Murder Mountain (16 page)

Kincaid was only 37, four years older than I was, her hair was darker blonde, and she had a dark complexion. Men always noticed that she had very large breasts, which were probably natural (unlike mine—a Christmas present from Eric) Kincaid broke the silence.

“I’m Captain Naomi Kincaid, head of the Major Crimes Division. You are?” She extended her right hand toward Michael, flipped her hair back, and flashed a smile.

Was I actually witnessing Kincaid flirting? I didn’t know why I was shocked by this; she had slept her way up the ranks. I just hadn’t been privileged enough to see her in action until then.

“I’m Agent Hagerman, with the FBI,” he said, extending a hand. “Please call me Michael. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oooh, Michael,” she gushed, “it’s verry nice to meet you! Welcome to our department. I hope Cecelia is providing you with everything you need.”

Not yet,
I thought. Watching Kincaid put on her act for Michael had me floored, and she’d called me Cecelia. I wanted to dropkick her right out of my office.
What is this?,
I thought.
Am I, I can’t believe I’m going to think it, jealous?
I could see that by the way Michael was looking at her; he was playing right into her hands. To snap myself out of the rage I felt, I thought back to the day before when I’d first met Michael. He’d looked at me like that, too. One point for me, and one for Kincaid. I knew I would immediately gain points the minute Kincaid engaged in conversation. It didn’t get that far because she excused herself, saying she had an important phone call to make.

Michael looked over at me and I raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing,” I said, in a short tone.

He started to laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

“Any more obvious and I would’ve gotten out the bottle of wine and bearskin rug.”

“Now I think you’re exaggerating. There is clearly tension between you two; that was very apparent. Why, I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know. I don’t know how she is, as a cop, but in the looks department, you’ve got her nailed,” he said smoothly, leaning on my desk.

“We need to get back to Jarrod,” I said, jumping up, my face red for the tenth time today.

I walked over to the doorway and stood there. I saw Michael looking at a picture on my desk of Eric and the girls with a curious look on his face.

“Why don’t we do this; you know Jarrod best,” he began, thankfully getting back on the case. I was starting to get the impression that part of Michael’s amusement came from toying with me, and seeing what kind of reaction he’ll get. “You go in first and talk to him. Be nasty. Threaten him with probation violation, children’s services, and jail. Work him over good. If he quits talking, I’ll come in there and act like his best friend. In the meantime, I’ll watch from the other side of the glass.”

I said, “Sounds good,” and headed to the room.

The box of doughnuts and muffins was almost empty, and Jarrod was still eating. He had smashed blueberries, crème, and crumbs on his face and shirt. Completely repulsed, I walked out of the room, grabbed a handful of napkins, brought them in, and put them in front of Jarrod.

“Here. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Clean yourself up.”

To my surprise, he started wiping his mouth off.

I began pacing back and forth across the room, preparing myself for the speech I was about to give Jarrod, knowing that Michael was on the other side of the glass watching me. Once I got going, I went through everything: how he had promised to talk if he was brought here, what would happen if he didn’t cooperate, and, when I got to the part about children services, I got the usual reaction.

“You can’t do that! You can’t fuckin’ threaten to take my kids away! You can’t do that!” he shouted, panicky, and began standing up.

“Sit down, Jarrod,” I said calmly. “I’m not done talking. It’s not a threat; it’s a fact. You being drunk all the time in front of your kids, and doing god-only-knows-what-else, is something children services might want to know about. I’ve already called your probation officer and told him you’ve been drinking. You’re cooperation here today will help him make the decision on whether or not he will violate you and send you back to county jail. You see, Jarrod, I call the shots. Not you.”

Jarrod looked at the floor in defeat. “Fine. I want it in writing that if I wind up in the local dumpster, it’s your fault.”

“I will think about it,” I assured him, and did, for about two seconds, then I snapped, “Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t have much,” he began. “I know you don’t believe that, but I don’t. There’s been a buzz around Little Kentucky for a while now about some bad dudes from West Virginia. There’s been a lot of people carrying around big money, people who don’t got jobs, since those dudes have been around. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Karen Cummings, but I guess she worked for them dudes. No one’s seen her in a long time. I don’t even know if anyone reported it. Word was, she was hanging with one of them dudes, Big Al, or Allen, I guess. Everyone knew he was from West Virginia. He had that accent. She was showing him off to everyone, claiming he was her boss, but everyone knew she was fuckin’ the dude ...”

I interrupted him. “Tell me about Karen.”

“She’s a pathetic skank!” he spit out. “She’s so nasty even I wouldn’t fuck her! She was a loser who lived in some crappy shack at the corner of Belmont Avenue and Longview Avenue. She thought she was all that, but she wasn’t. She lived off social security checks that she got every month because her parents died when she was little, I guess. She lived with her grandma after that, and then she died, too.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.”

“No, everybody knew that about Karen. Anybody that wanted a piece of ass could get it from her, too. She was a fuckin’ Roseland whore. When she took off back then, we just all figured she left with that Big Al dude.”

“What makes you think that has anything to do with why we’re here today?”

“Because! You said you wanted to know about West Virginia, and everybody knew Karen was running meth for Al. She said they paid her a thousand bucks to bring a load of meth back to Roseland. Karen had a big mouth, probably from all those dicks she’s sucked, but she’d talk about West Virginia all the time. Never said where, though, just called it Murder Mountain. She thought that was funny. Bet she don’t now, but she said they was having a bunch of hillbillies shootin’ each other all the time and the local newspapers called it that.”

I thought it was interesting that he brought up Murder Mountain. Matt Hensley brought it up when I talked to him, also. I had a feeling I would get an up-close and personal look at Murder Mountain, and very soon.

“Do you know if anyone has seen Big Al recently?”

“No! Aren’t you fuckin’ listening?” He sounded exasperated. “I told you, he left the same time Karen disappeared!”

“Why do you think she disappeared?” I pressed him. “How do you know she didn’t take off and move to her dream trailer on Murder Mountain?”

“Maybe ’cause she didn’t take nothin’. We could walk in her house whenever we wanted, which we did, and from what I heard, she left all of her stuff there.”

“What happened to her house and her things?” I wondered.

“I guess the bank took it all and sold it. I dunno. Shit, that’s just what I hear.”

“What did Big Al look like?” I pressed on. “You said she showed him off to everybody.”

“He was tall and goofy-looking, not handsome like me,” he smiled hideously. “He had this darkish blonde hair. Never said much, I know that. Anybody ask him somethin’, he’d just grunt back at them.”

“Did you ever see him drive a car?”

“Nah, he always rode around in Karen’s crappy white Ford Escort, and before you ask, no, she didn’t leave it. She must’ve taken it with her.” He looked up at me with an almost puppy dog look to him. “Hey, Gallagher, I’ve been pretty cool, even amazed myself, but how come you want to know all this West Virginia shit? What’s it got to do with that dead cop?”

“I’m asking the questions, remember? So what was everyone’s attitude like when Karen left?”

“No one gave a shit. I mean, she was like the last-resort piece of pussy when you wanted it, if you wanted to dive in with a board tied to your ass, but I didn’t care less. Neither did anyone else.”

“Have you ever heard of Bobby Delphy? I guess around here they called him Bob?”

Jarrod looked deep in thought. I could only imagine the strain those few brain cells in his head were under. I sat down. I could tell that requiring him to think might take a while.

“Nah, I don’t think so. I mean I heard of a Bob a couple times, but never seen him, or heard anything else.”

“Back to Big Al. Was he the only one from West Virginia, or were there others?”

“Only once, he brought some other dude down to the Roseland Tavern. Tom? No, it was Tim—Tim was his name. I remember because we were all standing around playing pool, and he asked me if I wanted to smoke a hoobie— that’s a joint ...”

“I know what it is.”

“... and I’m like, hell, yeah. We smoked it in the bathroom; good shit, too. He didn’t say much, either, except he drove up here with Al because he was bored. That was the only time I saw him.”

“Do you remember if they came with Karen? In her car?”

Jarrod went into his happy place again, chewing on his lip as he thought about my question. I glanced over at the two-way mirror, wondering if Michael was still there.

“Come to think of it, I left when they did. I think they left in a pick-up truck.”

My pulse started picking up. “What color?”

“I dunno; it was dark. I was drunk and high, but it was dark-colored, that’s all I can tell you. Oh! And loud! I remember thinking they must’ve lost their muffler somewhere. That’s the best I can do, Gallagher. I mean, we’re talkin’ like two, three years ago.”

Bingo, I thought. I grabbed the still photo from the gas station out of the file and put it in front of Jarrod.

“Hey! There they are. Why the fuck you askin’ me all this shit when you already know the dudes?” he growled, shoving the picture forward.

“You’re sure that’s them?”

“Hell, yes, I’m sure! That’s Big Al, right there: pumpin’ gas. That looks like that Tim guy sittin’ in the truck. Do I get my smokes now?”

“Yes. You’re doing great, Jarrod. I need you to try to remember if you heard either one of these guy’s last names.”

“Al’s last name is Davidson,” he said calmly.

As elated as I’d been a second before, I suddenly wanted to slap Jarrod hard. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that sooner, Jarrod? For crying out loud, if I didn’t see you walking, talking, and breathing with my own eyes, I wouldn’t think you had a brain. You could’ve saved us quite a bit of time if you would have just told me that at the beginning.”

“You didn’t ask,” he said with wide, innocent eyes.

“Okay, now I’m asking. What about Tim? Do you have a last name for him? And what do you know about Lizzie Johnston or Andrea Dean being involved with these guys?”

“Don’t know a last name for that Tim dude. Don’t know anything about that Lizzie Johnston chick, except she’s hot. And Andrea Dean’s nothin’ but a fucking loud-mouthed bitch. She was always in everybody’s business. I did hear she was running around telling everybody that Lizzie chick’s dad was asking what happened to her. Makin’ a big deal about the whole thing, telling everybody she told Lizzie’s dad Lizzie was dead.”

“Who is everybody?”

“All of fuckin’ Little Kentucky, that’s who. I told you, she’s got a big mouth. Why? What’s she got to do with this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Andrea shot her mouth off too many times. This time it caught up with her. I don’t think she had anything to do with the drug operation or West Virginia; she just talked and pissed off the wrong people.

“Lisa Grendle? Ever hear of her?”

“Nope. Now, about my smokes. I’ve told you all I know, and from what I hear about these dudes, they ain’t nobody to fuck with. I remember Karen once telling everybody at the tavern that one of their employees pissed them off. She said they put her through a wood chipper and made hamburgers out of the girl. Ate her at a barbeque; said they called them ‘bitch burgers.’ Karen said she was there when it happened. Where’s my smokes?”

“I’ll go get them, hang tight,” I told him, walking out of the room. The thought of a girl being put through a wood chipper and eaten at a backyard barbeque was just too much for me to believe. If it was true, I was dealing with some sick people. I went into the observation room where Michael was, and noticed the whole room smelled like his cologne. I inhaled as much of it as I could without looking ridiculous.

“Bitch burgers, huh? Now, I can say that in ten years spent in the FBI Behavioral Unit, I have never heard of bitch burgers. I can’t imagine that’s true, but if it is, dear God, what kind of people are these?” He took a deep breath. “Needless to say, we’ve at least had a break; somewhat. I already checked out Allen Davidson, soon as he said it, and there’s no record of him. It’s probably not his real last name, or the intellectual wizard in there got it wrong.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

“I want to talk to our boy for a minute. I’ll give him his smokes,” he smiled, winking at me as he walked out of the room, ever so calm—as usual.

I watched Michael sit down in front of Jarrod and give him his two cartons of cigarettes, which Jarrod basically ripped out of his hands, saying, “Hey! FBI guy! You ain’t gonna kick my ass again, are you?” just like his old, smart-ass self.

Michael leaned back in his chair and smiled. “No, Jarrod, not unless you give me a reason to.”

Jarrod rattled on: “Hey dude, now that we’re alone, man to man: are you fuckin’ Gallagher?”

Michael’s smile faded and he looked at the window where I was standing, and then back at Jarrod. I, of course, could’ve died right on the spot, but knowing Jarrod, he wasn’t done yet.

“Can’t blame you, she’s hot as hell. I’d fuck her, even though she’s a cop. C’mon, you can tell me, is she good?”

I was beyond horrified. This had happened to me before with male officers, but nothing like this; it was Michael. But Michael remained calm and brought the smile back to his face. However, there was a brief moment when I saw a slight flicker in Michael’s eyes when he looked towards the window where I was standing. It would appear that Mr. Jarrod Lawhorn rattled the calm, cool, FBI Agent; and he used me to do it. I may have found a weak spot in Michael.