by Alan Lee
“Juanita Yates.”
He stopped. Leaned backwards on the bench. Set his hands on the table with a clink. “Yeah? So?”
“Tell me about her.”
“I shot her with a gun,” he said.
“What kind?”
“What?” he said.
“The gun, what kind of gun, you nincompoop.”
“I dunno. The wild west kind.”
“A revolver,” I guessed.
“The kind with the spinning wheel thing.”
“How’d you get a gun?”
“Anyone can get a gun. Took me four whole minutes.”
“Why’d you shoot Juanita Yates?”
“Bitch deserved it,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just did, fatty.”
“How long had she been working for you?”
“Who cares,” he said.
“The jury will.”
“I’m not talking to a jury.”
I said, “You were in love with Juanita?”
He paused, half a second. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I found her photo. She was kinda cute.”
“Kinda? Fatty like you wishes, kinda.”
“She was more than kinda cute?” I asked.
“Who cares. She was the cleaning lady.”
“So?”
“God you’re dumb. She’s a maid.”
“So?” I said again. “A cute one.”
“I called her Nita. Couldn’t pronounce her real name. One of those stupid Mexican names.”
“You and Nita were in love.”
“Stop…seriously, you’re a stupid idiot, know that? Maybe she was in love with me.”
“I bet she was.”
“Of course she was. But it wasn’t the other way round.”
“You didn’t reciprocate her affection,” I said.
“Exactly, genius. Genius fatty.”
“Did Nita have a family?”
“No, she was alone, like me. I mean, I guess. I have no idea.”
“Which is it? She was alone? Or you have no idea?” I asked.
“I said I have no idea if she had family, fatty.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“How much…I don’t know. One eighty.”
“Grady Huff,” I said. “Your left leg weighs more than one eighty.”
“I wasn’t screwing the maid,” he said. “She wanted to screw me, that’s a different story. Guys like me, guys with money, we got friends and girls forever. I didn’t need her.”
The attorney in the corner was packing up, realizing his client didn’t want to see him. Poor guys, both of them. He was openly eavesdropping into our conversation. My nonpareil Socratic questioning poleaxed him. I assumed.
“Did you let her?” I said.
Grady asked, “Let her what?”
“Juanita wanted to screw you; did you let her?”
“I guess, maybe, I dunno.”
“Of course you did. Rich guy like you, cute girl like her, why not? No harm in that.”
He nodded, like this made sense. “Yeah. No harm. I let her. For months I let her.”
“What’d her mom think of you?” I asked.
“Her mom’s dead.”
“You said you didn’t know—”
“I think her mom’s dead. I forget. I have no idea.”
“Nowhere on any police report I read this afternoon does it mention you and Nita were romantically entangled. But I think you were,” I said.
“I didn’t say romance. I said, I let her screw me. Cause I’m a nice guy. Fatty.”
“Why didn’t you admit this to the police?”
“I got a reputation, you know? Guys like me, we’re rich. We kill people whenever we want. That’s what my friends do. Might look bad, me and the cleaning lady screwing. You can’t tell anyone, right? This is confidential?”
“So killing someone gives you credibility with your friends. But bonking the maid doesn’t?”
“Something like that. I mean, bonking the maid is fine. But…you’d have to go to a boarding school like Episcopal High to get it.”
“Falling in love with her would definitely crush your reputation,” I said.
He laughed, the wheezing croak. “Obviously, fatty. No one does that.”
“Obviously.”
He insulted me a while longer and then I left. Despite his best efforts I’d learned a lot. On the way out I stopped at the security desk.
The deputy asked, “How’d it go with Mr. Sunshine?”
“He thinks I’m fat.”
“He says I’m retarded. His words. Not sure which is worse."
“Yours is worse. I can diet,” I said.
“Yours is worse. I can read a book.”
“But can you?” I asked. “You should tell him that word is deeply offensive now.”
“Sure I will.”
“How many visitors has he received?” I asked.
“Guess.”
“None.”
“Correct. No letters and no packages either,” said the deputy.
“Poor Grady Huff.”
“Yeah my heart is breaking for him.”
Driving back to Roanoke I called Marcus Morgan, Local mobster and Episcopalian.
“August,” he said, speaking in a deep rumble.
“Morgan,” I said, dropping my voice to match his. “What are you wearing?”
“Not a smile, at the moment.”
“Are you beating someone up? Shoveling cocaine into baggies? Laughing maniacally? Stroking a hairless cat? Insulting James Bond? Building a huge laser?”
“Right now I be listening to a moron,” he said. As soon as I hung up, he would laugh a lot at my jokes. I assumed.
“Why is Fat Susie walking around with Ronnie?” I asked.
“Work stuff.”
“I need details.”
“Why? Are you her boyfriend? No you ain’t. Do you work for me? No you don’t,” he said.
“Did you know Fat Susie’s real name is Reginald?”
“I did.”
“I’m going to ring your doorbell repeatedly until you tell me why he’s following Ronnie around,” I said.
“A buyer approached Veronica Summers about purchasing Calvin’s fields of pot. And about purchasing his contracts. Your girl Ronnie, she said no. Ruffled a few feathers in Washington. So I let her take Fat Susie until it gets straightened out.”
“Why’d she refuse the offer?”
“Hafta ask her,” he said.
“Does Fat Susie’s presence have anything to do with Darren Robbins, the powerful mobster lawyer goon?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you know he’s in town?” I asked.
“I did know that.”
“Does Ronnie know?”
“She does know that,” he said.
“Do you know what Carlos meant when he offered me a diamond?”
“I do know what he meant by a diamond, yes. It’s work jargon.”
“Why does no one tell me anything.”
“Know what you are? An intrusive pain in the ass.”
“Will Fat Susie kill Darren on sight?” I asked.
“Course not. You and Darren gonna have it out, one of these days, huh,” he said. “Hope I’m there to watch. Guess who called me today.”
“Duane.”
“Duane,” he said. “Said you took care of a problem for him and he appreciated it. Said he appreciated your respect. Speaking of diamonds, was you in our line of work you mighta earned one.”
“I’m respectful as heck,” I said. “But it wasn’t me. It was some other handsome and intrepid investigator with a stentorian voice and razor-sharp wit.”
“Whatever. Sound like just this once you managed to do something good by the Kings,” he said.
I wondered if I should tell Marcus I was on my way to the office to ring Social Service and the police in Virginia Beach and alert them to the nefarious schemes and addresses being employed by n
e’er-do-wells in Duane’s territory.
Probably not. I should let him enjoy the afterglow of me not being a pain in the neck. This one time.
10
The following morning I punched up Twitter on my computer, just like the cool kids did.
Grady Huff had ten followers on the social networking site. All ten were white supremacy groups. Most of his tweets called for Barak Obama and Joe Biden and Hillary to be jailed or worse. He thought Hillary deserved a good raping. That’d show her.
He only had ten followers but he followed three hundred. I scanned the list—many of them appeared to be former schoolmates at Episcopal High School. None followed him back; a bad sign in the Twitterverse.
Guys like me, we got friends for life, he had told me.
I checked his Facebook profile. Same story—lots of hate and no friends, no family.
He mentioned getting Candice off the internet. Not a recommendation from a friend or family member. Like he performed a Google search instead of calling his powerful friends for advice.
So far, what did I know?
An obese man in jail with no friends kept calling me fatty, worried acquaintances from his old high school might find out he had feelings for the cleaning lady, the one he’d shot without remorse.
I called Candice Hamilton. She answered on the first ring.
I said, “Grady and Juanita were romantic.”
“That’s my guess too. It’s impossible to prove, though,” she said. “He won’t admit it. There’s nothing on either cellphone. No signs of recent intercourse, coerced or otherwise. No flowers, no love notes, nothing.”
“Did the Franklin County police do an investigation?”
“Not much. Grady confessed. Why waste resources, you know? We’re fighting an uphill battle.”
I asked, “When did he buy the gun?”
“Three days before he shot her.”
“Can you inform a jury that purchase was an unfortunate coincidence?”
“Sure, if I want them to think I’m a liar.”
“We cannot give up,” I said.
“That’s the spirit.”
“We cannot let Darren Robbins win.”
“What is it with you and that guy?” she asked.
“It’s complicated. I don’t even know what he looks like, actually.”
“He’s quite handsome.”
I hung up on her. She and Grady Huff, both delusional.
Juanita Yates had a public Facebook profile. She was a cutie, indeed. Open and innocent face, at least ten years younger than Grady Huff. Only a few photos, very few friends. Most photos were of her smiling by herself. One in a yellow bikini that I’d bet money Grady gazed at for hours.
Her final post confessed that she would be falling asleep that night thinking about a special someone. One person had liked it—Grady Huff.
Be nice if I could figure out a way to check their Facebook messages. A weird thought, trying to trap the defendant into admitting he loved the victim, which was the easiest way to reduce his sentence. Hah, gotcha, now you only go to jail for ten years instead of forty, sucker.
A beautiful lonely girl. A rich ugly lonely guy. Romance. Then homicide.
But how did I prove it? And why would he kill her? Was it an accident? Was she breaking up with him? Was I wrong about the romance? She refused him and he was jealous? Or maybe he was refusing her? Or maybe Grady was just an irredeemable ass.
I drove to Grady’s house off Lakewood, not far from Westlake. Took forty minutes. The air felt damp and loose. His was one of two houses for sale in the secluded neighborhood. Grady’s was a modern double A-frame with a truly spectacular view of the lake. The poplar was already turning a bright yellow and soon the neighborhood would be brilliant with fall. The booklet attached to the For Sale sign listed the price at just under nine hundred thousand.
A lawn crew was mowing the neighbor’s lot, getting in a final shave and payday before the weather grew too cold for growth. I waited by their truck until one of the workers, a good ol’ hardworking Franklin County boy wearing a bright orange vest and camo hat, stopped his machine nearby.
“Help you, sir?” he asked.
Ah manners. Manners maketh the mower.
I held up a twenty dollar bill and slipped it under the wiper blade of the truck. “I’d like to buy you lunch, if that’s okay.”
“What for?”
“Anything you can tell me about Grady Huff. I’m working on the case.”
“Guy who killed Juanita,” he said.
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah we mowed his yard. Still do, but the real estate guy pays now. Total jackass. Grady, I mean, not the real estate guy.”
“I’ve met Grady. And I concur, he’s full of jackassery. Any idea why he did it?”
“Got no idea, sir.” He went to his truck for fuel and began dumping it into the mower’s tank. “The cleaning lady, though, Juanita? She was here a lot more often than for just cleaning the place, if you follow me.”
“You believe there was romance afoot.”
“Yeah or something.”
“Did you know Juanita?” I asked.
“Spoke with her on occasion. She doesn’t know much English. Didn’t, I mean, scuse me, sir. But she seemed right pleasant. Real pretty too. Dunno why she’s boppin’ bottoms with someone like Grady Huff.”
“That is precisely what I’m endeavoring to discover.”
“Wish I knew. I’d tell ya, sir.”
“What car did she drive?” I asked.
“Don’t remember. An old beater of some kind.”
“How’d she dress?”
“Don’t remember. Comfortably, I suppose.”
“She ever come with anyone? Say anything odd?”
“Not that I recall,” he said. “But I only met her a handful of times. Like I said, sweet lady.”
I slipped my card under the wiper blade too.
“You remember anything else, call me.”
“Yes sir, be happy to.” He started the mower again. “Being honest, I hope the bastard fries!” he shouted and roared off.
I went around the house to check all the doors and accessible windows. Everything was locked. I moseyed to the deckhouse and boat. Both had been cleaned and sanitized, nothing useful remained.
I called the real estate number and left a message.
This part of the county had only a small police substation, which meant the homicide investigation had been handled by the sheriff’s department. I drove to Rocky Mount and parked downtown. The Whole Bean Coffeehouse intercepted me en route, insisted I buy a cup of coffee and demanded it be eaten with a scone. With no other options, I acquiesced. The downtown held old world charm, character and integrity dating back to the fifties and sixties, and I enjoyed the sights while finishing off the tyrannical dessert.
The sheriff himself invited me back to his office and we sat on opposite sides of his desk, which also held the charm and integrity of the sixties. The desk was wood and so was his chair. Everything was wooden, including the paneling and the picture frames.
In a stupefying and wonderful display of serendipity, two basketball books were on the shelf, both written by Wooden. John Wooden. Everything was wooden.
It’s the little things in life that bring me joy.
I said, “Makes it easy, doesn’t it, when the guy confesses.”
Sheriff Sutton was steely-eyed, steely-haired, and soft spoken. His uniform was ironed crisply. Each button in place. He steepled his fingers, elbows on the wooden armrests. “You know, Inspector, I think Mr. Huff truly believes he’s above the law. Like this will pass him by because of his net worth. Why not admit it if you won’t be held accountable, in his eyes.”
I liked that he called me Inspector.
“Was there a simulacrum of an investigation?”
He did not shrug. Did not shake his head. Made no discernible gestures. “Only what was necessary. All evidence indicates Mr. Huff shot Ms. Yates with the han
dgun we found on the dock, and his story corroborates. Be nice to know why, but he offered no explanation.”
“He has no family or friends, from what I can tell.”
“Correct,” he said, like a statue would say correct. “Both parents are dead, no siblings. He didn’t call anyone while in our custody."
“Does Juanita Yates have a next of kin?”
“We’re still working on that. So far we’ve been unable to discover…well, anything. Not even her address. We conclude she was here illegally and that Juanita Yates was not her real name. Apparently a woman stopped by to collect her things several months ago, on my day off. We wouldn’t release anything to her and so she left. I don’t have a photo of the woman.”
I wished he would call me Inspector again.
I asked, “What things did Juanita have for the woman to collect?”
“Nothing, essentially. We wouldn’t release the cellphone or car, and those are the only two things with any value. Juanita Yates wore no jewelry and had nothing significant in her handbag.”
“Who is the car registered to?”
“Guy lives up near Radford. Claims the car was stolen from his driveway months ago but never reported it,” said the sheriff.
“Did you investigate further?”
“No. Like I said, we got a confession and the culprit behind bars.”
“Did you ever wonder if Juanita was a prostitute?”
“Sure. But the neighbors had seen her hauling in cleaning equipment, even when he wasn’t home. And the house was obviously cleaned on a regular basis.”
“Hmmmmm,” I said intelligently.
“You’re part of the defense team. Surely Mr. Huff doesn’t have a chance.”
“You only say that because I’m not flexing. Our goal is to get the charges dropped from first degree murder to something less than what he deserves. Either way, he’ll be much older the next time he’s a free man.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Come now, Sheriff Sutton. Look at this office with all its wooden glory. What more could a man ask?”
He said, “You were an officer?”
“I was, for about ten years.”
“I was still a baby at ten. Talk to me again in twenty years.”
“Mind if I examine the evidence you have in the locker?” I asked.
“My assistant can fax a waiver to Mr. Huff’s attorney, and once we’ve received it then you’re welcome to examine the evidence. There isn’t much.”
