Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

“In Marble Hill.”

  “How are things at the bank?”

  “You’re overdrawn.”

  “Okay.”

  “Again.”

  “I know what to do. I’ll take care of that today. I’ll get the details online.”

  “Three thousand four hundred fifty one dollars and sixty-three cents. That’s how much you’re overdrawn.”

  Sounded like a felony to Rosswell.

  “Muriel, I promise you that I’ll take care of it today.”

  “You can check your account on the computer.”

  “I appreciate that information.”

  “We’re on the Internet.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “If you’d checked your account on the World Wide Web, you’d know that you have two hundred thirty five thousand, six hundred seventy-one dollars and fourteen cents in your money market account.”

  “Yes, Muriel, I know.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t understand why you would overdraw your checking account.”

  “Muriel, I’ve made a mistake in my bookkeeping.”

  “Then maybe you should transfer enough money from your money market account to your checking account to cover the bad…I mean…the insufficient funds checks.”

  “Yes. Please do that for me.”

  “I don’t have the authority.”

  “Muriel, I will get it taken care of.”

  “Thanks, Judge Carew. Have a nice day.”

  “Thank you for your help, Muriel. Goodbye.”

  Rosswell disconnected and slid into Sofia. A hardened piece of plastic or spring or something in the bowels of the tattered seat jabbed him in the butt. He made a mental note to either drive Sofia into the river or buy a seat cushion.

  A pungent aroma he’d not noticed before assaulted his nose. Riffling through the old newspapers strewn on the back seat, he uncovered a rather fresh dead mouse. He wrapped the corpse in a page from the year-old newspapers, intending to chuck the body into the garbage can outside the courthouse. Was it a mommy mouse that had infested Sofia with a bunch of her babies? A herd of flies buzzed around in the car, searching for the rodent’s corpse. Maybe he should clean the car out before he found any more nasty surprises.

  Rosswell stuck the key into the ignition and turned it. Nothing. Not even a click. He pressed a speed dial number on his cell phone. The lady at the AAA office was nice, but firm. The membership had lapsed six months before, which meant that no one was about to drive a monster truck out to tow his car to the nearest mechanic. If he wanted, she would give him telephone numbers for local tow trucks, but they all required a sizable sum of cash up front before they left home base.

  Rosswell wrote down the information before saying to the woman who stood between him and rescue, “Have a nice day.” He clicked off, trying to figure out a way not to waste money on a tow truck.

  “Having problems?”

  Alessandra posed outside the driver’s window. She was dressed in barely legal hot pink shorts and a fluorescent yellow midriff-baring top that sank low in front. The merest hint of lilac emanated from Alessandra. Her strawberry blonde hair fell curly and long, down to her shoulders and over her admirable bosom.

  She said, “Do you want me to jump you?”

  Alessandra looked like she was ready for action. Rosswell wondered if her boss had asked her to sabotage Sofia and then seduce him. Did Rosswell have secrets he didn’t even know about that she planned to wiggle out of him after she wiggled out of those clothes?

  You idiot. She’s talking about your battery.

  “Alessandra, I need to get to town. I’ll buy you breakfast at Mabel’s.”

  “Momma fed me breakfast long before you got up.”

  “If you drive me into town, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee at Mabel’s.”

  He knew he was going to regret that invitation. But he had to get to town.

  Alessandra spoke about the weather and nothing else on the short trip although Rosswell had prepared himself for a bomb. Now was her chance. Hadn’t she said that she needed to talk to him about something important?

  Only with the greatest difficulty and aided by dark sunglasses did he keep his eyes on the scenery outside the car. The scenery inside the car was tempting, but he restrained himself.

  Ollie snapped to attention when Alessandra and Rosswell strolled into Mabel’s. It took little imagination to determine what Ollie was thinking when he stared at Alessandra.

  Rosswell introduced them, then arrowed for his traditional back booth. Once they were seated and drinking coffee, Alessandra lit the fuse and the explosion rocked him.

  “Judge.” She took a deep breath and straightened, emphasizing every curve on her body. “I know where Tina is.”

  Rosswell listened to the buzzing fluorescent lights, the background noise of the patrons chatting, and the occasional loud mufflers on cars passing outside. All that to suppress a gasp. To gasp would be to give the woman power over him that he didn’t want to relinquish.

  Alessandra brushed the hair from her face, first with her right forefinger, then with her left. The gesture left Rosswell mildly stimulated. Tina had done the same thing on occasion.

  He hoped to God that Alessandra was not lying. Maybe she really could help him find Tina. Rosswell stirred the sludge in his cup. “I’m listening.” What did she expect him to do? Fall at her feet and cry in gratitude? Gratitude was the last thing he’d show her. Unless she produced Tina.

  Rosswell kept his eyes locked on hers—to avoid leering down her top—when she bent forward and lowered her voice. The closer she got to him, the more he could smell her lilac perfume. “Nathaniel Dahlbert kidnapped her.” She nodded. “He’s got her. That’s a fact.”

  Rosswell exhaled loudly. “I appreciate your help, but I’ve known for weeks that Nathaniel kidnapped Tina.”

  He silently called himself a liar. There was nothing he knew for sure. After tossing another dash of salt into the coffee, he slurped a large swallow. It bought him time to think of something bland to say to her. “It’s the details I can’t find out. Without the details, I have no plan. Without a plan, I have no Tina.”

  Rosswell jumped at the unexpected approach of Mabel. “More water?” She filled their glasses before either could answer. “Anything else?”

  Why did waitresses sneak up when you started talking about something interesting?

  Rosswell and Alessandra both shook their heads. He’d caught a whiff of cinnamon wafting from the kitchen, meaning that Ollie was baking his famous rolls. “Maybe later, I’ll have a roll or two.”

  Mabel took her time walking away, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times, scoping out Alessandra’s outfit. Rosswell knew Mabel was as nosy as her old man. His meeting—he didn’t want to call it a breakfast date—would be all over the courthouse by noon. And with each retelling, Alessandra’s clothing would become even skimpier until someone swore she’d been eating breakfast in her birthday suit.

  “Alessandra, if you know exactly where Tina is, then I want you, need you, to tell me now.”

  She hesitated. “Brazil.” When she spoke, her lips quivered.

  She’s lying.

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “I heard Nathaniel talking about it.”

  “Brazil is a big country. Where exactly is she?”

  “Exactly?” She deflated. “I don’t know exactly where. I’ll try to find out more details.” Had she really wanted to help him? And was now disappointed that she couldn’t be of assistance? “There’s something you don’t know about that woman who you think got thrown off the boat.”

  “Think? I know she got tossed off the ferry. I saw it.”

  “There are a couple of facts you don’t know.”

  “Are we trading information here? What is it you want? Tell me what you know about Tina’s whereabouts and I’ll tell you anything I know. I’m sorry the woman drowned, but my focus is on Tina.”

  Rosswell felt no duty to tell Alessandra how
Mary Donna Helperen from Piggott, Arkansas really died. Would Alessandra fall for his lie that she’d drowned? Did she know that Mary Donna had died giving birth after Rosswell had seen her tossed into the river?

  “She didn’t drown.”

  Alessandra hadn’t fallen for the ruse. Rosswell kept his silence at her stunning announcement. She really did know something.

  “Who didn’t drown? Tina? Or the woman I saw chucked into the Mississippi River last Sunday?”

  After listening to Turk Malone, Charlie Heckle, and Jill Mabli, Rosswell graded the quality of informants around Ste. Gen between shoddy as a rotten stump and worthless as a dead mule. Now, maybe Alessandra had some valid information.

  “You didn’t see anybody thrown into the river last Sunday.”

  “What?”

  A deep voice spoke. “Judge Carew?” The guy standing at the booth matched Rosswell’s short stature, but outweighed him by forty pounds. The fellow’s thinning straight black hair emphasized his shiny mustache, onyx, curled, and heavy. How Rosswell envied those handlebars.

  Rosswell stood and shook hands with the man. “Alessandra, this is business. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for the ride.”

  Alessandra looked at the man and he at her. Rosswell suspected that some kind of signal passed between them but couldn’t validate his hunch. He scooped up the check and left a tip.

  Outside, Rosswell wiped the sweat from his face. “Is your car air conditioned?”

  “I’m sorry I broke up your conversation with the young lady. She’s beautiful.”

  “You didn’t break anything up. That was Alessandra Bolzoni, my landlady’s daughter. I’ll explain later. All I need to know now is whether you have a cool car.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rosswell donned his sunglasses and glanced at his watch. “Let’s take a turn around the courthouse square a couple of times. I’ve got a few minutes before I need to be on the bench.” Rosswell was noted for starting court on time, an unusual circumstance among most judges.

  The man indicated his car, a state-issued unmarked maroon sedan—Rosswell recognized it as a Crown Victoria—with black wall tires plain enough to be conspicuous. There may as well have been COP CAR painted on the side in bright orange letters.

  Jim Bill Evans, an investigator for the state fire marshal’s office, had arrived.

  Chapter 35

  Monday Morning

  Rosswell adjusted the air conditioner vent to blow directly into his face. “Nice to have the cavalry show up.” Although the air was blessedly cool, it smelled stale, like it had been run through the air conditioning system of a bureaucrat’s car.

  “I’ve read the entire file on Tina you sent me. Three times. Now explain it again.”

  Rosswell recounted the adventure, including every important detail. He concluded with, “It’s been a real kerfuffle.”

  “Kerfuffle? I’m down here investigating the fire you got caught in, not a kerfuffle.”

  Jim Bill dipped a wad of chewing tobacco out of an open pouch lodged on his car’s dash, then squirreled the weed in a ruddy cheek. He moved the pouch to the center console, uncovering a small sign stuck to the dash: NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ALLOWED IN STATE VEHICLES!

  “You got an engraved invitation from Sheriff Fribeau, I assume?”

  Rosswell wondered where Jim Bill was going to spit. And when? His silent questions were answered when Jim Bill buzzed down the window to hawk a wad onto the street. Expert shot! As far as Rosswell could determine, not a drop touched the man or the car.

  “Let’s say that I had to pull a few strings to get assigned down here for a couple of days. The Sainte Gen fire chief’s a good friend of mine and he asked me to look into this. Gustave is raising nine kinds of holy hell with my boss, the governor, the General Assembly, and anyone else he can get a hold of.”

  “Gustave is an idiot.”

  “The charging papers on Nathaniel Dahlbert will weigh more than the national budget.”

  “What charging papers? I’ve been trying to tell everyone about him but no one wants to listen. Nobody’s going to do anything to him.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.” Jim Bill steered the car left, then left again, heading back toward the courthouse. The second turn aimed the sunshine directly into the windshield, revealing a bunch of tiny bugs smeared across the glass. “They listened. They didn’t tell you that they listened. In fact, they were onto Nathaniel long before you were.”

  “The guy’s nuts. He’s a psychopath. Or a sociopath.”

  “No one’s examined him. All I know is that he has no conscience and treats people like objects. If you’re of no more use to him, he’ll toss you away as if you were a broken toaster.”

  Rosswell said, “And these people who’ve been watching him. I met two of them. Theodore and Philbert, two guys posing as auditors, were really, what? Highway Patrol? FBI? CIA?”

  “Theodore and Philbert? Never heard of them.”

  “Right.” Rosswell knew he’d been told to keep his mouth shut and stop trying to pry information from Jim Bill, but damn it, he wanted to know. “When is Nathaniel going to be arrested?” Rosswell rubbed the seat cushions of the car, cleaning his sweaty palms. Although a tad itchy, the cushions were a sight better than Sofia’s seats, which felt as if they’d been built of old orange crates covered with discarded chenille and stuffed with corncobs.

  “That’s the problem. We don’t have enough evidence on him. He’s not only into dope and money laundering. Something even worse. Slavery.”

  “Slavery?” Dear God, Jill had been right.

  “The politically correct term is human trafficking, although I prefer the more accurate term. Slavery. You know how widespread baby selling is? It’s all over the country. Thousands of people a day disappear in the United States. Babies, teenagers, adults. All missing. Counting the whole world, the numbers are huge. An enormous amount of them wind up in slavery.”

  “I don’t care about the rest of the world. All I care about is Tina.”

  Jim Bill caressed his enviable ’stache. “If I knew where Tina was, I’d be there right now, busting her out.”

  “And I’d be right next to you.”

  “We need to focus on Nathaniel. His cohorts pick up pregnant girls, mostly runaways. He buys their babies, then sells them. He keeps the mommies to sell as playthings.” Jim Bill remained silent long enough to convince Rosswell that he was reconsidering something. After a bit, Jim Bill said, “I’ll tell you one thing and then that’s it.”

  “I understand.”

  “You ever hear those news stories on television about how law enforcement agencies don’t like to co-operate and share information?”

  “All the time.”

  “Those stories are planted by the law enforcement agencies. It’s part of a…what you’d call maybe a plan…to keep the slave dealers off balance. We’ve got our own plans for dealing with people who sell human flesh.”

  Rosswell considered the greatest part of discretion was silence, thus he managed not to respond until thirty seconds later. “I need to know more.”

  “Not now, you don’t. Or ask me some questions I can answer.”

  “I want Tina. Take me to her. Right now.”

  Rosswell watched Jim Bill’s shoulders slump, his mouth turn down, and the chewing stop. “She’s not in Belize at a sex resort for rich South Americans, I can tell you that.”

  “The version I heard was a little different.”

  “There are lots of versions of where she is. She’s not at Nathaniel Dahlbert’s mansion on the hill.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Jim Bill, I’m not trying to find out any classified info. Tell me if I need to stay in Sainte Genevieve.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “This is Nathaniel’s center. If he wanted Tina, he’d bring her here.”

  Jim Bill said no more. That was the whole answer. The fire marshal had to
ld Rosswell what he wanted to hear. He’d like to know more about the why, but he knew not to push him. He had to take this one on faith.

  But Jim Bill had more. “The folks looking for Tina don’t have unlimited money or unlimited time. Other things have come up. Big crimes that need immediate attention. Nobody has the resources to keep up a full-time search for Tina. It’s a cold case.”

  “Cold case?” Rosswell fought his anger. “Tina was pregnant when she was kidnapped. I need to know if she’s dead or alive. I need to know if my baby is dead or alive. This is not a cold case!”

  “I don’t know the answers to your questions.”

  “Let me ask you one more thing.”

  “You can ask.” Jim Bill spit out an old wad and stuffed in a fresh one. “And I may not answer.”

  “Did Nathaniel try to kill Ollie and me in that wildfire?”

  “I’m still looking into that. I found what looks like a portable meth lab in the woods. Red phosphorous, ether, lithium batteries, iodine, coffee filters, funnels, on and on and on.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “At the point of origin, which I found in five minutes.”

  “Point of origin of the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know you spotted the exact place where the fire started?”

  “Fires spread in a V- or U-shape.” Jim Bill spread his hands out to demonstrate. “Go to the narrowest part of the fire. That’s where it started. Then you check on other stuff around there. Blackened parts of trees, burned grass, ash piles, fallen and unburned tree limbs. All of it shows which way the fire came from and where it went. To me, all those things look like the road signs you see on an interstate highway. Plain. Clear. Obvious.”

  “And a meth cooker started the fire.”

  “That’s the way it’s shaping up. Our cooker left a lot of incriminating evidence. Meth heads are sloppy.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Turk Malone. Skinny guy with a scrawny beard, goes around stoned. His name keeps popping up. You know him?” Jim Bill peered into the tobacco pouch. Rosswell enjoyed the sweet aroma, although the nastiness of its use hadn’t charmed him.