by Sharon Sala
“Did he seem despondent?”
She nodded. “Yes, but it was nothing new. Mother has…had Alzheimer’s. Up until last Sunday he’d been coping.”
Shit. Alzheimer’s. The same ugly disease Grandma Scott had died from. The scene was beginning to add up.
“What happened last Sunday?”
“That morning, when Mother woke up, Dad said she didn’t know him. She got scared and started crying, telling him to get out of her house. It nearly killed him. He called me, sobbing, saying that she was afraid of him and asking what did I think he should do. Of course I came right over. By the time I got here, Mother had calmed down. I suggested the possibility of putting her into a nursing home.”
“I take it he refused,” Bodie said.
Terri nodded. “He got very angry with me for even suggesting it. I stayed for a while longer, and as time passed, they slid back into their little routine. I thought that the crisis had passed. Obviously I was wrong.”
Her face crumpled as a fresh set of tears began to fall.
Bodie sighed. The whole thing was a tragedy.
“Is there someone you can call? A family member…a friend?”
Terri ran a shaky hand through her tousled hair. “My husband is in Iraq. Our son is away at college. I called our priest. He’ll be here shortly.”
No sooner had she said the words than the doorbell rang.
“That’s probably him,” Terri said. “Do you need me anymore?”
Bodie nodded. “No, ma’am.” Then he handed her his card. “If there’s anything I can do, feel free to call.”
She slipped the card into her pocket and walked out of the room with Bodie right behind her.
He caught a glimpse of a man in dark clothing with the expected flash of a white clerical collar. There was a cluster of mumbled words, followed by a fresh set of harsh, agonizing sobs as the priest took Terri Ray into his arms.
Bodie paused on the way out the door.
“Excuse me, Father. I’m Detective Scott. She has my card,” he said, then felt obliged to add, “and my sympathies.”
The priest nodded. “I’m Mrs. Ray’s priest from St. Mary’s. I’m going to take her home.”
Even though the incident appeared to be an open-and-shut case, protocol demanded the investigation proceed until the evidence proved cause of death, which was now in the hands of the crime lab. By the time Bodie and Dave headed back to the department, it was already evening.
“That was a tough one,” Dave muttered, as Bodie braked for a red light.
Bodie nodded.
“Would you do that?” Dave asked.
“Do what?” Bodie asked.
“What that man did…to himself and his wife.”
Bodie frowned. “My gut reaction would be no, but as my Dad used to say, ‘Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes,’ so I guess my answer should be…I don’t know.”
“Yeah. Me, neither,” Dave said.
The light turned green. Bodie accelerated, and they moved through the intersection. By the time they got back to the precinct, it was nearing 6:00 p.m. Bodie checked his messages and found one from Shorty Carroll, a retired detective from the vice squad. He’d called Shorty earlier about the cold case, but the man hadn’t been home, so he’d left a message for him to call. Now they were playing phone tag. Bodie hoped Shorty would still be there when he called back. If anyone knew about hookers and pimps from twenty years ago, it would be Shorty.
Bodie took a seat and quickly returned the call.
The call was answered on the third ring.
“Hello.”
Bodie leaned back in his chair. “Hey, Shorty. This is Bodie Scott from Homicide. We met back at Carl Finley’s retirement party a couple of years ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember you,” Shorty said. “The cowboy.”
Bodie grinned. His penchant for boots and Stetsons had quickly earned him the nickname.
“Yeah, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“I’m working a cold case. It’s a homicide from twenty years ago, when you were still with the department, but there’s not much in the file to go on.”
“So what’s the name of the vic?”
“Sally Blake. She was a twentysomething hooker who was murdered in her room at the Hampton Arms.”
“That old hotel used to be over on the north side?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell,” Shorty said.
“I wasn’t calling you about the vic. I’m running down leads, and a name popped up that I thought you might know. It was the name of her pimp. A man named Tank Vincent.”
“Vincent…Tank Vincent? I don’t think… Oh! Wait. I do remember him. Great big good-looking guy at the time. Think a young Nick Nolte and you got the gist. Had his hair bleached blond, and wore it straight and long, like a woman’s. Hung way below his shoulders. Yeah, I remember Tank. He came by the name honestly. Had the upper body strength of a weight lifter.”
Bodie’s pulse kicked up a notch. Bingo.
“In that case, I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to now? He isn’t coming up on any of our databases, and I was afraid he might be dead.”
“Oddly enough, I ran into him about five years ago when I was fishing down at Lake Eufaula. He was running a bait shop. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked in to buy some stink bait. I almost didn’t recognize him. The young Nolte had morphed into a bad version of the older one. We had a beer and a couple of laughs. But after I hurt my back in 2008 I haven’t been able to make the drive anymore. Don’t know whether he’s still there or not.”
Bodie was taking notes. The thrill of the hunt was kicking in.
“I don’t suppose you remember the name of that bait shop?”
Shorty laughed. “Yeah. It was one of those real memorable names. Bait and Beer.”
Bodie grinned. “Thanks, Shorty. Take care.”
“You, too,” Shorty said, and disconnected.
Bodie hung up the phone, then turned to his computer, pulled up the phone records for Eufaula and began scanning the yellow pages for a bait shop called Bait and Beer. He found one, then began looking for the owner by cross-checking against a list of businesses with liquor licenses, which the owner would have needed to sell beer. When the name Samuel Gene Vincent popped up as having a liquor license for Bait and Beer, he printed out the info. Then he tapped into the Oklahoma Department of Motor Vehicles, found a corresponding name with an accompanying photo and printed that out, as well. Now he had a picture and an address. Shorty was right. Vincent did bear a striking resemblance to present-day Nick Nolte.
He slid the info into the cold case file, along with his notes, and headed for the parking lot. He planned to contact Maria Slade tomorrow, but he was too hyped to go home. He wanted to show her the DMV photo and see if it rang any bells. He pulled the card she’d given him out of his pocket, dialed her cell phone and waited for her to answer.
Maria was just about to go downstairs to the hotel restaurant when her cell phone rang. The caller ID came up as the Tulsa Police Department. Suddenly there was a knot in her stomach. She answered quickly.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Slade. This is Detective Scott.”
Maria sat down on the side of the bed. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
She sighed. “Oh, okay, it’s just that I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight, so of course the first thing I thought was that you’d changed your mind. Sorry. That’s how my brain’s been working these days.”
“No problem. Say, listen…would it be all right if I came by? I have a couple of things I want to show you.”
“Yes, of course.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s after seven. I was about to go downstairs to dinner.”
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast…except for some cake.”
Maria grinned. “You’re welco
me to join me, but won’t your family be expecting you at home?”
“No wife. No kids. No dog. And remember that cake all over my desk when you came in?”
“I guess,” Maria said, unwilling to admit she’d been so nervous she hadn’t seen anything but his face.
“Today’s my birthday. I would appreciate a little company tonight.”
She refused to acknowledge the spurt of interest following that news—not to mention the news that he was single.
“In that case, happy birthday, Detective, and I’d be happy if you would join me. I hate to eat alone.”
“Me, too. How about I meet you in the bar and we’ll go from there?”
“All right,” Maria said.
“See you in a few,” Bodie said.
“Yes, see you soon,” she said, then dropped her cell phone in her purse and told herself the reason for the skip in her heart had nothing to do with the fact that she would be dining with a very handsome man. He was only doing his job and being kind. Still, she found herself hurrying as she headed for the elevator.
In the grand scheme of life, fate often has a way of evening the odds, which was certainly the case for hotshot lawyer Franklin Sheets. The last thing he expected to see in the lobby of the Doubletree Hotel was a ghost.
He had just taken a table in the bar and was waiting to meet a client for cocktails when he saw it appear. She was dressed in contemporary clothing and her hair was longer than he’d remembered, but as he lived and breathed, it was the ghost of Sally Blake.
Twenty years ago he might not have been so shocked, but after all this time, he would have assumed she’d moved on, or gone into the light or wherever it was spirits were supposed to go. Obviously hers had not.
Panic hit, followed by a nausea so strong he thought he would throw up. She paused in the lobby, looking around as if to get her bearings, then turned toward the bar, locked on to his presence and started walking toward him. He wondered if anyone else could see her and wondered if she’d come to take him to hell.
His legs went weak, and his hands started to shake. The closer she came, the faster his pulse raced. She was coming closer—moving with that slow, lanky stride he remembered so well, with her arms swinging freely, her head back and her chin up. He stood abruptly, fully intending to run, but his legs wouldn’t work. His heart was thundering so hard, he wondered if it could explode from fright. A few more steps and he would find out.
God…God…no, please, no…don’t let her—
Their gazes met. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume, and then she was right in front of him. He opened his mouth to beg for mercy—then she passed him by.
He spun abruptly, watching in disbelief as the ghost took a seat a few tables over. When she ordered a beer, he fell backward into his chair, trying to understand what had just happened.
She was talking to the waiter, then taking a cell phone out of her purse and reading a text.
Holy shit. That wasn’t a ghost! It was a living, breathing woman.
His mind began to race. He’d always heard that everyone had a twin, but this was crazy. This woman looked like Sally had looked twenty years ago. How could she…?
The kid. Son of a bitch…this had to be the kid.
He swiped a shaky hand across his face and tried to laugh. Ghosts. How stupid could he be? The kid had grown up, that was all. He’d never expected to see her again, but now that he had…no big deal. She didn’t know him. One thing about Sally. She would never take her dates to her room. And even if the kid remembered the few times he’d seen them out and about, there was no way she could connect him to her mother. Even though he was still slim and fit, he looked nothing like the man he’d been then, mimicking wealth with a ten-year-old Corvette, his JCPenney suits and fake gold jewelry. But he’d had plans and dreams, and by God, he’d made them happen. His suits were Armani now, and his watch was gold, as in Rolex. And the car he drove these days was a baby blue Mercedes with matching leather seats—his dream car.
Convinced that he’d made a big deal out of nothing, he waved at his waiter and ordered a second glass of wine, then glanced at his watch. Where the hell was his client? Didn’t the little bastard know his time was valuable? He would give him ten more minutes, and then he was out of here.
His second drink arrived at the same time that a man walked into the bar. Franklin eyed him, thinking to himself that he knew the guy from somewhere. As the man passed, he caught a glimpse of a badge clipped to his waist and the bulge of a shoulder holster, and thought cop. That’s it. The guy’s a cop.
Out of curiosity, he turned to see where the man was headed, and once again, his stomach rolled. That woman—the Sally Blake look-alike. The cop was going to her table.
“So what?” Franklin muttered, unaware he was talking aloud. “So she’s talking to a cop. So what? It’s still nothing to do with me.”
“Mr. Sheets. Sorry I’m late.”
Franklin jumped, then turned around. The missing client had arrived. He glared at the pasty-faced accountant who was having trouble with the IRS and thought about telling him he wasn’t going to take the case. Then he remembered the hefty retainer he’d already accepted and made himself focus.
Maria saw Bodie enter the bar and lifted her hand. Immediately he saw her and headed her way, moving with a slow, easy stride that reminded her of the cowboys on the Triple S. She hadn’t known he wore a Stetson, but she had seen his boots. Even though it wasn’t how she’d imagined a detective would dress, she thought little of it. This was Oklahoma, after all. Plenty of cowboys here.
Now, watching him wend his way through the maze of small tables, she had to admit that he was very easy on the eyes.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” Bodie said, as he took a seat at the table beside her and laid his hat on an empty chair.
“No problem,” Maria said. “You’re the one doing me a favor. It’s why I came here, remember?”
The waiter stopped by the table to get his order. Bodie noticed the brown long-neck bottle in front of Maria and stifled a grin. A woman after his own heart.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
As Maria’s focus shifted, she realized the detective was watching her. They locked gazes, and she was the first to look away. Suddenly the condensation dripping down the side of the bottle became an irresistible point of interest.
Bodie could tell she was nervous. He didn’t know whether it had to do with him, the case, or both.
The case he and Dave had just worked was still weighing on his mind. He would like for this one to have a better resolution. If he was to believe everything Maria had told him, then all he had to do was find a way to help her unlock her memory.
The waiter came back with his beer.
“Thanks,” Bodie said, then eyed Maria. “Did you make reservations in the restaurant?”
“No, I was just going to take my chances,” she said.
“Grab your drink and let’s head that way. My belly’s rubbing against my backbone.”
Maria grinned. “That’s pretty hungry.”
Bodie grabbed his hat, settled it on his head, then picked up his beer.
“When it comes to food, I don’t mess around. After you, ma’am.”
Maria walked out of the bar, thinking only of the detective behind her, and she didn’t even notice that another set of eyes was following her every move.
Six
B odie waited until after he and Maria had ordered their food before taking the DMV photo of Tank Vincent out of his jacket pocket.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said, and slid it across the table.
Maria picked up the sheet of paper. The moment she saw the name Samuel Gene Vincent, her skin crawled.
“Is this Tank?”
Bodie nodded. “Does he look familiar?”
She looked again, studying the face intently. His features were strong, his face a little square. His hair was gray and somewhat bushy. His nose sat slig
htly sideways on his face, as if he’d run into a wall. She saw the birth date and did a little math in her head. He was sixty-four, which meant he would have been forty-four when her mother died. But no matter how long she looked, it was like looking at a total stranger.
Finally she handed the photo back to Bodie.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember ever seeing this man.”
Bodie shrugged. “It’s not surprising. It’s been twenty years. According to my source, in his day, Tank Vincent was a big body-builder type with long bleached-blond hair.”
An image flashed through Maria’s mind of a great big man with long yellow hair and a gold-capped tooth.
Bodie saw the expression on her face and realized something had just clicked.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know… It was when you mentioned the hair that I flashed on a giant of a man with long blond hair and a gold-capped tooth.”
“Really?” Bodie asked. “Well, that’s something I can check out when I head down to the lake tomorrow.”
“Lake? What lake?” Maria asked.
“Lake Eufaula. That’s where Tank Vincent lives these days, running a bait and beer shop.”
Maria leaned forward. “I want to go with you.”
Bodie frowned. “Look, we’re opening a cold case here, which means for the last twenty years, someone believes he’s gotten away with murder. If anyone gets wind of the fact that the case has been activated because you witnessed that murder, it won’t matter whether you can remember right now or not. They will try to get rid of you.”
“I’m not stupid. I’m well aware of that,” Maria snapped. “But this was my mother. With her dying breath she was thinking of me to make sure I stayed safe. I’ll do whatever it takes to get justice for her.”
Bodie frowned. He had a feeling if he didn’t give in, she would be off on her own.
“I’ll pick you up around eight in the morning. It’s a bit of a drive.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet. We don’t have much to go on, and if Tank Vincent doesn’t come up with something and you don’t remember anything further, this investigation might end before it gets started.”
