The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  She typed in Dean Mitchell, Junior, and waited for a hit. No criminal lawsuit appeared. Only civil matters, contract cases, mechanics liens.

  Discouraged, she stared at the screen. Then she typed Larry Paul’s name, and found an old drug charge, possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute. Defendant’s attorney: Claire O’Hara.

  Had they known that? Did it mean anything? Her fingers pecked at the keys again, searching another name: Bruce Stout.

  A handful of case names appeared: all entitled State of Missouri v. Bruce Stout; traffic offense, minor drug charges, one count of urinating in public. And each time, the defense attorney of record: Claire O’Hara.

  She reached down and opened the door of her small office refrigerator. Taking out a cold silver can, she pressed it to her neck, where a pulse was beating hard and fast.

  With one hand, she cleared the search and typed: Dean Mitchell, Senior. There it was: an old arson case, tried in Greene County; two counts of fraud, filed in Douglas County; a conspiracy case in Federal Court. All charges were ultimately dismissed, but for the arson, which had gone to jury trial. The jury found Old Smokey Not Guilty.

  And his defense attorney, in each case: Claire O’Hara, Esquire. In the 1989 conspiracy case; the fraud in 2002; the arson trial in 1996.

  The Mitchells were dirty, just as Ashlock suspected. And just as Elsie’s mother always claimed.

  “She’s his bitch,” Elsie whispered.

  Her eyes were still glued to the computer screen when Emil Elmquist knocked on her door. “Question from the jury, Elsie. Judge wants you all in court.”

  She stared blindly at the old bailiff as a word took shape in her head: sausage.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she gasped. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “You watch your mouth, young lady,” Emil said, but she grabbed her purse and pulled out her car keys. As she pushed by the bailiff, he said, “You’re heading the wrong way, Elsie. Judge wants you all in court.”

  She paused long enough to say, “I’m third fucking chair. They can handle it without me.”

  Emil followed her out into the second floor of the courthouse, shouting, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She didn’t bother to reply.

  Chapter Forty-­Seven

  The sirens of the McCown County squad car blared as Deputy Franks tore down the road, almost drowning out the ringtone of Ashlock’s cell phone. He checked the number and answered.

  “No time to talk now, Elsie.”

  “Ash! Where are you? It’s about Ivy!”

  He braced himself against the door as Franks took a curve. “She’s been abducted. We’re on our way to Nell Stout’s house.”

  “Ash, no—­I heard Claire O’Hara on the phone. Ash, they’re taking her to the packing plant.”

  His brow furrowed. “Smokey’s?”

  “Ash, I swear—­I heard it. Something about making her into sausage. Shutting her up. What the hell else could it mean?”

  He cut off the call, turned to Deputy Franks, and said, “Head for the highway. We need to get to Smokey’s commissary.”

  Joe took a moment to look over, perturbed at the change. “But you said we was checking out Stout’s house.”

  “Turn this fucking car around.”

  Franks shut his mouth and obeyed, making his way to the highway and fairly flying to the farm roads, passing the pickup trucks that dodged to the side of the road at their approach.

  “We ain’t got no warrant,” Franks said. When Ashlock didn’t respond, Franks glanced over at him. Ashlock was gripping the dash on the passenger side, as if willing the car to go faster. Franks repeated, “We ain’t got a search warrant.”

  Ashlock said, “We got exigent circumstances, Joe.”

  “What’s that mean, exactly?”

  “Just drive.”

  The old sedan climbed a hill at remarkable speed. As they crested the hill, the Smokey Dean’s butcher shop and packing plant came into view. “There’s Smokey’s commissary,” Ashlock said; but Franks was already pulling onto the curb, hitting the brake to turn in to a gravel drive.

  “Park in front?”

  The late afternoon sun shone into the windshield of the squad car. Ashlock pulled the visor down to block the glare. Squinting at the storefront, he said, “Sign says closed. Go around back.”

  The car squealed to a stop, sending a cloud of white gravel dust in its wake. Franks said, “No cars back here, Ashlock; no white Buick or nothing.”

  Ashlock jumped out of the car without offering a response to Franks. He reached the metal exit door; it was locked. He pounded on it with his fist. “Barton Police!” He continued to beat on the metal door; the sound echoed in the quiet countryside. A bevy of doves took flight in the distance. “McCown County Sheriff’s Department! Police! Open up!”

  He heard the crash bar click on the other side of the door. A man’s head poked through, a pasty pockmarked face with greasy flaxen-­white hair confined in a mesh hairnet.

  “What the hell?” he said. “We’re closed.”

  Franks ran up behind Ashlock, sending gravel into the spiky grass. Ashlock said, “We need to come inside.” He did not enter, but he placed his booted foot in the narrow opening of the door.

  “What for?”

  “We need to come inside. It’s police business.” He flashed his badge and put his hand on his holster.

  “Okay, okay. But the boss ain’t here.” The man opened the door and Ashlock and Franks stepped over the threshold. “I’m just the cleanup crew.”

  They walked inside, peering into the dim facility around the room, taking a quick inventory. “Who’s here?”

  “Nobody. Just me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Whitey. Whitey Phillips.”

  Ashlock checked his watch: it was four-­thirty. “Not even five o’clock. What kind of business they running here, that doesn’t stay open till five?”

  Deputy Franks was nosing around the room, checking inside cabinets and under the counters. Franks rattled the knob of a door marked Private but it didn’t open. Whitey Phillips watched Franks, his mouth jerking with a nervous twitch. “That there’s the toilet, you got to have a key. Are you’uns the health department? County health inspector? Smokey didn’t say we had an inspection coming up.”

  “We’re not the health department.” A buzzer sounded. “What’s that?” Ashlock said. With a quick move, his hand moved to the Blackhawk holster on his belt and rested on the model 19 Glock it held.

  Whitey began to walk backwards toward the swinging door that connected to the front of the building. “That’s the front door.”

  “Thought you were closed.”

  Joe Franks was on his hands and knees, peering under the stainless steel table that adjoined the wall. “Yeah, that’s right. Didn’t you say you was shut down for the day?”

  The connecting door flew open, and a tall, barrel-­chested man wearing a white Stetson walked through, his cowboy boots ringing on the floor.

  “What the fuck,” he said. “It’s the po-­po.”

  Whitey ran to the man’s side. “Smokey, they just barged in here like they owned the place.” Whitey’s voice had taken on the whine of a whipped dog.

  Deputy Franks stood up, knocking the dirt from his knees, and extended his right hand. “Hey there, Smokey Junior. I’m Joe Franks. I was in the Elks club with your daddy.”

  Smokey looked at the hand without making any move to shake it. “Is that right? Well, let me tell you something: if my old man was alive, he’d be kicking your ass right about now. What the hell you doing on my private property? You got a warrant?”

  Ashlock stared him down. “Your buddy here invited us in.”

  “I thought they was the health department. They ain’t the health department.”


  Ashlock dropped his hold on the Glock and eased over to a stainless steel door. Hanging from the door handle was a padlock. Ashlock toyed with the padlock, flipping it with his hand. “What you got in here, Smokey?”

  The big man took off his white cowboy hat and tossed it onto a metal table. He ran his hand over a thick head of hair. “That’s the walk-­in cooler. Nothing in there but dead meat. But I don’t have to show it to you. Or answer your goddamn questions. Get out of here. You got no right.”

  Franks looked over at Ashlock, rubbing his nose reflectively. “What was them circumstances you was talking about, Ashlock?”

  Ashlock didn’t answer. He reached for the padlock and gave it a jerk. It remained secure.

  “Funny you got your meat locked up. Doesn’t seem efficient. Seems like you’d need to get at it, to do your meatpacking. This is a butcher shop.”

  “Keeps the employees from stealing. ­People will steal you blind.” Smokey flashed a feral grin. “Learned that from my old man.”

  Ashlock turned his back on Smokey. Running his hands over the door of the metal cooler, as if checking it for size, he said, “What’s your capacity in this thing? Does it hold the carcasses? You keep them hung up in there before you process them?”

  “Got them hanging on hooks. But if you want something, you’ll have to come in the front way, like a paying customer. And we’re closed for business right now.”

  Ashlock shook his head. “That so?”

  A lull in the conversation highlighted the mounting tension in the room. Franks looked from Smokey to Ashlock, holding his tongue. Finally, Whitey grabbed a push broom leaning against the wall by the restroom door marked Private.

  “Guess I better get back to work,” Whitey said, grasping the broom handle with both hands. No one replied.

  In the silent room, a faint sound could be heard, like a woodpecker drilling on a metal pole.

  It came from the walk-­in cooler.

  “Damn,” Ashlock said, pulling his Glock from its holster. “One of those pigs in there isn’t quite dead.”

  He shot the padlock; it exploded, flying from the handle in metal fragments. Ashlock grasped the handle, and pulled open the door.

  In the open doorway, they saw Ivy, shrouded in icy fog. She was surrounded by carcasses of cattle and pigs, which dangled from the ceiling of the cooler.

  In her fist, she held a bloody hook, poised over her head to strike. Her face was savage, her teeth gritted like an Amazon warrior.

  When she saw Ashlock, her arms fell, and she dropped the hook to the floor. “Thank you Jesus,” she whispered through blue lips.

  Ashlock stooped down and picked the girl up. Her bare arms were like ice as she clutched them around his neck. Her body began to shake; he holstered his gun to tighten his grip on Ivy so that he wouldn’t drop her.

  When he turned and stepped outside the cooler, he heard Smokey call out, “Come on out, Nell.”

  The door marked with the Private sign opened and Nell emerged from the employee toilet; a porcelain stool was visible behind her. Nell’s eyes locked on the figure of Ashlock and Ivy with a squint. She had a Smith and Wesson .357 revolver in her right hand and a shotgun held loosely under her left armpit. She jammed the revolver into the back of dumbfounded Joe Franks as Smokey relieved her of the shotgun.

  Smokey cocked the shotgun and trained it on Ashlock. Ashlock swiftly dropped Ivy to her feet and pushed her behind him, his free hand reaching for his holster.

  “Don’t move a hair, man. You pull that gun and you’re all dead.”

  Whitey wailed, “I ain’t burying no cop.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Smokey, this ain’t what you done told me. I’m not digging no cop grave.”

  “Whitey, you’re asking for an ass-­kicking. Nell, where’s Bruce?”

  A look of disgust crossed her face. “Took the car to get a case of Natty Light. Said it was gonna be a long night.” As she spoke, she reached into Joe Frank’s holster and relieved him of his gun, tossing it across the floor in Whitey’s direction.

  The buzzer from the front door rang. “Ash!” a voice called.

  Smokey pulled a face of disbelief. “Shit.”

  The swinging door flew open with a bang, and Elsie appeared in the space. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. “Oh my fucking God,” she whispered.

  “Elsie fucking Arnold,” Smokey said. “Shit,” he repeated. He jerked his head in Ashlock’s direction. “Go stand over there by your boyfriend.”

  But Elsie remained frozen. “Oh my God,” she whispered again. A large stainless steel sink stood beside the door; she clutched it for support.

  With exaggerated patience, Smokey said, “Get your ass over there by your boyfriend before I blow a hole in him. You want me to blow a hole in him?”

  Elsie’s right hand flew to her throat, reflexively rubbing the scar around her neck. “You used to hold my head under at the swimming pool. You were always a worthless piece of shit,” she said.

  “And you were a loudmouthed bitch. Still are. Did you hear what I told you? Go over by your buddy.” He jerked his head at Elsie, still keeping the shotgun pointed at Ashlock’s chest.

  She edged along the sink, facing the circle of players in the room, taking tentative, careful sidesteps along the floor. Glancing into the sink, she saw a dozen implements soaking in a ­couple of inches of soapy water.

  She didn’t take time to consider. On impulse, Elsie reached into the sink and seized a dirty metal meat hammer, then swung at Dean Mitchell and knocked him upside the head.

  Smokey Dean reeled, screaming, clutching at his head. Nell started to move toward Smokey, then turned back, hastily raising her revolver over Joe Franks’s shoulder, and firing at Ashlock. Nell’s shot went wide. She didn’t get a second chance. Ashlock returned fire, hitting Nell in the right shoulder. The force of the bullet flung her back into the wall, and she dropped to the floor.

  Franks jumped on Smokey as he reeled from the blow to his head, and wrested the shotgun away. Whitey dropped his broom. “Don’t shoot,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “I’m just the cleanup!”

  The adrenaline that had supplied Elsie’s strength deserted her; she dropped to her knees. Ivy edged along the wall and made her way over toward the sink. When she reached Elsie, she patted her on the shoulder with a small, cold hand.

  “You done good,” Ivy said.

  Chapter Forty-­Eight

  The courthouse was dark when Elsie walked into her office that night. She dropped her suit jacket onto the floor and kicked off her shoes. Collapsing into her chair, she leaned back, propped her feet on the air-­conditioning unit and closed her eyes.

  Her head felt like it might split in two, and her heart rate was ragged, but she repeated a mantra in her head: she’s safe. Safe. We’re all safe.

  She heard footsteps pause in the hallway, and opened one eye to see who it was. Breeon stood in the doorway, watching her with a rueful expression.

  “Hey, girl,” Bree said.

  “Hey, you. Come on in here.” With a weary grunt, Elsie dropped her bare feet to the floor.

  Breeon walked in and sat in the chair facing the desk. “Heard you had quite an afternoon.”

  Elsie gave her a wry grin. “I lead an exciting life.”

  “You do, little sis. You do indeed.”

  Both women sat in silence for a long moment; but the silence was a comfortable one, without the strain of the past weeks. Elsie broke it.

  “I’ve gotta unzip my skirt.” Reaching behind her, she removed the safety pin that substituted for a button and pulled the zipper down. “Aaah,” she said, breathing out with gratitude.

  “I know you’ve been tied up, running to that child’s rescue and bringing down the bad guys. But did you hear about the verdict? Larry Paul?”

  “I
did. Chuck sent a text. When I was at the PD giving my statement.”

  She waited for Bree to broach the topic, to face the bone of contention that had pushed them apart. But Bree switched topics; she said, “Is the little girl going to be okay? Ivy?”

  A wave of weariness washed over Elsie, mixed with a sweet sensation of relief. Elsie crossed her arms on her desk, resting her head on them. “She’s with Tina Peroni. They took her to the hospital, just to check her out. Tina called and said she’s okay; and the Hickmans are fine, just mostly flipped out by the assault. But they want to keep her, keep her in their family. And Ivy wants to stay with them.”

  “Chuck and I just got the charges filed on Nell and Dean Mitchell. Not that they’d be going anywhere, cuffed to a hospital bed. And they picked up Nell’s son. He was hightailing it out of the county, drinking beer while he drove and chucking the cans out the window.”

  “Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Is he talking?”

  Bree shook her head. “Nobody’s talking. Not Mitchell or Nell or Bruce. The Feds searched Claire’s office. Guess who had about two hundred grand in cash, tucked away in her coat closet?”

  It was no wonder she could afford those shoes, Elsie thought. And the shiny bangles. “RICO?”

  The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act made it a federal crime to use income made from organized crime as part of a legitimate business. If Claire was running drug money through her law practice, she was in trouble.

  “Oh, girl; that money’s gotta be dirty. What honest citizen has that kind of cash?”

  Elsie nodded, thinking she was glad that Claire O’Hara would be the US Attorney’s problem. Money laundering was a federal crime. But the charges arising from today’s crisis—­kidnapping, witness tampering, attempted murder—­were crimes under Missouri’s criminal code. The McCown County Prosecutor’s Office would be a busy place in the coming months.