Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  “That’s right. Something I can help you with, son?” he said. “Or you just admiring my profile?”

  “It’s not bad,” Delgado said. “But I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “I live to serve others,” Bensen said. He cocked his head to one side. “You a cop of some kind, ain’t you?”

  Delgado fished out his badge and held it up.

  “Oh, my, a real-life G-man, everybody bow your heads,” Bensen said. Two of his listeners chuckled. “This official business?”

  Delgado hesitated for half a second, then decided to trust the old man. “I’m on my own time,” he said. “But it’s important.”

  Bensen looked steadily at Delgado and then nodded. “This oughta be good. Pull up a chair, son. Betty? ’Nother coffee here.”

  Delgado pulled a chair from an adjacent table and wedged himself in at the corner. By the time he got seated, Betty had a cup of coffee down on the table in front of him. “There you go,” Bensen said. “It’s not real good coffee, but at least it’s kind of warm.” Bensen leaned forward and gazed steadily at Delgado. “Now what can I do for you, son?”

  “Two people lived here about twenty-four years ago, a mother and son,” Delgado said. “Something made them move. I think it was something bad, maybe criminal. I was hoping you’d remember.”

  Bensen nodded. “They got a name?”

  “Sheila Weimer,” Delgado said. “I don’t know what name the boy used.”

  One of the men in the booth muttered, “Oh Lord.” Another man jerked to his feet, glared at Delgado, and stalked out of the diner.

  Bensen didn’t even blink. “Why you want to know about them, son?” he said in a soft voice that held an edge of danger.

  Delgado was suddenly in the middle of a ring of hostile faces. He knew he had stepped in something, but he wasn’t worried. Instead, he felt a surge of adrenaline. Something had happened here. He was right. And Bensen remembered.

  “The boy has become a dangerous criminal,” he said. He heard someone growl, “Big fuckin’ surprise,” but Bensen just kept his steady gaze on Delgado, waiting for more. “I want to find him. Arrest him. To do that I need to know more about him. His backstory.”

  It was very quiet in the diner for what seemed like a long and awkward time. That didn’t bother Delgado. If it got him some answers, he would sit here in silence and stare back at Bensen all day.

  It didn’t last all day. Bensen finally said, “Huh,” and leaned back in the booth, and the rest of the men gathered around all took a breath. “Well, I can’t say I am surprised,” Bensen said. “It was a bad start for that boy, and that don’t usually turn out good.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Delgado asked.

  Bensen chuckled, one syllable of dry mirth. “’Course I can. But I’m a Southerner, son, and that means I got to lead up to it just right. Put in some background, make a proper story of it.” He frowned and steepled his hands on the table in front of him. “I b’lieve it had to be 1996,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Delgado said.

  Bensen raised one eyebrow. “Is it? That’s good to know. Hush up, now, let me tell this.”

  Delgado couldn’t help a small smile. “Sorry,” he said.

  “It was 1996,” Bensen said again. “The world was young, and I could still walk without cryin’ from the pain, and I could even get all the way through the night without gettin’ up to pee.” He looked around the booth, just checking to see his listeners were following. They were. Bensen went on.

  “Now there was a woman had come to town just a couple of years before,” he said. “Town like this, everybody knows everybody else, but nobody was real sure where this woman come from, nor why she chose to come to Jasper. Sheila Weimer, her name was. And she brought her son with her, young boy maybe eleven, twelve years old. Boy went by the name of J.R. Sheila took a job clerking at Weatherbee’s hardware store. J.R. enrolled at the middle school, in the seventh grade.”

  Bensen paused for a moment before he continued. “That woman kept herself to herself. Kind of held herself back, like she was better ’n what you might think. Couple of the town busybodies, they tried to get her to talk. She’d just give ’em this frosty smile and change the subject. Folks got the idea, and everybody just settled back to normal for a year or so. Nobody much felt like gettin’ to know Sheila Weimer after a while.” He paused and frowned. “Well,” he said, “like I was saying, two or three years go by, the Weimers are part of the scenery, nobody gives ’em a thought. And then . . .”

  He was silent again, perhaps gathering his thoughts. Then he pursed his lips, looking directly at Delgado. “You got to understand I spent some time on this. It bothered me. Thing like that—it was real ugly, all around, and I—” He frowned. “Gettin’ ahead of myself. Telling it like a Yankee.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Mother works in town, boy having some problems at school. Can’t seem to fit in, make friends, nothing.” He shrugged. “Maybe not his fault. Boy’s very first day of school ever, teacher calls the roll. And instead of sayin’ ‘J.R. Weimer,’ she calls out ‘Junior Weener.’” He snorted. “Not the kind of thing middle school boys are gonna let go of. Right away, J.R. was ‘Tiny Dick’ or ‘Little Cock.’ They rode him hard, and especially a boy named Bobby Reed. He was on J.R. all the time, ‘Tiny Dick, Tiny Dick.’ He was bigger, not all that bright? But big and strong—plus his family had some money. And that made him one of those boys had what you might call followers—other boys that hung out with him and did what he did. And they all pushed real hard at J.R., and at first it seems like he didn’t much push back. So I got to figure it built up inside him . . .”

  Bensen was silent for a few moments. Delgado didn’t prod him, just waited. “Well,” Bensen said at last, “when that boy J.R. finally pushed back, it was one hell of a push. And what most folks believe is, he pushed Bobby Reed into the old quarry.” He shook his head. “Me, I’m not 100 percent sure. I think it might maybe have been an accident. Or he did push Bobby but didn’t mean for him to fall in like that. The kids that was there that day, they were of two minds about it. At first.” He snorted. “’Course, a day or two later, they all swore up and down J.R. pushed Bobby in on purpose ’cause that’s what folks wanted to believe.

  “Anyways, that’s a hundred-some feet down onto nothing but rocks. Coroner says Bobby died right away. Folks really want to believe that because it was near seven hours before anybody got down there to fetch Bobby’s body back up.” He tilted his head toward the diner’s door. “That was his brother Clayton walked out a minute ago?”

  Delgado nodded.

  “Well,” Bensen went on, “by the time I went round to talk to J.R., him and his mother had up and gone. Lock, stock, and minivan.” He sighed. “Kid was fourteen years old. I wasn’t about to cuff him and toss him in jail. But I sure did want to talk to him ’bout what happened.”

  Bensen sighed and closed his eyes. He looked like he’d run out of steam and might just decide to take a nap. But when he opened his eyes again, they were full of energy. “I did all the things you’d expect. Put it out on the wire, names and plate number and descriptions. Nothing came back, not ever. After a while I just had to figure they’d changed their names. ’Cause they sure didn’t have the means to run for Argentina or someplace like that.” His face got even more serious and thoughtful. “And I got to admit that bothered me more. How did a kid and a lady like that manage it? I mean, ’less there was a criminal history I couldn’t find. I checked back, and I still couldn’t find it, and I had to figure one of ’em just had a natural talent for felony.”

  Bensen raised one eyebrow. Delgado nodded. The old cop picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He made a face and put the cup down. “I just can’t like cold coffee,” he said, pushing the cup away from him. “Guess I talked too long.”

  “No, sir,” Delgado said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

/>   “Sure I have,” Bensen said. “Always a big help to let an old man ramble on, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know where they lived before?” Delgado asked. “Before they came to Jasper?”

  Bensen made a wide-eyed face. “Now how ’m I gonna know that? Poor dumb ole country cop like me? Why, shucks, I ain’t never heard of no database or nothin’.” He snorted. “’Course I know. Like I said, this bothered me. I went over this thing every way I could think. I even checked with your folks at the Bureau, hopin’ that maybe just once they wouldn’t fall over their own damn feet and land on mine.” He made a disgusted face. Delgado kept silent. He was well aware that most local cops don’t like the Bureau. Besides, Delgado had the same opinion about most of his fellow agents.

  “I wasn’t really expecting much, just doing some due diligence?” Bensen said. He waggled his eyebrows. “And what do you know? I got a hit. Nothin’ at all on the kid or his mom—but it seems J.R.’s daddy had a record. Bunch of financial stuff—check kiting, fraud, you know. And he died just before they arrested him for a Ponzi scheme.”

  Delgado felt his mouth go dry. This was it—the final piece. And he was certain it would lead to the big house on the hill. “Where?” he said. “Where did that happen?”

  Bensen knew he had Delgado hooked and enjoyed it. He let it play out a little longer. “Well, I got a copy of the death certificate. It was dated just a few weeks before Sheila and J.R. showed up here, in Jasper.” He smiled, drawing it out. “The old man passed away of a heart attack in the hospital. Not too terrible far from here. In Davidson County, Tennessee.” He smiled for the first time, the smile of a man who realized he had just made somebody’s day. “That’s Nashville, son,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  22

  The wedding had been very simple, of course. Katrina wore a basic, off-the-rack Hugo Boss business suit—all she could get on short notice. There were no crowds, no family members, not even any music. It was not at all like Katrina’s first wedding, the one to Michael. That had been in St. John the Divine Episcopal, where Eberhardts always got married. The pews had been packed with family members, business associates, paparazzi. This time, it was town hall, and nobody was there except the two of them, Jacob Brilstein, and a clerk. It was so very different that it was hard to think of it as a wedding. Katrina hoped that was a sign that this marriage would be different, too, in spite of being somewhat impromptu.

  As the clerk intoned the civil ceremony in a flat voice, Brilstein stood beside them beaming as if it were his own wedding. And somehow, magically, at the proper moment, he pulled a ring from his pocket. Randall put it on Katrina’s finger with trembling hands, and a moment later it was over and they came together for the official kiss—which turned into a much longer and more passionate kiss that lasted until the clerk cleared his throat ostentatiously and said in a very loud voice, “Okay, folks, you’re married now. Take it home, please.”

  As a wedding present, Brilstein had booked them a suite at the St. Regis. Katrina managed to hide her disappointment. In the first place, she didn’t really care for the St. Regis. More importantly, she found that she was aching with a need to go back to her own house—impossible, of course. It was not her home right now; it was a crime scene, and they would not be allowed in until the police had finished examining every inch of it.

  That turned out to be more than a week later, which seemed like a long time, and Katrina was quite sure the police were deliberately slow to punish her for being rich and for apparently dodging a murder conviction. Brilstein had managed to delay the trial for at least six months, and they were both free for now. Unfortunately, the first week of freedom meant freedom at the St. Regis, and Katrina could not be happy. And when they were finally allowed to move back in to her house, it looked like a gang of wild teenagers had savaged the place. The police had been very thorough in examining every inch of every room, and just as negligent in putting it back the way they’d found it. Katrina spent her first three days at home supervising a cleaning crew.

  But when the house was finally restored to its former state of half-refurbished glory, Katrina was surprised to find how easily the two of them settled into married life. With Michael, the best Katrina had ever achieved was a kind of disappointed comfort. With Randall, there was routine elation. Every day began and ended happily, together. They fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, as if they had been together forever.

  Slowly, very slowly, something approaching Normal Life returned. But for Katrina, it was a far better Normal than she’d ever had. When she came home from errands, or a meeting of some charity that still wanted her on their board, she had something to come home to—some-one. And so even though there was an eventual trial for murder hanging over her head, Katrina was happy.

  Randall seemed just as content. Initially, he’d been a bit stuffy about living at her house amid the abundant trappings of ridiculous wealth. Little luxuries that Katrina took for granted seemed to make him very uncomfortable. But he had slowly relaxed into his new life of luxury. He still insisted on doing his work as a designer and art consultant, and he would not take any of Katrina’s money. He wouldn’t even drive one of the luxury cars that sat in the huge garage unless they were going somewhere together. On the other hand, he soon lost his shyness about using the pool, the sauna, and the home gym.

  And surprisingly, wonderfully, the enormous, perfectly furnished kitchen.

  Katrina had never really been interested in cooking. She’d taken a course in classic cooking when she first married Michael. But he never came home for dinner, and she quickly lost interest in making coq au vin for one. So for most of her marriage—her first marriage—she’d gotten by on eating out, getting takeout, or making a quick egg sandwich.

  With Randall in charge of the kitchen, every evening was a different charming surprise. He seemed to delight in amazing her, and she never knew if she was sitting down to a meal of pad thai, pulled pork, or tournedos du boeuf. Katrina enjoyed the surprise, and the meals, immensely.

  More than that, there was a comforting domesticity to being married to Randall that she’d never experienced with Michael. Katrina got a quiet happiness from the everyday things Randall did: trimming his beard, shaving his head, polishing his shoes, stupid little things that everybody did—but she was watching Randall, her husband, do them, and that made all the difference. At last, at long last, marriage had turned into something that met the expectations she’d had for it. It made her feel complete.

  Marriage—to Randall—made Katrina happy.

  Of course, nothing is all flowers and rainbows. Before her arrest for her husband’s murder, Katrina had been active in quite a few charities and civic organizations. It was part of the Eberhardt code of noblesse oblige, the absolute obligation to give back. Katrina had always taken that duty seriously, and attending meetings for all the various organizations had given her a busy schedule. And because of her name—and, of course, her checkbook—she had always been greeted warmly, treated with affection and respect.

  The first two or three such meetings after Michael’s death . . . not so much. Nothing was actually said out loud, but a chill was in the air, and Katrina was made very much aware that the other committee members no longer approved of her. Katrina vowed to show them all that she was tougher than they were and their disapproval mattered less to her than a sparrow’s fart. And she gritted her teeth, returned frost for frost, and soldiered on.

  But there was one date on Katrina’s calendar that no amount of spinal steel could prepare her for: the meeting of the Eberhardt Museum’s board of directors. Katrina was a board member, of course, as were her two brothers, a handful of cousins, and a couple of what, in bygone days, would have been called family retainers. They had all known Katrina her entire life, and their opinion of her actually mattered to her. She dreaded facing these other board members—and especially her brother Erik Jr.

 
Erik, the senior sibling, was the head of the family business trust, and a bit of a Calvinist. He took himself and his responsibilities very seriously—a little too seriously, Katrina had always thought—whether those responsibilities were financial, fiduciary, or moral. To Erik, adultery was an unthinkable, unforgiveable affront to God and Man. Katrina could just imagine what he would have to say about his baby sister being charged with the murder of her husband—and then to remarry before Michael’s body was even cold! And to marry someone so far beneath the Eberhardts, socially and—even more important—financially. He would naturally assume that Randall was a gold digger who had somehow wheedled Katrina into killing Michael to get his hands on her money. And to Erik, gold-digging was even worse than murder.

  There would be no sympathy at all from Erik, and Katrina was frightened of what he might say or do. Not that he would become violent, or even verbally vicious. And he couldn’t cut her off from her trust fund. But because he had always been in charge, the older brother, she felt afraid of him in a way that she couldn’t talk herself out of.

  She hoped that her other brother, Tim, would be more understanding. He was only three years older than Katrina, and they’d always been close. He was much more tolerant than Erik. He was also gay, which made Erik disapprove of him, too. Erik felt that his younger brother had made a foolish “lifestyle choice,” one that brought discredit to the Eberhardt name. Protecting the Eberhardt name was one of Erik’s major preoccupations—yet another reason he would be furious with Katrina. Tim had no such concern. Even so, Katrina could not bring herself to get in touch with him. What if she was wrong and Tim was cold or hostile? It was better not to know than to risk an unpleasant knowing.

  And so as the day of the museum’s board meeting arrived, Katrina was full of dread. But she also had a stubborn streak, and she refused to skip the meeting. She would ride out Erik’s disapproval, and maybe Tim’s, and let them see that she was not neglecting her duty to the family, whatever they might think of her recent adventures. She even left home early, to make sure she arrived on time, so everyone would see that she was not ducking them, and she had no reason to hide.