Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “That’s…unkind. I think your metaphor fell apart,” I said. “What’s Duane? He the capo dei capi?”

  “Most of us aren’t Sicilian. Duane, he’s a majority share holder. One of the lesser men sitting on the Board of Directors, so to speak.”

  “If little Duane is on the board, then I’m way more important than a shoplifter,” I said.

  “Maybe you the janitor that Walmart fired but he keep coming back,” said Marcus.

  “I’m hanging up. You arrange the meeting. Soon.”

  “Know what you are? You the weird guy at Walmart saying hello to everyone coming in,” said Marcus.

  “But Ronnie digs me.”

  “Maybe she get you promoted to delivery boy.”

  I had planted a LandAirSea tracking device inside Brent Lowe’s Cherokee, hidden under the carpet in the back. An app on my phone kept record of his location, and today I sat at Claytor Lake examining his movements on my map.

  Yesterday evening, Brent drove Old Blue to a house on the north side of the lake and stayed for thirty minutes. According to Zillow, the house was a small brick ranch set by itself, a half mile from expensive lake-front homes on Cedar Point.

  “Who’d you go see, Brent Lowe?” I wondered.

  The cosmos responded with silence.

  Grady Huff didn’t have a lot of time before trial. And I had a hunch…

  I dropped the Honda into drive and motored to the north part of the lake, to the small ranch Brent had visited. The driveway was gravel. An old Kia was parked out front and there was an adjacent dry spot, meaning another car had been here until recently, shielding the gravel from the morning’s drizzle.

  I zipped my black rain jacket against the chill and knocked on the front door. Somewhere inside, a large dog barked.

  A woman looked at me from the peekaboo window beside the door. Her voice sounded muffled.

  “Yes? I don’t need anything.”

  I stepped backwards off the porch, giving her space.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’m here on behalf of the Franklin County Sheriff.”

  You liar, said the cosmos.

  “Okay,” came the reply. She had what sounded like a Latin American accent. “I can listen.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t want to cause you trouble,” I said, making up lies as fast as I could. “He only wanted to update you on the Grady Huff case.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “The car driven by Juanita Yates has been returned to the owner. No more questions will be asked. Mr. Brent Lowe isn’t in trouble and neither are you.”

  There was silence. And then came noises of the door being unlocked.

  A woman stepped onto the porch, hugging herself. She was the spitting image of Juanita Yates, but twenty years older.

  “The man? Grady Huff?” she asked.

  “He’s still in prison. And he’s going to be there a long time.”

  She nodded to herself. “Good.”

  I was putting together puzzle pieces.

  This was Juanita Yates’s mother. Most likely friends with Brent Lowe. Or more than friends. Juanita had been using Brent’s car, and they lied about it being stolen. They’d been afraid to talk with the sheriff for some reason, possibly due to her being here illegally.

  Pure conjecture. But it was all possible.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said. “It is good.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Is there anyway I can help you? I know this has been hard.”

  “The sheriff…I didn’t know…that he knew me,” she said.

  “Juanita was your daughter.”

  She paused. And looked down at her feet.

  I said, “You’ll never have to go to court or talk with anyone. I’m not here to create problems for you.”

  “Juanita was my daughter,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am. I know. I’m sorry.”

  She started to cry.

  “It is a terrible feeling,” she said. We were sitting on stools in her kitchen at the counter. The lights were out and rain had begun pattering on the windows. Her heat was turned off. A dog growled and scratched at the nearby bedroom door. “For your daughter to die. And the mother feel she cannot talk to the police.”

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  She made a noncommittal motion.

  Freshly made tea steamed in two cups on the counter.

  “The man, Grady Huff. He will go to jail,” she said.

  “His trial is soon. And yes.”

  “He will be in jail for life?”

  “He’ll be in jail for a long time. Exactly how long has yet to be determined,” I said. My voice felt like it echoed in the house.

  “A long time. Good.”

  “Do you know why Grady might have killed her?”

  “Because he is a monster,” she said. “Yes?”

  Ms. Yates was pretty and she knew it. Despite being scared and bereft, she carried herself like a woman accustomed to men being drawn towards her. An expectation of preferential treatment. It wasn’t arrogance; it was habit.

  I got the feeling she used the accent and limited vocabulary to bludgeon lesser men into thinking her weak and lovable.

  “I’ve met him. And I didn’t like him,” I said. “Was she living here with you?”

  “No. She was alone. I was to come visit her home soon.”

  “Where?”

  She made another noncommittal shrug. “I did not know yet.”

  “How many houses did she clean?” I asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “Was cleaning her full-time job?”

  “I do not know. She wanted…”

  “Independence.”

  She put her hand on mine. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. August. She wanted independence.”

  “Were she and Grady Huff romantic?”

  “No. She would not.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “She was a good girl. She was an angel.”

  “Had Juanita dated anyone else recently?”

  “I don’t know. No, maybe.”

  “Did you know she stole Brent Lowe’s car?” I asked.

  “I did not know.”

  “Do you know Brent Lowe?”

  “I do not know him,” she lied.

  “How old was Juanita?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Where did she go to school?” I asked.

  “I teach her.”

  “Do you have other family?”

  “No.”

  “None living at this house?”

  She squeezed my hand. “No, Mr. August.”

  A second lie. I’d seen the evidence.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  She did another noncommittal shrug.

  “Did you and Juanita send each other text messages?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Did she ever mention Grady?”

  “I don’t know. No, maybe.”

  Around and around we went. Ms. Yates knew nothing. And when she did know something, it was always No.

  After an hour of fruitless pestering, I walked to the door. She accompanied, still holding my hand and kind of leaning on me. She knew from experience—intimacy keeps the wheels greased.

  “Thank you, Mr. August,” she said.

  I gave her my card. It had my name and number.

  “Call me if you think of anything else,” I said.

  “I won’t.”

  “I know.”

  “So Ms. Yates is hiding something?” asked Candice Hamilton. We were eating lunch at the Blue Apron restaurant in Salem. The table cloth was white and so were our napkins; between us sat a candle and fresh flowers. I had steak frites and a beer. Candice had a bibb lettuce salad with shrimp and something called a Red Rooster cocktail.

  “She pretended she didn’t know Brent Lowe, the owner of the stolen Jeep Cherokee. She pretended she didn’t know the car was stolen, and she lied about not living with anyone but clearly she is.”
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  “I can’t believe you found her,” said Candice. She reached across the table and speared a piece of my steak. “Do you mind? That looks amazing.”

  What in the hell.

  I stayed cool. Barely.

  Yes I did mind. More than words could convey.

  I debated throwing the vase of pansies at her.

  “Uh,” I said. Focus, August. It’s just steak. “The police weren’t trying very hard.”

  “How does this help our case?”

  “It might not. Maybe she’s lying because she’s here illegally and doesn’t want to get mixed up in legal drama. Maybe her daughter Juanita truly was an angel.”

  “Wow, your steak is delicious,” she said, eyeing my food.

  Yes I KNOW.

  I began shepherding the steak and frites closer to my side of the plate, away from the ravenous succubus.

  “Or maybe,” I said. “Ms. Yates is hiding something. Maybe not all is as it seems.”

  “Do you think?”

  “I hope so. I don’t know how to prove this was a crime of passion otherwise. They were romantic but Grady Huff won’t admit it, because he’s proud and because he’s an idiot and an irredeemable ass. Maybe I can find another way to demonstrate their ardor.”

  “Speaking of ardor,” said Candice. “Did you tick off Darren Robbins or what?”

  “I plead the fifth.”

  “Suddenly today I’m getting all sorts of pushback from the Commonwealth’s office.”

  “Like how,” I said.

  “I’m receiving redacted documents. Delays on discovery. They’re being reticent with exculpatory evidence. And Darren is responding to my emails, where before it was the Commonwealth Attorney. They’re forcing mountains of paperwork my way to eat up our time and clog the lanes. Up until today it was civil and collegial.”

  “Hm,” I said intelligently. “I may have poked the bear too hard.”

  “Poked him how?"

  “I ran into him downtown. Told him we were going to kick his ass.”

  She set her fork down. Made a groaning noise and rubbed at a spot between her eyebrows.

  I sipped my beer the way a lesser and sheepish man would.

  “Some sort of masculine pissing contest involving genitalia comparison?” she said.

  “In retrospect, my imprecations were ill-timed. But I hate that guy.”

  “Told you he was handsome, didn’t I?”

  “Handsome like a donkey.”

  “Don’t stress over it, Mackenzie. You’re more attractive, in my opinion,” she said, focusing hard on her cocktail.

  “Goes without saying. But you should keep saying it anyway.”

  She smiled.

  Mackenzie August, batting a thousand with the ladies today. Fat load of good it was doing me.

  19

  I spent the afternoon at football practice, helping as best an absentee defensive coordinator can. The head coach wanted strong role models around and I fit the bill, even if I didn’t fully conform to his preferred schedule. Patrick Henry’s first playoff game was tomorrow night and we were going to lose by a billion to a football powerhouse in northern Virginia.

  Marcus Morgan observed practice, as was his wont several times a week, from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a steely expression and silver sunglasses and a black rain jacket. Afterwards he met me at the car and said, “Chilly.”

  “Maybe if you smiled more it would keep you warm.”

  “How’s my boy?”

  I pointed to the far side of the practice field to a couple guys chatting on the bleachers.

  “Scouts from Liberty and JMU. Ask them.”

  “I don’t want fucking Liberty and JMU,” said Marcus.

  “Jimmy Christmas, the mouth on you.”

  “I want UVA or William & Mary, a school known for something other than pretty white girls."

  “Jeriah’s only a junior. You still got time. But I happen to like pretty white girls,” I said helpfully.

  Marcus shifted in his jacket, like he was irritable. Made a tsk’ing noise.

  “My son, Jeriah? Caught the jackass with blow in his room last night.”

  “Probably best I don’t mention the irony.”

  “Probably,” he said. “For the best.”

  “You know, because you’re mad he had cocaine? And you yourself are this region’s largest mover of cocaine.”

  “Yes, thank you, August. Good of you not to mention.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “I took his phone. He’s been getting and sending nude photos,” said Marcus.

  “Of pretty white girls?”

  “Of pretty white girls.”

  “Maybe Virginia Military Institute would be better.”

  He made a grunting noise, tinged with approval.

  “The son of Marcus Morgan,” he said. “Sent off to damn military school. But might be best.”

  “I’m sending Kix to the Naval Academy next year.”

  “Kix’s two.”

  “No, he’s still one,” I said. “But he’s advanced. Ready for the Navy, in my opinion. By the way, who’s your new walk-around guy? Guy in the car, now that Fat Susie is with Ronnie?”

  “That’s Freddie. Mean guy. Don’t like to talk. Fought MMA couple years. Changing subject—I made phone calls. All parties agree; we need to meet. Figure this shit out. Talk about Calvin’s death, talk about marijuana, talk about Veronica Summers, talk about you.”

  “I bet you’re tired of talking about me.”

  “I been tired of talking about you twelve long months, August.”

  I said, “Sometimes I think you say things intentionally to cause the maximum amount of hurt feelings.”

  “That’s what friends do.”

  “When’s the meeting?”

  “Not long. Toby left town two days ago. Coming back tomorrow. Make this thing official.”

  The final football players were trudging off the field, grim and muddy.

  “How’s it work?” I asked. “You can’t meet without a chaperone? Toby attended a few months ago too.”

  “We got rules. Commandments, a code. Organization. Otherwise we’re a loose network of thugs. Me and Toby and Darren, the three of us make some decisions.”

  “Like during the summer, you and Toby decided I was justified in killing Antoine,” I said.

  “Right on. August, I gotta be honest. I don’t see this one going well for you.”

  “Gasp.”

  “You a honky getting on everyone’s nerves. And I wouldn’t be surprised, Toby or Darren try to ace you sooner than that.”

  “Those sinister evil-doers,” I said.

  Marcus’s stoic face, carved from granite, cracked.

  “S’what I like about you. Professional hitman gonna come put a couple in your temple, you crack jokes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m great.”

  That evening, Candice Hamilton arrived at Roxanne’s at the same time as me. We collected our children and stopped at the cars, Kix suspiciously eyeing Tyler.

  Candice drove a small silver BMW. She looked relieved, patting her daughter’s hair.

  She said, “Tyler looks happy. Healthy.”

  “Maybe a little shrewish, though.”

  “Thank you for Roxanne. She’s a life-saver.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Headed home. Think about dinner.”

  “Mind if I join?” she asked. “I want to put off paperwork as long as I can. That’s all that waits for me at my hotel. I don’t know anyone else and I’m sick of my paralegal.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I live close.”

  “Just a few minutes. Maybe a drink.”

  “Sure,” I said again.

  I buckled Kix in and I got behind the wheel.

  What a presumptuous harlot, said Kix.

  “Candice is lonely.”

  And?

  “And I’
m kind.”

  She’s a pretty harlot. Wearing heels. You love those.

  “Doesn’t hurt. And watch your mouth.”

  She takes it for granted she’s invited over. And that you’ll make her food and fix her drinks.

  “Yeah. She does. But she’s paying me a small fortune. Perhaps she’s emboldened with some entitlement.”

  No good will come of this. Mark my words.

  I drove to chez August and parked on the stone driveway. Manny was on the front porch, nailing white crown molding around the interior of the porch ceiling. He had designs on installing a fan so we could play chess and beat the summer humidity. He descended the step ladder and took Kix from me and talked Spanish to him, hell-bent on raising a bilingual boy.

  Candice parked behind me. She emerged, holding Tyler. She stopped in the yard and gaped at Manny.

  He had that effect.

  “Might be a full house tonight,” I told her. “This is Manny, my good friend. Manny, this is Candice.”

  “Hola! Dinner is salad. Needs tossing, but ready otherwise.”

  She nodded without sound and resumed walking, a little slower.

  I opened the screen door for her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She went inside, trailing Manny carefully, like beautiful people could go supernova any second. I started to follow but I noticed Ronnie’s red Mercedes racing down Windsor.

  My heart quickened with delight as it considered the sun goddess cargo within.

  “Here comes the lady,” I told myself. “Oh so light of foot.”

  She parked on the street and nimbly emerged. Fat Susie got out from the passenger seat. Carlos from the rear.

  “It’s like your car is trying hard to be culturally sensitive,” I said.

  She wore black and pink activewear, the expensive kind tailored to flatter and highlight a woman’s body. It worked.

  I didn’t care what Fat Susie and Carlos wore.

  “Hello Mackenzie. I have a plan,” she said. Her face was less purple and more greenish-blueish now.

  “Hello Ronnie. I’m listening.”

  She stopped walking when our toes touched. A wisp of her blonde hair tickled my chin. I think she did that on purpose.

  “I’m single, you know. You could kiss me. But don’t,” she said. “It would hurt. Would you like to hear my brilliant plan?”