A Little Death in Dixie, page 20
Billy stood, giving himself the advantage of height. “Your mother-in-law wants to find her daughter. Your sister-in-law wants to find her sister. We assume you want to find your wife . . . or were you tired of her, the way you got tired of your first wife?”
Dupree’s head jerked back. “What?”
The door to the interview room swung open. A receptionist, new at the job and not realizing she shouldn’t disrupt an interview, waltzed in carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “For Mr. Dupree.” She set the cup down, flashing Jones a big smile before she walked out.
The interruption gave Dupree enough time to get his feet under him. “Those records were sealed. Besides, that situation has nothing to do with Sophia’s current . . . predicament.”
Billy gave a short laugh. “You call your wife’s disappearance a ‘predicament’?”
Jones tapped his pen. “I think we should go back to—”
Billy continued, “I guess you want us to ignore those drunk and disorderly charges against you in Louisiana. And the assault charges brought by your buddies at the club. You must be pretty good with your fists. That explains your wife’s four visits to the ER in the last two years.”
Dupree glared at him. “My wife’s a full-blown alcoholic. She gets drunk. She hurts herself.”
“A broken arm. Admitted with cracked ribs and a punctured lung. She embarrassed you at a dinner party, ruined your promotion. So I’ll just throw out a scenario. You’re tired of dealing with an incurable drunk, but you know the court will be sympathetic toward a woman with your wife’s history. Last thing you want is to give her a pile of cash. You make a few calls. You take a trip. She goes missing.”
Dupree was red-faced and breathing hard. Billy hoped he would fold right there. Instead Dupree came out of the chair. He flattened his hands on the table.
“Something has bothered me since yesterday,” Dupree said. “Now I know what it was. I remember you from ten years ago. You were in the hallway at ICU the day my son was admitted.”
“You got it, buster. I was the first officer on the scene when your son accidentally shot himself.”
“That boy’s safety was Sophia’s responsibility.”
Billy leaned across the table into Dupree’s face. He smelled liquor and saw the yellowing of liver damage creeping into Dupree’s eyes. It was a mistake to take the interview in this direction, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“You were responsible for leaving a loaded Glock where your son could reach it.”
Jones cleared his throat. “We’re off track, gentlemen.”
Dupree rolled his shoulders back, seeming to regroup. “I remember something else. Gloria told me a young cop spent a lot of time hanging around my wife at the hospital.” He pointed at Billy. “That was you.”
Billy’s focus telescoped down to Dupree’s finger. He could snap it. He could lunge across the table and pound this guy pretty good before Jones could stop him. He’d get a lot of satisfaction out of that, but then he’d be in a cell instead of Dupree. He looked down at the full cup of coffee between them. He picked up a file and brushed it against the cup. Coffee flooded over the edge of the table onto Dupree’s alligator shoes.
Dupree jumped back. “The fuck—you did that on purpose.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Jones said, and buried his head in his hands.
Billy slammed his fist down on the table. “Casey’s death was your fault, but you put all the blame on your wife.”
Dupree drew himself up. “Let me tell you something. It was my job to provide for my family. I was doing my job the day Casey died. And I was doing my job last Friday when Sophia disappeared. My wife’s a sick woman. An uncontrollable woman. If I’d been there ten years ago or four days ago, it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference.”
He turned and walked out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuesday, 11:20 a.m.
At breakfast, T. Wayne had asked Mercy to dress like money. He explained that his campaign contributions had wired him in politically, and that in Memphis, who you know and how you are perceived is what counts, especially when you’re in trouble. He wanted her to look especially good for the TV cameras today. He said it was important. It was for Sophia.
His hand shook when he’d poured his coffee. Despite his rather self-aggrandizing explanation, she wondered if maybe she’d misjudged his sincerity the night before.
So she’d dressed like money. Her power suit. She knew the pencil skirt made her legs look long. The cut of the jacket revealed the right amount of cleavage to be sexy and still allowed her to be taken seriously. Mercy had bought the Carolina Herrera suit as an asset for her negotiations with a major food distributor over the licensing of her holiday pumpkin and chess pies. Wearing that suit had helped her close the deal she wanted: a three-year contract with the unilateral termination working in her direction.
She’d packed the suit on the chance Sophia was planning a special evening out. It gave her confidence.
Now she sat in the reception area of the downtown CJC, overdressed, flipping through old Reader’s Digests. She wondered what was taking so long in the interview between T. Wayne and Detective Able. Overton had assured them the meeting would be brief and friendly. Then they were supposed to join the judge at noon for lunch to discuss the details of the reward offer.
Tired of waiting, she walked down a corridor and turned a corner. Two cops were coming toward her, hauling a foot-dragging Charles Chan between them. His thighs bulged out of polyester shorts, and the front of his Spiderman T shirt strained to contain his belly.
Charles spotted her. His features contorted. “Miz Mercy, I hurt myself,” he blubbered, pointing to a red welt on his knee.
“You let him go,” she called out to the cops.
Charles lunged toward her. “I wanna go home!”
“He’s just scared, ma’am,” one of the cops said. “Bumped his knee getting out of the car. We didn’t cuff him or nothing.”
The corridor turned hectic as a group of police academy recruits spilled out of the elevator, laughing and joking. In the midst of the confusion, T. Wayne banged out of a doorway and stalked toward her, his mouth pressed in a tight line.
“We’re out of here.” He stabbed his finger at the elevator.
“Don’t leave me, Miz Mercy,” Charles wailed, refusing to take another step.
“Where’s Detective Able?” she said to T. Wayne over the noise. “I need to take care of Charles.”
“Forget that asshole.” T. stomped to the elevator and pushed buttons. From the whipped look on his face it was clear the interview had gone sour. Able must have gotten the upper hand.
She turned to see Able striding toward her. “What’s Charles doing here?” she said.
“He’s a material witness. Nice suit, by the way.”
“Never mind my suit; we had an agreement. You promised he’d be okay.”
“I said I’d do what I could. Besides, he’s not in trouble.” Able gave Charles the once over. “You’re all right, aren’t you, son? Look at me.”
Charles cut his eyes at Able then threw out his chest, his manhood suddenly called into play. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“See?” Able said. “Officer Bob, take him down the hall. Buy him a Coke.”
“Can Miz Mercy have a Coke too?” Charles snuffled.
“Maybe later. Go with Officer Bob. Get him to buy you a Snickers bar while he’s at it.”
“I’m calling a lawyer for him,” Mercy said, controlling her voice.
“Can’t imagine why.”
“He’s a child.”
“He’s not a child, and I brought him in here to confirm important information.” He gave her a pointed look.
T. Wayne gestured at Charles’ retreating backside. “You mean my wife’s chances hinge on what some moron knows?”
Able smirked. “Depends on which moron you’re talking about.”
T. Wayne’s face flushed with anger.
“Detective, if you want more information from Charles, you’ve blown it,” Mercy said. “He’s too upset to tell you anything.”
Able smiled. “I’m not worried.” He pointed at Dupree’s forehead. “By the way, where did you get that scar?”
Dupree glowered. “That’s none of your business.” He stepped into the elevator. “I’m leaving,” he said to Mercy. “If you want to help your sister instead of wasting time with this jacked-up yokel, you’re leaving too.” Mercy gave Able a troubled nod as she followed T. Wayne into the elevator.
Mercy and T. Wayne walked the two blocks to Powell’s, a landmark restaurant located next to the trolley line. Overton had told them to ask for George—a jockey-sized man of indeterminate age with artful hands and an eye for tracking every server delivering a plate.
Powell’s had large windows, deep booths, white tablecloths and fresh daisies on the table. The lunch menu included gumbo, fried chicken, chops and steaks, southern-cooked vegetables, and yeast rolls the size of small grapefruits served with pats of iced butter. For dessert you could order Mississippi mud pie, banana pudding, coconut cake or pound cake with homemade pecan ice cream and fudge sauce.
George seated them at the best table in the room, regularly reserved by Judge Overton at noon.
“Judge Overton will come through that door in one minute,” George said. “He runs his court by the clock.”
T. Wayne bumped the flat of his hand on the table. “I need a scotch on the rocks. Now.”
“Remember, you have to make the reward offer,” Mercy said.
“Afternoon, George.” Overton slipped into his chair and smiled, meeting both their gazes.
He wore a seersucker suit and a sky blue shirt that set off his blue eyes. He appeared fit, certainly handsome. No wonder her mother tripped over herself to satisfy him.
“You won’t believe what I’ve been through,” T. Wayne grumbled. “Worst day of my life.”
Overton ignored the comment and looked over the menu. “I’ll order for us.”
She glanced up, surprised by his presumption. “I’m sure I can find something.”
“How about that scotch,” T. Wayne said to George. The server remained motionless at the judge’s side.
“Bring the gentleman a glass of chardonnay,” Overton said. “And a mimosa with shaved ice and two cherries for the lady.”
“Iced tea is fine for me, thanks,” she said, keeping her tone pleasant, but she caught T. Wayne’s warning look.
Overton spread his napkin on his lap before he spoke. “Son, you’re on TV in a couple of hours. You need to keep a clear head.”
“I need a drink,” T. Wayne said.
The trolley rattled by the big picture windows. Downtown hadn’t changed much since Mercy’s move to Atlanta, but T. Wayne had. He’d become a heavy drinker.
She leveled a cool gaze at Overton. “T. told me you arranged the reward offer with Channel Seven and an interview with the Commercial Appeal. Last night you suggested we keep a low profile. What changed?”
“If your mother were missing, I’d do everything in my power to find her. I realized this isn’t the time for a subtle strategy. T. Wayne should do what his heart tells him.”
She couldn’t tell if he was being honest. He didn’t appear to love her mother, but he seemed to appreciate her. He enjoyed terrorizing T. Wayne, but was willing to go out on a limb to help him. He was manipulative, complex, and worst of all, he was about to become her stepfather.
George arrived with drinks and a basket of fragrant rolls.
“We’ll have two New York strips, bloody, Caesar salads, fried okra, and chicken salad on wheat toast with extra mayonnaise on the side,” Overton said. “And Annie’s Mississippi Mud Pie all around.”
Mercy had no appetite, and it angered her that Overton was taking charge. She said nothing.
“Speaking of pie, I’m looking forward to sampling your desserts,” Overton said. “Your mother pitched a fit when you tossed out my serving.”
Mercy focused on her hands resting on the table. “I don’t serve that pie with ice cream.”
“You’re an artist in the kitchen, and I should have deferred.” He laid his broad hand over hers.
“It was a difficult day for all of us.” She slipped her hand out and took a roll.
“I thought that son-of-a-bitch Able was supposed to go easy today,” T. Wayne broke in. “Didn’t your guy talk to him?”
Irritation flicked across Overton’s face. “What happened?”
“They questioned my travel agent. Can they do that without a warrant?”
“A detective’s badge opens doors. Even ones it shouldn’t.”
“Able tried to bust my balls. He spilled coffee on my shoes, pretended it was an accident.”
Overton suppressed a smile. “Did he mention other leads?”
“Hell, no. He brought up Sophia’s trips to The Med. I can’t figure out how he knew about the hospital visits; she always used a fake name and paid cash.”
“The staff identified Sophia from a photograph,” Mercy said. “They plan to call social services the next time she comes in with injuries.”
“How do you know that?” Overton said.
“Detective Able said he talked to The Med staff yesterday.”
“You should have mentioned it at dinner,” Overton said.
“I wasn’t included in the conversation,” she shot back. “Able knows Sophia drinks and has accidents. I made it clear to him that I back T. Wayne one hundred percent.” She said the words, but T. Wayne’s behavior was beginning to cause serious doubt to creep in.
T. Wayne waved at George and held up his glass. A second glass of wine appeared. “Able was the first cop at Casey’s accident. I didn’t recognize him until this morning.”
“Really,” Overton frowned. “That’s a problem. It means Able is already biased against you. Ah, here’s the food. No, George, the chicken salad goes to the gentleman. The lady is having the steak.”
“But . . . ” she said.
“You haven’t finished a plate of food in two days. You need your strength to help get your mother through this.”
Mercy took a deep breath and picked up her fork, keeping in mind this was about Sophia, not food.
“He’s biased?” T. Wayne stared at his sandwich. “Holy God, I’m done for. I need more wine. Bring the bottle, George.”
“No more wine,” Overton said. “Let me explain the nature of cops. The death of any child offends their moral code, but especially when firearms are involved. I guarantee your son’s accident left a mark on Able. We have to factor that into our strategy.” He cut his steak.
“But this is about Sophia, not Casey,” Mercy said.
“Doesn’t matter. Able will go after T. Wayne’s past and anything else he can get his hands on to prove he’s responsible for her disappearance. This situation is trickier than I realized.”
T. Wayne took a bite of sandwich and glanced away.
“What do you mean by T. Wayne’s past?” she said.
Overton shook his head. “Let’s stay focused on the issues. Able was injured last weekend trying to rescue his partner. How did he appear during the interview?”
“Like a mean son-of-a-bitch,” T. said. “Mercy, you’ve talked to him. What’s your take?”
She shrugged. “He has a concussion. The side effects can be pretty severe.”
The judge nodded. “That works in our favor. Given the right circumstances, he could be replaced, but I’d need time to work it out. My docket is overloaded and my private life is . . . unsettled.”
Mercy put down her fork. “By private life, do you mean your sudden plans to marry my mother?”
“It’s hard to protect your family while I’m outside of it. The sooner we’re married, the more effective I’ll be.”
“You’ve only known each other five months.”
Overton folded his napkin, radiating disapproval. “We had hoped for your blessing.”
“I don’t know, Buck. You think Gloria is up to a wedding in the middle of all this?”
Overton smiled. “She says if there was ever a time she needs me, it’s now.”
The statement jarred Mercy. “Mother told me that’s what you said to her, not the other way around.”
T. Wayne sighed loudly. “Who gives a damn. If they want to get married, and if adding Buck to our family helps put an end to this persecution, I say fine. As long as the cops focus on me, the real criminal is getting away.” He turned back to Overton. “Can you sidetrack Able?”
“We’re about to find out.” Overton rose from his chair.
Able came to the table and extended his hand to Overton. “Saw you across the room, Your Honor. Ms. Snow, Mr. Dupree.”
T. Wayne grunted.
“Pull up a chair,” Overton said. “George, get the gentleman a glass of whatever he needs.”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay. I wanted to know if you’d like to say a few words at Lou’s service tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry, I have a case in summation, but I’d planned to send a representative. Mercy, would you be my stand-in?”
His casual toss stunned her. “I . . . excuse me? I really hate to leave Mother alone.”
“I’ll be at home tomorrow,” T. Wayne mumbled. “I’ll look after Gloria.”
“So it’s settled,” Overton said. “By the way. Detective, I understand you gave my boy, here, a real going over this morning.”
Able shrugged. “Routine questions. No big deal, right Mr. Dupree?”
Mercy rose. “Detective Able, may I have a word with you?” He was enjoying crowding T. Wayne, and she’d had her fill of pushy men today.
Able nodded. He led her to a side room. A platter with a double cheeseburger, home fries, an iced tea, and a chocolate shake covered the small tabletop. Apparently the detective’s appetite had returned.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“No thank you. I just want to know what happened to Charles.”
Able picked up the iced tea. “Nothing happened to Charles.”
“I promised him that if he gave me the shoe he’d be okay.”
“He’s fine, except for Dupree calling him a moron.”
