Honor Code (8 page)

“Who knows? Step back a minute. Run the time-line for the scenarios. The first one is real short. Washington found Hayes somehow while he was in the brig and hired him to do something to her father. Scare the crap out of him. Kidnap him. Kill him. Take your pick.”

“Revenge, anger—good motive. Uses the facts we have. Washington at the prison. Beason’s house invaded. The two men at the Center. But if Hayes was supposed to kill Beason, why did he drag him up to Greenville?”

“Which brings us to scenario two.” Robbins wished he had a cigarette and settled from drumming his fingers. “Which could include scenario one if Hayes has his own agenda. Hayes stole something while he was in the army. It would help to know what, but we don’t.”

“Remember that army clerk who supposedly shipped home a Jeep, one piece at a time? I always wondered if that actually happened. If Tyrell…” Jordan’s words trailed off. He dropped his head and messed with the stack of papers.

“You finished with your detour into LaLa-land?”

“Yeah.”

Damn, the kid blushed. Robbins shook his head. “Anyway, Hayes got caught—maybe the first time he did it, maybe after he’d been stealing for a while—was court-martialed and incarcerated for reasons unknown. He talked to Gloria Washington while he was inside. Then when Hayes gets out, he shows up at Gloria’s father’s house, tears it apart, and ends up in Greenville looking for antique cylinder seals. So the seals mean something, either themselves or because they lead to something else.”

“Could Washington have known about the seals? Told Hayes her father had some or knew where to find them?”

“Wait a minute.” The idea hit Robbins like a baseball bat. “You said Iraq. Where in Iraq was Hayes assigned?”

Jordan sorted through his notes. “He was in Baghdad when the MPs arrested him.”

Robbins opened the Internet browser, pulled up his history and clicked a site he’d visited earlier that day when he researched cylinder seals. “During 2003, our troops were in Baghdad, hunting down Saddam Hussein. The Iraq Museum got looted in April of 2003, during the early part of the invasion. First the army got blamed for the looting, then blamed for not stopping it.”

“I kinda remember hearing about it.”

“I don’t know that anybody outside the art or history world cared. They should, but…” Robbins shrugged. “Mostly it was the usual ‘America sucks’ crap. A Marine colonel was the one who put a plan in place to get the stuff back. Anyway, turns out it was an inside job, most items found, blah, blah, blah but a bunch of these cylinder seals are still missing. What if Hayes stole some of them before he was caught and court-martialed?”

“Maybe he got caught with some of them and that’s why he was court-martialed.” Jordan slid the photo-copied pages from the brig across the desk.

“Could be. They’re small. Valuable. Be easy to conceal… Maybe he shipped some out of the country before he got caught. That could also be why Beason’s place was tossed. The guy thought Beason had them.”

“Why would Hayes think that?” Jordan asked.

Robbins ignored him. His brain was moving fast, making new connections. “What if…What if there’s a connection between Hayes and Beason’s grandson?”

He flipped to the charts Jordan had made of the Beason family. “Akeem Beason was in the army at the same time as Hayes.”

“So were a million other guys. I was probably in the army at the same time they were.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t show up on George Beason’s doorstep and toss his house.” Robbins picked up the phone and called Sargent Major Monteith, his contact at Fort Jackson. “One more question.”

“Rocket, I told you…”

“This can’t breach security. The guys aren’t in the military any longer. One of them is dead and Hayes is out; dishonorable discharge.”

Monteith blew out a breath, then said. “You can ask—this time. Only this time.”

“I’m looking for a connection between Tyrell Hayes and Akeem Beason. He’s the grandson of George Beason, the old man who’s missing.” He fed Monteith the two men’s vital statistics. “Was Hayes in same outfit as Beason’s grandson?”

He heard computer keys clicking, then Monteith said, “Same squad.”

Robbins nodded his head, although Monteith couldn’t see him. “Thanks for the confirmation.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

Robbins hung up and turned to Jordan. “Okay. We still can’t prove anything, but I have an idea. The grandson was killed in Iraq. Find out when.” He pointed at the computer.

“May 2nd, 2003,” Jordan said a few minutes later. “About a week before Hayes was arrested. Right before Beason’s tour would’ve been over.”

“Right after the museum looting.” Robbins laced his fingers behind his head and ignored the life-sucks-irony of getting killed so close to the end of his tour. “If Hayes stole some of these cylinders, or got them from somebody else who stole them, was Beason Junior part of the theft?”

“Akeem Beason wasn’t the one who did time—inside or outside the army.” Jordan rose and stepped across to the white board. “Part of the theft or not, Akeem was tight with his grandfather. Maybe he talked about the old man, so Hayes sent the contraband there, figuring he could retrieve it later.”

“Hayes could’ve talked Junior into it. The kid could’ve been tempted. A way to make easy money. They stole the seals together and sent them stateside.”

“It’s possible,” Jordan conceded. “Hayes didn’t have anybody he trusted to send the package to, so they sent it to George Beason. Then Akeem Beason died before he could get home and intercept the package. Hayes gets caught, does his time and when he gets out, he wants those seals.”

Robbins shook his head. “One problem with that theory. If the seals showed up, out of the blue from someone Beason didn’t know, he would’ve turned them in.”

“But Beason knew about the seals.” Jordan paced the small office area. “Beason told Hayes the seals were at the Nippon Center.”

Robbins fingers untangled and reached toward his shirt pocket. Damn, he wanted a cigarette. They helped him think. “The seals show up at Beason’s house with or without his grandson’s involvement. Beason stashed them somewhere because Hayes didn’t find them when he tossed the house. Going to the Nisson Center bought Beason time for someone to realize he was gone—missing. Trying to get arrested for stealing the picture made damn sure the people up there remembered him.”

“Which leaves us right where we started,” Jordan said. “We still don’t have any idea where Beason and Hayes are, much less where these seals are. Or if there’s even a connection between them.”

“Let’s narrow it down. Who might know about the seals?”

Jordan picked up a marker and scribbled names as he talked. “Hayes. Beason Junior and Senior. What about Washington? Maybe that’s why she took off. Think she has the seals or knows where they are?”

“Could be.” Robbins picked up his pen. It was a lousy substitute for a cigarette. “We need somebody to spot one of them. They probably holed up somewhere last night, but they should be on the move today.”

“They could be resting up for tonight, if they plan to break into the next place—wherever they think the seals are.” Jordan capped the marker and crossed his arms.

“While we sit around and wait.”

“What about Beason’s wife?” Jordan was still looking at the white board. “There has to be a reason he mentioned his wife.”

His wife. Robbins glanced at his watch. Time for phase two of his Make-his-wife-happy program. “Beason’s wife is dead and buried. Maybe the seals are too and Beason’s leading Hayes on a wild goose chase until we catch up to them.”

“I sorta admire this old guy,” Jordan said.

“Me, too. Try to come up with someone else to call or another place to look for them.” Robbins rose and picked up his jacket. “I’m outta here. Call me the second we get a hit on the car or either one of the men. Or Washington.”

A few minutes later, Robbins stopped at Grunder’s Café—Sharon’s favorite restaurant. He picked up the to-go dinners he’d ordered earlier that day and placed them on the back seat where they wouldn’t get knocked over. He caught himself smiling and humming a line from some song as he threaded through back streets and cut over past the cemetery. The smile left his face as the graffiti-tagged wall mocked him.

Robbins glared at the offending bricks. People were upset about the vandalism. Spray paint anywhere was a nuisance. Spray painting a cemetery—that was just low. He hoped the judge’s sentence for the offender—and they
would
catch whoever did this—included scrubbing the wall clean.

Another few turns and he entered his neighborhood, trying to recapture the good mood he started home with. Surprises for his wife. She’d be happy. He might even get lucky.

He pulled into his driveway. The yard guy had done a good job, he noticed. The guy even edged the drive and sidewalk. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. His plan was coming together. Sharon was home from work—her car was in the garage—but it was too early for her to have started dinner.

He was transferring the meals to plates when Sharon walked into kitchen.

“Larry? What are you doing home?” She eyed the plates and takeout boxes. “What are you doing, period?”

“I want to have dinner with my wife.”

He saw confusion, and maybe a little suspicion, in her face. He dropped the serving spoon into the container, and arms crossed, leaned against the counter. “I know I’m not the easiest guy in the world to be married to. I have unpredictable hours and a stressful job. But I want us to work. Our marriage. For you to be happy.”

Sharon looked at him for a long silent spell. Long enough that he nearly started to sweat.

“I miss the kids. A lot.” She dropped her gaze and he hoped she wouldn’t start crying.

Again.

This wasn’t how he’d envisioned the evening working out.

Finally she raised her head, a smile plastered across her face. She crossed the kitchen and draped her arms around his neck. “You’re a good guy. A good father.”

This was more like it. He wrapped his arms around her waist, took a deep breath, and inhaled her perfume, her body scent.

“It’s going to take more than one dinner to turn you into a good husband.”

“It’s a start.”

She smiled for real. “It’s a start.”

After dinner, they settled in the living room with a cup of coffee. Robbins fiddled with the recliner, adjusting it to the right angle while Sharon curled into the corner of the sofa. He took a sip of coffee, then said, “Our kids. They’re good kids, right?”

She put down her cup, instantly on alert. “Why? Did something happen? Is that why –”

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about them. But if they did do something, we’d forgive them.”

Sharon eyed him. “Is this related to one of your cases?”

He looked away. It was an unwritten rule. The job stayed at the office. The rule had been in place so long he couldn’t remember if it was because she didn’t want to hear it, or he didn’t—couldn’t—talk about his cases. But this thing with Hayes and his parents, that wasn’t just the job. How could he explain his anger that they’d washed their hands, erased their child from their life?

His cell phone rang, shattering the mood.

He glanced at the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Of course.”

It was only when she leaned back that he realized she’d strained forward, as if wanting to hear what he said. About their kids? The case?

“Robbins,” he said into the cell while he watched Sharon from the corner of his eye. Did she want to know more about what he lived with?

“You need to get down here,” Jordan said through the phone.

The call he’d been waiting for. He shifted forward, cell pressed against his ear. “What have you got?”

“A hit on Beason’s credit card. A motel north of town.”

“Meet me there.” Robbins closed the connection and rose to his feet. “I may be late.”

“I’ll wait up. I’d like to finish this conversation,” she said. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

He kissed her goodbye, something he’d gotten out of the habit of doing. Her lips were soft and she tasted of coffee and something sweet, and for a second he thought about going for a second round.

But his mind was already back on the case, wondering whether the men were still at the motel, or if once again they’d missed the pair.

The motel was one of those no-tell, mo-tell places north of Newberry, located on a narrow state highway that eventually led to the Interstate. It consisted of a single-story string of rooms where the car parked directly in front of the door. Robbins figured the bar next door probably provided most of the customers.

He bypassed the office, followed the blue lights to the rear of the building, and pulled up beside the patrol unit. Jordan stood with two uniformed officers. Frazier, a sandy-haired guy, had been with the sheriff’s department for a few years. Bowen was new. They were both young, more Jordan’s age than his.

Damn but they made him feel old.

“Room 16.” Jordan gestured toward a unit near the end of the cinderblock building.