Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (14 page)

You know, she smiled even in death and her heavy hair flowed far past her physical body, much as the water flowed
behind her. Jimmy was questioned but never arrested in her
passing. He suffered from blackouts and seizures, and couldn't
recall the last he saw her the night before. He was so sure
she had returned to the bar with him. So were a few other
regulars. They were all certain they saw her at least two hours
after the coroner determined her expiration. They recounted
Jolene hanging onto Jimmy's arm and smelling his breath and
neck as if it were something scintillating. No one remembered
her speaking, though Willie Notches said she tried to steal
a cigarette right from his brother Tyrone's pocket but was
so intoxicated she couldn't grab hold of it. Said his cousin
Punchy Blackknees walked by and put a cigarette into her
hand and she thought he was handing her a grasshopper since
the clumsy numbness made the end shake up and down. Willie still laughed at the recollection. Others said they had seen
her swimming near the city center at dawn, where elders and
children were allowed to fish before the conversion of the city
into cosmopolis. Said they averted their eyes to avoid embarrassing her obvious bathing. The city more concerned with
gentrification than the fallen, then and now. Nothing was
done. No follow-up, just over and buried, they say. They still
claim such. Amazing.

Years passed. Winos would sometimes claim they saw a
beautiful woman, underwater, facing up and smiling in the
now white-collar park enclave. Back then, they'd leaned over
and fallen in trying to get a better look at her before the shock
of cold water woke them from drunken stupor. Then there
was Tyrone. The creek-bum who hadn't seen a sober day in
so many years his skin had grayed beyond redemption. Tyrone
drank with Jimmy, for years they say, drank with Jolene once
or twice in the living time. It was Tyrone whose death bristled my attention. Tyrone had claimed it was Jolene in the waters.
Claimed she reached right out of the water for the Marlboro
in his shirt and held him a moment, puckering wet lips and
beckoning him with her muddy eyes. He said he'd shaken
her off twice before and was afraid she would come for him
again. He told Jimmy he believed her jealous of the woman
Tyrone had introduced to Jimmy while he should have still
been mourning her. As if the ones who lived on this bordering world were capable of remaining celibate for a year's time
to mourn anyone. He drowned four years after they found
Jolene. He surfaced around Freedom Park, no explaining it,
the pocket completely ripped from his shirt and his trousers
torn through the crotch, one entire pant leg missing.

Then there was that one up from the Catawba River for
the Frontier Days rodeo. They said he looked and walked a lot
like Jimmy and that he had drunk in the Double Door three
days straight before going to "get some sleep" by the pond
path. They said his breath had the strong smell of Peppermint Schnapps or Hot Damn over bad beer and cheap wine.
Said the peppermint was the only thing kept him from getting
picked up P.I. by Officer Wall on his lot patrol at the market.
He surfaced exactly four years after Tyrone. After him, they
came up more often.

A few full-bloods floated facedown after being lost for two
or three days. They were strong men, well built, with the exception of the distended gut from too much drinking. All were
known to have frequented the park and the Indian bar nearby.
All were going through hard times and break-ups. Then two
half-bloods rose from the bottom. One with his woman just
twenty yards away, still sleeping after having relations. For a
week she told the story of his sweetest day, their closest time
together-ever. This day he had drowned. Then she took up with a guy who stayed over nearer the park and they poured
wine on the ground for her man every time they took to drink
together.

Once they found a drowned stranger, a sort-of stranger,
a guy from another tribe who was a known exhibitionist and
molested the street women, often paying them in cigarettes
after he was finished with them. One had to be hospitalizedhe had been so brutal in his business. When they pulled him
from the water, his man-thing had been sheared by what appeared to be a sharp branch. They said he'd tried to bribe
Jimmy for a turn at Jolene years ago.

Once, or twice maybe, a white man came floating and I
began to believe Jolene had given up on Indian guys altogether.
I've considered it myself, but can't stand the never-ending
explaining you have to do to date outside. One came up so
fast they found him minutes after he'd swallowed waters, yet
no effort was made to clear his lungs by the followers or the
police. I figure she shamed herself in seducing the historical
enemy and wanted no part of being affiliated with him after
the fact.

I saw Jimmy earlier this week. Maybe I'll follow him, take
him down to the water tonight, bring her comfort. Soothe the
blue-black night waters welling with Jolene. Soothe them.

Memphis, Tennessee

tanding behind her husband's left shoulder, the woman
emitted hiccupping sobs that set Daniel Carson's teeth
on edge. His skin prickled with the same sensation as if
he'd raked his nails against a chalkboard. Carson forced himself to focus on his client's face. Failure to catch any lies could
have fatal results.

The man pursed his porcine lips and shook his head. As
if commiserating, his ice-blue gaze locked with Carson's, and
he shrugged. "You have to understand, my wife is so upset
because this is our only daughter."

Carson nodded once, as the fleeting image of his own
daughter-a pigtailed girl with a gap-toothed grin-brought
a twitch to his face.

Seizing on this minute gesture, the man leaned forward
onto the leather blotter built into the massive mahogany desk.
He steepled his fat fingers. "So, you're a family man?"

"My domestic situation has no bearing on the matter at
hand."

The man blinked, and irritation flashed across his face. He
quickly regained his composure, no doubt deciding it unwise to
piss off a man in Carson's line of work. "You come highly recommended," he began, then paused, as if waiting for a response. Carson inclined his head but said nothing. Sighing, the man continued,
"You understand that discretion is of the utmost importance."

"Naturally. Has there been any communication since your
daughter's disappearance?"

This time the scowl remained planted on his face. "Only
the one call, demanding a million in cash." The woman's sobs
grew louder, and her husband reached up to pat the hand she
laid on his shoulder.

"And the police are not involved?"

A firm shake of the head. "No. Given my position in the
community, I'd prefer to handle this matter privately."

"Of course." An avid outdoorsman, true to his Cherokee
heritage, Carson had no interest in antiques or other furnishings, yet even his untrained eye knew that the library in which
they sat was the work of a well-funded interior designer-as
was the rest of the manor that had once overseen the whole
Norfleet family estate.

Now the home lay in the midst of an exclusive subdivision,
dwarfing the expensive houses crammed into modest-sized
lots. Carson knew from research that his client had bought
the old home for half a million and tripled his investment
within three years, according to the latest property tax assessment. Both the bluebloods and the nouveau riche alike would
raise eyebrows if they knew what kind of man had purchased
this piece of Memphis history and joined their polite society.

"What can you tell me about your daughter and the missing money?" Carson asked.

The man's frown deepened, and he clenched his hands.
Then he paused to collect himself. He turned to his wife.
"Darling, why don't you see after some coffee?" He glanced
over at Carson with thinly veiled disdain. "Or maybe you'd
rather have whiskey?"

A tiny muscle twitched at the back of Carson's jaw, but
his expression remained neutral. "Coffee, please," he said in a soft voice to the raven-haired woman with gentle brown
eyes. She nodded and left the room. As she passed through
the doorway, she used a fist to stifle her sobs. When Carson
returned his attention to his client, an edge clipped his words:
"I don't drink."

Carson's eyes bored into those of his newest employer. After several tense seconds, while the older man struggled with
his ego, common sense prevailed and he offered an almostcontrite smile. "Sorry. That was poor manners."

"Agreed." Carson's hooded expression warned of the consequences that a subsequent lapse in manners would incur.
"You were telling me about your daughter's disappearance."

Carson leaned back into the leather armchair as his client
started speaking. He studied the man's face as he committed
the information to memory-notes could leave a trail. Just as
he had scanned the land and vegetation as a boy-and later
as a member of the elite Shadow Wolves in search of drug
smugglers-he watched and measured each nuance of every
expression, searching for signs of deception or evasion.

For the next two hours, his attention never wavered from
the man before him. He extracted the details leading up to
his client's employment of James Hicks, a Navy SEAL with a
dishonorable discharge-the man who was now demanding
one million dollars. Carson mentally recorded key facts from
the sailor's personnel file. He also gathered information about
Buddy Martin, his client's accountant.

After receiving the phone call, the businessman had contacted Buddy, his friend and confidant of more than twenty
years. Since then the accountant had failed to answer repeated
calls to his home, office, and cell phones, and Carson's client
feared the worst.

"Why go after Buddy?" Carson asked.

"It could be as simple as the fact that he kept a sizable
petty cash fund for me at his office."

"How sizable?"

"A quarter-million, give or take."

Carson studied the man's face for several seconds. "But
there's more than petty cash involved, isn't there?"

"I've noticed that funds have started disappearing from
my various business interests."

"You think Buddy's in on this?"

"It pains me, but I can't trust anyone at this point."

Carson's client had been given forty-eight hours, now
down to twenty-eight, to turn over the money, or he would
lose everything: his daughter, his reputation, his social status.
The life that he had carefully built would be destroyed.

Carson maneuvered the Dodge Charger through the maze
of East Memphis streets, guided by the robotic female voice
of the global positioning system mounted on the windshield.
Tara had laughed when he bought the device two years ago,
chiding him for relying on technology, rather than the innate
skills cultivated by his people over generations.

It was a matter of efficiency. Even allowing for the occasional
error-when the gadget directed him to make an illegal left,
for instance-his GPS had saved him countless hours plotting
and memorizing the lay of the land in every city he worked.