The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  “Mr. Parsons,” Ashlock said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t call Ms. Arnold stupid.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ms. Arnold is the smartest woman of my acquaintance. It’s offensive to me, hearing you talk to her that way.”

  Madeleine told him in a whisper, “Detective Ashlock and Ms. Arnold are good friends.” After a moment’s pause, she repeated, “Very good friends.”

  Parsons looked at Elsie with a knowing eye. “I see. I see I see I see.” He leaned back in his chair, tipping it so that the wooden back rested against the wall. “Ladies and gentleman, you have pulled me into a can of worms.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Madeleine said.

  “A hornets’ nest,” he said. “A nest of vipers. I can already feel the sting, the bite.”

  “Samuel, please understand I didn’t withhold this information from you; when I asked for your assistance I didn’t know.”

  He reached out a large hand and squeezed Madeleine’s knee. “No need to apologize. I like a challenge. And by God, this case is a challenge.” He gave Madeleine’s knee one last squeeze, and then rubbed his hands together. With a nod in Elsie’s direction, he said, “So—­Ms. Arnold, is it? Elsie? The smartest woman this detective has ever known?” He stopped to grin at Ashlock. “Tell you what we’re gonna do. We are going to suck the poison on this snakebite.”

  Elsie nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  Parsons leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Want to know how? We are throwing her to the sharks.”

  So many animal metaphors, Elsie thought. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “We won’t give the defense the chance to slice and dice this gal. We’ll gut her first. Throw her to the dogs.”

  Dogs, sharks, Elsie thought, but his intention was clear. “Are you going to attack the victim in a murder case? Our murder case?”

  “I’m going to call her every name in the book. We don’t need her.”

  Elsie blinked. Shaking her head, she said, “You’ve lost me. Of course we need her. The case is about the crime committed against her. She was beaten to death.”

  “She’s a pimple on society’s ass. Pregnant woman doing drugs—­not fit to breathe the same air as the rest of us. But fortunately, we can raise up another victim: a blameless victim, who didn’t do anything to deserve his fate. The baby.”

  Madeleine stared at him in awe. “The unborn child. Sam, that’s brilliant.”

  “And I can pull in the troops to give us a hand in that regard.” Parsons looked over his eyeglass frames at Madeleine. Elsie thought perhaps he was trying to look shrewd; but he came off as popeyed. “I have connections with the Missouri Right to Life.”

  “Sam, that’s wonderful.” Madeleine beamed at him.

  “We’ll have ­people storming the courthouse to demand justice for that unborn child.”

  As Parsons laid out his plan, Elsie’s jaw locked. She exchanged a glance with Ashlock, then she said, “No one deserves to be bludgeoned to death. This woman was beaten to death with a baseball bat. And now you’re going to bludgeon her in court?”

  “Watch the master at work. Listen and learn.” Turning to Ashlock, he said, “Well, Detective, is there any other good news you have to share with us today?”

  “The lab found the presence of semen in the deceased. She’d had sexual intercourse shortly before death.”

  Parsons groaned. “Beg pardon, ladies, but who would want to screw a big old pregnant lady with AIDS?”

  Elsie looked to Madeleine, hoping that her boss would raise an objection on behalf of their deceased victim, but she remained mum. With a sigh of frustration, Elsie flipped through the pages of the report, scanning them for the information Ashlock described. “Ashlock, I didn’t catch that, about the semen, but it’s good: good for the prosecution. Because it shows that their relationship was intact. What kind of monster has sex with a woman and then beats her to death?”

  “Well, that’s a problem. The semen doesn’t match the defendant.”

  Samuel Parsons snorted. “What a whore.”

  Elsie gasped, an involuntary breath catching in her throat.

  “Good thing we’ve got that unborn baby. Get any good pictures of it? Make it look sweet? We need it in one piece.”

  Bile rose in Elsie’s throat as Parsons spoke; she swallowed it back.

  Parsons rubbed a finger under his nose. He said, “What about the little girl, that daughter of the victim? Is the defendant her daddy?”

  “No,” Madeleine said. “Different father.”

  “Good. No divided loyalty. I flipped through your file, looking for the child’s statement, but I didn’t see it in there.”

  “That’s Elsie’s responsibility. The child witness will be hers.”

  Parsons pulled a stick of gum from the pocket of his jacket. He wadded the gum wrapper and tossed it at Elsie. “How about it, Elsie? Where’s that statement?”

  “I haven’t taken it yet.”

  He looked at her with amazement. “Just what are you waiting for?”

  Elsie said, “I’m still establishing a relationship,” but he cut her off.

  “Are you waiting for her memory to improve? Maybe you think the passage of time will sharpen her recall of past events. You think that’s how it works?”

  “Generally, no. But with a child—­”

  “With a child, you better nail it down immediately. Because who knows what the hell they’ll say later.” He hefted himself out of the chair, saying, “Okay then, let’s go.”

  Madeleine jumped out of her chair, saying, “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to see that little girl and lock her testimony down. Right now. What did you say her name is?”

  “Ivy,” Madeleine said. “Ivy Dent,” she repeated, as she and Parsons exited the office and strode down the hallway. With a dark look aimed at Parsons’s back, Elsie followed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elsie was still grousing when Ashlock pulled up to Ivy’s foster home. “What a total fuckwad.”

  As Ashlock put his car in Park, his eyes met hers. “You got that right.”

  “How am I going to work with him?” She picked a small CVS bag off the dash and stuffed it in her purse.

  “Remember the goal, that’s all. This case isn’t a party. And it’s not a sprint. It’s a marathon. And you’re trying to see justice done.”

  Privately, Elsie wondered how many more metaphors she would hear by the day’s end. But she nodded in agreement. “That’s right, Ash. I’ve got to keep my head wrapped around that, and ignore the personality shit.”

  “That’s my girl.” He opened the car door and gave her a wink. “Let’s get in there before they scare the kid to death.”

  Elsie and Ashlock made their way to the front door. Through the screen, Elsie could see Madeleine and Samuel Parsons sitting on the sofa in the living room. When she pushed the door bell, Madeleine came to open it. “What took you all so long?”

  Her voice was less waspish than the tone Elsie was accustomed to hearing; she attributed it to Ashlock’s presence.

  He spoke up. “We made a quick pit stop.” As Ashlock and Elsie walked into the room, he nodded in Parsons’s direction, giving a silent acknowledgment. The foster mother, Holly Hickman, bustled into the room, bearing a wicker tray with four plastic tumblers. “I made tea,” she announced.

  When she set the tray on the coffee table, Parsons picked up a tumbler, and said in a voice of gratitude, “You are an excellent hostess, Mrs. Hickman. I’m parched.” He took a big swig from the ice-­filled glass.

  “Oh,” Holly said modestly. “No trouble. It’s just instant.”

  Madeleine rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “We should get started.”

  “Where’s Ivy?” Elsie asked.

  “Oh
gosh,” Holly answered, her face contrite, “she won’t come out. She’s acting shy. I thought we’d give her a minute.”

  “You are a sweetheart, Mrs. Hickman, that’s a fact. But why don’t you run on back and try again,” Parsons urged.

  As soon as the woman left the room, he pointed at the glass of tea in his hand and made a face, sticking out his tongue and shaking his head. Madeleine giggled like a girl in middle school.

  Ash’s features were stony as he averted his face from the pantomime. Elsie raised her glass and took a sip. Admittedly, the beverage was vile: sickly sweet, with a harsh lemony tang. She swallowed it, refusing to meet Parsons’s eye. Dick, she thought.

  Mrs. Hickman returned, pulling a reluctant Ivy in her wake. Parsons rose, and said in a pleasant voice, “Well, hello there, young lady.”

  Dinosaur, Elsie thought, nobody calls a kid “young lady”; but she smiled so hard she feared her cheek muscles would spasm.

  Ivy pulled her hand free of the foster mother’s grasp. From the look in her eyes, Elsie thought she might flee; but the girl backed into the corner where a small TV sat on a particleboard stand and dropped cross-­legged onto the green carpet.

  Parsons and Madeleine exchanged a glance. Sotto voce he said, “Tell the cop to start recording.”

  Madeleine nodded, and turned to Ashlock; without comment, he pulled a recorder from his briefcase. A small end table was close by Ivy’s position on the floor. Ashlock set the recording device on the table and flipped it on. Parsons picked up a wooden dining room chair and placed it near Ivy. He turned the chair backwards and straddled it, resting his arms on the chair back.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Mr. Parsons.”

  Ivy studied him, scratching at a rashy spot beside her nose.

  “I bet your name’s Ivy,” he said.

  There was a long pause before she replied. “Maybe,” she said.

  He cocked his head to one side, aping disbelief. “Maybe? Maybe? I bet a hundred dollars it’s Ivy.”

  She stared through the broken glasses. “I ain’t got a hundred dollars,” she said.

  At that, Parsons whooped. The sudden noise made Elsie jolt backwards in her seat.

  “You’re a little feist,” he said. “Gonna have to watch what I say.” Suddenly, his jolly demeanor disappeared, replaced by a grave and solemn countenance.

  “Ivy, I hear you lost your mother.”

  She turned her head toward the picture window.

  “Now, don’t look away. I know it’s a sad, sad thing to lose your mother. But I’m a lawyer all the way from the State Capitol. You know where that is?”

  Idiot, Elsie thought. How the hell would this first grader know the State Capitol?

  When Ivy shook her head, Parsons said, “It’s in Jefferson City, Missouri. Can you say Jefferson City?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Elsie yelped with involuntary laughter. She tried to cover it with a cough when Madeleine turned a scorching eye on her.

  Parsons sighed. “Well, that’s fine. But I came from the State Capitol because I’m going to help put the man who hurt your mom in jail. And you are going to help me.”

  Ivy’s glasses had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back.

  “So you need to tell me what you remember about that night. The night your mother went to heaven.”

  Ivy scooted away from Parsons until her back was up against the TV stand. “I don’t know you.”

  Parsons smiled. “Sure; we just met. But I told you, I’m a lawyer from Jefferson City. I’m here to help you.”

  Ivy looked away and remained mute.

  “Ivy, did you see what Larry Paul did to your mama?”

  When Ivy maintained a dogged silence, Ashlock bent and spoke to Parsons in a low voice. “Let Elsie try.”

  Parsons swung around to Madeleine. “You called in the General for assistance. Do you want to turn it over to the private? It’s your call.”

  Madeleine’s eyes shifted. She gave an apologetic sigh, a dainty huff of regret. “Well, she’s worked with her before.”

  Parsons stood, an ironic half grin wrinkling his meaty face. “By all means. Don’t want to interfere.”

  Without waiting for more encouragement, Elsie seized her plastic CVS bag and dropped onto the carpet beside Ivy, emulating the girl’s cross-­legged position on the floor.

  “Ivy, you know me. I’m Elsie.”

  The child nodded and slid her eyes to Parsons, who stood nearby with his arms crossed. “Him I don’t know.”

  “He’s okay,” Elsie said in a cajoling voice. With a smile, she said, “What do you think is in here?” She held up the bag.

  Ivy shrugged, petulant. “Dunno.”

  “Look and see.”

  The girl opened the bag and peered inside. Her suspicious expression disappeared and she pressed her lips together to hide a smile.

  “What do you think?” Elsie asked.

  Ivy thrust a small hand into the bag, pulling out a multi-­pack of Play-­Doh in bright colors; and reaching in a second time, uncovered a box of forty-­eight Crayola crayons.

  “You like it?”

  Ivy nodded. She opened the box of crayons. Lifting them to her nose, she inhaled deeply.

  Elsie reached out a hand. “Can I take a turn?” Ivy handed her the box, and Elsie breathed in, rolling her eyes in ecstasy. “Oh man. Does anything smell better than a new box of crayons?”

  Ivy hid a smile with her hand. Her fingernails were stubby, her cuticles chewed and scabby.

  Elsie heard Parsons whisper to Madeleine. “Bad idea to bribe the kid. Defense will say it affects her veracity.”

  Elsie ignored him. Keeping her spot on the floor, she reached over to the coffee table and retrieved the legal pad she’d left there.

  “Those colors totally need to get out of the box. You want to draw?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Can you draw a picture of your house? We don’t need a picture of your new house, this house; we know what it looks like. Can you draw your old house? The trailer where you lived with your mother.”

  “Okay.” Ivy sorted through the colors, then picked a black crayon. On the legal pad, she sketched a rough rectangle. “It’s a trap house,” she said, in an offhand tone.

  The statement made Elsie gasp; she tried to mask the reaction with a feigned cough. Oh shit, she thought. Glancing sidelong at Madeleine and Parsons, she saw no visible response to Ivy’s statement. Clearly, they weren’t tuned into rap music; hardly a surprise. But Elsie knew that “trap house” was a drug-­related term.

  “Where are you? Put yourself in the picture.”

  Obligingly, Ivy chose a blue crayon and drew a stick figure beside the rectangle, then scribbled the hair yellow. “That’s me.”

  “You’re outside.”

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “Ivy,” and Elsie spoke in a calm voice, “the night your mom got hurt so bad by Larry Paul, where were you then?”

  Ivy clutched the crayon so tightly, Elsie thought it might break in two. “Which time?” she asked.

  The question was a reasonable one. Elsie and Ashlock had reviewed the history of domestic disturbance calls to the trailer; disputes between Jessie Dent and Larry Paul had a history of turning violent. Chuck Harris and Lisa Peters had witnessed a violent interlude less than forty-­eight hours before Jessie Dent’s murder. Elsie needed to narrow the scope of her inquiry.

  “The last time. The night your mom died.”

  Ivy didn’t look at her. Focusing on the legal pad, she pointed at the stick figure she’d drawn.

  “Right, that’s you; I can tell. It’s a good drawing. But where were you that night?”

  With a resolute face, Ivy jabbed the figure again.

  “Please tell me. Tell me what you mean.”

&nbs
p; Ivy poked the picture for a third time.

  “I like it when you talk to me, Ivy. I like to hear you talk.”

  Ivy lifted her finger from the paper and used it to scratch vigorously at her hairline. Briefly, Elsie wondered whether the foster mother should check her head for lice.

  “That’s where I was at.”

  Elsie felt a sinking sensation in her chest. “You were outside? Outside the trailer?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Well, there goes the eyewitness,” Parsons said, turning on the couch to Madeleine. He pulled off his eyeglasses and ran his hand over his face.

  Elsie smoothed the sheet of paper. It bore wrinkles from Ivy’s index finger.

  “Okay, Ivy, let’s back up. Before you went outside: who all was in the trailer?”

  “Me.”

  “Right. Who else?”

  “Mama. And Larry. And Bruce.”

  “And who is Larry?”

  “Mom’s boyfriend.”

  “And who is Bruce?”

  “Mama’s number two boyfriend.”

  Elsie kept her face pleasant, though Parsons was groaning audibly. “Your mama had two boyfriends?”

  “Mama was a trap queen. She said so.”

  Shit, shit, shit, Elsie thought. “What were they doing?”

  “Drinking. Partying. Bruce brung it over from his mom’s house.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was watching the TV. But they told me to get out.”

  “Why?”

  “They was getting high. But it made me mad, because there ain’t nothing to do outside, and it was dark out there.”

  Ivy took the black crayon and scribbled over the paper. “It was black dark.”

  Elsie watched her turn the paper black. Gently, she said, “Ivy, you told a policeman that Larry hit your mama with a bat.”

  The child’s jaw clenched. She nodded.

  “But Ivy—­if you were outside, how do you know that?”

  Ivy picked up the yellow crayon she’d used to color the hair on the stick figure. With angry strokes, she colored a spot in the middle of the rectangle. She looked at Elsie with eyes so fierce that for a moment, her face was not remotely childlike. “I peeped. I peeped in the window.”