Two for Flinching (25 page)

“I helped him out once.”

“You do that a lot.”

“What’s that?”

“Helping people.”

“Not really.” I sipped my coffee. It was dark
and burnt. “You serious about taking him golfing?”

“Why not?”

“Ghetto kid and a banker?”

Melvin shrugged. “What’s that got to do with
it?”

“Nothing.” I thought for a minute. Ghetto
kids, I could work with. Bankers were a totally different breed.
“Your bank handles mortgages, right?”

“Of course. It’s what banks do. Why?”

“I remember reading something about the
government helping people stay in their homes. You know about
that?”

“Yeah.” He set the cup gently on my desk,
leaning forward on his elbows. “You having problems with your
payments?”

“Yeah.”

Melvin leaned back, going into banker mode.
“I can help you. How far behind are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No.”

“It depends a lot on how far the process has
gone.”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“I quit opening the letters.”

Melvin shook his head. “I know the world has
a dim view of bankers—fat cats throwing people out on the street.
But foreclosing is the last thing we want to do. If we foreclose,
we have all that legal expense and end up with a house we don’t
want. We are in the business of loaning money—not selling houses.
Ignoring correspondence from a bank is the stupidest thing you can
do.”

“Melvin,” I said, “I have done much, much,
more stupid things than that.”

***

It was a busy day at Camp Investigations.
People coming and going. Not a single paying customer.

Nero was next. He came into the office
without a knock, only a whisper on the metal stairs, blue jeans,
spotless sneakers, red sweatshirt under his dark overcoat. He
settled into one of the two visitor chairs.

It might have been the first time I had seen
him
settle
anywhere. Nero had a unique way of moving,
gliding really, never showing any effort. One second he was in one
spot, the next he was somewhere else. Catlike. Today, though, there
was a foreign heaviness.

“You bring the book?”

“In the sled. You want me to get it?”

“Not yet,” I said. “You read it?”

A slight nod.

“Anything in there about who killed her?”

“Lot of stuff in there,” he said. “Nothing
that says
Billy Joe Bob killed me.
”

We were silent for a minute.

Nero said, “You get any sleep?”

“No. You?”

“Enough.”
That could have been anywhere
from twelve hours to zero.
“Beason?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think you should read it.”

“No?”

He slowly shook his head. “You won’t find her
killer in there. What you will find is nothing but pain.”

“I know.” Two passages into the infernal
diary and I could guess what it held—nothing good for me. A careful
accounting of betrayal. Entry upon entry of my wife stabbing me in
the back. Going on for years. “I’ll have to.”

“Yeah.”

***

The metal stairs creaked. One man alone. I
had my boots on the desk, hands interlaced behind my head, eyes
closed. Resting. Nero sat silent and still.

Randall Rodgers was in khakis, light blue
shirt and a darker tie. His dress up uniform. Nothing good—aside
from a press conference—came from an Indianola deputy in a tie.

He stopped at seeing Nero in my office. “What
are you doing here?”

“Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“None of your business.” And without a
further word, stood up and left.

If Nero had been tired, then Randy looked one
step from the grave. Deep bags under his eyes, shoulders sagging,
his body screamed exhaustion. “You got coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Want some?”

I shook my head. I didn’t figure it had
gotten any better in the hour since Melvin had left.

Randall filled a cup, dumped in creamer and
sugar and stirred it with a plastic spoon. He took the recently
vacated chair.

“You doing notifications?”

“Yeah.” He sipped from the cup. His taste
buds must have been worn out as well since he took another.

“Where’s Larry?”

“Not the time or place.” He took a deep
breath. “Positive identification on all three. Stella Camp, Adrian
Shipley, and Amber Noble.”

“That was fast.”

He nodded. “It’s all on the computer now, the
dental records. We knew who they were so it didn’t take long.”

I wasn’t surprised, but it still dug the
hollow of my soul deeper.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“Does that mean you don’t think I did
it?”

“Not what I said. I said I’m sorry for your
loss.”

“So you think I did it.”

“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, let it
out, shook his head. “How many people have you killed, Beason?”

“I don’t know. It was war. Sometimes you
shoot and they fall and you can check them after the firefight.
Sometimes they fall and get back up. Sometimes you can’t check.
Sometimes they don’t fall and go back into the hills and bleed out.
Many times you’re not the only one shooting and you have no way of
knowing who fired the fatal shot.”

“Take a guess. Twenty?”

“Probably more.”

“Forty?”

“Probably less. Not counting airstrikes I
called in.”

“See, Beason, that’s my problem. My instinct
tells me you didn’t do it. I grew up with you. We worked together.
You have killed between twenty and forty people. That’s serial
killer stuff—the kind of thing they make A & E specials about
if it happens in the States.”

“It didn’t happen in the States.”

“I can’t trust my natural instincts. I know
you’re a killer,” Randall shrugged, “but when I look at you, I
don’t see it.”

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

“What about Trey and his boys? They come
looking for you and end up on the wrong end of things, you and Nero
making them disappear?”

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked. “Between
the two?”

I didn’t have the answer.

Chapter Forty-Two

I pulled the Jeep into the circular lot. A
couple of blocks from downtown, I could have left the SUV in the
sheriff’s lot and walked. Except it probably would have been
vandalized.

The gravel crunched beneath my feet. The sun
was out, cold yet bearable. Antebellum homes lined both sides of
the street. Fine old brick and wooden houses, wrap around porches,
shingles hanging from most of them. I climbed the steps and opened
the door. A bell jingled. I was in what had once been a parlor, a
leather sofa on one wall facing a desk, plastic fern in the corner.
The secretary looked up.

“Hey, Bees.”

“Afternoon, Paula. How you doing?”

“Not too bad.” Paula Bainbridge had graduated
a year behind me, her chestnut hair shoulder length, wearing a
professional looking pants suit. At one time, she had been a
phenomenal kisser. “How’s your little girl?”

“Mean as a snake.”

She giggled.

“The big man in?”

“Yeah, go on back.”

“Thanks.” I walked through the kitchen, sink
on the left next to the refrigerator, a long oak table that was now
used more for meetings than meals. The big man sat at his desk in
the converted bedroom.

“Hey, Beason. We put your check in the mail
this morning.”

“How much?”

“Five grand.”

Which was about four thousand and five
hundred more than I expected. Enough to keep the wolves at bay a
little longer. “Maybe you should’ve kept it.”

“What’s up?”

“I think I need a lawyer.”

Eric Hendricks was not a big man. Physically.
He was about five foot eight, a hundred fifty pounds dripping wet,
mostly bald. White shirt, dark tie, his suit jacket hung on the
coat tree. He took the rimless glasses from his face, carefully
laid them down with the stack of papers on his desk.

“Why?”

His visitor’s chairs were padded, made for
people to feel comfortable and linger. As opposed to mine, which I
had found downstairs in the sock factory and used for the opposite
effect.
State your business and go.

“They found my wife and partner at the bottom
of a lake.”

His trimmed eyebrows slid up his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Beason.”

“They also found my lover at the bottom of
the same lake.”

“Oh, my.” Eric pulled a fresh legal pad from
his desk. Pen in hand, he said, “Tell me about it.”

I did. Starting with Steven Noble coming to
the hotel and making a scene, to his coming to my office and
enlisting my services. My search for Amber leading to my search for
Stella. All the way to the gravel pit and the glint of light where
I found them. To the interview with the detectives and the search
warrant.

Through it all, he made careful notes, not
interrupting until I was finished. “What do they have?”

“Nothing.”

“Wrong. They’ve got your wife and lover in
the same lake. Both in cars, both in the trunk. How can you explain
that?”

“I can’t.”

“You may have to.”

The question had been floating at the back of
my mind since Randall had informed me of the bodies. “The only
thing I can think of is coincidence.”

“Coincidence?”

“Yeah. There aren’t that many places you can
dump a car in this county—that you can easily dump a car in this
county. A well known place.”

Eric made a face.

“I know.”

“What else do they have?”

“That’s it.”

Eric shook his head. “Think, Beason. I know
you’re in shock, but you need to think like an investigator now.
What questions did they ask you?”

“Why I was there.”

“Which was?”

“Coincidence. I went there to think and saw
the reflection.”

“What else?”

I closed my eyes, going back to the interview
room. Larry Coleman smelling of beer. Randall Rodgers exhausted. I
opened my eyes. “Life insurance.”

“Life insurance? What about it?”

“They wanted to know if Stella had any.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah.”

Eric gently put down the pen. “How much?”

I shrugged.

“Do you need the money?”

“I could use it,” I said, quickly adding,
“but the premium hasn’t been paid since she left.”

“If the account was current when she died,”
he explained, “the beneficiary will still get the money. I assume
that was you?”

“I assume so.”

Another headshake. “They are going to say you
killed her, put Stella and Adrian in the lake and when you
experienced financial difficulties, you conveniently found
her.”

My turn for the headshake. “No insurance
company in the world would pay off under the circumstances.”

“Probably not. Doesn’t matter, though. You
have motive.”

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

“You have motive for doing it. She was having
an affair. And you have a reason for discovering the bodies. What
about this other woman? Amber Noble?”

“What about her?”

“Were you serious?”

“No. It was…a fling.”

“A mistake is what it was.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Can anybody else testify that it wasn’t
serious?”

“As far as I know, her best friend, her
sister, and her mother were the only ones who knew about it.”

“What did Amber tell them about it?”

“From what I can gather, just that we were
seeing each other. It was over anyway.”

“Over?”

“Yeah. That night at the hotel was it. She
even called it one for the road.”

“She was breaking it off with you.”

“It was mutual.”

One last shake of the head, this one heavier
than the rest. “You’re right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You definitely need a lawyer.”

***

“Is it true?”

“Felicia? Is what true?”

“The policeman just left my house. Is it
true? Is my baby…dead?”

“I’m sorry.”

“The detective kept asking about life
insurance. What was that all about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why would anybody want to kill her? How
could anybody want to hurt her? Who killed my baby?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find
out.”

***

I gave the unmarked car the two finger wave
as it drove past. Detective Rodgers did not return it. I continued
down the street, turning into my driveway. It would never feel the
same. I sat in the garage, in no hurry to get out of the Jeep. My
wife was gone and now I knew without a doubt she wasn’t coming
back. I wondered if subconsciously that had been part of the reason
I had clung so stubbornly to our home. That if Stella ever wanted
to return to her family, she wouldn’t have to search for us.

I needed to go inside, have the talk with my
daughter. We needed to turn the page and get on with the rest of
our lives. I had fought and held on as long as I could and it
simply was not enough.

I finally got out of the SUV. Instead of
going inside, it was my turn to walk across the yards. Part of it
was buying time and part of it was striking while the iron was hot.
I climbed the front steps. Randall would have gone to the front
door. I was betting it was still unlocked. The door opened beneath
my hand. My third time inside this house. The first a quick trip
with Amber, the second hiding my daughter from gangsters. I
followed the hallway. There was an opening on my left.

The formal dining room. Long antique table,
matching dark hutch, it reminded me of the restaurant. Steven Noble
was sitting at the head of the table. An open bottle of wine, fancy
glass. If I hadn’t liked him before, this sealed it.
What kind
of man drinks wine when he learns his wife is dead?