She waited till they were rolling before opening it. After a minute of riffling through the pages, she could see the feds had upheld their end. It was unedited, with no blackouts, a document running to eighty-three pages, including black-and-white stills from some of the bank security cameras, and eyewitness testimony. Even with a cursory look she could see the narratives were composed by no-nonsense agents who’d taken their time and written in complete sentences. Not the sketchy, dashed-off police report lingo she was used to seeing and guilty of writing herself more than once.
“The file,” she said, in answer to Parker’s questioning look. “Panther’s.”
They were both dressed in black, riding in the Toyota rental. A single morning to throw together Diana’s service, phone all her friends, write the obituary. Aching every second for any word on Gracey. But nothing came.
The affair was at the Granada Country Club. Manhattans and vodka gimlets, finger sandwiches. How Diana would want it, Parker said. No church affiliation. No other surviving kin to invite. Just her golf friends and her bridge cronies. A few toasts and everybody could trot off to the front nine.
For the last sixteen hours every throb of blood through Charlotte’s brain had spoken Gracey’s name. A fog had settled over her, a twitching impatience to kick it into gear, be doing something, anything, to find her runaway girl. But what was there? Drive aimlessly up I-95, searching for a silver Jaguar? Go rummaging through every goddamn cave in the Carolina wilderness?
That’s what Mildred Pierce would have done. Let go of everything, rush off in a blind, flailing, self-destructive panic, crazed to rescue her Veda. But Charlotte wasn’t Mildred. The last fifteen years of police work had made her averse to impulse.
In his dull-eyed state, Parker continually repeated Sheffield’s bullshit about twenty-four hours, eighty percent of all runaways turned around and came home. Like some statistical mantra could soothe their anguish.
All through the night he had sobbed beside her in their bed. For hours at a time Charlotte held him tightly as the rhythmic waves of grief crashed over him. But she had shed no tears. From the very moment she’d seen Diana’s body, her emotions had shut down. A professional detachment had kicked in, that central dogma of good police work—stay cool. But this time, distancing herself from the events didn’t quite work. She was feeling dizzy and dislocated, as if floating several feet above her body’s current position.
As Parker was pulling into a space in the country-club lot, Charlotte’s phone vibrated and she plucked it out of her purse.
In a sober voice Sheffield said, “They found the car. Your mother-in-law’s Jaguar. Northern outskirts of Jacksonville. Parking lot of a Holiday Inn along I-95 near the airport. No sign of struggle. Just sitting there.”
“When?”
“Sunup this morning. It might’ve gone unnoticed for a while except a delivery truck bumped the back fender and the driver filed a report. Took a few hours, but eventually the crack law enforcement types up there ran the plates and we got the call.”
“Jacksonville.” She said it half to Parker, half to herself, trying to unravel it. Then to Parker, “They found the car, nothing else.”
“Oh, there was something else,” Sheffield said. “Activity on her credit card.”
Charlotte said, “Tell me, Frank.”
“Just got off the phone with MasterCard security. A fill-up at an Exxon station in Vero. Breakfast at a Cracker Barrel near Daytona.”
“Ate at Cracker Barrel,” Charlotte said to Parker.
“She loves that stupid place,” he said.
“That sound like her?” Sheffield asked.
Charlotte said yes, it did.
“Is it normal these days,” Frank said, “a sixteen-year-old girl has her own credit card?”
“Normal, Frank? What’s that?”
“You sure she didn’t witness the murder? That she was gone already?”
“That’s what Diana told us. She could’ve been gone for as much as half an hour before it happened.”
He thought about it for a second, then said, “Daughter of a cop. Knows there’d be an APB, so she ditches the car. Or maybe Panther gave her instructions to do that.”
“We don’t know her note’s true, Frank. We don’t know Panther is involved in this in any way. The girl’s delusional. She could scribble down one thing in a note, do something totally different. Meeting her brother in a cave, that could be a complete fantasy.”
Charlotte watched the parade of old folks entering the country club. Most wearing the bright, unnatural pinks and lime greens of the golf course. In solidarity with Diana. What she would’ve worn for their funerals.
“You check the Holiday Inn, surrounding motels?”
“No need for that,” he said. “Same credit card was used for cab fare from a location near that Holiday Inn to the Jacksonville Greyhound station.”
“And the bus ticket? There a record?”
“Apparently she used cash.”
“Thecabdriver?”
“One of our guys talked to him, yeah.”
“She was alone?”
“That was our first question, too. Yeah, she was by herself. So she’s not being coerced. Officially, we can’t treat this as a kidnapping. It’s a runaway. In fact, the cabbie said she seemed in good spirits. Talkative. Very upbeat. A smart girl, full of sass, that’s how he put it.”
“What’d she talk about?”
She heard Frank paging through his notes.
“Movies, actors. That sort of thing. Small talk.”
“What about the bus station? Somebody had to notice her.”
“Mexican woman, one of the cleaning crew, notices a girl—seventeen, she thought, maybe eighteen—blond hair, pretty. Girl took a nap on a bench at the station around dawn this morning, then apparently hopped a bus sometime after that. Somewhere between dawn and right now.”
“How many buses we talking about? Morning departures.”
“Way too many to flag them all down, if that’s what you mean. Locals, express. She could’ve already switched from one bus to another. They do a lot of business through there.”
“You bastard. This suits you just fine, doesn’t it?”
“Why would you say a thing like that?”
“You’re banking on Gracey leading you to your boy. Probably got agents at every bus stop along the way from Jacksonville to North Carolina. See if she gets off, then follow her.”
“If we find your girl, we return her immediately. The government doesn’t use sixteen-year-olds as decoys. You think I’m that kind of asshole?”
“I hope not, Frank. I sure as hell hope not.”
Charlotte was trying to imagine Gracey’s state of mind. Full of sass? Was that real or an act she was doing for the cabbie? At least her head was clear enough to navigate three hundred miles north along a busy interstate at night. She was a very smart girl, very competent in lots of ways despite having a serious mental illness. There was no way to know if the note was true and Gracey was headed to see Jacob Panther. No way Charlotte could read the girl’s intentions at this distance. It was hard enough to do that when she was in the same room.
“I’ll let that slide,” Frank said. “So tell me, Monroe, she have a driver’s license? Maybe some kind of fake ID says she’s eighteen?”
“She’s got a learner’s permit. No fake ID I know of.”
“But she looks eighteen?”
“Depends on who’s looking. But yeah, she could pass. Why?”
“I was thinking she might appear young enough, it could register with somebody along the way. They’d think something wasn’t right, make a call, stop her, and ask some questions.”
“She could pass,” Charlotte said. “The right makeup. Even without it.”
“She have access to a lot of cash? Savings? Or anything missing from your mother-in-law’s?”
“Not that I know of. She might’ve saved a little from her allowance. But not more than a hundred or so. She’s not a thrifty girl
.”
“Well, that’sit then.”
“What about the ax? No prints were there?”
“They’re looking at some fibers, hairs, But nothing yet.”
Parker was staring out the windshield, submerged in his dull trance.
Still staring forward, Parker said, “Ask Sheffield why the guy uses a blowgun one time, hatchet the next.”
She passed along the question, and Sheffield said, “Different locations. He has no choice in the airport—got to use something that gives him a chance to melt away. At your mother-in-law’s he didn’t care if things got messy.”
She relayed that to Parker, but he shook his head firmly.
“Different MO equals different killer.”
Already building his case.
“And for godsakes, Diana was his grandmother. Why would he attack her? Where’s the motive?”
“Why would he blow up banks, Parker? Kill some guy at the airport?”
Parker shook his head firmly, having none of it.
Charlotte asked Frank if there was any more. There wasn’t. He did a quick condolence on Diana.
“I got your package,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Which package was that?”
“Panther’s files.”
“All I did,” Sheffield said, “I passed on the message to Mears, and stepped back out of range. For the record, this little deal’s between you and the high-and-mighties, okay? If there’s blowback, it’s going to singe their butt hairs, not mine.”
“I appreciate it anyway, Frank.”
“Thing is, Officer Monroe, and let’s underscore this in big red Magic Marker, okay? I’m keeping you in the loop because you’re the anxious parent of a runaway kid. But if a parent was all you were, you know damn well I wouldn’t be sharing as much detail. I think you understand what I’m saying.”
Charlotte choked back a flare of anger, then drew a measured breath.
“Thanks for keeping me informed, Frank. Anything else you get, day or night, I want to hear about it.”
“That goes double for you, Monroe. Double. And please tell me you got that gizmo on you?”
“I got it, Frank. Everywhere I go.”
“Press it, green light comes on, bingo, we’re there. Don’t even have to say a word.”
“Bye, Frank. Always a pleasure.”
Fifteen
Frank Sheffield shut his phone and joined Special Agent Joe Roth at the walkway in front of the Cherokee police department. Local tribal cops in their navy blues were coming and going, shooting Roth and him surly looks.
Across the street was the Cherokee history museum, and on the other side of the road there was a shabby restaurant and a ticket office for the local outdoor pageant. Frank could see the silver flicker of moving water through the trees. The Oconaluftee River, he’d been told. Strange turf, all in all. Mountains, giant trees, cold dry air for June. Hardly any traffic except around the casino. And all those Indians drifting around—handsome people, but not a lot of cheerfulness in the air.
Roth was winding down his own phone call, the last few “okays” before signing off. Joe was a stocky man—five six, five seven—and built like a Little League hammer thrower. Thick neck, stubby arms. Sheffield and Roth might’ve been a comic tag team. Chop them high, chop them low.
Both agents were in jeans and different shades of blue button-downs. The Carolina uniform, he’d been told. Try to blend in. Though Sheffield could see that wasn’t working worth a damn.
Roth finished his call and nodded to two more officers passing by. Got the same frosty response as they pushed open the front door and went inside.
“Friendly town.”
Roth shook his head helplessly.
“Local law enforcement hasn’t taken a cotton to us city folks.”
“Taken a cotton?”
“I’m trying to adopt the native tongue.”
“Oh, I bet that goes over big.”
Roth clicked his phone, looking for messages, then slid it into his pocket.
“We’ve worn out our welcome. Last year looking for Panther, all the questions, poking around, city attitude. Bound to happen.”
“From the looks of it, if one of these guys knew where Panther was, you’d be the last person they’d tell.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“So we going in or what?”
“Quick warning, Frank. You knew the sheriff’s an identical twin to Martin Tribue, your victim.”
“I heard that, yeah.”
“Just thought I should warn you. Walking in, seeing this guy after you been looking at photos of his mirror image on a slab, it might spook you.”
“You’re a warm and caring person, Joe.”
“One other thing,” Roth said. “Sheriff’s kind of an oddball. Got a serious case of the weirds, but he’s competent enough. Runs a tight ship.”
“I take it he’s not a Cherokee?”
“No.” Roth smiled. “Only white guy on the force.”
“Elected?”
“No, hired by the tribe. An employee. They got themselves a sovereign nation here. Write all their own laws, got their own employment practices. Affirmative action times ten. It’s total Indian preference, written right into the statutes. Casino, fire department, anything operated by the tribe, got to let the Cherokee get first in line.”
“I got no problem with that. Time they had a break.”
“Sure, whatever.” Roth checked his watch. “The guy’s waiting.”
“So let me guess how he got the job, being a white guy. It have anything to do with his old man being Otis Tribue?”
Roth nodded at a couple of cops coming up the stairs to the office. Same sullen hellos came back.
“Didn’t hurt,” Roth said. “Last thirty years his father runs the show around here. Eleventh district, Republican congressman.”
“So much for Indian preference,” said Sheffield.
“Never hurts if Daddy breaks bread at the White House now and again.”
“Man, I could use one of those daddies,” Sheffield said.
The interior of the police department had all the charm of a fifties ranch, with brown shag in the offices and an avocado refrigerator in the lunchroom. Stone Age computers atop all the desks. Tacked up on one wall was a kid’s finger painting, but that was about it for artwork.
The sheriff’s office was a little better. A window that looked toward the river, a wide desk cluttered with papers. Some family photos. But still frugal, all in all a gloomy-ass place to work, in Sheffield’s estimation.
Sheriff Farris Tribue was indeed an identical copy of his brother. Taller than Sheffield by a few inches, with the kind of body Frank associated with bronc riders. All gristle and tendon. Late forties. A long, bony Abe Lincoln face with a bulky jaw and dark, close-set eyes. His ears cupped out like small hands, and the bluish shadow of his beard was showing already at noon.
Two white standard poodles that had been lying on the linoleum behind the sheriff’s desk rose, came to attention, and sauntered around the desk.
“Don’t mind them,” Tribue said. “They’re harmless.”
While the dogs took turns sniffing Sheffield’s crotch, Sheriff Tribue held out a huge mitt, which swallowed Frank’s hand as they shook. The sheriff held the grip a few seconds longer than necessary. Tugging Frank an inch or two off balance till his thighs were pressed awkwardly against the edge of the sheriff’s desk. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. But Sheffield was still pissed off even before the guy opened his mouth.
“Special Agent Sheffield’s up from the Miami field office.”
The sheriff nodded his greeting.
“My sincere regrets on the loss of your brother, Martin.”
The sheriff thanked Sheffield, his face blank. He waved the agents into the folding metal chairs across from his desk. Sheffield’s was a size too small, making him feel suddenly like a third grader called before the principal. Which he supposed was the intention.
&
nbsp; The two poodles stood side by side watching Frank, at eye level now. They were weird-ass dogs, sizing him up like he might be on the dinner menu.
“I assume you want to know if I have any thoughts on why Jacob Panther might want to murder my brother.”
“Good place to start.”
“I have absolutely no idea. I’ve given it a great deal of reflection, but I can’t fathom it.”
“Did they know each other? Before Panther went on the run, I mean.”
“It’s a small town, Agent Sheffield. Everyone knows everyone.”
“But there was no history between them? Animosity?”
“They traveled in different social circles,” the sheriff said. “As far as I know, Martin and Panther had no contact whatsoever.”
Sheffield shifted in his puny chair and watched the guy. He wore the same dark-navy uniform as the other cops. Nice, crisp Windsor knot hugged tight to his throat. A little more gold sprinkled around than on the noncoms. Sidearm was a chunky SIG Sauer .357 in a polished leather holster. Sheffield wasn’t sure why the guy irritated him so much. The undersized chair, that handshake game. But it was something more than that. Smugness radiating off his flesh like a bad smell.
As if following some silent command, the dogs turned away from Sheffield and returned to their spots on either side of the sheriff’s desk.
Roth was quiet, letting Sheffield take the lead.
“Your brother, Martin, he ran a construction company? Tribue Engineering?”
“That’s right.”
“Office buildings, that sort of thing?”
“Commercial, residential, parking lots. Whatever needed building, Martin could handle it. Housing developments, swimming pools, anything.”
“Successful business?”
“Like any company, there have been good times and bad.”
“Maybe Panther did carpenter work, day laborer, anything like that? He might have a run-in with the boss?”
The sheriff shook his head.
“Barroom fights, girlfriends? Something out of left field that might tie them together?”
“If there was anything like that, I can’t think what it is. Believe me, I’ve racked my brain. But no, I’m aware of absolutely no reason why Jacob Panther, or anyone else for that matter, might want to kill my brother. He was a gentle spirit. A kind and generous soul.”
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