected someone in the army held a lethal grudge against Jason and the shooting had nothing to do with the Lang case.

Again, the detective advised me not to go it alone.

Nakayla returned with a simple, black frame the size of the Ulmann photograph, some parchment, and an inexpensive fountain pen. She also bought an oilskin large enough to double-layer wrap the frame.

Nakayla experimented staining the parchment with weak coffee for an aged look, drying it in our small microwave, and then using the fountain pen to print on it with black ink. After several attempts, we finally developed a process that would pass a cursory examination. When Hewitt phoned with his legal research, Nakayla drafted the information into a short note on the treated parchment, and we wrapped it and the newly framed photograph in the oilskin.

“When will you place the calls?” Nakayla asked.

“After I've planted it.”

“Will you wait until dark?”

“No. Too dangerous. There's a chance I could be followed. If so, I'd rather deal with that in daylight. We'll leave the office in my car. You can drive and I'll get out at some point when we're confident no one's behind us. I'll walk back to the parking deck for your car. You go straight to Nathan Armitage's house. You'll be safe there. I'll join you later.”

Nakayla handed me the oilskin. “Are you concerned about Lucille's judgment?”

“To be honest? Yes. But I can't think of another way to get definitive proof.”

We left as planned. Nakayla headed north on Lexington, driving slowly in hopes of being able to pass through an intersection just as the light changed. We were the last car to make it across Walnut Street. Nakayla sped up, made a quick right on Woodfin, and I hopped out in half a block at Chicken Alley, a narrow lane of backdoors and dumpsters with a colorful mural of roosters painted on the corner brick wall. Cute, but not exactly a tourist thoroughfare.

Two hours later at a little after five, I pulled into the pasture on the Kingdom of the Happy Land. My errands had taken me to Nakayla's for my “Land Rover” prosthesis, to my apartment for my Kimber forty-five semi-automatic and shoulder holster, and to a hardware store for a crowbar, hammer, and chisel. As I carried the tools and oilskin package up the trail to the Kingdom's last stone chimney, Lucille's words rang in my head. “There was no new beginning for us, only an unhappy ending.”

A new beginning. A real treasure. With Jimmy Lang's phrases, I could create a plausible story for Jimmy telling Lucille he would pick her up at work. A story that explained the missing Ulmann photograph, Jimmy's presence on the Kingdom of the Happy Land, and the disappearance of his pickup. Whether it was true or not didn't matter so long as no one knew anything to contradict it.

The light through the pines held the soft, magical quality of late afternoon. The stone chimney of the long-vanished cabin seemed to be washed in its golden glow. I circled the base, seeking a spot where the old mortar was widest and weakest. I wouldn't want the markings to appear fresh and show the dust of my invasive attack.

The stone mason of more than a hundred years ago had been a craftsmen. The rocks had been selected and shaped to fit tightly together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Most of the mortar was behind them so the dry-stack technique weathered the elements almost as if the chimney was one solid stone. Like a rigid house of cards, dislodging the wrong rock could bring a section of the chimney tumbling down.

I raised my search higher until, at eye level, I spotted a eight-inch rock with a larger stone above it overlapping the two on either side. The perimeter edges were caked with moss that had worked its way into the narrow crevices. I used the chisel to penetrate the gap, working the blade around the stone until I could slide it to the left, enlarging the opening on the right. I inserted the flat end of the crowbar and jiggled it back and forth while pushing deeper into the chimney. Then I pressed my weight against the crowbar's curved end, forcing it to the right and applying all the leverage to the back of the stone. It popped free like a molar extracted by a dentist.

I planned to put my oilskin into the empty hole, break up the removed stone into smaller pieces, and then reseal the space the best I could. But the hole was already deeper than the rock I dislodged. I reached in and my fingers grabbed an object about the size of a hardback novel.

Electricity ran up my spine. All of the preparation Nakayla and I made had been for naught. Jimmy Lang had beaten us to it. I suddenly had the uncanny feeling that the connection between me and the skeleton in the log had been more than just my physically crashing into his remains. I had tapped into something beyond coincidence, something that had guided and shaped my thoughts from the moment I tumbled through those mushrooms and into an unfulfilled dream from nearly half a century ago.

And this gift that I held in my hands would finally set things right.

I was superstitious enough not to want to leave the Kingdom in case someone would somehow arrive in my absence and destroy my discovery. But in this desolate location, I had no cellphone service so my only option was to drive to the main road and seek a spot with a decent signal.

I'd gone about a mile when the bars on my screen came to life. I pulled to the side of the road and speed-dialed Nakayla.

“Did it go okay?” she asked.

“It's there. The real deal.”

“What?”

“Wrapped in plastic but I can feel the frame.”

“Then the story you made up—”

“Wasn't fictional,” I interrupted. “It's so true it's scary.”

She paused a moment, thinking over the implications. “What are you going to do?”

“Go with the plan. Except now I don't need to worry about Newland. I'm not planting anything.”

“Are you coming to Nathan's?”

“No. I'm going to set things in motion now.”

Another pause. Nakayla wasn't happy with the accelerated timetable.

“What about Nathan's supplies?”

“I'll go without them.”

“You'll do no such thing!”

Her voice was so loud I had to move the phone a few inches from my ear.

“You listen to me, Sam Blackman. Lucille lost Jimmy on that spot. I'm not going to have history repeat itself. I'm coming there.”

I knew Nakayla well enough that trying to dissuade her now was pointless. She'd have to be incorporated into the plan.

“Okay. But you can help best by being in position to give me a warning. Tell Nathan there's no phone service on the site and get his suggestion. We've got about two hours till dark. Come as soon as you can. I'll make the calls, and we'll abort if I can't connect with everyone.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm on the shoulder about a mile from the property's entrance.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words swelled up from inside my chest with a power that surprised me. “I'll be careful. I promise.”

My next call went to Detective Newland, who listened patiently and then agreed to follow my advice.

The net needed to be inclusive enough to safeguard against any undiscovered motives. I'm a firm believer in the axiom that what you don't know that you don't know will get you killed.

Timing was critical so I waited in the CR-V until six-thirty when I figured it was safe to set things in motion. I placed the first call.

I reached Jennifer Lang at the gallery and prefaced my question with the rationale that her father seemed uncooperative with my investigation. I wondered if he'd ever mentioned to her that his brother might have had a favorite spot on the Kingdom property.

“My grandfather told me the case against Miss Montgomery has been dropped,” Jennifer said. “The victim was a black man.”

“Yes, that's correct. But I'm still looking into the theft of the Ulmann photograph. I've reason to believe your uncle took it, not for any personal gain, but for a completely innocent purpose. And he might have hidden it on the Kingdom.”

“That sounds bizarre,” she said. “Whatever for?”

“It's too long a story to get into over the phone. I think he was planning a surprise involving some of the legends of the place.”

“Legends? Sorry. My father never mentioned anything of the kind. I first heard of the Kingdom when Marsha asked me to look for that photograph.”

She sounded genuinely perplexed and I apologized for bothering her.

John Lang didn't answer his phone. That threw a monkey wrench into the whole scheme. I checked the time and realized at six forty-five he was probably at dinner. Nakayla's background check revealed he was a member of his local country club. I called information and they dialed the number directly. The woman who answered promised to have someone check the dining room and either Mr. Lang or she would call me back.

Ten minutes later, my cell rang.

“What's this about?” John Lang demanded.

“I found the photograph.”

Silence. I waited for him to steer the conversation. Whatever he was thinking, he was proceeding cautiously.

“Are you sure?” he asked at last.

“Yes. Two adult women, Loretta and Lucinda. Three children, Lucille, Jimmy, and you.”

I heard the wheeze of his sharp intake of breath.

“Lucille told you that?”

“No. She kept your secret. I figured it out on my own. Hewitt Donaldson told me that when he reported to Lucille that the remains were of African descent, she started sobbing. Donaldson and Marsha thought it was from relief that the charges had been dropped. You and I know it was from grief. Her worst fears had been confirmed.”

“What proof is that?”

“None. But when I confronted Lucille, she couldn't deny it. I know about Lang Syne Plantation. About you and Jimmy coming with Doris Ulmann, John Jacob Niles, and Julia Peterkin to have your picture made on the site of the Kingdom. And frankly, I don't care. What I do find disturbing is that you don't care either. You don't care that your brother was murdered.”

“That's not true!” His voice was a harsh, raspy whisper. Lang must have stood in some alcove in his exclusive club, a place where he never would have been allowed to join if the truth had been known. “I want justice for my brother.”

“Then tell me why he was shot. Tell me why he was even at the Kingdom.”

“I don't know.”

“Here's what I think, Mr. Lang. Jimmy was going to bring Lucille there. A spot that held so much history for both of them. I think he was going to commit to revealing his racial heritage and eliminate the last obstacle keeping Lucille from marrying him. And I think he placed that photograph and maybe other things as symbolic treasures to be pulled from the final ruins of the Kingdom. Only someone killed him first.”

“It wasn't me. And I'll be god-damned if I let you spread that rumor around.”

“I haven't told anyone anything. I plan to return to the Kingdom tomorrow,” I lied. “To find evidence of what I told you.”

“I don't care what you find. I didn't kill my brother.”

“Do your son and granddaughter know about your ancestry?”

“No. No one but Lucille. And now you.”

“So they don't know that the remains belong to Jimmy?”

“No. As far as they're concerned, there's no way it could be Jimmy.”

“Then I'll leave it that way for the time being. At least till I get more information. Fair enough?”

I heard a sigh of defeat.

“What choice do I have?”

“Mr. Lang, you've always had a choice. Don't kid yourself into thinking otherwise.”

I hung up.

My last call went to William Peterkin Lang. He was the person I expected to have difficulty locating on a Saturday night. Fortunately, he'd phoned me at the office from his cell and I'd retained the number. He wouldn't recognize mine, which might mean he wouldn't answer an unfamiliar one. My worries were unfounded.

“Lang.” He sounded annoyed by the interruption.

“Mr. Lang, this is Sam Blackman.”

“Yes, Sam.” His mood instantly changed, as if we were old pals. “Any luck finding who shot that poor vet?”

“No. I'm afraid the police haven't had a break yet.”

“Terrible thing,” he said. “Go through the hell of war and then have that happen.”