Tell Me

by Lisa Jackson

  He snorted. “That snob? Alexander Whatever? Yeah, she thought he walked on water, even after she got put away for life. Somehow she didn’t blame him. I told her to find someone new to represent her, to file an appeal with some big gun from New York or Chicago or Atlanta, but she wasn’t interested. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn she was in love with him.”

  “But you did? Know better?”

  “I know about the rumors, but I didn’t want to think about them. Legally, it was a nightmare, right? Anyway, what happened between them, she never said, but I do believe she was half in love with him, as much as she could be. Look, I gotta go,” he said, catching a harsh glare from Chet, who once again appeared in the doorway. “This job is important to me.”

  “Just one more thing,” she said quickly, thinking of the viper in her car. “Amity was bitten by a snake before she died. Did Blondell ever talk about that?”

  “Only that she’s deathly afraid of all kinds of snakes. Hates ’em,” he said, “Would turn the TV to another channel if a snake came into view, and visibly cringed when one was mentioned. Now, look, I really have to go.” He didn’t wait, but slipped back into the interior of the cavernous garage, and Nikki, hearing the crows cawing as they returned, made her way back to the car. All the while, she tried to tell herself that her uncle had not been involved with his client, that he wouldn’t have betrayed his marriage or his professional reputation, that his rumored romance with Blondell O’Henry was just that—pure, spiteful gossip.

  But now she wasn’t as convinced.

  Too many people, including Larry Thompson, believed differently.

  She thought of her uncle as he had been twenty years earlier. Tall. Strapping. Successful. With a winning demeanor and a killer smile.

  As she climbed into her rental car, she realized that everything she’d believed for most of her life had been a lie.

  December 15th

  Fifth Interview

  This is difficult.

  Harder than I imagined.

  I’ve come here and tried to reach out to this woman, only to be thwarted at every turn. The prison walls are getting to me, the smell of pine cleaner not able to cover the smell of body odors and despair. I cannot imagine how she can stand to be locked away, but there she sits, her face impassive through the glass, her pain, if there is any, well hidden.

  Why?

  It doesn’t matter any longer. I’m done. I’ll write my story the way I want to, and she can sit in silence behind these thick, concrete-and-steel walls.

  Trying to communicate with a woman whose heart has turned to stone is just too much for me. I’m tired of arguing and certainly tired of pleading, but most of all, I’m tired of the lies. So many lies.

  My attempts to be fair and to tell her side of the story, to let her explain what she did, to try and exonerate herself, have gone unheeded. As if it’s all a game. As if playing along will ensure that I return.

  The woman behind the glass can rot in hell for the rest of her life, if she wants to.

  “This is the last time,” I tell her from my side of the glass, the old receiver resting against my ear, the muted conversations of others reaching me. “I’ve tried my best to give you every chance to tell your side of things, to explain about your children, to come clean, but you aren’t interested.” Sighing, I lay it out to her in the only terms I think she’ll understand. “I can only surmise that you just don’t care what the world thinks.”

  For the first time, a blaze of indignation flares in her eyes, and her lips tighten almost imperceptibly. “So I’m writing the book the way I see it,” I continue. “I hope you can live with that.”

  The face cracks just slightly, a bit of sadness showing. “I’ve lived with far worse,” she says to me, her voice as hollow as her eyes. “This is nothing.”

  “So be it.” I start to hang up, but she taps on the glass and her eyes, for a second, soften.

  “I loved my children! That’s all anyone has to know, all you have to know. I loved them!”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Here’s the receipt.” Max slid a copy of an itemized sales slip across a glass display case to Reed. Barely twenty-five if he was a day, Max Huber was the owner and manager of Max’s Spy World, a shop dedicated to surveillance equipment and decorated with posters from James Bond movies. The display cases held all kinds of cameras, listening gear, mini-computers, phones, tiny microphones, night-vision goggles, and even some drones marketed as toys. Max’s red hair was cropped short, his soul patch thin, his skin fighting a losing battle with acne.

  “I can give you a copy of the surveillance tape for that day,” he said, pointing to the date on the receipt. “Since I’m in the biz, I run surveillance twenty-four/seven on the shop. Got lots of equipment that people might like to steal.” He lifted his shoulders. “Want a copy? It’ll just take a second. All filed digitally, and since the guy came in less than two weeks ago, right at my fingertips. Just give me a sec . . .”

  Before Reed could answer, Max hit a few buttons on a computer at the desk and seconds later handed Reed a small jump drive. “I remember this dude. He was like, really nervous. Asked a butt-load of questions, but was kind of a cheap-ass. I could see he wanted the better camera, but he wasn’t going to part with the bucks, but hey, y’know, ya get what ya pay for. He asked about a GPS tracking device too, to hide in the undercarriage of a car or something, but opted out, said he could use the phone.” His mouth twisted. “I couldn’t talk him into the GPS, but hey, what’re ya gonna do?”

  “Thanks,” Reed said.

  “Hey, any time. And if the department ever needs state of the art equipment, I’ve got it. I can make a deal for Savannah’s finest.”

  “I’ll bet,” Morrisette said under her breath, a comment that was no doubt caught and amplified by the microphones and video equipment in the store. A little louder, as they walked through the glass door, she added, “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  Outside, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and a few errant rays were reflecting on puddles drying in the parking lot. “ ‘Never stop selling’ must be his motto,” Morrisette said. “The kid’s got moxie, I’ll give him that.”

  Once inside the car, she started the engine. “You’re not saying much. You know the guy who bought the stuff?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Reed said, still thinking it over.

  “You gonna tell me?”

  He pocketed the disk and receipt. “On the way to the place where he works.”

  “You know where that is?”

  “That I do,” he said, and looked as if he could eat steel and spit nails. “Let’s go.”

  Nikki flew down the highway, pushing the rental car and the speed limit as her thoughts burned through her brain, thoughts she hadn’t wanted to consider. Had her uncle really been involved with Blondell O’Henry? Is that why she chose him as her attorney rather than some high-profile criminal lawyer who would have loved to have made his name representing a beautiful woman accused of the most atrocious of crimes, a monster who was nearly movie-star gorgeous?

  If so, Nikki wondered, had her parents known? Her father, the judge who presided over the trial? The prosecution? Garland Brownell, the district attorney?

  She saw a patrol car on the highway ahead, checked her speedometer, and saw she was fifteen miles above the speed limit. “Damn,” she muttered, but lucked out as the patrolman had already pulled someone else over. Slow down. You’ll get there; five or ten minutes one way or another won’t make any difference. You’re not Danica Frickin’ Patrick, for crying out loud!

  Her phone rang, and she popped in her ear device, then answered. “Gillette.”

  “I guess I’ll forgive you for standing me up,” Trina said, a smile in her voice. “A snake in the car trumps a friend at the bar any day. So how’re you doing today?”

  “Busy and lucky. Almost got a ticket. Just passed a state cop doing a few miles over the limit.”

  “Yikes. Slow down, lead foot.�
�

  “Believe me, I am. So how about we have that drink tomorrow?” Nikki asked, with one eye on the speedometer. “Tonight I’m booked.”

  “With that hunk of a cop, I hope.”

  “Not quite. The hunk part is probably right, though, of course I wouldn’t really know as I’m an engaged woman these days, but the cop part is off. I think he tried to be one once and it didn’t work out for some reason.” Damn but the speedometer kept inching up. “I’m talking about Holt Beauregard.”

  “Ahh . . . The black sheep of the Beauregards?”

  “Could be a whole flock in that family.”

  Trina laughed. “You’re right. But there is a reason I called, you know, and it’s because of the whole snake thing.”

  “Yeah?” Nikki forced herself to stay in the slow lane even though the guy in front of her in an aging Pontiac was taking the speed limit literally.

  “This is probably nothing,” Trina was saying, “but a guy by the name of Alfred Necarney died today, at a hospital in north Georgia.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I know. No one has. His home is an old family spread located in the hills outside of Dahlonga. First report is that he’s an Army veteran who lived alone, kind of a hermit. His sister hadn’t heard from him for a few days, got worried, and found him near dead from a blow to the head; he died at the hospital.”

  Where was this going? “And?”

  “So far, the news is sketchy, but he ran an interesting side business. He sold snakes for a living, completely black market, under the radar.”

  Nikki’s hands tightened over the wheel. “And?” she said again.

  “And a lot of the snakes were let loose, running, er, slithering around free. They hadn’t bitten him, the theory being that he was just lying on the floor, unconscious, not threatening, so they left him alone, just sidled up to him for warmth. Anyway, either he lifted the lids from their cages or someone else did and let them out.”

  “What?” Nikki’s pulse elevated a bit.

  “From what I can piece together, they’re trying to figure out how he slipped and hit his head and knocked off not one, but several lids of the terrariums he kept them in.”

  “Not likely,” Nikki said.

  “Uh-huh, and when the animal handlers came to recapture the snakes, six seemed to be missing from their marked cages.”

  Nikki felt both dread and exhilaration steal through her. Maybe they were on the verge of some answers.

  “Three coral snakes and the same number of copperheads,” Trina went on. “Two of which, I’m thinking, maybe you met last night. Could be a coincidence, I suppose.”

  “No. Someone stole the snakes from Necarney, murdered him, then came back to Savannah and slipped one into the cabin and another in my car.” Nikki was certain.

  “That’s what I think,” Trina agreed. “Your buddies from last night had to come from somewhere. Even if you argued that the copperhead in the cabin could have been there for a while, had a nest or whatever, it is November, and don’t they like hibernate or something in the cold weather?”

  “Or something,” she agreed. Geez, could the guy in front of her go any slower?

  “And there’s just no way one got into your car without a little help.”

  “You got that right,” she agreed grimly.

  “So far the police upstate are investigating, and there’s no official word, but the sister, her name is Nola-Mae Pitman, has been spouting off. I found her number—she’s in the book—so I’ll text it to you just in case you want to give her a call.”

  “Thanks. I do.”

  “And by the way, Effie’s been hanging around. Of course, she asked all about you and what happened last night.”

  “I guess that was to be expected,” Nikki said, her mind on other topics.

  “Yeah, I know, but some of the questions were kind of personal. She was all about who owned the cabin and how you were related and why you were there.”

  The driver ahead of Nikki slowed yet again. She couldn’t stand it, checked her mirror, and blew around the guy, who obviously didn’t know his old GTO had been considered a muscle car in its day and should be driven faster than fifty friggin’ miles an hour.

  “I don’t know what Effie’s deal is,” Nikki admitted, tucking back into the lane and slowing a bit.

  “I told her to take it all up with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s also all over the Blondell O’Henry release tomorrow. I guess the blogosphere is blowing up about it.”

  “Major news.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay. I’ll deal with it when I get there. I’m on my way back—oh, crap!” In her rearview mirror she saw flashing lights and, glancing down at her dash, realized she was once again speeding ten miles over the limit. “Talk to you later.” She slowed, hearing the siren screaming as she pulled over, and wondered how in the world she’d talk herself out of the ticket. It crossed her mind to use Reed’s name and title at the department, but she decided that was too low; it would put everyone on the spot. Heart sinking, nerves stretched, she waited . . . but the cop car shot by at a speed that far exceeded her max. Letting out her breath, she noticed that the other cars on the road ahead of her, which had also slowed onto the shoulder, were ignored as well.

  Pulling into traffic again, she forced herself to drive at the speed limit as she headed back to Savannah and wondered who had put a snake from the hills around Dahlonga in her car.

  “What is this?” Charles Arbuckle demanded, shooting up from the leather chair behind his desk as Morrisette and Reed strode into his expansive corner office with a wide view of the river.

  “I tried to stop them!” a petite receptionist said in her high-pitched voice. She was wearing five-inch heels, a short dress, and a telephone headset that barely disturbed her shaggy, streaked hair. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Arbuckle, they just barged right in after I told them you were busy.” Indignation poured off of one hundred pounds of her. “I can call the police.”

  “We’re already here,” Morrisette said, showing her badge.

  “Oh.” The receptionist, flustered, her gaze glued to the badge, actually gulped back anything else she’d planned to say.

  “It’s all right, Daisy,” Arbuckle said, holding up a staying hand. “Really. Just close the door and postpone my next appointment.”

  “With the Quinns? Really?” She looked positively stricken and glared at Reed and Morrisette as if they were emissaries from Satan himself.

  “Yes, Daisy, please,” Arbuckle said firmly, though obviously it pained him to waylay clients of the Quinns’ stature, whatever that might be.

  Reed didn’t give a damn.

  The starch having seeped out of her, Daisy left, pulling the door shut behind her. Once it closed, Arbuckle said stiffly, “What can I do for you?” Then before they could respond, he read the serious expression on their faces and said, “Do I need a lawyer?” He looked from Morrisette to Reed. “Because it sure feels like I should call my attorney.”

  Morrisette said, “Only if you have something to hide.”

  “Of course not!” He was emphatic, even offended, but as if he realized how sharply he was reacting, he dialed his attitude down a bit. “I mean, I don’t even understand why you’re here.”

  “Well, let’s clear that much up.” Reed retrieved the receipt from Max’s Spy World from his pocket. “It seems that you purchased camera equipment used to spy on Nicole Gillette, your landlord. You probably recognize me, as I’m sure you filmed me too when I was there.”

  Arbuckle turned white as a proverbial ghost, and he nearly collapsed into his chair. “Just my luck, a cop,” he said, and waved them into the plush visitors’ chairs positioned across the expanse of polished rosewood that was his desk. “Oh, dear God. Look, I understand, but it was a mistake,” he said to begin with, not denying anything.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  He closed his eyes, and his hands on the arms o
f his chair clenched into fists. “I was just trying to spy on my apartment, not hers, not Nikki’s.”

  “You were photographing your own place?” Reed asked skeptically. He was holding down his escalating temper with an effort.

  Arbuckle exhaled and looked out the window for a second, his eyes following a fishing vessel as it headed downstream, though Reed bet he wasn’t seeing the boat. “It’s my wife. She . . . Oh, God, this is so damned . . . she’s been . . . unhappy and the word ‘divorce’ has come up a few times. I think she might be seeing someone, so I thought I’d find out for myself.”

  Reed said, “By taking pictures of Nikki Gillette’s apartment?”

  “I told you it was a mistake. The angle was all off!” Arbuckle said. “I told that idiot Donnigan I wanted to look into our unit. Our bedroom, but what can I say, he’s a moron. I don’t know why I trusted that pothead in the first place!”

  “You asked Leon Donnigan to help you?”

  “Not just asked him: I paid him!” Arbuckle admitted, folding his arms over his chest. “So I guess I’m the idiot.” He let out a long sigh. “Look, I’m no computer geek, okay? I do investments and I’m very good at it. But I can’t program computers or hook up cameras or locate wireless signals or do whatever it is I needed to do to spy on my own apartment, and Donnigan, he’s a real nerd; holes up in his bedroom and plays war games or whatever online, spends his time fixing computers and he’s always strapped for cash, so, I thought, ‘He’s right downstairs. Let him do the work.’ But he fuck—fouled up. I figured it out when the first images came in, but by then someone had already taken down the cameras.” He actually seemed a bit contrite. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t see much, just Nikki at her computer.” He actually had the decency to blush a little.

  “Still, an invasion of privacy.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. When I saw the first pictures, I flipped out, couldn’t believe it, and I told Donnigan to take the cameras down, but by then, it was too late. You and your officers had already done that. I didn’t know who had removed them, but I figured it wasn’t good.” He looked defeated. “If you talk to Donnigan he’ll confirm all this.”