A Little Death in Dixie, page 23
“If Lou has told you this story, indulge me. When I was with the D.A.’s office, I prosecuted a man named Paley for robbery. The evidence was circumstantial, but I convinced the jury. Paley was convicted. Later, another man confessed. That’s the way it breaks, sometimes.
“After Paley was released he showed up at the courthouse one day. Lou happened to be testifying in a fraud case. Lou spotted the guy. Didn’t like his looks. He followed him into my courtroom, grabbed him twenty feet from my bench. No metal detectors back then. Anyone could walk into the courtroom with a weapon. Paley had a grenade.”
“Jesus,” Billy said.
“I owe Lou my life. It’s a longstanding debt. I called him Thursday night because I suspected he was drinking again, and I wanted to encourage him to get help. He denied it, of course.”
Mary returned with the lemonade. Billy accepted the glass and took a long drink. “You used the 7-3-7 code on his pager last Saturday.”
“Gloria was hysterical when she phoned about Sophia’s disappearance. Naturally, I wanted Lou to take over. He’s the best. I spoke with Hollerith, and then paged Lou using the code. He called back, started yelling then hung up. Hollerith called and said Lou would be handling the case. The next morning I learned about the accident.” Overton frowned and stroked the cat’s head. “I should’ve called Lou back. I’ll always regret that I didn’t.”
Billy let the silence stretch. “After you talked with Lou he threw a chair through a plate glass window. He told me your call was bad news. That doesn’t square with your version.”
“Let’s get something straight. I called Lou, because I needed his help. I don’t know why he blew up.”
“No bad news?”
Overton stubbed out his cigarette, his voice taking on a nasty edge. “I’m told Lou took a shot at you in a parking lot. Sounds to me like you were the bad news.”
“In twelve hours, Lou went from depressed, to demented, to dead. Your call triggered some part of that. I’m going to figure out why, no matter who I piss off.”
The night was still. Overton lit another cigarette.
“Son, Lou drove off a bridge in a storm. You nearly died trying to save him. There’s nothing you can do about that.”
“Lou was my responsibility. A man named Paley came after you with a grenade. Maybe somebody came after Lou.”
“Are you trying to open a file?”
Billy hesitated, wondering how candid he should be with the judge. “I’m doing the legwork, but Hollerith won’t back it.”
“Not surprising. Dexter listed heart attack as cause of death. Besides, Lou drank enough that night to kill a mule.”
“His heart may have killed him, but I believe someone else put the truck in the water.” A chill hit Billy. He closed his eyes. He was in the water again, trying to hold onto Lou’s arm.
“Able. You okay?”
He opened his eyes. “I was angry with Lou. If I’d gone after him sooner, I might have saved him.”
Overton wet his lips. “That’s guilt talking, son. Let it go. I understand your wanting to look into Lou’s death, but there’s a missing woman out there now who needs your help.”
“I know. This is about priorities. And from what I’ve seen, the evidence will lead us right back to her husband.”
“You have what you need to hand the case over to the D.A.?”
“We’re getting there.” He drained the glass, set it on the tiled floor, and stood. His head was throbbing and his snake-bit arm burned, making it hard to think. Maybe some of that cottonmouth venom had gotten into his bloodstream after all.
Overton stood and put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Just keep your perspective. I trust you to do the right thing.”
Billy shook his head. “You may be the only one.”
After the detective left, Buck finished his cigarette and shut off the pool lights. Mary’s bedroom light was out so he dropped his robe, walked naked around the pool and into the house, where he poured himself three fingers of a good, single malt scotch. Upstairs he found she’d remade the bed with fresh, eight-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets and turned back the covers. He slipped in and exhaled.
The meeting had gone pretty much as he’d planned, except for the moment he had to pull that grenade story out of the air. Able’s question about his connection to Lou had caught him off-guard. At least the story backed up his phony sense of obligation to Lou. If Able were smart, he’d look into it, but that wasn’t going to happen. The story reinforced his hero worship of Lou. And Able was too busy investigating Dupree to check it out.
Buck took a swallow of scotch in the soft light of his beside lamp and replayed his last phone conversation with Lou. Damned shame Able overheard part of it, but then the boy made up for it by showing his cards. Able had searched Lou’s house and found nothing of interest except the pager. Good to know. All Buck had to do now was play smart defense. That Mississippi peckerwood wasn’t cunning enough to sandbag him. Able’s face had gone white when Buck brought up Lou’s truck going into the water.
Able felt guilty for not saving Lou. Guilt would make him damned easy to manipulate.
Buck tossed back the last of the scotch, hardly tasting it. Curious that Able thought he had his teeth into some kind of evidence against Dupree. A couple of months ago, Sophia had confided she thought Dupree was having an affair and hiding assets with divorce in mind. Buck would love to see Able pin Dupree with Sophia’s death, but, unfortunately, he had to get the idiot out of the detective’s crosshairs instead. Having his new wife’s son-in-law tried for murder could be a big problem in Buck’s confirmation process. No senator would bring it up in public, but they might use it to vote against him.
Bottom line? He had to get Able off the Dupree case and away from Gloria and Mercy. He’d do it, and the boy would never see it coming.
Billy left the judge’s house too keyed up to go back to the barge. He cruised Riverside Drive with the windows down while he played the conversation back in his head.
Overton had a serious line of bullshit going, a hustler of the first water. The grenade story seemed manufactured and at the same time believable. But spotting the guy at the courthouse and grabbing him from behind—that sounded like something Lou would do. Lou had never mentioned the incident, but then he’d never said anything about Ruby losing a baby either.
Overton hadn’t cleared up the question about the pages or the phone calls.
Billy might have let the question slide, but he’d picked up on Overton’s mind racing the entire time they’d talked. The judge probably thought he wouldn’t notice. Men like Overton assume everybody else is a nitwit. Yep, there was something going on with the judge. Overton had tried to control the tone of Dupree’s interview and had probably been the one who called to complain about it being too aggressive. Then tonight he’d offered his personal backing for the investigation into Dupree’s involvement. Overton was playing both sides. Eventually, his motives would surface.
Billy took Highway 61 and followed the river across the state line into Mississippi. He drove to the Twinkle Town Airport, a tiny airstrip. It was closed. He parked on the darkened field, climbed out and leaned against the car, the highway behind him empty of traffic. The Delta lay flat as a river rock and ran three hundred miles to Natchez. The glow from Memphis lit the horizon, curving around him in a giant arc.
He tried to picture Christ in his heaven and wondered if life would really balance out in the end. He’d heard that sentiment repeated by people who were desperate for comfort while they struggled to reconcile a loss, but he didn’t buy their cosmic scale of justice. Not after all he’d seen as a cop and the loss he’d endured in his own life. The only justice he knew required facing the truth.
Herefords bustled in a pen across the road. He smelled their dung and the gasoline from the crop-dusters tied down in the field. He wasn’t alone. The quiet night stood by his shoulder.
The fact was, Lou had been his responsibility. What the judge said about guilt didn’t matter. Lou died because Billy didn’t have the backbone to stop him in the parking lot. He handed the keys to Lou, something he would never have done if Lou had been drunk. He didn’t stop Lou, and he chose to put off driving to the fishing camp to check on him. That hour would have made all the difference.
Starlight reflected off the wings of the small planes around him. He knew he’d made the decision out of pride and anger. He could never take it back. Now Lou’s funeral was tomorrow.
Billy fell to his knees.
The night sky above him seemed to roll on forever.
Chapter Forty
Wednesday, 7:52 a.m.
Dr. Jimmy Dale Dexter got up before sunrise, fed the Charolais and showered. His sweet Evie had spent the last two days at their daughter’s house, nursing the grandkids, all of them down with the chicken pox at the same time. Her bedroom door was closed, which meant she was still sleeping. Evie wasn’t in the best shape. A woman with congestive heart failure can only do so much.
He ate eggs and cantaloupe for breakfast and checked with the clinic. Then he went upstairs to put on his jacket, his best Stetson hat, and the belt with the buckle Evie had commissioned for their twentieth anniversary.
She’d carried a photograph of a mammoth oak tree to a jeweler in Little Rock and asked him to cast a likeness in gold, adding the word “Forever” on the back. They named their farm Oak Hill after the lone tree that had stood for years on a rise at the front of the property. The tree had been a symbol of their future. Evie was the love of his life. That buckle was his favorite possession in the world.
He got in his truck and headed out Highway 40 with the windows rolled down and the air blowing off the soybean fields. He was driving to his oldest friend’s funeral, a man he’d assumed would outlive them all.
He had one stop to make before the service.
The young man sitting behind the counter at the Child Services reception desk wore a yellow, short sleeve shirt, a bow tie, and his brown hair parted down the center and tucked behind his ears. The skin on his arms was as white and smooth as a woman’s. The young man studied Dr. Jimmy’s coroner’s ID and clinic license through glasses with rhinestones in the corners of their black frames.
“She’s six,” Dr. Jimmy continued, “lots of curly blond hair, green eyes. A beautiful child. Rebecca Jane is her given name. I don’t have her family name or contact information.”
“Your clinic doesn’t have a file on her?”
“A friend brought her in the week of that E. coli outbreak. I worked her in-between patients. Never had any paperwork on her. Point is, I want to follow up and make sure she’s okay.”
“So call your friend.”
“Can’t do it. He died unexpectedly.”
“What about your friend’s family? They don’t know how to find a relative?”
He took off his Stetson. “My friend and the child weren’t related. It’s complicated.”
The young man waggled his pen in the air. “Do you want to file an abuse complaint?”
“I’m not saying she was abused, but I need to find her. I hoped she was in one of your programs and a caseworker could identify her.” Dr. Jimmy wasn’t about to discuss his real concern. He had no proof, just a feeling.
The young man handed back the ID. “Speak to Sammie in records. She’ll schedule an appointment, although she’s on break right now. She’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“I’m under some time pressure,” he began.
The phone rang. The young man answered and pointed down the hall, indicating their conversation was over.
The nameplate on the counter read Stuart Wright. Dr. Jimmy wanted to give ol’ Stu a lesson in manners, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He waited until the phone conversation ended. “I’d like to speak with a caseworker now.”
Stuart took a swig of Mountain Dew. “They’re in a staff meeting. You’ll need an appointment.”
“You’re not listening. She came in with a bad respiratory infection. She could relapse without anyone noticing.”
“A quarter of the kids in this city are poor and a lot of them are sick. All you have is someone who might get sick. With our caseload, that’s not going to get immediate attention.”
“And what would get your attention?” he said.
“Sexual abuse or beatings. That’s why I asked you about abuse.”
The phone rang. This time Dr. Jimmy grabbed up the receiver and held it. “This child’s parents don’t give a damn about her. I’ll do the legwork to find the girl, but I need help getting started.”
Stuart reached up and took the receiver. “Call back, please.” He hung up and punched all the lines on hold. “Dr. Dexter, I’ve been in this business a long time. People come here with all kinds of stories. They don’t necessarily have a child’s best interest at heart, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s not my problem. I’m a doctor and I’m looking for a patient. Now are you going to help me?”
Stuart leaned back in his chair. “You think she’s indigent?”
“All her life.”
“Was she ever hospitalized?”
“At some point she had pneumonia.”
“People with no resources carry their kids to Le Bonheur when they get sick. Deb Moore signs off on those admissions. You should start with her.”
Dr. Jimmy checked his watch. Just enough time to make the funeral. “I’ll give Ms. Moore a call this afternoon.”
“She’s leaving town at noon. If you want to see her, I’ll call and tell her you’re on your way.”
Deb Moore, Special Needs Coordinator for Le Bonheur, sat waiting for him in the lobby of the hospital with the strap of her garment bag looped over her shoulder.
She looked fragile and tired. Fighting for needy people is exhausting work. She rose to her feet as he approached.
“Dr. Dexter, it’s an honor. I’m familiar with your clinic. I wish more doctors would put themselves on the battle line. Stuart gave me some background on the girl you’re looking for.”
“He’s very protective of the kids in the system.”
“He has the unique perspective of having been one of them. He knows what can happen.” She pulled out a folder. “I searched our files and came up with the name Rebecca Jane Belleflower. Here’s her picture.”
The photo showed a very sick Rebecca. “That’s the girl.”
“Her parents brought her in. Karen and Fred Belleflower. She was dirty, slightly undernourished. No overt signs of abuse. We treated her for pneumonia. Here’s the address they gave. It’s probably not current.”
“You have amazing recall, Ms. Moore.”
“She was an unforgettable child. Tons of charisma. A child that pretty should be in the movies.”
Billy woke up late, showered, buffed his shoes and put on his best suit. He could see in the mirror that he still looked like hell. He didn’t eat. He didn’t want to think. On the gangway he picked up the paper and glanced at the headline:
SENATOR NOEL LEADS COALITION ON GANG VIOLENCE
He threw the paper on the passenger’s seat. So far he felt pretty calm for a man heading to his best friend’s funeral.
He watched the hearse pull to the back of The Holy Saints in Christ Our Redeemer Church which was downtown off Beale Street. They unloaded the casket and wheeled it into the sanctuary crowded with American flags and mourners. He saw rows of cops in blue, politicians, family members of victims for whom Lou had won justice, hookers, retired strippers, and cleaned-up addicts who had come to show their respect. Mosby and Hollerith, in full-dress uniform, sat with as many members of the squad as could be spared. He saw Mercy Snow come in and sit in the back.
Ruby held a seat for him. She looked shrunken and sad, sitting in the pew. She and Lou had been married a long time. Billy clasped her hand and looked around. Dexter, Lou’s oldest friend, was a no-show. What the hell was that about?
The other night at The Western, Dexter had insisted Lou felt guilty about something, even hated himself. What a bunch of psychobabble. Lou was guilty of being a cranky old fart and drinking too much. He was guilty of acting like a crazed bull for the last year, but Lou had never felt guilty about one damned thing his whole life. Dexter’s fixation on suicide had offended Billy to the bone. On top of that, his coroner’s ruling had made talking Hollerith into an investigation impossible. That had really pissed Billy off.
The service opened with the thirty-member choir, decked out in purple robes trimmed in gold, singing Rock of Ages. Reverend Stokes preached on the mercy and grace of Jesus. People took the pulpit and spoke on behalf of Lou’s life. Some cried, a few told funny stories. Then the choir swayed down the aisle behind the casket singing, It Is Well with My Soul.
Billy took a deep breath and joined the other pallbearers.
The aroma of Southern funeral food pulled Billy through Ruby Nevers’ front door: pineapple casserole, smoked ham with hot pepper jelly and cheese biscuits, bing cherry Coca-Cola salad, barbequed turkey, fried chicken, tomato aspic, deviled eggs made with mustard and onions, homemade pimiento cheese, six different kinds of pies, and a triple layer coconut cake. The food covered the dining table, a sideboard and two card tables. Someone shoved a cup of punch in Billy’s hand. He realized he was hungry. Just as he settled on the sofa with a plate, he saw Dexter at the door, kissing Ruby on the cheek.
I’ll be damned, he thought. The guy shows up late wearing a cowboy hat. What kind of show of respect is that? He set his plate on the coffee table. Ruby pointed in his direction and he stood as they approached.
Dexter extended his hand. Billy ignored it. “Mind if we step out on the porch?” Billy said.
“Ruby, I’ll get with you in a minute,” Dexter said. “Save a piece of that sweet potato pie for me.”
Outside, Billy got right to the point. “Nice of you to show up for the food. Too bad you skipped the funeral.”
