Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (54 page)

Leaving, I realize
I’
ve gotten nothing from her.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.  But I think she likes me.  Glad about that, I fight my way past Floyd and back to my car.

Chapter 48

              When I was little, my mom lectured me all the time.
 “
Aidan, kids do
n’
t get to pick where their parents live
,”
Babbs Hawks said.
 “
So do
n’
t judge your less fortunate peers by their parent
s
’ poor choices
.
”

              I got Mo
m’
s message, but she insisted I needed hands-on experience, so I spent Christmas with Babbs, helping her serve dinner at the Salvation Army.  She also dragged me to high-brow charity balls, but Babb
s
’ determination to pay it forwar
d—
to give bac
k—
started deep in the trenches, where she helped the poor in their homes, their communities.  The charity balls?  Those were for collecting money so she could work uninterrupted by petty concerns, like finances. 

I never felt deprived.  There was always the added attraction of my mo
m’
s friend
s
’ daughters in the school gyms, where Mom, also a Red Cross volunteer, cared for the homeless during tornados, snow emergencies, or other disasters. 

Goshen makes me doubt my mothe
r’
s wisdom of helping the poor on their turf. 
I’
m not judging Berta Colby for choosing this place to raise Alaina and Robin, but hellfire, i
t’
s bleak, a gray spot in the middle of nowhere, like a tumor on your spine in a spot you ca
n’
t reach and do
n’
t want to.  Located halfway between Blanchester and Cincinnati on a long stretch of highway, i
t’
s got a few stores, a mom and pop greasy spoon, and a gas station that sells hot dogs so rubbery they could be used for Flex cuffs.

The man
I’
m going to see retired a few years back.  Sheriff Billy Lee Knowles served several terms.  In his seventies now,
I’
m betting h
e’
ll be showing the wear from his life in law enforcement.  H
e’
s at least had the good sense not to settle in Goshen, but tha
t’
s not good:
I’
ve had to take time to drive the ten miles from Goshen to Mount Repose to find him.

I called before I came, asking if h
e’
d talk about Stoke Farrel.  He agreed.

He greets me at the door of his home, a sedate brick ranch tucked away on a five acre lot.

“
I like my privacy
,”
he says, explaining the tall privacy fence enclosing the yard.

“
Sheriff Knowles.  Pleased to meet you
,”
I say, accepting his vice-like hand shake.

“
Come in, boy
!
”
 
He pulls me inside the front door, pounding me on the back. 

The old bo
y’
s long suspicious glance around the yar
d’
s perimeter makes me wonder if the conversation we had during my call migh
t’
ve awakened some sleeping ghost, or if like many h
e’
s conditioned by his life in law enforcement to check for danger.

He leads me to a large den off the hous
e’
s rear, an add-on with a wall of custom cherry cabinetry, guarded by a bank of security cameras.

“
Nice gun collection
,”
I say.
 “
Impressive
.
”

“
Yuh.  You want coffee
?
”

I start to say no, but something about his lone beat-up Barcalounger, the de
n’
s abject disarray, stops me.  This old law dog needs company.  I glance at my watch, making sure I can spare a few minutes before I return to Goshen to pick up Berta Colby and head back to Cincinnati.  I
t’
s a callous gesture born of my need to rush.  I try to hide it, but from his shrewd glance,
I’
m sure
I’
ve failed.

“
Sure. 
I’
ve got time for a cup
,”
I say. 

A tall man, once athletic, he lumbers on arthritic legs to a custom made bar with a lamp made of deer antlers. 

“
I thought I was gonna die before anyone dredged up all the shit that happened that summer
,”
he begins, without preamble.  Pouring us two steaming hot cups of coffee, he settles in his worn old lounge chair. 

“
Sit
,”
he says, waving me to a pink leather couch directly across from him.  Like him, i
t’
s worn, yet i
t’
s too feminine a piece of furniture, one h
e’
d obviously never choose. 

I scan pictures on the stone fireplac
e’
s mantle.  Sheriff Knowles in college, a football player, and then later as a linebacker for the Chicago Bears.
 “
That you
?”
I ask.

“
Yuh.  In my younger days
.
”

Ther
e’
s also the requisite pictures of children and grandchildren, of Sheriff Knowles on family picnics.  A dark statuesque beauty stands beside him, gazing adoringly up into his eyes. 

“
Wife
,”
he says.
 “
I miss the old gal.  She passed couple of years back.  Ca
n’
t say
I’
m sorry.  She was in a lot of pain
.
” 

His gaze darts into a private space, evading my sympath
y—
or maybe his pain.

I enjoy the coffe
e’
s hot black edge, its deep flavor.  He might live alone, but he makes a mean cup of java.
 “
Sorry for your loss
,”
I say, not sure what to say.
 “
Let me tell you why
I’
m here
,”
I begin, guiding his attention back to
that
summer.

H
e’
s a talker, the kind of man who makes everyone his friend, but Sheriff Knowle
s
’ reputation precedes him.  H
e’
s got the highest solve rate of any sheriff in Clermont Count
y’
s history.  H
e’
s no one a perp would want to cross, from what I hear. 

After our first pot of coffee, w
e’
re Aidan and Billy Lee, not Detective Hawks and Sheriff Knowles.  Bill
y’
s finally got the audience h
e’
s been waiting for and, if he gets his way and can prod me in the right direction, his only open-unsolved case will once again become hot and, if solved, yield Sheriff Knowles a perfect solve record. 

I feel like
I’
ve hit jackpot.  Billy Le
e’
s a walking encyclopedia.  H
e’
s forgotten nothing.

But ther
e’
s a price I have to pay for information.  He does
n’
t take a direct route to answering my questions about Stoke Farrel.  He plies me for an hour with background.

“
Something most folks do
n’
t know is that the murdered woman danced naked on the table top at Cro
c’
s
,”
he says, talking about Stoke Farre
l’
s mother, an exotic dancer at an infamous dive calle
d“
Crocodil
e’
s
,”
o
r“
Cro
c’
s
.
”

I interrupt to clarify.
 “
His mother was from Goshen, and she was murdered
?
”
 
I want to make sure Billy Lee and I are talking about the same Stoke Farrel and his mother, a murder victim, yet another of many this case is starting to disgorge. 

“I’
m interested in a juvenile called Stoke Farrel, who lived in Goshen several years back.  I need to know if anything unusual happened that summe
r
—”

“
Well, now, wait a sec. 
I’
m getting to that
,”
he says, picking up a spittoon, an old Dunki
n
’ Donuts Styrofoam cup.
 “
But you need to understand who that ki
d’
s mother was first.  It explains a helluva lot
.
”

Now w
e’
re getting down to the facts, down to what makes Billy Le
e—
and m
e—
tick.  I know h
e’
s anxious to solve a cold case he worked in his glory days, but who exactly are we talking about?  Wh
o’
s the vic?  Is it Megalo Do
n’
s victims, or is it Stoke Farre
l’
s mother, the former exotic dancer who was murdered?

The more we talk the more I get the urgent need to call Wes to see if h
e’
s made it over to Stoke Farre
l’
s apartment and learn whether or not Alain
a’
s there.  Problem is, I ca
n’
t call Wes because I ca
n’
t get Billy Lee to stop talking.  The geni
e’
s out of the bottle, and ther
e’
s no putting it back. 

“
Alright
,”
I say, taking my opening after h
e’
s filled me in on Stoke Farre
l’
s mothe
r’
s murder.
 “
Take me back to that summer
.
”

Chapter 49

“
She was a whore
,”
Billy Lee says, shooting tobacco juice like bullets into the Dunki
n
’ Donuts cup.
 “
So you ca
n’
t blame her son much for the way he turned out, can you
?
”

“
Uh, no
,”
I say, growing desperate. 
I’
ve kept Billy Lee on track with his story telling so far, but only by promising
I’
ll come back and listen to him reminisce about the hight point of his life, the time he played two games for the Chicago Bears.

“
I blew out my knee second game, but that was
n’
t what sidelined me.  It was Molly.  Old gal shot me down just when my career was taking off
,”
he says.
 “
She brought my ass home and told me I had to choose he
r—
or Ara Parseghian.  I told he
r
—”

“
Was Stoke Farre
l’
s mother abusive to the boy
?
”
 
I interrupt, putting my degree to work and asking the questions I hope will provide insight into a kille
r’
s mind. 

Not getting a whole lot, I again glance at my watch.
 “
I have to be getting back to Cincinnati
,”
I say. 
Wher
e’
s Wes?  Wha
t’
s he doing?  Has he checked on Alaina?  Has he found her?

“
She made her living as a stripper.  She sold favors to truckers out behind the bar in a camper
,”
Billy Lee says, heedless of my efforts to interview and run.
 “
Is
n’
t that abuse enough?  Can you imagine what that boy saw?  What kind of life he lived
?
”

“
Where else did Francine dance, aside from Cro
c’
s
?
”

“
You know, that was an awful nice place once
,”
Billy Lee says, a dreamy far-away look capturing his rheumy gaze.
 “
I went there with the boys for lunc
h
—”

“
Billy Lee
, did she dance at the Ass
?
”

“
Hell, now,
that
was some bar in its da
y
—”

“
Did she dance there
?
”

“
Well
,”
he says
,“
tha
t’
s where they found her body, poor girl, out in the alley.  She was laying by the dumpster and stuffed in a garbage bag
.
”

Dumpster?  Garbage bag?  This is starting to sound like a familiar story.
 “
Which spot?  Which alley
?”
I ask, frantic to drill down on what happened to Stoke Farre
l’
s mother, and the
n—
if the earth holds together long enough for Billy Lee to run out of hot ai
r—
to make the past connection
I’
m looking for between Alaina and Stoke Farrel.

“
Well
,”
he says, scratching his head
,“
tha
t’
s the damndest thing.  There was a stripper bar back then, where she worked.  Not the Ass, mind you.  The one
I’
m talking about was owned by a local Mafioso type called John Casanova
.
”
 
Another ear scratch.  More tobacco juice bullets shooting into the Dunki
n
’ cup.
 “
I helped the FBI investigate Casanova for a murder at a drive-in theatre, but we could
n’
t pin it on him
.
”

Oh, Jesus. 
I’
ve no idea where Billy Le
e’
s ramblings are taking him, but when he mentions John Casanova, red flags shoot up.  I keep pressing him, a challenge in itself to keep him from going off on tangents. 

“
John Casanova?  Do you mean they found . . . wha
t’
s her name, Mrs. Farrel, Stoke Farre
l’
s mother . . . they found her body in the alley behind the bar owned by John Casanova
?
”

“
Eeeyyyep
,”
Billy Lee says.
 “
A dive.  Titty bar.  M
e‘
n the boys went there to break up fight
s
—”

“
H
e’
s not John Casanova today
,”
I interrupt.
 “
He calls himself Nick LaFiglia
.
”

“
Eeeyyep, I hear you
,”
Billy Lee says.  His rheumy eyes twinkling, he does
n’
t miss a beat, and
I’
ve no doubt h
e’
s never for a second given up on solving this, his only uncolved case.
 “
But back then, he went by Casanova, not LaFiglia.  He bought up a city block in Newport, where Oma
r’
s is today
.
”

Ping!  Ping!  Ping!

“
Oma
r’
s?  Tha
t’
s where they found Mrs. Farre
l’
s body?  Out back in the alley?  In a garbage bag
?
”

“
Two things you need to know, young man
,”
Sheriff Knowles says, skipping his usua
l“
Eeeeyye
p”
and gazing at me over the rim of his spittoon, the Dunki
n
’ D Styrofoam cup.  H
e’
s a rube, but
I’
m not selling him short.  Ther
e’
s a couple of diplomas to the side of the stone fireplac
e’
s mantle, both from Northwestern.  This ma
n’
s no on
e’
s fool, and h
e’
s telling the truth and laying down facts as he knows them.

“
One
,”
he says
,“
you called Stokley Farre
l’
s mothe
r‘
Mrs. Farrel
.
’
 
Back then, she went by a few different names.  One of them was Farrel, which was her maiden name.  Later on, she became Mrs. Verbote.  Mrs. Francine Verbote
.
”

“
Verbote?  Go on
,”
I say, ironically now wanting Billy Lee to continue talking.
 “
Please
.
”

“
She was a beaut.  Francine caught the eye of well, this . . . hmmm . . . I would
n’
t call him
a‘
nic
e
’ young man, but he was the scion of a wealthy family.  When the Verbotes adopted him, his name was Delbert DeLong.  They changed Delber
t’
s last name to Verbote after they adopted him, but Delbert was a rebellious hellion.  Gave the Verbotes fits from the git-go. 

“
Later, when he and Francine Farrel married, it was the damndest thing.  Shocked hell out of us, once we figured out what h
e’
d done.  He took Francin
e’
s maiden name, and called himself Mr. Farrel
.
”

Billy Lee looks square at me, checking to see where his latest remark ranks on my stun register.
 “
Pretty weird, huh?  Man taking a woma
n’
s maiden name
?
”

“
Well, no
,”
I say. 
Not if yo
u’
ve criminal intent or something you desperately want to hide from the world
.
 
“
But
,”
I add
,“
i
t’
s a custom taking hold in toda
y’
s society.  Beats hell out of me, though, Billy Lee
,”
I say, shaking my head.  Maybe Delbert Verbote, aka Delbert Delong, was ahead of his time.

“
And that man calls himself what today
?”
I ask, knowing where Billy Lee is taking me with all this, but in the back of my brain, hoping hard that Delbert Verbote is not
the
Doctor Brick Verbote I know.

“
Well, it gets even weirder
,”
Billy Lee says.
 “
When Francine married Delbert, he took her maiden name.  So he became Mr. Delbert Farrel.  But Francin
e—
bless her criminal-minded sou
l—
became Mrs. Verbote, but only when she needed to run a scam or two.  Otherwise, she used her maiden name of Farrel. 

Now
,”
Billy Lee adds
,“
along comes this child, their son, a boy called Stokely Farrel, who starts calling his daddy
,“
Bric
k”
because for some reason he ca
n’t—
or wo
n’t—
say daddy.  Anyway, Delber
t’
s known today as Brick Verbote
,”
he adds, finally.
 “
Our little Delbert grew up to become a dentist.  Calls himself
a
”
—
he scratches his hea
d
—
“
an . . .  Odon. . .
.
”

“
Odontologist
,”
I say, filling in the blank in Billy Le
e’
s vocabulary.

“
Well, ai
n’
t that the damndest thing you ever heard of?  Kid like that growing up to become a . .
.
”

Billy Lee shakes his head.
 “
If you want a textbook case of dysfunction, the Verbotes, or the Farrels, were it.  The fighting commenced after Francin
e’
s and Bric
k’
s so
n’
s birth and ended only when Brick stuffed Francine into a garbage bag and dumped her in that alley behind Oma
r’
s.  Ca
n’
t prove it, though
,”
he says.
 “
Never could, but now h
e’
s a world famous whatchamacali
t—?
”

“
—
odontologist
,”
I repeat, barely able to continue listening.

“
Right
,”
Billy Lee says
,“
so i
t’
d be impossible to nail him for Francin
e’
s murder
.
”
 
He stops chewing and looks straight at me.
 “
Unless someone in law enforcemen
t
—”

I do
n’
t do cold o
r“
unsolve
d”
cases, but I do
n’
t anything to discourage the hopeful look in Billy Le
e’
s eyes. 

“I’
ve always hated it that this case ruined my perfect record.  Ai
n’
t that a damn shame?  Me with a near perfect record, and along comes this psycho family and ruins it
.
”

“
So Stoke Farrel took his mothe
r’
s maiden name, too
?”
I ask, heading off another discussion of Billy Le
e’
s cold case.
 “
I mean, h
e’
d legally be Stoke Verbote, but h
e’
s calling himself Stoke Farrel
?
”