‘Join with me now in our hymn, The Old Rugged Cross.’
He bowed for a moment, then lifted his face and began to sing, the congregation adding their voices to his.
On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suff’ring and shame;
And I love that old cross where the Dearest and Best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
Frank sang softly, his eyes on the road at the top of the slope, where the casket was now being carried slowly onto the path and down towards them. Four of the six pall-bearers wore police uniforms – Kirkland was there, his expression serious as he shouldered the weight of the dark wooden box, and set it gently beside the waiting grave.
The hymn finished, and the priest stepped forward, holding a black leather Bible in his hand.
‘The Gospel of John tells us that death is not the end. In our loss, in our suffering, we can draw comfort in the sure and certain resurrection, bought at great price by our savior, Jesus Christ.’ He paused, taking a moment to look around, studying the assembled faces. ‘But I know that it’s hard when someone is taken from us so young, so unexpectedly, as Pete Barnes was taken. At such times as this, we struggle with grief, and we wrestle with questions. We ask ourselves why?’
Why?
Frank’s gaze flickered to Beth, but her head was bowed, her face mercifully hidden by the brim of her hat. Gritting his teeth, he raised his eyes to the distant trees, wishing he hadn’t come.
The pallbearers eased the long straps through their hands, lowering the casket slowly into the ground, before standing to attention beside the grave. The priest spoke a final prayer, then turned away as the congregation relaxed and muted conversations began. Frank glanced briefly towards the road, wondering if he might be able to slip away, but all around him mourners were starting to drift slowly towards the family, ready to offer their condolences. It was his one chance to see Beth.
Waiting his turn, he caught glimpses of her through the crowd of dark suits. She looked beautiful but lost, her pale skin shining like porcelain against the black of her dress. As he drew nearer, he felt a sudden need to put his arm around her, to pull her close and kiss her once more, just as he had the last time he saw her… but she was flanked by dutiful relatives – her younger sister Kaitlyn, who lived in St Louis, and an aunt who’d moved to Oklahoma last summer – all back in town, all eager to help.
There’d be no chance to say anything to Beth. Nothing that mattered, anyway.
‘Officer Rye…’ Her little sister greeted him with a sad smile of recognition, one black-gloved hand outstretched. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Hello, Kaitlyn,’ he said. She was pretty in her own way, shorter than Beth, but with that same, wavy brown hair. He searched her eyes for any hint that she knew about them, but there was nothing unusual in her gaze, just polite regret. He clasped her hand for a moment, then took a silent breath, and turned to face her sister.
‘Beth?’
She raised her head and stared blankly at him, her expression unreadable.
‘Frank.’
Instinctively, he began to reach out a hand to her, then stopped himself, unsure how fragile her composure might be.
‘I’m so sorry, Beth. Pete was…’ He faltered under the weight of the truth, realizing how his words might sound to her. ‘He was a good man.’
Something in her demeanor changed, and her eyes seemed to sharpen, focusing on him. Here, surrounded by a crowd of solemn-faced mourners, he was the one person who understood what she was going through… and the one person who couldn’t comfort her.
‘If there’s anything you need,’ he said, softly. ‘Anything I can do…’
Her stare seemed to harden, and he knew then what she was thinking.
I want you to find whoever did this.
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then finally lowered her eyes.
‘Thank you, Frank. Thanks for coming.’
That was it. He stood there a moment longer, but she was done talking. Nodding awkwardly, he stepped back and turned away, his eyes resting briefly on the open grave. A terrible distance now stood between them. Everything they’d had, all burned up in that moment he’d told her Pete was gone.
Head bowed, he wandered across the grass, away from the little groups of black-clad people with their hushed conversations. He wanted to smoke, but not here, not on consecrated ground. Frowning, he started up the slope, picking his way carefully between the burial plots until he reached the road. Tapping a cigarette from the pack, he put it in his mouth, then flicked his lighter open. As he took the first, calming drag, a voice called out behind him.
‘Frank?’
He turned to see Kirkland stepping up onto the asphalt, a terse expression on his face as he made his way over.
‘Wasn’t sure if you’d be here,’ the big man said.
Frank lowered his eyes.
‘I had to come,’ he said, then added, ‘for Pete.’
Kirkland considered this for a moment, then gave a grudging nod.
‘You won’t have heard, but there’s a collection… for Pete’s family.’ He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘You knew ‘em, so I guess you’ll want to contribute.’
‘Of course,’ Frank agreed quickly. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
Kirkland seemed satisfied.
‘Speak to Johnson about it,’ he said, gesturing back over his shoulder. ‘He’s here somewhere.’
‘I will.’
Kirkland made as if to leave, but Frank stopped him.
‘Sir, I was just wondering…’ He hesitated. ‘…about the suspension?’
Kirkland stiffened, and his eyes grew dark.
‘Do I still need to spell it out for you, how much trouble you’re in?’ He leaned in close, his voice a low growl. ‘Take a look around you, Frank. I just put Pete Barnes in the ground. This sure as hell ain’t the time to rile me.’
Abruptly, he pushed past Frank and stalked away. A short distance down the road, the man in the blue suit watched him stride past.
Frank waited until he saw Kirkland’s patrol car drive away, then shut his eyes. It had been a mistake to come. Sighing, he turned around and made his way back into the cemetery to find Johnson.
6
Lenny’s Rib Shack was a dingy little joint on the corner of 5th and Virginia Avenue, but it was on his way and it had a bar. The place did do great ribs, but right now Frank wasn’t feeling hungry. He just needed somewhere quiet, somewhere that wasn’t home.
The interior was dimly lit, filled with smoky cooking smells and the thin twang of country music from a tired old radio set on the counter.
‘Hey, Frank.’ Lenny looked up from his newspaper. He was a tall man in his forties, with thinning black hair, slicked back from his high forehead, and watchful dark eyes. ‘Can I fix you something? We got ribs on.’
‘Sorry.’ Frank shook his head. ‘I think I left my appetite at home.’
‘Get you a drink?’
‘Sure.’ He stopped, then frowned. ‘Say, can I use your telephone first?’
Lenny nodded and reached for his newspaper again.
‘Go right ahead,’ he said.
Frank wandered over to the back of the room, where an old phone hung on the wall between the restroom door and the gleaming cigarette machine. Fumbling in his pants pocket, he drew out his notebook and flipped through the pages until he found the number he wanted. Dialing, he bowed his head and waited until the call was answered.
‘Yeah, this is Frank Rye, from Joplin Police Department. May I speak with Sheriff Carson?’
He turned to look at the cigarette machine, wondering if he had the right coins for a pack of Camels, but then there was a click and he recognized Carson’s rough voice on the other end of the line.
‘Hello, Frank. How’s it going?’
Frank sighed. ‘Well, we just had Pete’s funeral this afternoon, so…’
‘Hey, I’m s
orry Frank. It’s tough saying goodbye to someone you worked with.’
‘Thanks. Anyway, now that’s done I guess I just want to keep busy, you know?’
‘Yeah, I can understand that,’ Carson said, more gently. ‘So what can I do for you?’
Frank leaned back against the cigarette machine and rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, I got to thinking about the patrol car, the one that Pete was driving. Did it ever show up?’
‘Sure it did,’ Carson replied. ‘We found it parked in an alleyway, just a block away from the murder scene. Matter of fact, one of your boys came down and took it back up to Joplin. Didn’t you know?’
Frank hesitated.
‘No, I’ve been away for the past few days,’ he lied. ‘So I guess Pete must have driven there himself…’
‘Looks that way. Haven’t found anyone who remembers seeing him, though.’
Frowning, Frank considered this.
‘What about the woman over at the Skordeno factory, the one he was going to visit? Did you speak to her yet?’
‘Oh yeah, Mary Cantell?’ Carson paused. ‘We spoke to the Skordeno people, but here’s the thing; they never heard of no Mary Cantell.’
Frank stood bolt upright.
‘What do you mean? I was–’ He shut his eyes, correcting himself. ‘Pete was supposed to go and collect some letters from her.’
‘Maybe so, but there’s nobody of that name working there,’ Carson said. ‘And nobody knew anything about a police officer stopping by either.’
This didn’t make any sense. Frank shook his head, trying to fit it all together.
‘So Pete didn’t go over there?’
‘He may have done, but nobody remembers seeing him.’ Carson paused, then asked, ‘Anything you wanna tell me about these letters? I’m kinda curious why you sent someone all the way down here, rather than just having us pick 'em up for you.’
There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘I don’t know’ Frank cast his mind back. Just a few days ago, but already it seemed like months. ‘Somebody called the department, said they had some letters regarding old Howard Cooke…’
‘The mill owner who killed himself last year?’
‘That’s right. Apparently they were “sensitive” but that’s all I heard.’
Carson was quiet for a moment.
‘Anything… unusual about that case?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Frank said. ‘There was some interest from the newspapers at the time, rumors that he owed money to some bad folk up in Kansas City, but that was just talk. It was a straight-up suicide: no mystery, no scandal.’
‘Well… okay then.’ Carson seemed at a loss. ‘I guess that’s it for now.’
‘Guess so.’ Frank stared across the room, his eyes coming to rest on a poster of a pin-up girl behind the bar. ‘Oh… Ray?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Any news on that missing waitress? Faye...?’
‘No sign of Miss Griffith,’ Carson replied. ‘She hasn’t been back to work and her friend hasn’t seen her.’ His voice took on a slightly impatient tone. ‘Now listen, Frank, you know I’m always happy to help a fellow officer, but I feel like I’m repeating myself here. I already told all of this to your folk in Joplin. Don’t you boys talk to each other up there?’
Frank leaned his forehead against the wall. Newton County clearly didn’t know he was suspended, and it was probably best to keep things that way.
‘Yeah, of course,’ he said, trying to sound as though the news about Faye had simply slipped his mind. ‘I’m sorry... there’s just been a lot happening, you know?’
Carson’s voice softened.
‘Aw hell, I understand. You just wanna do right by your friend, and I’d be the same in your position.’ He took a deep breath, clearly audible down the phone. ‘Look, I know it ain’t easy to sit by and let someone else work a case like this, but we’ll keep your department informed, don’t you worry about that.’
Frank nodded to himself. A kindly reassurance from a fellow officer… and a polite warning to back off and let them do their job.
‘Well, I appreciate all you’re doing, Ray,’ he said. There was no sense pushing any more, not right now. ‘Thanks for bringing me up to date.’
‘Any time, Frank.’
Hanging up the phone, he stood there for a moment, frowning.
How could there be no Mary Cantell?
Turning around, he walked slowly back to the bar and eased himself onto a seat, lost in thought. Somebody at the department had taken the call. If he could find out who, he could ask them about it… but now probably wasn’t the best time to go digging around, not with Kirkland on the warpath.
‘So?’
He looked up to find Lenny waiting expectantly.
‘Can I get you something, or are you “on duty”?’
Frank looked at him, puzzled, then remembered he was still wearing his uniform from the funeral.
‘Oh, right.’ He turned to run his eyes along the bottles behind the bar. ‘Bourbon.’
Lenny put down his paper and stood up.
‘Bourbon it is.’
Frank leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his hands as Lenny poured his drink and pushed it towards him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, staring at the glass. ‘And maybe I’ll take a side of those ribs after all.’
‘Thought you might.’ Lenny gave him a broad grin, then turned and went through to the kitchen. ‘Back in a minute.’
Watching him go, Frank’s gaze drifted across the wall behind the bar, noting the array of different bottles, the heavy old register, the pin-up girl picture...
Faye Griffith.
He’d never believed she was the killer. When he’d been down in Neosho, seen the way Pete had been busted up, he’d felt sure there was a third person involved – the real killer – and that the missing waitress would probably turn up, dead, soon enough. But as the days went by he got a little less sure. Maybe she was dead, buried somewhere her body would never be found, but whoever killed Pete didn’t bother to hide him, so why hide a waitress? No, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that she was involved in the murder, an accomplice.
A woman who shouldn’t have been trusted.
He frowned to himself, then knocked back his bourbon and set the empty glass on the bar.
Darkness was drawing in when he finally arrived home. He stopped the car at the side of the house, got out unsteadily, and stood for a moment. Across the street, he could see the Hendersons sitting in their illuminated front room, reading magazines. It was just another day to them; every day was just another day to them.
Perhaps ignorance really could be bliss.
Shaking his head, he walked slowly to the front door, pulling out his keys… then remembered his hat, still lying on the passenger seat. He started back when he heard the rev of an engine and looked up. There, just a little way back along the street, a car was pulling around in a sharp U-turn. Frank stopped in mid-stride.
It was a grey Chrysler.
He watched it complete the turn and drive away, disappearing back up the street the way it had come. It was the same car he’d seen at the funeral; he was sure of it.
Unlocking the front door, he pushed his way into the house. Kicking the door shut behind him, he strode quickly through to the bedroom and snatched up his .45 from the nightstand, feeling the reassuring weight in his hand.
There are no such things as coincidences, that was what his commanding officer, Major Swift, had told him when he was stationed in Switzerland. There are only warnings.
He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the warm fuzziness of the bourbon so he could think clearly.
The same car, parked outside the cemetery, and now here in his street. Someone had followed him home.
He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the thin man he’d noticed earlier, leaning up against that Chrysler, smoking so calmly. Six feet tall, with an angular jaw and sunken eye sockets. R
ough-looking, despite that smart hat and the expensive blue suit.
Frank opened his eyes.
Who wears a blue suit to a funeral? The guy sure as hell wasn’t there to mourn.
He went through to the kitchen and put the gun down on the counter while he filled a glass under the faucet. Gulping down the water, he stared out the window across the back yard, lifting his eyes towards the last glow of sun behind the horizon. It would be completely dark soon.
It should have been me…
Frank stiffened. Maybe Pete was never the target… maybe he was, still was.
Suddenly, he became painfully aware that he was standing in front of the window, a big fat silhouette against the light of the kitchen. Picking up his gun, he stepped quickly to one side, reaching for the back door and rattling the handle to check it was locked. Then he turned and strode through the house, locking the front door and bolting it.
No coincidences… only warnings.
Stepping back, he turned around, his brow lined in thought. These were the only two ways into the house, unless you counted the windows, but they were too high above the ground to be easy. The important thing now was just to be smart, to be ready.
In the end, he propped a broom against the front door and a chair against the back, balancing them so they’d tumble onto the wooden floor if they were moved. Retreating into the bedroom, he left the door slightly open so he could hear if anything happened elsewhere in the house, but balanced a teak-handled clothes brush on the top edge, ready to fall. Nobody was sneaking in without him knowing about it.
Satisfied, he walked round to the far side of the room and yanked the drapes shut, then turned his attention to the bed.
Better to be safe.
Grasping some blankets, and one of the pillows, he hauled them off the mattress and down onto the floor below the window. Then, crouching low, he sat back against the wall and began unlacing his shoes. Seeing the room from this unfamiliar viewpoint took him back to his time in Europe; he’d slept on the floor quite often during those first days in France…
Ashes Of America Page 4
