Honor Code (4 page)

“The cancer eat into everything—started in her female parts, but got into her bones.” She propped the broom against the table and sat down. “I ‘spect you talked to the daughter.”

Robbins looked up, caught off guard again.

“Gloria come by, once a month, Sunday after church and pretend she don’t see her mama’s thin as a shadow. Delores put on her wig and a smile for the girl. But I seen her afterwards. Cryin’. Beggin’ George to make the pain stop.”

Miz Rose stood and walked to the sink. “Girl shore shot her mouth off when Delores passed.”

Robbins stared at her straight back, at the hands that gripped the edge of the counter. Only the white knuckles gave away her tension. Was she telling him George killed his wife?

“He love that woman.” The words were a whisper. “They married over fifty years. I wasn’t sure he wanted to live on without her.”

Something unexpected squeezed Robbins’ chest, sent waves of pain surging out of the black well inside him. He didn’t want to put himself in Beason’s shoes. He didn’t want to hurt for Beason’s loss—or wish he had that kind of relationship.

Would he be able to do that for Sharon? Nurse her day and night?

Know she was in agony and nothing he did could stop it?

Did he love her enough to end that kind of pain? To risk alienating his children? Risk his badge? Jail?

“Don’t you be down on George Beason. Or you-self.” Miz Rose had turned away from the sink and was watching him.

It was facing reality, not being down on himself. He’d never thought about getting old. Dying by inches.

Never had to make the harsh choices Beason had faced.

He did know he would never put Sharon in a position to make that call. He’d eat his gun before he put her through that kind of hell.

But right now, the thing that scared him the most was, he’d spent twenty-five years with Sharon and he didn’t know the answer.

Shouldn’t he know?

The Newberry County Sherriff’s Department had a large new building just outside the city limits. Built during the housing boom, when Newberry became an ex-urb of Columbia, the larger agency had a lot of technology upgrades, including a Faces program. City and county got along, or at least Robbins got along fine with the deputies. Whenever he’d asked, they’d never turned down a request to use the automated sketch artist program.

Robbins escorted Miz Rose into the station. Given the work she did with Child Services, she knew a good many of the deputies and staff, but since he was asking her to stick her neck out and identify a guy who might turn out to be a scumbag of the first order, he wanted to make sure they treated her right.

“Don’t worry if the sketch looks like a hundred other men,” he told her. “The guy isn’t a suspect.”

“Not yet.” Cornrow beads clicking softly, Miz Rose followed the tech to his computer station. “How we get started with this?”

Robbins watched for a moment, then returned to the front desk. “If one of your guys can’t run her home when they finish, give Jordan or me a call.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” the desk officer said. “It’s been a slow week.”

The Newberry city police station was on the other side of town, less than ten minutes away. Robbins passed the courthouse with its big white columns and rounded the square. The flowered bushes—azaleas mostly—were blooming and tourists were already wandering around the memorial gardens.

Between the Revolutionary War and the War Between the States, South Carolina was full of historic sites. Not what he wanted to spend time doing, but as long as the crime rate stayed down and the tourists—and their dollars—kept coming, the City Council would be happy. And happy City Councils kept the chief happy, which kept the chief off everyone’s ass.

Robbins left the small historic district, crossed the river and passed the municipal building. Unlike the sheriff’s department, the police station shared space with fire and rescue, as well as the municipal court. He automatically counted the ambulances, pumper and ladder units, the Haz-mat truck. All present. Slow week, slow day, Robbins agreed, as he turned into the parking lot.

All he had to do was find George Beason.

He picked up his messages and flipped through them, noticing the Beason-related calls had been batched into Best-Chance, Follow-up and Hopelessly-out-there groups. For a moment, he tapped his fingers against the desk, his mind still churning with Miz Rose’s comments about family tension.

He could do his part.

He pulled out the Yellow Pages, turned to lawn services, and hired a guy to cut the grass.

The yard taken care of, he made another personal call, then turned his attention to the message slips. He’d already returned the first three Best-Chance calls without learning anything worthwhile when Jerry Jordan hurried through the squad-room door.

“Anything new?” Jordan asked.

Robbins thought about giving him crap for coming in early, but it was the kid’s first interesting case. “Miz Rose saw a guy hanging around the house. With the kids there, she keeps an eye on the street. Her first impression is the guy’s an ex-con. Maybe something there, maybe nothing.”

“He might’ve been casing the place, but that neighborhood wouldn’t be the first place I’d head for B&E.”

Robbins agreed. “Either he’s in with the dealers or he was looking for somebody. Miz Rose said he was around in the afternoon. All her kids are home from school by then. Could be he was watching them. I asked for patrol to drive through the neighborhood for the next few days. Here.” He handed the batch of Follow-up message slips to Jordan. “Anything from the bank?”

“No activity at all on the account.” Jordan flipped through the message slips. “I set up a watch on it.”

Robbins wondered if no activity was good or bad. Was Beason dead or alive? His car high-jacked? Or was he off somewhere on a personal mission?

No way to know until they found the old guy.

Robbins dialed the number on the next Best-Chance message slip.

“Nippon Center. How may I direct your call?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Koga.”

A moment later, a male voice with a faint Asian accent answered. “Thank you for returning my call, detective. I saw the request on the television news for information about an older Negro.”

“We’re looking for George Beason. Do you have information about him?”

“He was here—at the center—yesterday evening, shortly before we closed.”

“You’re sure it was Mr. Beason?” What was the guy doing up in Greenville?

“I’m quite sure. Their presence was somewhat unusual, so I would have noticed them anyway, but several events made me certain to remember them.”

“You said ‘their’ and ‘them.’ Another person was with Mr. Beason?”

“A younger man. Medium height, but very muscular. I found it unusual that one so young would be bald.”

Huh. Miz Rose’s neighborhood bad-ass? “Head-shaving’s popular right now. But go ahead with your story.”

“At first, I thought the young man might be a relative, perhaps a grandson. He appeared solicitous, keeping a grip on the older man’s arm. Given the older man’s infirmity, it seemed helpful, but then later, the younger man became angry with him.” The director paused. “I’m telling you events out of order.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. I want to record this. You okay with that?”

“That will be fine.”

Robbins set up the equipment with the speed of long practice, went through the identification process, then waded back into the discussion. “Why did you find the men’s presence unusual?”

There was a brief silence, as if Koga were considering how to answer. “Are you familiar with the Nippon Center?”

“I’ve heard of it.” Robbins vaguely remembered a write-up in the newspaper a few years back. What did the Center have to do with Beason?

“The Nippon Center is gift from the Japanese people. A cultural exchange. The Center blends 14
^th
century Japanese antiquity with modern design. In addition to the tea house, we feature a large dry garden. You may refer to it as a Zen garden. Most people who visit the Center come for contemplation or meditation. As I said, not many Negros come here.”

Robbins had spent most of his military tour in Okinawa. He’d found some Japanese could be disdainful of races they considered inferior. He’d also noticed the Chinese and most people of color—any color—fit into that category. He left the director’s assessment alone for the moment. “You said several events occurred.”

“When the men arrived, they walked through the garden and the parts of the Center which are open to the public. The younger man asked where the seals were.”

“The seals?” What the hell? Robbins had a flash of Sea World and performing animals jumping out of the water.

“My associate at first thought perhaps they’d confused the center with the Greenville park, which contains a zoo, but he meant cylinder seals.”

Cylinder seals? Engine components? Why would Beason ask about car parts at the Nippon Center? Had he been confused and thought the place was connected with Nissan? “Why would he look for them at your cultural center?”

“My reaction was the same. I tried to explain that we do not maintain a collection of ancient artifacts and that even if we did, seals such as they described are not part of Japanese cultural history.”

What were they talking about here? “But they’re important to others…”

“Yes, the seals are important to other cultures. They’ve been used for approximately five thousand years to authenticate records—similar to a modern notary seal—or in the earliest, pre-written language days, for bestowing authority. I was not aware they were an element in African cultural history.”

“I wasn’t either.” Robbins shifted the phone and freed his writing hand. “In the most typical version, what would these seals look like?”

A faint sigh sounded through the speaker.

Okay, so he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what these seal things were.

“If I were seeking the most typical version, I would look for a seal from Mesopotamia. Those cylinders were intricately carved, more so as the seals became ornaments as well as a notary system. Sometimes they were carved from semi-precious stones, but their function and place in history is what makes them valuable. When rolled across soft clay, leather or wax, they produce a scene or series of images.”

“Mr. Beason and a younger man came to the Center and asked about these cylinder seals,” Robbins restated.

“The younger man was most insistent the seals were present at the Center. When I finally assured him they were not here, he became angry. I gathered the older man had told him the seals could be seen here. I started to intercede, but the young man pulled Mr. Beason, as you called him, toward the door. A second incident occurred at that point.”

“Oh?” Could this get any weirder?

“As I mentioned, we do not maintain a permanent collection. Visiting artists, however, occasionally display their work here. A prominent artist is currently exhibiting as part of a cultural exchange program. Mr. Beason picked up one of the smaller paintings and attempted to leave with it. Our security intercepted him, of course. The younger man did not say anything, but his body language indicated he was very angry. I do not know if it was because of the incident itself—if he was humiliated by Mr. Beason’s actions—or because the grandfather acted confused. Some people do not tolerate the infirmities of the declining years. Whatever the reason, Mr. Beason insisted he wanted the ‘pretty picture’ for his wife.”

Robbins’ internal radar pinged. “Beason said that? That he wanted the picture for his wife?”

His dead wife?

“Yes. In advanced senility, the old often become like children, losing societal distinctions of right and wrong. He did not seem to understand he was stealing.”

Miz Rose insisted the guy was sharp as a tack.

“If I had realized his family was concerned and unable to locate him, we would have detained them. It occurred to me later—when I saw the news coverage—that the young man might not have been his grandson.” A touch of chagrin tainted the director’s voice now.

“Do you have security monitoring?” Robbins asked.

“Of course. I anticipated you might ask. I made a CD, a copy of the relevant sections.”

“Thank you.” Robbins wanted to watch that security tape. Body language might tell him as much as the spoken words about what was going on with the two men.

He glanced at his watch. If the Greenville guys would meet them at the county line, the round trip would only take an hour.

Robbins ran through the director’s story again, then obtained details about the Center’s location and hung up. He dialed another number and arranged for a Greenville deputy to collect the CD, while Jordan nearly crapped his pants with impatience.

Questions piled on top of each other as Robbins relayed the information to Jordan. “Wonder why Beason didn’t ask for help if the young guy threatened him.”

“Maybe they’re in on it together, whatever ‘it’ is,” Jordan said.

“If they planned to steal these cylinder things, they’d have made sure the seals were at the Center first.”