Heat (5 page)

P
at Casey strolled into the police station, walked over to the desk where a young, uniformed man sat and gingerly handed him the orange juice glass. “Pull the prints on this and run 'em, Rick,” he said. “Nora's are on there, too, but it's the other ones I want.”

“Right, Chief,” Rick replied. He took the glass, one finger at the top and one at the bottom, and went into a back room.

Casey went into his office, sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. He looked up the area code for Georgia, dialed information and asked for the number of the sheriff's office in Toccoa, Georgia. He wrote down the number, then dialed it.

“Hello, this is Chief of Police Pat Casey in St. Clair, Idaho. I'd like to speak to the sheriff.”

“Yes, sir, I'll connect you.”

There was a click. “This is Tom Calley, Chief Casey. Was that Idaho you said?”

“Yessir. I just want a little information, if you can help me.”

“Do my best.”

“You know a fellow named Jesse Barron?”

“Sure do. Where'd
you
run across him?”

“Right here in St. Clair. He's down the street at the café drinking coffee.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it. Tell you the truth, I thought Jesse was dead.”

Casey's grip tightened on the phone. “Oh? Why's that?”

“He didn't tell you what happened to him?”

“Said something about a car wreck.”

“That's right. A bad one.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Well, Jesse and his wife and three little girls were coming home from a movie out at the shopping center, and a drunk, a colored fellow, ran head on into their car. Jesse—”

“Can you hang on a minute, Sheriff?” Casey interrupted. One of his officers had just entered the station, and Casey waved him into his office. He punched the hold button. “Jim, you see if our man is out of the way, and if he is, go down to the motel and turn over his room and his truck—and do it
neat
, you hear?”

“Yessir, Chief.”

Casey punched another button on the phone. “Sorry, Sheriff, you were saying?”

“I was about to tell you that Sally and the girls were killed in the wreck, and Jesse was busted up pretty good. When he was able to get out of the hospital, he went out to the cemetery and looked at the graves, then he went downtown and got on a bus to Atlanta, and that was the last anybody saw of him around here. Tell you the truth, I thought he'd gone out and put a bullet in his head. I'm glad he's all right, though; I always liked him.”

“Can you describe him for me?” Casey asked.

“Sure, I guess he's six-one or six-two, about two
hundred pounds, brown hair, going gray and receding, blue eyes. He had some injuries around his head and face; I'm not sure just what he'd look like after those heal.”

“That's our man,” Casey said.

“Has he broken the law up there?”

“No, sir; I just wanted to be sure he's who he says he is. How long you known him?”

“Most of his life, I guess; his family moved here from Young Harris when he was in grammar school.”

“Was he ever in any kind of trouble?”

“Nothing serious. The summer after he got out of high school I had to pull him and a couple of other young fellows in.”

“What was the charge?”

“Well, a colored family moved into a house down the road, and a lot of folks around here didn't take kindly to it. The boys broke a few windows, that sort of thing. Justice of the Peace gave 'em three days and expunged the record, because of their youth. I never had any more trouble with Jesse.”

“When would that have been?”

“Oh, early seventies, I guess; around there.”

“What sort of a fellow is Jesse?”

“Solid, hardworking. Wasn't his fault his construction business went under; just wasn't enough work around here. I'd have made Jesse a deputy, if I'd had an opening. He's on the quiet side, but he's real smart.”

“Do you think you might be able to get hold of a photograph of Jesse for me?”

“I might be able to. Chamber of Commerce might have one.”

Casey gave the sheriff his fax number. “I'd appreciate it if you'd fax it to me, if you can find one.”

“Glad to; I'll send somebody down there right now.”

“Sheriff, I appreciate your help.”

“You see Jesse again, you tell him I said we miss him around here.”

“I'll do that.” Casey hung up and swung around to the computer terminal next to his desk and began typing. Early seventies; the closest newspaper with a computerized database was probably Atlanta. He found a listing for the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
and dialed the number. Shortly he was connected and called up the index. A few more keystrokes and he had a list of stories containing the name Barron between 1970 and '75. He got the right one on the second try:
TOCCOA YOUTHS ARRESTED IN RACIAL ATTACK
. It was brief and as the sheriff had described the incident. Jesse Barron was one of the boys named.

Rick stuck his head in the door. “Chief, I've got the record on screen two.”

Casey cleared the screen and typed more keystrokes; the record came up. The photograph wasn't great, but it was nearly two decades old. Jesse Adam Barron had no known criminal record. He had been fingerprinted when he had tried to enlist in the marines; rejected because of a knee injury resulting from high school football.

He typed more keystrokes, and the printer at his side disgorged the record and the photograph. Casey looked at the picture more closely. He was younger, skinnier, had more hair, hadn't been in a car crash. Casey thought he'd have had a hard time putting together the face he had just met at Nora's with the face in the photograph if he hadn't known the man, but it was a match. The prints matched; that was the important thing. Casey sat back and waited for Jim to return from the motel.

 

“I did it like you said, Chief,” the officer said, easing into a chair opposite Casey.

“What did you find?”

“A couple of old suitcases, some clothes, the usual toiletries, some books, mostly old novels, and what looked like a family picture.”

“Tell me about the picture.”

“Just a snapshot in a frame; a woman and three children, girls.”

“Any ID documents?”

“Nossir, I guess he must have 'em on him.”

“Any weapons?”

“Nossir.”

“What about the truck?”

“Some tapes and a bill of sale in the glove compartment. He bought the pickup in Atlanta ten days ago.”

Casey sat back and thought about this. The man seemed what he said he was, but two things bothered him: his driver's license was new, and so was the truck, both acquired about the same time. Still, Barron had said he had the license renewed, and the sheriff had said that he had left Toccoa on a bus. It made sense that in a wreck that had killed three people, Barron's car would have been totaled. “Hang on a minute,” Casey said.

He turned back to the computer and spent a minute and a half getting connected to the Georgia Motor Vehicles Bureau in Atlanta. In another moment, he had the driver's license he had just seen up on his screen. He printed that out, then moved down a couple of screens to the historical record. It showed that Barron's old license would have expired before the month was out. He went into vehicle registration and found that two pickup trucks were currently registered to Barron, the one at the motel and another, larger truck, the kind with a back seat. That would have been the one in the wreck, he thought. Nobody had canceled the registration yet. He printed out the record.

“Jim, anything strike you as odd about this man's stuff? Anything at all?”

Jim shook his head. “Looked real ordinary to me, Chief. Except—”

“Except what?”

“Well, it's a little thing, but the tapes in his glove compartment—”

“What about them?”

“They were classical stuff. You know, symphonies, and like that?”

Casey nodded. “You'd think a guy in a pickup would be listening to country music, wouldn't you?”

“Yessir, I guess I would.”

“Well,” Casey said, “it takes all kinds, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Thanks, Jim, that'll be all for now.”

The officer left, and Casey sat and thought about what he had on Jesse Barron. He had been expecting another undercover man from the ATF for weeks and, after what had happened to the last two, he expected one with a good cover. Still, Barron's background seemed too good to be just cover. It was the sheriff who had made the difference. He'd gotten the information, one cop to another, and that made it right.

Casey heard the fax machine ring in the outer office. He got up and walked to the machine and waited. A moment later it disgorged a sheet of paper. Casey picked it up and looked at the photograph. He was four or five years younger, dressed in a business suit, hair neatly cropped and combed; the hairline hadn't yet started to recede. He looked a lot less beat up than the man Casey had just met, but he was the same man, no doubt about it. The picture was clipped from some sort of business directory. Underneath it, set in type, were a few lines of copy:

Casey walked back to his desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“Hi, it's Pat. I don't think he's who we're expecting.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He checks out to a tee—background, paperwork, everything.” Casey told him about Barron's history.

“Wouldn't you expect him to check out?”

“Yeah, but it's more than that. First of all, I talked to a local sheriff in Georgia who's known him since he was a boy. It was all good, and get this—as a kid he got arrested for trying to run some niggers out of his neighborhood. I checked the back newspaper editions and found a confirming story.”

“How do you know this guy is the guy the sheriff is talking about?”

“He faxed me a photograph. It's the same man.”

“I don't know…”

“One more thing: I've known a lot of cops, and I can usually spot 'em a mile away. This guy is less like a cop than anybody I ever knew. If I'd had to guess I'd have said he was an ex-con, but I guess that's because the injuries make him so rough looking. St. Clair didn't seem to be his destination, either; said he was on his way to Oregon.”

“Well, if he decides to stay don't hassle him; make it easy for him, but keep tabs on everything he does.”

“Of course. If he's real, he sounds like he might be our kind of guy.”

“We'll see.” He hung up.

 

In Toccoa, Georgia, Sheriff Tom Calley dialed an 800 number.

“This is Fuller.”

“Mr. Fuller, this is Tom Calley, in Toccoa, Georgia.”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“The call came, like you said it would.”

“Everything go okay?”

“Seemed like it. He asked for a picture, so I faxed the thing you fixed up.”

“That's good, Sheriff; thanks for your help.”

“Not at all.”

“And you'll let me know if the real Barron turns up?”

“Yessir, I will.”

“And I'd like to hear about it if anybody else calls about Barron—anybody at all.”

“Sure thing.”

 

Jesse closed the door to his motel room and looked around. His things were, if anything, more neatly arranged than when he had left. So far, so good.

J
esse strolled down Main Street, taking stock of the town. The place was still overcast, but the light was becoming brighter; the clouds would burn off soon.

His first impression of Main Street was of something out of the twenties or thirties, and for a while, he couldn't figure out why. Certainly, it was very clean and neat, with every storefront looking freshly painted, but that wasn't it. Finally, it struck him. Although it was daylight, he saw that there were no electric signs, just the old-fashioned, hand-lettered kind. It was as though the business district was constructed and maintained to some very strict, but out-of-date design code.

He stopped in front of a small shop. The windows were soaped over, and above, on the facade, there were holes in the brickwork where a sign had been removed. He had noticed it because it was the only vacant storefront on the street, and at a time when most small town businesses were struggling to stay open, competing with the new malls. Some lettering on the glass front door caught his eye: “J. Goldman, Jeweler and Watchmaker,” it read.

Jesse continued his walk, stopping in the drugstore for a Boise newspaper. To his surprise, there was a soda fountain taking up one wall of the store. He hadn't seen one since high school. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, a memory of sharing a strawberry soda with a teenaged girl—two straws. And even in those days the soda fountain had been mostly an anachronism.

“Good morning,” the druggist said as he rang up Jesse's quarter.

“Good morning,” Jesse replied.

“New in town?” The man stuck out his hand. “I'm Norm Parsons.”

Jesse shook the man's hand. “Jesse Barron. I'm so new I might not even be here tomorrow.”

“Sorry to hear it,” the druggist said. “We need new blood all the time. Fine place to live, raise a family, St. Clair.”

“I can believe it,” Jesse said, waving goodbye with his newspaper. He took a right at the corner and walked through a residential neighborhood. The houses were mostly Victorian or that most American of houses in the middle third of the twentieth century, bungalows. A new house was going up on the corner, and that, too, was an old-fashioned bungalow.

“Time warp,” Jesse said aloud. Each house was neatly painted, and its front lawn was closely clipped. He couldn't spot a weed in a flower bed, not anywhere. He stopped on the corner and looked up and down Elm Street. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud to himself. “Isn't this where Andy Hardy used to live?”

 

Back on Main Street Jesse was waiting to cross at what was apparently the town's only traffic light when a patrol car pulled up next to him, and Pat Casey got out. “How's it going, Jesse?”

“Not bad. This is a real pretty town you've got here.”

“Glad you think so. Thinking of sticking around?”

“I don't know,” Jesse replied, looking up and down the street. “You sure this isn't a movie set?”

Casey laughed. “We like it that way. You stick around, and you'll get to like it, too.”

“I sure like the soda fountain down at the drugstore,” Jesse said. “I haven't seen one since I was a kid.”

“Yeah, and Norm whips up a mean milk shake or banana split.”

“Mmmmm,” Jesse moaned.

“I spoke to your sheriff back in Toccoa, Georgia,” Casey said.

Jesse let his eyebrows rise. “You're a thorough man, Pat.”

“I am that.”

“How is old Tom?” Jesse asked.

“He seemed well. Had a good opinion of you.”

“He sort of spanked me once, a long time ago. We got along pretty good after that.”

“That's what he said. You interested in some work?”

“Might be.”

“You make up your mind, you drive out the road there about a mile, and you'll come to St. Clair Wood Products, our local industry. Ask for Herman Muller; tell him I sent you.”

“Thanks, Pat, I'll keep it in mind.”

Casey took a small notebook from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on a page and tore it out. “The motel gets expensive after a while. If you want a nice room and home cooking, try this lady, and—”

“Tell her you sent me?” Jesse laughed.

“Just part of the service,” Casey said, then got back into his car and drove away.

Jesse read the notebook page. “Mrs. Weather by, 11 Elm Street,” it said. The street where Andy Hardy used to live.

 

Jesse pulled the pickup into a large parking lot, got out and surveyed St. Clair Wood Products. A long, low building sat fifty yards from the highway, and the noise of machinery could be heard from inside. Jesse found an entrance that said “Offices” and went in.

“Can I help you?” a middle-aged woman behind a desk asked.

“I wonder if I could see Mr. Herman Muller?” Jesse asked. “It's about a job. Chief Casey sent me.”

She looked at him a moment without reacting, then said, “Have a seat; I'll see if Mr. Muller's available.”

Jesse sat down and watched as she walked into an adjoining, glass-enclosed office and spoke to an elderly man who was sitting at a large, rolltop desk. He nodded and said something to her, then she returned.

She took a sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to Jesse with a pen. “Fill this out, please, then Mr. Muller will see you.”

Jesse filled out the application, taking time to describe his new job background, then he was shown into Herman Muller's office.

Muller stood up to greet him, a lean, tan seventy-year-old, Jesse figured. Muller shook his hand and waved him to a sturdy oak chair. He took the application and read it slowly before he spoke. “Nice to meet you, Jesse,” he said when he had finished.

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse replied. “It's nice to meet you. Pat Casey said there might be some work going here.”

“Might be,” Muller replied. “I see you've been in the construction business.”

“That's right,” Jesse said. “Had my own business until the recession came along.”

“We've been lucky around here; in fact, we just got a nice new contract for chipboard.”

“I read about it in the local paper,” Jesse said.

“Were you good at running a business?” Muller asked.

“I think I was,” Jesse said. “I never could seem to get together enough capital to bid on the big jobs, but I had a lot of happy customers on the little ones.”

“How many people worked for you?”

“I only had three, full time, but if we got a nice job I'd have a dozen or so at work, plus the subcontractors.”

“How'd you get along with them?”

“Nobody ever quit me, except for more money than I could pay.”

Muller glanced down at Jesse's hands. “Looks like you've done some hard work before.”

Jesse looked at his own hands and saw what Muller meant. They were gnarled and scarred, and Muller didn't know that they'd gotten that way from beating up other men. “I guess I've done my share,” he said. “I started working for my daddy when I was twelve, and I never stopped. In fact, right now is the only time I've ever been out of a job.”

“You got any family?”

“I lost my family in a car wreck,” Jesse said, avoiding Muller's eyes.

“I'm sorry to hear it,” Muller said. “I'm a widower myself, and I lost my only grandson not long ago.” He rubbed a hand quickly over his eyes. “Let me tell you how we work around here. Everybody starts at the bottom. I've got a force of five hundred and two people, and everybody started at the bottom. I've never hired a manager or a foreman; I've always promoted from within. I'll offer you the worst job I've got around here, feeding the chipper; pays seven dollars an hour. You give me a day's work for a day's pay, and I'll give you something better to do before long. How's that sound?”

“It sounds all right to me,” Jesse said, managing a smile.

“Good. Let me take you down to the floor and I'll introduce you to Harley Waters; he'll be your foreman.” Muller rose and started for the door, then stopped. Two men had just come into his outer office, men wearing suits; one of them was carrying a briefcase. “Uh, oh, looks like I'll have to talk to these gentlemen,” he said. He opened the door. “Agnes, this is Jesse Barron, he's going to work on the chipper. Will you call Harley and ask him to come up here and get Jesse?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Muller,” Agnes said. She turned to Jesse. “Have a seat; Harley'll be here in a minute.” She picked up a phone and tapped in a four-digit number.

Herman Muller waved the two men into his office, followed them in and shut the door.

Jesse noticed he didn't shake their hands. He watched as the two men sat down, and one of them opened his briefcase. He removed a thick sheaf of paper and handed it to Muller, who took it and began reading. The second man offered Muller a pen, which the old man ignored. Muller opened a desk drawer, dropped the papers into it and turned back to the men.

“I'll think about it,” Jesse thought he said.

The two men sat, staring at Muller, saying nothing. One of them said something briefly, then they got up and left Muller's office.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Ruger,” Agnes said as they passed her desk.

“Morning,” Ruger replied, and then they were gone.

A man in a hard hat walked into the office from the direction of the factory.

“This is Jesse Barron, Harley,” Agnes said. “Jesse, this is Harley Waters.”

Jesse shook the man's hand.

“Follow me,” Waters said. “I'll show you around.”

“That would be fine,” Jesse replied.

“When can you start?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“That's good; I can use you.”

Ruger, Jesse thought. That's Coldwater's other right-hand man, and Herman Muller didn't seem too pleased to see him.

 

The machinery was noisy, and Jesse was given ear protectors, a kind of headset without electronics. Harley Waters started at the beginning of the chipboard production line and walked him through to the end, shouting comments over the noise, while Jesse nodded his understanding.

When they were finished, Waters walked him to the car park exit. “This is a good place to work,” he said, “because Herman Muller is a good man to work for. He built this business from nothing, designed a lot of the equipment himself, picked every man who works here. He must have liked you, or he wouldn't have hired you, not even when he needs people bad, because of this new contract.”

“I liked him, too,” Jesse said.

“Good; I'll see you in the morning,” Waters replied. “We work seven to five Monday through Thursday, and we take Friday off. It's a good deal.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Jesse said. “See you tomorrow.”

He got into the pickup and drove back to town, wondering what this man, Ruger, was up to with Herman Muller. As he drove back into town, the sun broke through. On Main Street, Jesse stopped the truck, got out and looked up. Right behind the business district, a sheer mountain wall rose a good five hundred feet. It looked as if it might fall on the town.

Wow, Jesse said to himself. With the sky overcast, he had never known it was there.