A Little Death in Dixie, page 11
On the hill, deputies leaned on their cruiser, drinking coffee out of a Thermos. The night’s drama had lost its steam. To them it didn’t matter that the best cop in three states, a man who had been Dr. Jimmy’s oldest friend, lay dead in that pickup.
To hell with them. They could wait.
It took half an hour to free the pickup from debris and haul it up the bank to level ground. The tow truck fishtailed on the clay-based road, unable to make headway until Reed Johnson showed up with his John Deere and hooked in a second cable.
When it was done, Dr. Jimmy studied the muddy truck while the boys unhooked their cables. Debris had battered the body of the truck, and the windshield was missing.
A deputy tested the door for him. “Locked. You want it jimmied, Doc?”
“Go on,” he said. Through the driver’s window he could see the side of Lou’s face. He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
Able told the deputy he’d smashed the windshield and tried to haul Lou out but couldn’t budge him. Then the truck rolled in the water and he’d lost him. Able had believed Lou was alive when he got to him but drowned during the rescue attempt.
The deputy said Able was in pretty rough shape about it.
Dr. Jimmy blew smoke toward the sky and walked over to the pickup. He opened the door. Muddy water poured over the sill and dripped onto his boots as he studied Lou’s body, slumped forward, his forehead resting against the steering wheel. He reached inside and smoothed the hair out of Lou’s face. The skin felt like iced wax.
“What you got yourself into, son?” he said, noting Lou’s opened eyes and milky corneas. The gaping mouth. His heart twisted in his chest and he swallowed, suppressing his emotions. Grief wouldn’t serve Lou nearly as well as professionalism.
He lifted Lou’s head as best he could. A bruise from striking the steering wheel ran across the forehead. No white foam inside the mouth that he could see, indicating drowning. He scanned the cab. His eyes closed involuntarily. The driver’s sun visor was down, ripped. Claw marks of a person trapped in a submerged vehicle. His gaze ran down to Lou’s lap. He did a double take.
“Need any help, Doc?” called the sheriff, who’d been on the hill discussing tractor starters with Reed.
“I got it.” He rocked Lou’s shoulders back, working against the rigor. He looked down, shook his head. “Lou my friend, tell me how I’m going to explain this one?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday, 8:10 a.m.
Mercy woke with a plan.
Dressed in jeans and dark blue canvas Keds, she managed to get out of the house without bumping into her mother. She drove the Toyota around the block, windows rolled down, hot wind blowing her hair.
She couldn’t just sit at home. She woke up knowing Sophia was in real trouble and her mother might be in trouble, too. Last night Overton had maneuvered both of them like sheep he planned to shear. Sheesh. If that son-of-a-bitch thought Mercy would ever call him “Buck,” he had another thing coming. The judge presented big problems, but for now Sophia remained her focus.
By the time she pulled into the SuperShoppers parking lot, Mercy was wide awake and sure of her plan. At the coffee kiosk in the front entrance, she took a stool.
“Hey, you’re back,” said the blue-eyed teenager who’d worked the day before.
Mercy ordered an espresso and chatted with the girl between the Sunday morning customers, wondering how to turn the conversation to Charles. No need to worry. The girl did it for her.
“After that lady disappeared, I’ve kept an eye on Charles. He looks for a reason to touch the women customers when he’s bagging groceries. Real slick, you know?”
Mercy nodded behind her cup. “Does he work a regular shift?”
“Today it’s seven till one this afternoon. We just switched from the evening shift.”
“Must be hard to change hours.”
“Not for me. I live three blocks away, but Charles’s parents have to drive him in.” She pointed across the parking lot toward Poplar. “There’s a bus stop in front of the store. He catches the bus home.”
Mercy finished her coffee and counted out five singles for a three-dollar coffee. The girl scooped up the bills with a grin and folded two into her shirt pocket.
Mercy hadn’t thought her plan was risky, but Charles was a big, young guy who liked women, and who might not know an appropriate way to show it. She would have to be careful.
She called MATA on her cell to check the bus schedule while she cruised the bus route, looking for a spot to leave her car. Then she drove back to the house.
Her mother. The judge. The pie she’d thrown away. True Hell to pay.
T. Wayne Called From Moscow Before His Flight said a note left by her mother on the kitchen counter. Gloria added that she was in bed with a sick headache, her euphemism for a hangover. Mercy knew she’d catch an earful when her mother surfaced for coffee. Throwing the pie in the garbage had been childish. Tantrums weren’t Mercy’s style. They were, however, her sister’s specialty.
Even as a kid she’d known Sophia’s screaming fits and destructive tantrums weren’t normal. Her rages had worsened after their mother pressured her into taking singing and acting lessons. Gloria excused Sophia’s fits, saying beautiful girls were naturally high strung; but Mercy heard her sister crying at night and knew she’d begun sneaking booze out of the liquor cabinet. By the time Sophia was in junior high, their mother was driving her all over the Mid-South for beauty contests and casting calls for car dealership commercials. Sophia won some pageants, but never landed an acting job. Her drinking escalated in high school, and she refused to consider college.
Their mother was visibly relieved when Sophia married T. Wayne. She told friends that a ring on Sophia’s finger and a man in her bed would remedy her problems.
In the kitchen, Mercy drank more coffee, then took Caesar out for a walk. She considered calling Detective Able, but knew she’d be tempted to tell him about her plan. She felt sure he wouldn’t approve. Better to let him check in with her.
She turned at the sound of her mother shuffling into the kitchen. Smudged makeup made Gloria resemble a bleary raccoon. Her mother stopped and held up a finger. “One question. Just one. Why did you find it necessary to humiliate me in front of Buck last night?”
“I’m sorry, Momma. Really. I’ll apologize to Judge Overton. I’ll bake another pie for him. I’ll bake two. Whatever you want.” She had no intention of doing either, but she’d say anything to keep her mother from pitching a hissy fit.
Gloria poured a cup of coffee and glanced at Mercy as she ambled toward the door. “Don’t do it again. I’m going back to bed. This is too much.”
Mercy changed her mind about not talking to Detective Able. She called his cell.
He didn’t call back.
At 12:45 she drove back to SuperShoppers, parked near the bus stop and sat in the car with the motor running. Charles Chan came out of the store, swinging his purple backpack over his shoulder. A MATA bus, wrapped from roof to tires in a big ad for KFC, rolled to a stop. The doors levered open and Charles climbed the steps. The bus swayed a block forward then braked for a red light. Mercy pulled into the traffic behind it.
She had a theory about Charles. It had begun yesterday when the girl at the coffee kiosk commented on his nervousness around the detective. After working for two summers with mentally-challenged kids at a Special Olympics camp, Mercy knew how easily kids like Charles could become frightened and confused by people they didn’t know. It was possible Charles knew more about Sophia’s whereabouts but was afraid to tell Able. If Mercy could arrange some time alone with Charles, she might be able to learn information the detective had missed.
After two blocks, she pulled ahead of the bus, wheeled into the Best Drugs parking lot, cut the engine and bolted for the stop just as the bus appeared.
Out of breath, she dug in her pocket for quarters and searched the windows for Charles’s face as the bus braked to a stop. She hadn’t considered that Charles might not be alone; he might be sitting beside someone he knew, a friend who traveled the same route. She climbed the steps and dropped her change in the fare box. The bus heaved forward. Charles sat in the middle of the bus next to a window, arms crossed on his belly, looking out at the traffic. An old man, wearing a bow tie and holding a walking cane, sat beside him. The man’s eyes flicked across Mercy’s face. He frowned as she passed by; as if he knew she wanted his seat.
The bus engine roared. She sat in the back and tried to remember her questions, but her mind was blank. She studied the back of Charles’s head. Bowl-cut black hair, a scratch on his neck. He seemed to be nodding, maybe falling asleep. He looked harmless, even sweet. She would start with something easy, maybe how much she liked his purple backpack. Then she could ask him about work, ease into questions about Sophia from there, explain to him she was looking for new information. Keep it simple.
The old man’s cane waggled over Charles’s head until it hooked the buzzer cord. The bus stopped, and the old man got off. Mercy moved next to Charles. His bulky thigh and elbow overlapped into her seat. He was awake.
“Hello,” she said as the bus pulled forward.
“Hi.” He grinned. “You’re pretty.”
She glanced down. His hands rested on his legs. He had begun to rub his palm up and down, up and down his thigh.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday, 3:15 p.m.
Blue skies, a light breeze, a reprieve from yesterday’s storm. An ultra-light hung above the Mississippi like a dragonfly. Two teenagers on Jet Skis jumped in and out of the wake of a towboat and river barge, a dangerous game that had cost the lives of a young couple last spring when their Jet Ski flipped over.
Billy asked the taxi driver to drop him above Tom Lee Park so he could walk the rest of the way to the barge. He wore borrowed scrubs and carried his damp clothes and gun in a plastic hospital bag. The snakebite on his arm burned, his head hurt like hell, and he couldn’t get warm, even in the hot sun. He smelled diesel fuel on the water and soured mud down at the waterline. He stopped and watched the river’s relentless current roll by.
Lou had been dead for fourteen hours. Billy had never felt so powerless.
Tourists lined up in front of the Memphis Queen ticket office for the afternoon tour. Although Billy’s home was no longer a bar and grill, the sign advertising burgers and beer remained bolted to the roof. Tourists banged on the door at all hours, hoping for one last round. The barge owner had promised he’d remove the sign next week. The CLOSED banner hung in tatters after last night’s storm.
Inside the barge, Billy pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, walked around, picked up stacks of books, then circled back and set them down again. He made coffee and a ham sandwich. The coffee tasted like sulfur, and the sweet smell of the ham made him sick. He pulled money from his wallet and spread it out to dry. His hands shook. Images flashed in his head—the sinking truck, water rising over Lou’s head. He remembered the slack-muscled feel of Lou’s arm in his hand. Why couldn’t he pull Lou from behind the wheel? Maybe the cold had sapped his strength. Maybe fear.
The doctors at The Med had kept him under observation, claiming protocol for a concussion patient, but he suspected they didn’t want him to go home alone and see coverage of Lou’s death on TV. After years of following up on victims of violence taken to The Med, Lou’s professionalism and compassion for their families had won him the respect of the ER staff. He’d been on a first-name basis with most of them. A couple of the nurses had cried when they heard about the accident.
Billy had heard that Dr. Jimmy Dale Dexter would be the coroner in charge of Lou’s case. Dexter was Lou’s oldest friend and supposed to be the best forensics man in Arkansas. Billy was counting on Dexter to come up with some answers. He’d left a message with Dexter’s service, asking him to call as soon as he knew anything.
The message light blinked on the answering machine. Terri had called and so had Hollerith, expressing his condolences, saying that the department was throwing a wake for Lou at The Western tonight.
Billy rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the barge for something useful to do with his hands. He pulled his Sig-Sauer out of the hospital bag and rummaged through boxes for his cleaning kit. As soon as he clicked the release on the slide an image of the snake’s mouth, fangs extended, slashed through his mind. His body jumped involuntarily. Keep it on track, he told himself. Clean the gun, take a shower, go to The Western. Everyone would expect him. He hoped to talk to Dexter tonight and start fresh in the morning, not dwell on what had happened to Lou in the creek.
He wanted to focus on Sophia, but he felt numb and disconnected. The nurses had taken his cell away after his repeated calls to the squad. He wanted to believe Sophia was out there by her own choice, but every passing hour made that less likely. She was in trouble. I couldn’t save Lou, but by God, maybe I can still save her.
So what was he doing at home?
The whistle blast from the Memphis Queen announced its return. He began to field-strip his gun when he heard footsteps rattle the metal gangway. Probably another tourist wanting to ask what time the grill opened. Ignoring the knock, he soaked a patch in Hoppes No. 9 solvent. The knock turned into banging.
“Out of business,” he yelled.
“Detective Able?”
A woman’s voice. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He said nothing.
“It’s Mercy Snow, Detective. I need to see you.”
He laid down the Sig and capped the Hoppes.
“Please,” she said. “It’s important.”
He opened the door to see Mercy standing there, looking overheated and worried, and carrying a rumpled brown paper sack. She wore jeans and one blue tennis shoe. Her left foot was bare.
“I didn’t hear from you so I went to the Justice Center,” she said. “I overheard two women talking on the elevator. They seemed very concerned about you and said you had moved into what used to be the River Bar and Grill.” Mercy frowned at the bandage covering the snakebite. “What happened to your arm?”
Instead of answering, What happened to your shoe? he asked, “Is Dupree home yet?”
“Not yet.” She held up the paper bag. “Thought you’d want to see this.” She studied his face. “You don’t look well. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“No, come in. Sorry about the mess. I just moved in.”
She picked her way through the boxes and took a seat on the red leather sofa he’d rescued from a downtown alley. The sack rested on her knees. He pulled up a chair, feeling suddenly spent. He stared at her naked foot.
“This place is something. Lots of potential,” she said, looking around.
“What’s with the missing shoe?” he said.
“Oh. I traded it for this.” She unrolled the sack and pulled out a green sandal. “Mother remembered Sophia was wearing green sandals on Friday. I followed Charles Chan home from work. He had this one in his backpack the whole time.”
Billy sat bolt upright in the chair. “You what?”
“I caught the bus he took home from work. We chatted until he got comfortable, then I asked about Sophia. He said he found the shoe next to the handbag, but he was afraid to tell you. I promised he wouldn’t get into trouble if he gave it to me.”
For a moment, Billy wanted to yell at her for putting herself in the middle of the investigation, for chasing down a witness and a possible suspect—a dangerous move, even if she had found evidence he’d missed. But she had a surprised, did-I-screw-up look on her face. He drew in a deep breath and forced himself to relax.
“You took a risk. Charles is big enough to smack you into next week.”
“But he’s just a scared kid. I’ve worked with developmentally-challenged people. I hoped, given a chance to go over what happened, he might remember something. You’ll back me on my promise, right? He won’t get into trouble?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I couldn’t just sit home and do nothing.” She dropped the shoe in the bag. “I thought this might be important.”
“Yeah, it’s important.” He got to his feet and started pacing. He hoped the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach didn’t show on his face.
“You don’t look good,” she said. “Have you eaten today?”
“I’m okay. Did Charles say anything else?”
“He remembered a blue van parked next to Sophia’s car. It sounded like a utility van.”
“Did it have a sliding door?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, I’ve seen that on TV. I just couldn’t accept that it might happen to Sophia. They open the door, haul you in and bang, you’re toast.”
“I need to make a call.” He turned to use the phone and the floor pitched. He closed his eyes and opened them to find her standing in front of him. He smelled cinnamon in her hair.
“You’re pale. I’ll get some water,” she said and disappeared into the galley.
His head was pounding. He heard the refrigerator door open and cabinet doors bang shut. He couldn’t understand why she was fussing over a glass of water, but for some reason he liked it.
His equilibrium was returning when he heard a knock on the door. Before he could answer, the doorknob was turning.
“This is a private home,” he called as the door swung open.
Terri Cozi came in, carrying a box of his old baseball trophies. She wore a white shirt and a tight black skirt. She ran to him, wrapped her arms around him and snuggled her breasts against his chest. “I heard what happened to Lou. You all right?”
He could hear Mercy rustling around in the galley and untangled Terri’s arms. “I’m fine.”
“I called a friend at The Med. She told me you have a concussion. Let’s go back to the apartment. I’ll make you better,” she said, her blue eyes warming.
