by J. A. Kerley
“Tougher how? I said violence was absolutely the wrong way to accomplish anything, Tom.”
“You also said people should speak out when they feel wronged. Some people thought you were endorsing the crowd’s actions.”
“Cranks hear what they’re listening for. I rejected violence. I said peaceful protest is one of the cornerstones of a free society. Peaceful. If I used the word once I used it a dozen times.”
Clay smiled sadly. “There are people who think the words ‘protest’ and ‘peace’ are code for godless seculi-femini-liberi-humanism.”
“Godless libero sec … Lord have mercy, Tom, are we still there?”
“Most people aren’t, some will always be because hate is all they have. Unfortunately, having little else to do with their lives, they tend to vote.”
Philips aimed a wry smile at her assistant. “This sure didn’t help me in the election, did it?”
Clay looked away. “I don’t know that it’ll be much of a factor.”
“I may be tone-deaf to politics, but my nose still works, Tom. I smell bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
Clay sighed. “I heard Runion about fell to his knees praising Jesus when he got wind of the violence. He’s probably taping commercials making it sound like you led the charge against the cops.”
“I’d expect nothing less from that sawed-off salamander.”
“It’s going to get rough,” Clay said. “You positive you want to be mayor?”
“Don’t say ‘want to be’, Tom. Say ‘remain’. I’m here and I’m staying right here.” Philips wheeled to the bookcase, snapped off the radio and, for good measure, yanked out the plug.
“Whatever it takes,” she added, leaving no room for dissent.
Chapter 36
The funeral procession wound slowly down the street to the cemetery. The grass was fresh-mown and wet from a recent rain, glittering when sun broke through. A large gray awning marked the gravesite. Cars began parking, somber faces moving toward the earth’s open wound as if drawn by horizontal gravity.
Nike and Marie were first from the car, followed by Ryder and Father Tim. Nike was ashen and trembling, but had insisted on coming. The quartet marched slowly across the grass, Marie sniffling into a tissue, murmuring, “The world is gone crazy.”
Rank upon rank of white plastic chairs sat beneath the awning, its scalloped edges wafting in the breeze. To the side were the news cameras, the videographers behind them almost vestigial, as if the cameras had recorded death so often they could now do it on their own. The four mourners positioned themselves to the side of the cameras, preferring to stand, as others were doing. Ryder moved closer to Nike and put his arm around her waist, feeling her tremble.
The casket rested beside the grave, dark wood with handles of gleaming brass. The minister, an elderly black man whose church was two blocks from Sandhill’s restaurant, stepped forward and cleared his throat. The crowd fell silent and all that could be heard were birds singing from the branches.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister began in a voice like rusted iron. “We know not why the world moves as it does. That is not ours to know. We know not why those taken from us before their time are taken. It is not for us to know …”
Ryder watched a tear slide down Nike’s cheek. He closed his eyes.
“What we can know,” the minister continued, “is the King of All Kings is God, and it is to His Kingdom where the soul of LaShelle Shearing now rests, or plays, or watches as we gather in solemn remembrance of her brief life …”
When the service concluded, Nike remained silent and walked ahead with Marie, Ryder and Father Tim a dozen paces behind. Ryder discerned several plainclothes colleagues scanning the crowd from its edges, hoping against hope that the perpetrator had come to gloat.
“How’s Conner?” Tim asked. “I tried to see him this morning after I’d heard, but the cops wouldn’t let me in his room.”
“He got lucky. A ballistics tech said the heavy thermal glass he installed in the apartment, combined with the oblique angle of the shot, probably deflected the slug just enough. It helicoptered across his ribs instead of punching through his heart.”
“Will he be …”
Ryder nodded. “He’ll be moving slow for a while, Padre, but the machinery’s fine. Or will be. He’s a little fuzzy right now, but aware enough to tell us what had gone down.”
“Do you have any idea who’d do such a thing?”
“The shooter phoned the apartment, watched the window until he saw Sandhill, then took the shot. No peel-out getaway, so no tire tracks on the street; no shell left behind, no cigarette butts or trash dropped out the car window …”
“You say Conner got a call. Can it be traced?”
“It was from a cellphone. We should know something later this morning.”
When he entered the hospital room, Ryder knew Sandhill was better by the way the exiting nurse rolled her eyes, as if to say, You want him, you got him. Sandhill had the bed cranked to sitting position and was muttering about the soul of a hospital that didn’t have gumbo on the menu. His left arm was in a sling, his side a patch of gauze and tape. He was wearing his crown.
Sandhill picked up a plastic bedside urinal and shook it. “Need to take a leak, Ryder? They make it real easy here.”
“No thanks. Glad to see you’re feeling regal again.”
Sandhill tapped the crown. “Marie brought it by to cheer me up. When she started up with jokes about barbecued ribs I sent her packing.”
“How’s the side?”
“When the pills wear off it feels like I’m being attacked by woodpeckers.”
Ryder pulled a chair close to the bedside and sat. “You got luckier than hell, Sandhill.”
“Never underestimate the power of energy conservation; I’m real glad I decided to insulate.”
“You remember anything new?”
“I recall the ride home from the property room, trying to get some sleep. Then I’m on the floor with the phone under me, dialing 911, feeling like everything I got is pouring out of my side. Next thing I know, I’m here and someone’s shining a spotlight into my eyes.”
“It was a penlight. And you tried to strangle the intern using it.”
Sandhill leaned toward Ryder, keeping his voice low. “I’ve touched a wire somewhere. You don’t get potshot because someone doesn’t like your hush puppies.”
Ryder scooted forward until his knees thumped the bed. “You’ve been crashing through the underbrush for two days, Sandhill. Who stands out?”
“Could have been someone at the mission. Or someone in one of the bars; everyone knew I was out for information and maybe someone got scared and wanted to take an insurance shot. Hell, for all I know, it was that jerk-off biker from the mission, though I doubt it. How about another run at photo-boy, Desmond? See if he—”
“I can’t do squat. Squill put me on suspension, remember?”
“That shithead. Only Squill would pull one of his best dicks from a case out of pique.” Sandhill shot Ryder a look. “You sure it was an accident? There were times I got so pissed off at do-goodie bystanders I wanted to—”
Ryder waved the conjecture away. “I don’t even remembering touching him. But once the cruisers whipped around the corner, everything started happening at rocket speed.”
“Any witnesses to your action with the old guy?”
Ryder looked grim. “A TV camera for starters. I think that’s what boiled Squill’s butt; not that the guy fell, but that it got caught on tape.”
Sandhill studied the blank screen of the television at the far end of his room.
“I’d love to see this event. I’ll bet you could hook a player to that TV.”
Ryder was back in an hour, walking in with a DVD player under his arm, wires trailing the floor. “I had to yank my player off my set,” he said. “That was the easy part.”
“The hard part being …?”
“Making a copy of the newscast. Squill came strutt
ing past the conference-room door a couple times. If he’d walked in and found me …”
“You’d be in blue again. What if Squill finds you here?”
Ryder shrugged. “Life goes on.”
“Keep that positive attitude. Squill’s gonna walk through the door in about ten seconds.”
“What?”
“Listen down the hall … those footsteps? Who else you know walks like a storm trooper on crank?”
Ryder quickly set the player on the credenza and tried to shove the disk behind it, but there was no room. He stepped in front of the machine.
“Well if this ain’t a gathering of the faithful,” Squill said as he strode in the door, Duckworth following at the distance of a pull toy. “What the hell are you doing here, Ryder?”
“I was … visiting my uncle. In the cardiac unit. I stopped in to see if … Sandhill needed anything.”
Squill’s thin lip warped into a sneer. “You better learn to pick better friends, Ryder.” He turned the glare on Sandhill. “Have you been messing in the cases? Enough to piss somebody off? If you’re withholding—”
Sandhill rolled his eyes. “Dammit, Terrence, I’m not the problem here. The problem is that person or persons unknown is out there plucking young girls from the streets, and they’re damned skillful at it. Let me come in and work with the department, give me some leeway—”
“You’re not setting a foot inside again.”
“That your final offer?”
“We’re not dickering here, Sandhill. You’re a thief. It was a measure of my charity that you were allowed to resign. I could have had you locked tight.”
“Charity?” Sandhill spoke the word as if puzzled by its meaning. “Don’t you mean you were just avoiding negative publicity?”
Squill looked at Duckworth. “Let’s go, Commander.” He turned to leave, but his eye caught the player behind Ryder. He narrowed an eye at the machine and the boxed disk atop it.
“What’s that, Ryder?”
“It’s a DVD machine, Terrence,” Sandhill interjected. “It plays movies so I don’t have to watch soap operas and people gargling with maggots.” Sandhill looked at Ryder. “Like I was saying before we got interrupted, Detective, if you get to a video store, I’d like Henry V, the Branagh version, Hamlet, the Burton version, and Die Hard, the Olivier version.”
Squill reached past Ryder and picked up the disk in its plastic case. “What’s this?”
Sandhill yawned and laced his fingers behind his head. “A copy of Deep Throat, the Disney version. Seems there was an eighth dwarf named Lengthy …”
Squill pitched the disk back on to the credenza. “Listen hard, smartass. If I find your shooting has anything to do with digging into police business—or that you’re withholding an atom’s worth of information—you’ll be trading that gown for stripes. And you know I’d love doing it.” He turned his eyes to Ryder. “And if there’s just a sniff of you helping him, you’ll be gone in an hour.”
Squill wheeled and clicked away, Duckworth on his heels.
Mattoon was at his computer, a tumbler of absinthe on his desk. There were trade-offs to the potent liqueur: When he zeroed in on selected thoughts, others slipped into gray; it was as if Mattoon were an archer drawing an arrow—all he saw was the center ring, crisp, large, dominant. All other rings turned soft and indistinct.
Mattoon had used his sharpened focus to draft a letter detailing plans and timetable for the docking facility on Mobile Bay. It would be a shiny plum for the politician announcing Mobile’s partnership with Mattoon Marine, Ltd, and he had already decided who would reap the reward. Mattoon didn’t resent that politicians would claim credit for doing basically nothing; he knew their instincts were tuned to reciprocity: do for me, I do for you. The best part was the more they did for you, the more you owned them. Until you could eat their souls and they’d brush your teeth afterward.
Mattoon had only the final paragraph to write. He sat and tapped out the text:
In conclusion: all property optioned for the MML facility is now locked in. Announcement approaching but will be timed to your needs. Thank you for your most gracious assistance in local matters. I look forward to a solid and profitable future relationship.
Sincerely,
Walter Hutchinson Mattoon, CEO
Mattoon Maritime Limited
Mattoon folded the draft and pressed a button on his desk to summon the steward, Sajeem Ghobali. Mattoon studied his watch; six seconds until the knock on his door. Formerly the assistant steward, Ghobali had been elevated to Mattoon’s personal steward after Valvane’s theft of the wine. Mattoon pressed a second button and the door unlatched, Ghobali’s signal to enter.
“Sir,” Ghobali said, stopping two steps inside the room and snapping a salute.
“Only the captain salutes, Mr Ghobali.”
Ghobali stammered an apology and bowed.
“There you go, Mr Ghobali. Well done.” Mattoon walked to the doorway and held out the envelope. “Take this to Mr Henson. Tell him it’s first priority and should be in ground mail in Mobile with all possible dispatch.”
“Yessir,” Ghobali said, simultaneously attempting to bow and close the door behind him.
Mattoon pictured the process. Henson, the communications engineer, electronically transferring the text to Samuel Natch, Mattoon Maritime’s shipping agent in Mobile. Natch would print the missive on creamy, embossed Mattoon Maritime stationery, sign it with an electronic facsimile signature, then send it registered mail. The recipient would be reading the letter within two days.
It was the most personal way to communicate, Mattoon thought; using the mail as if he were in Mobile and not hundreds of miles southeast. That, and electronic mail could so easily be seen by the wrong eyes.
His task out of the way, Mattoon sipped from the crystal. He felt a shifting of aspect in his brain, as though birds were winging across it. The phone buzzed, a hushed sound across the thick carpet. Mattoon went to it and pressed the speakerphone.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir …”
“Mr Henson. What can I do for you? Did you get the letter I sent with Ghobali?”
“Yes, sir, I did. To whom would you like it addressed, sir? And are there any special considerations?”
Mattoon shook his head; he’d spent two hours getting the text just right and forgotten to include the recipient; an effect of the absinthe, no doubt.
“My apologies, Mr Henson. The letter is to be sent by registered mail. Remind Mr Natch it is to be on company stationery. And that the letter is personal and confidential. Note that the phrase ‘Personal and Confidential’ should be in capital letters and underscored.”
“Personal and confidential,” Henson repeated. Mattoon heard the man taking notes. “And the recipient and address, Mr Mattoon?”
“It goes to the Honorable Norma S. Philips, Mayor of Mobile, Alabama. I’ve written her previously, so her address is on file. Thank you, Mr Henson.”
Chapter 37
“Lemme see it again,” Sandhill said, the hospital TV on the table spanning the bed. Ryder worked the controls of the player, scanning back to the beginning and pressing PLAY. Sandhill stopped spinning the urinal on his finger and leaned closer to the screen.
Ryder said, “It’s hard to watch that old guy flying over the edge like—”
“Stop. Rewind it to just before he goes over. Start just as the guy does the Wallenda.”
Sandhill’s nose was almost touching the TV. Ryder advanced the video a frame at a time. The color was too bright and the edges of the images were soft with blur, but details were visible.
“Stop!” Sandhill barked. He pointed to a frozen image, the old man listing at an angle, just before falling. “Tell me, Ryder, what do you feel when you’re about to fall and can’t do jackshit about it?”
“Panic.”
Sandhill tapped the screen. “That guy look panicked to you?”
Ryder squinted at the monitor.
“He looks pretty calm, considering.”
Ryder cranked off several more frames, the man now in the air. Sandhill said, “Stop,” and tapped the screen with the urinal.
“Doesn’t he seem awfully far from the stoop for a guy falling? He should have dropped like Newton’s apple, but look how his back is arched.”
Ryder looked at Sandhill, gave him a confused shrug. Sandhill drummed his fingernails on the urinal. “It looks as if he pushed off, like a diver. Advance it.”
The images jerked forward in time: the man pinwheeling his arms, tumbling into an obese woman in a fruit-basket hat, knocking her backward as he plunged to the pavement.
“That’s why he pushed off,” Sandhill said. “He made sure he hit the woman first. Check her size. Consider the kinetic energy she absorbed.”
Ryder studied the screen. “You’re saying it’s a fake tumble?”
“The woman broke his fall. You can’t see the guy hit the pavement from this angle, but I’ll bet he unfolded across the ground instead of hitting it flat.”
“He bled like a butchered pig, Sandhill.”
“So did a lot of people in Reservoir Dogs. You think they’re in the Hollywood Cemetery?”
Ryder stood and began pacing. “So that’s why he disappeared so fast. He knew he couldn’t stand up to a close look.”
“True, Ryder. Which means you’ve got to find Mr Stumbles.”
“He’s in the wind, gone.”
Sandhill spun the urinal around his finger as he thought. “A guy that old who’s that good? He’s left tracks. We’ll need stills of the guy’s face, close-ups. Can you get them if you’re suspended?”
“No problem; Hembree hates Squill as much as we do. He’ll give the job rush status. I’ll send the shots to police agencies in ’Bama, Mississippi and Florida.”
“Don’t bother. Send them to insurance agencies.”
“Insurance age—?”
“Not Smilin’ Stan down the street. The big carriers. Direct the photos to their investigative departments.” Sandhill tapped the urinal against the image frozen on the screen. “They’ve dealt with this boy in the past.”
