Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead (18 page)

“I take it that was Becca?”

“None other,” he answered, a little more calmly. “Do you know what she said to me when I told her I was worried sick and asked where she was? She said her whereabouts are none of my business, but she’s at the Ritz across from Lenox Mall and I should leave her alone, and get on with my sordid life. Then, she told me I was the biggest fool in the state of Georgia and she couldn’t imagine how she could have given birth to me in the first place,
and
she told me I better be at Wang’s office tomorrow to sign over the trust to her. Said I better be there at eleven o’clock. And oh yes, just before she hung up she said, and I quote, ‘you can keep that dismal stone crypt of a house. You two deserve each other.’ Can you believe her?”

Sounded like last night’s phone call still had Becca angry. The nurse had told Paul she didn’t know the identity of the caller, but my money was on either Angel Turner or Mitchell Sanders. After ending the conversation with Paul, I dug my copy of Tournay’s book out of my battered leather briefcase-purse. It took about thirty seconds to figure out Tournay’s code. The simplicity was so plain I had to wonder why Tournay would be so careless as to leave behind such obvious signposts. Each one of the numbers occurring beside a handwritten note for monthly deposits matched a plate number for an illustration in his book. Some words identified the item as to what it was; some notations were just dollar amounts and no identifying reference on the bank statement, however, I had a picture in the book to correspond with that particular number. And, all of the plate numbers listed on the bank statements were those Tournay described in the book as pictures taken by the author. He must have possessed the object at one time and then sold it for the amount indicated on the bank statement.

When I made a list of all the circled amounts, I also discovered some of the deposit entries were only identified as toile, canvas, or even Limoges, or one of the other French cities. I concluded there were other items sold by Tournay to make up the deposits, valuable items not pictured in his book. So, how did he acquire such treasures? And, where did he store the treasures before they were sold? All of it certainly wouldn’t fit in a safety deposit box. I had a couple of wild guesses as answers to both questions.

As I let myself back into Garland’s office and slid the third box into its original location, I knew the absence of that particular box in the conference room when I arrived was not an accident. Garland had to know, he just didn’t
want to know
. It’s like he always tells me, too much information about your client can sometimes cloud your ability to spin a convincing case. On my way to the elevator, I thanked Paige for her help and prayed that Garland would be too preoccupied with his divorce case to ask too many questions about my visit. He would not be a happy camper if he knew I’d found the missing box in his office, and I certainly didn’t want Paige fired over my curiosity.

“What’s never known is safest in this life.”
… Dylan Thomas

12.

It was only a little after eleven when I left Garland’s office. My morning had been very productive. It took me twenty minutes to reach the toll booth on Georgia 400 Southbound to pay my fifty cents for the privilege of using the “express highway” into town, and another twenty to inch through midday shoppers in the Buckhead business district and reach Henri’s Bakery. Still, the traffic was a small inconvenience to experience the freshly baked bread fragrance, laced with a tart overlay of kosher dills served with each just-stacked Henri’s sandwich. I ordered one ham and one turkey, both with Provolone cheese, and mentally pressed my face against the glass pastry case, vowing I would not order anything creamy, chocolate, or dusted with confectionary sugar. Just as the clerk rang up our sandwiches, I added two cinnamon curls to the total. Losing the extra twenty pounds was postponed to yet another day.

My mouth watered for the couple of miles to Paul’s—just smelling the goodies stuffed into the white paper bag beside me on the seat. When I turned down Bennett Trace, I could see lunch was going to be delayed. The Tournay front yard was pulsating with flashing blue lights. Two white Atlanta police cruisers sat poised in the drive facing out towards the street, a third unmarked car was parked near the front door, its roof light pulsating off time with the street units. A white van, side striped in red and blue, was backed up to the front door with the rear door ajar. It looked like a small ambulance. Paul Tournay’s old Jag was parked off to the side under one of the massive oaks that defined his front yard. A uniformed officer waved me over as I attempted to pass him in the drive. There was no choice but to stop and get out of the car. “I’m Dr. Promise McNeal,” I said to the officer, willing my voice to sound more confident than I felt. “I have an appointment with Paul Tournay. What’s happened?”

The officer was trained to ask, not answer questions. “Could I see your ID Ma’am?”

Retrieving my purse from the Subaru, I groped for my wallet and handed over my North Carolina driver’s license, “What’s happened? Is Mr. Tournay all right?”

“Wait here, please.” He ignored my question and returned to his patrol car. I watched him converse with someone on the radio for what seemed like an eternity, and then he approached me again. “Ma’am, there’s been some trouble at this address. You’re going to have to see Mr. Tournay another time. Just back on out of the drive and go on home.”

I didn’t want to go home; I wanted some answers to my questions. “Officer,” I announced, raising my voice, just the slightest bit, “I need to see Paul Tournay. If you won’t tell me what’s happened, let me talk to someone who will.”

The officer had been fully awake during his criminal justice class 102 in intimidation. He raised his voice about two levels above mine and huffed himself up to his full height. I could tell by the building fire in his eyes, and the little veins bulging at the sides of his thick neck, that my pitiful attempt at being assertive was not going to work. “Ma’am, I’ll ask you again to leave the premises. If you fail to do so, you could be arrested for obstruction of justice.”

This was too much. What kind of justice could I possibly be obstructing? Sensing movement father up the drive in the front of the house, I looked in that direction to see another uniformed officer talking to a taller man in a cocoa-brown suit. The two walked in our direction, the suit in front and the uniformed officer talking as he trailed along beside him. As they neared, the expertly tailored suit was in sharp focus now, and wouldn’t you just know it—three weeks overdue for a haircut, no makeup, wearing a five-year-old gray linen dress that made me look like a housemaid at the Holiday Inn—and here comes my ex-husband sauntering up the driveway like a barnyard rooster. Trying to get the upper hand, I spoke first, though I knew from experience there was little chance of that happening. “Randall. Lieutenant Barnes. How are you?”

“Top notch, Promise,” he answered, sounding like the star of a US Marines commercial. As soon as the two uniforms realized we knew each other, they disappeared towards one of the patrol units for a smoke. As much as I hated to admit it, Randall did look ‘top notch.’ Everybody knows though that looks can always be deceiving. The man is really just another snake in paradise. There was a hint of gray to his blond buzz cut and if you looked carefully, you could see the earliest signs of sagging skin around the chin line; but he was still trim and moved like the jock he was. I guess the body comes from all that sailing around on Lake Lanier and chasing young women. The snake smiled. “Don’t call me Randall, Promise. You know I hate that.” Of course I knew he’d rather be called RB. Irritating him in that small way was little enough revenge. “What brings you down here, Dr. McNeal?”

I registered the snide delivery of the Dr. part. “What are you doing down here?” I returned. “I thought you’d gone with the Forsyth County Sheriff’s Department.”

He assumed his smug, self-serving thin little smile. Oh Lord, why did I ever think that face was sexy? “I did,” he quipped, “now I’m back with Atlanta city. What’s your business here? Come to shrink Mr. Paul Tournay?”

“No,” I replied quickly, wondering how much I was obliged to tell a city of Atlanta homicide detective. “I don’t shrink anybody. And, I don’t make house calls. I have an appointment to discuss some legal business with Mr. Tournay.”

“Working for Garland Wang again?”

Gees, I can’t stand this guy, I thought and frowned at him. After all these years, and he still makes me feel inadequate. “Yes,” I conceded. “A trust matter between Paul and his mother.” He waved a thumb towards the house; a motion I assumed was tough guy sign language for me to follow him. Being a dutiful citizen, I fell into step behind him.”

When we were a good distance away from the uniformed officers, he stopped and looked me up and down, studying for aging signs, no doubt. “You’re looking good, Promise. I hear you moved to the mountains. The higher altitude must agree with you.” I wanted to puke. What is it about some ex-husbands? They just have to try to get back in your good graces, can’t stand the fact that there is one person on this earth who hates their guts for good reason. Of course, they would never think of saying they were wrong, please forgive me. Must be a yet unverified male chromosome. “Hey,” he continued, and produced a photograph from his wallet. “Did you know Cheryl and I had a baby girl? Two years old in December.” He thrust the photograph at me for my approval. I have to say she was beautiful—blond whispery curls and coquette smile. Hard to believe this adorable baby could be the product of Randall Barnes, super jerk, and that Cheryl person, wife number three, or maybe four, whose photograph on Luke’s desk reminded me of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“Beautiful,” I said, forcing an insincere smile. “You must be very proud.” What I wanted to say was: you old fart, you’re fifty-eight years old, you’ll be going to her college graduation with a walker. I’m a Southern girl, though, so didn’t say that. I just thought it, real hard. I did ask my ex-dearly-beloved what had happened at the Tournay house and if was Paul okay.

He pocketed the photo and wallet. “Yeah, Tournay’s fine. Just worked up as hell about finding the body. Says he got home earlier today and found the guy on the basement floor. Claims he wasn’t home all night and doesn’t have a clue how the guy got dead in his house. What do you think, Counselor? Is Tournay’s a truth teller or a liar?”

“Well, I don’t think he’d murder anyone, if that’s what you are asking.”

“Who said anything about murder? We won’t know that until we have more information. Right now all I have is a body at the foot of the basement stairs with a sizeable crack in his head and what looks like scratches on his face and arms.”

“Mitchell Sanders?”

Randall narrowed his gaze at me. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, just a wild guess,” I replied.

Before Randall could say anything more, a chunky man in a rumpled blue suit and reflector sunglasses bounded from the house, leaving the front door ajar, and called out, “Hey RB. You wanna talk to this dude some more, or are we blowing?”

Something about the way he spoke to Randall caused a clog to shift and facts to connect in my mind. My heart dipped, a fearful flutter of dove wings, as I remembered my last phone conversation with Luke, our son, my son. The man I overheard call Luke “Bucko” spoke to him with the same familiarity I was hearing now from the blue suit. I recognized that tone of voice from the years Barnes and I were married. It was the intimate language of partners responsible for each another. It was cop-speak. “Randall,” I blurted, “how long have you known Luke is CIA and not really working for Acadian Oil?”

Randall looked for all the world like he had been slapped with a wet towel. “Jesus H. Cripes, Promise. You know I can’t talk about that. And you shouldn’t either. Don’t ever talk about it, not to me, not to anybody. Nobody! You could seriously compromise Luke’s safety?” He eyed me suspiciously. “How did you find out, anyway?”

I had to clench my hands into fists at my side to keep from screaming. “
You
just told me. You know this about our son: our son whom you spent a total of about two hours with during his entire growing up years, and I, who changed his diapers and kissed his skinned knees, have to guess …to guess what dangerous thing he’s doing with his life!” My balled up fists were aiming for RB when a lighting bolt of reality told me I did not want to assault a policeman. Not a good plan. Instead, I whirled around so fast I saw little points of lights in front of my eyes, and stomped away. RB was saying something like,
for heaven’s sake, Promise, come on, be reasonable
… What an unrealistic thing to say. I couldn’t
be reasonable
. What mother could? Luke was my baby and the thought of him traveling around the world putting his life in danger was a thing of terror. I wanted him safe, married for a lifetime to the same sweet girl, raising sons and daughters and bringing the whole family for Thanksgiving dinner. I didn’t want him following his father into any type of law enforcement, certainly not one I couldn’t even acknowledge I knew about. But then, what did I expect? Luke had toddled along after Randall trying to get his attention, and make him proud, since he was able to toddle. Sadly, Luke always had too much competition for his father’s favor. By the time Randall finished with sailing, his work, and his latest teenage fling, there wasn’t much attention left for our son.

I gritted my teeth to fight back the tears, walked silently to the house, and stood in the Tournay hallway while Randall went into the living room to talk to the blue suit. Paul came from the kitchen as soon as he saw me and took both my hands. “Oh, my God, Promise. This is so awful,” he moaned. “Did you hear? It’s Mitchell.” Before I could respond, a man and woman, pushing a gurney burdened by a large black bag, struggled up the last steps of the basement opening and maneuvered their way along side us. The body rolled back and forth uneasily under the Velcro strapping as the two tried to navigate the narrow space. Paul gasped. “Oh, Lord, I can’t watch this. I think I’m going to throw up!” With that he fled back into the kitchen.

I squeezed against the wall to make room for the gurney. It still brushed against my dress as it passed, sending a shiver up my spine. A third man following behind the body carried a zip lock baggie stuffed with something I couldn’t identify. The third man spoke. He was obviously in charge. “Shit Meeks, will you be careful! You almost rolled the guy. Stop here so we can get his hands. You should have done that downstairs before you moved him.” The pair stopped and the boss unzipped the body bag enough to reveal Sanders’ hands and arms. As he encased each hand with a plastic bag and sealed them at the wrist, I could make out several abrasions on the forearms. I thought it doubtful wounds like that would happen if a person accidentally fell down the stairs. Randall had mentioned scratches; Sanders must have fought with someone to get those marks, and probably the other person has similar marks. The boss gave the go ahead and Mitchell Sanders was wheeled out of the house and into the white van. I joined Paul in the kitchen and Randall followed close behind.

“Well, Dr. McNeal,” Randall began, all business, “here is the thing. Your friend Mr. Tournay here maintains he found Mr. Sanders this morning around eleven; also says he doesn’t know how Sanders got in the house because he wasn’t home last night. ‘All night,’ he says.” Randall put an emphasis on ‘all night’. “The problem is, looks like Mr. Sanders died sometime during the night, and Mr. Tournay won’t tell us where he spent the night. How do we know your friend here didn’t kill Sanders last night; leave the house this morning, and pretend to come back and find the body? You see my problem here, Dr. McNeal?” Another hard emphasis on ‘Dr. McNeal.’

Regardless of Randall’s sarcasm, I did see his problem, and Paul’s as well. “Lieutenant, could I talk to Paul for a moment, alone?” Randall smirked, held his hands up in compliance and went back to the living room. I moved a little closer to Paul and he gave me a sheepish look. “Look, I don’t know much about this kind of situation, but it would seem you are about to be a suspect in Mitchell Sanders’ murder, if he was murdered. Can’t you tell them where you spent the night? You need someone to verify you didn’t have the opportunity to kill Mitchell.” Paul’s darting eyes looked frightened and he moistened a paper towel at the sink to wipe his face. “I take it you were with someone you think can’t afford to come forward and give you an alibi?” He shook his head yes. “Someone who may not be willing to admit you two were together because of what that admission might cost him?” Another affirmative nod. “Oh, Paul, please. It can’t be that bad can it? Atlanta is so open these days, nobody cares anymore who sleeps with whom, do they?”