Where I Can See You

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Linda Dupree followed Burke’s glance and offered a similar look. Stay away from the kid. She still held a grudge. Hud had no questions for her or the boy. At least not at the moment. He preferred to avoid any more conflict with the woman, not rile her up. He might need to talk to her again. Or the kid, if he could get close enough to him. Timmy Sizemore was one of the last people to see Leo Sherman alive. Him and Charlie Sandburg, the boat company owner. There still might be some information to glean. Hud hadn’t made the connection between Pam Sizemore and Sherman, but he felt like he was getting close, especially with the information Sloane had collected about Kaye. Somehow, this whole thing was going to come down to a drug deal gone bad. Hud knew it. Felt it deep in his bones. That was his hunch for the motive. Now he just needed to figure out who was pulling the trigger.

  Burke said something to Linda Dupree; it was a mumble to Hud’s ears. She nodded and said something back in a low whisper, then Burke tousled the hair on the top of Timmy’s head and told him goodbye.

  Timmy smiled, looked at Burke and made eye contact, and said, “See you later, alligator . . .” loudly, with an expectant response from Burke. The boy’s voice echoed off the floor and cement walls.

  Burke and Hud were staring eye-to-eye now, and the chief ignored the boy, let his hand slide from the top of his head to between his shoulder blades and gave him a gentle push toward the door.

  See you in a while, crocodile, flittered through Hud’s brain. Burke was supposed to say it back to the kid, but the chief’s jaw had locked in refusal. He said nothing. Just watched as Linda Dupree led the kid to the door.

  Hud knew he was seeing something odd. He just couldn’t figure out what that something was. There was nothing left to do but wait for Burke to come to him. It looked like the chief and the boy had a thing between them. Was it new or old? Did Burke know the kid before his mother had been murdered? It was a question Hud had never had reason to ask before, and he wasn’t sure he had reason now. He was just curious.

  “I see you’ve rejoined the world, all refreshed,” Burke sneered, coming to a stop inches from Hud. His shirt was crumpled, like he’d slept in it, and his green silk tie was dotted with mustard. Must have had lunch at his desk or on the run. Things were moving fast.

  “What was that about?” Hud nodded toward the door.

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  “He’s the vic’s kid. Yes, it does.” Hud focused his attention back on Burke, completely aware of the tone in his voice. Challenging Burke was an old habit; he wasn’t about to back off now.

  “There’s nothing to be found there,” Burke said, glaring.

  “I’ll decide that.”

  “The kid’s been through enough.”

  “I understand that.”

  Burke exhaled and broke eye contact with Hud. “I know that. It’s just that he’s fragile. Don’t you ever stop?”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  Burke sighed and allowed himself to go soft for just a second. “No. That’s why I hired you.” His tone was normal, like they were equals—for just a second—back on the boat fishing on summer break from school.

  “I was hoping you’d say something like that. I can see that the kid’s fragile,” Hud said. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “He looks sick. Not just heartbroken.”

  “He is,” Burke said.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Juvenile arthritis. A rare kind, I guess. His mother had it, too.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “Constantly,” Burke said. “I don’t know the particulars, but there’s no cure, and the pain will increase as he gets older.”

  “She was desperate,” Hud whispered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “His mother, Pam Sizemore, she knew his pain. She was desperate to ease it. She didn’t want him to live like her.”

  “You think that’s why she was cooking meth in a trailer with her sick kid? That’s a stretch, Hud. She was a crack case, plain and simple, part of the scourge that has swept through here. Good riddance is what I say. Good riddance. That kid’ll be better off in a foster home. He’ll get proper medicines and care. He deserves that, don’t you think?”

  Hud rocked back on his heels, ready to tear into Burke, but trying to restrain himself at the same time. He didn’t get a chance to say a word. A woman that he didn’t know stuck her head out of the CPS office and said, “Can I see you a second, Chief?”

  Burke was surprised by the interruption but said yes and turned to join her.

  “Burke?” Hud said, demanding his attention.

  “What?”

  “I need to talk to you later, if you have some time.”

  “I always have time for this case. It’s twenty-four seven until we put the joker who’s responsible for it behind bars.”

  “This is personal,” Hud said.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever. You know where to find me,” Burke replied, then stalked off in the opposite direction.

  “Did you ever think that your mother was still alive? That she just up and left? That it was too much for her?”

  “No. I’ve always believed she was dead. I’ve always believed someone killed her and got away with it.”

  “Since you were a little boy?”

  “Yes, from the moment I realized she wasn’t coming back. Since I was a little boy. I knew her. I knew my mother loved me. She wouldn’t just leave. Someone killed her. I always believed that. She would have never left me on purpose. I’m sure of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The size of the county offices had felt confining to Hud from day one. His office in Detroit had been part of a massive, dilapidated complex that had looked more like a prison than a police department. It had taken him years to learn his way around the maze of offices and cubicles. There was no worry about that here. He always knew where he was.

  “Good, I’m glad you’re still here,” Hud said to Sloane. She was sitting at her computer where he’d left her. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room.

  “You found Burke?” Sloane said.

  “I did. Pam Sizemore’s kid was just leaving protective services. Burke was talking with Linda Dupree.”

  “She’s a treat.”

  “You can say that again. The kid has some kind of painful arthritis. You know anything about that?”

  Sloane paused and glanced toward Burke’s empty office before she went on. “JIA, Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, from what I understand. He wears splints at night so his joints don’t hurt as much and is on a constant regiment of pain meds and physical therapy. It’s a battle for any kid from what I understand, and he most likely won’t grow out of it. If he does, there’ll be lingering effects. Timmy’s had the deck stacked against him from the start, and his health problems have only added to the misery. My heart breaks for that kid.”

  “So how does he relieve his pain? Oxy?”

  “Maybe. Mostly NSAIDs I would imagine. A really strong anti-inflammatory. We can find out. What are you thinking?”

  Hud took a deep breath, looked at the floor, then up at the wall behind Sloane’s desk. It was covered with pictures and documents from all of the murder scenes. Pam Sizemore stared back at him from her high school graduation picture. Hud glanced over to the map, then back to Sloane. “It’s not a stretch, really, to think that Pam Sizemore had some variation of the disease, too. She had a frail look about her that I misinterpreted as a meth head, but we know there weren’t any signs of meth in her system. Oxy, yes, meth, no. You pushed the idea on to Jordan Rogers that she was trading meth for Oxy, and we thought it was for her. But what if that was the only way she could get medicine for her kid? It would put her in the company of some rough people, or maybe she knew them in the first place. Somehow, she got involved in something that made her a target, but that ‘something’ is just out of reach. There’s something I keep missing.”

  “There’s something we’re all mis
sing. I have seen it before, where meth was used as a currency for other drugs. Pot mostly. It was a stab in the dark with Jordan Rogers, but it shut him down, so there’s no reason to think I was wrong and every reason to think that I was right. The time is ticking on him.”

  “It was a good gamble. I didn’t know where you were heading with it, to be honest,” Hud said, as he stood back and looked at the map again. He had a strong desire for a cigarette, but he fought it off—for the moment. His eyes went automatically to Gee’s shop on the map, then to the water, which wasn’t too far away. A trek one way took him to the Dip and beyond, to the boat company, a familiar path cut as a kid but avoided as an adult. The trek the other way took him down the path that skirted the Shamrocks, then out to the lake where it was lined with cottages. The Burkes’ house sat on the point, offering a wide view of the lake, including the backwaters, and to the opposite ridge that was lined with crumbling cottages and trailers older than Hud, where Pam Sizemore had been shot. Across the point, on the north side, was where Flowers’s big house sat, butted up against other big houses that would have been considered mansions in any city. The lake had always been a contradiction of classes. One side looked down on the next, or held it in disdain for its bigoted and highfaluting ways.

  A quick image of Goldie writhing underneath his body flashed through Hud’s mind. He had finally crossed the class barrier, but it still felt out of reach. Sometimes he wondered if he was dreaming the whole thing with her. He coughed, cleared his throat, then looked at each of the three red push pins that marked the murder scenes.

  “You all right?” Sloane asked.

  “I’m fine.” Hud glanced away from the Shermans’ house. “The word proximity keeps popping into my head.” It was as a good thing to say as any. He wasn’t about to discuss his most recent tryst with Goldie to Sloane.

  “I don’t follow you.” Sloane chewed on the tip of a blue ink pen and eyed Hud closely, obviously trying to figure out what was going on his head.

  “It’s just something I thought of looking at the map. Did the ballistics report state the range of the weapon used in each shooting?”

  “I’m sure it did.”

  “And we haven’t located the spot where the shots were fired from?”

  “No. You would know.”

  “My time away from the office has kept me in the dark about a lot of things. You know that. I’m still playing catch up.” Hud touched the side of his face where the tenderness had started to recede.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. No, we haven’t found the spots where the shots were fired from.”

  “It could be a spot, not spots,” Hud said.

  “True.”

  “Or they could be in the same proximity. If we had the angles where the bullets entered each body, we might be able to divine the line of fire from that information and find the point of origin or origins, combined with the range of the rifle used, if it was the same one for both. It’s some major math, and out of my league. But someone should be able to figure it out.”

  “I agree. Probably the state police forensics lab. We’ve used them before. We only have the preliminary for Leo Sherman,” Sloane said, then followed Hud’s gaze to the map. “You want to talk to Bill Flowers, or do you want me to give his office a call?”

  “I’m still riding with you, right?” Hud said.

  “Unless you know something I don’t.”

  “Burke didn’t say.”

  “You don’t want to go this one alone?”

  “No,” Hud answered. “I think it’s a really good idea if we both go talk to Flowers.”

  “No matter which way you turned, you had found no motive for your mother’s death.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I could only speculate. Once Gee told me everything she would, I thought it was a crime of passion, or some creepiness from the guy who owned the Dip. I’ve told you that.”

  “Yes, that you believed that he killed her and fed her to the lion. But there would still be bones to dispose of.”

  “The lake is deep.”

  “True. But things have a way of working themselves to the surface. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long.”

  “Why a crime of passion?”

  “We’ve talked about her history.”

  “We did, but there was no proof.”

  “There was no proof of anything when it came to my mother, was there?”

  Bill Flowers looked up from his desk, saw Hud and Sloane walking his way, sighed, took off his reading glasses and tossed them onto the paper he had been reading. “And what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he said tersely. “Did you come to look over my shoulder, Detective Matthews? I’m sure you didn’t just stop by for a cup of tea.”

  “Sloane and I need some information,” Hud said.

  “I’ve emailed everything to Burke. It’s his job to distribute that information. Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

  Sloane stepped past Hud, put herself between him and the coroner. “We have the preliminary autopsies, but we need information that’s not in those reports,” she said, softly but with authority.

  “Any information I have that isn’t in those reports still needs validation, you know that Detective Sloane.”

  Hud took his cue from Sloane and kept his mouth shut. They needed Flowers to cooperate, not take an adversarial tact with either one of them.

  “I understand that,” Sloane answered. “But we don’t have time until the shooter strikes again.”

  “You think that’s a possibility?” Flowers said.

  “Yes, of course. We think we are narrowing in on a motive, but to wait until we’re sure, it’s still a possibility that they could strike again.”

  “They?”

  “Who knows whether it’s a male or female?”

  “I suppose you don’t.”

  “No,” Sloane said, “we don’t.”

  Flowers rubbed his forehead. “We’re getting pressure from every side on this thing,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “The angle of entry of the bullet on both victims,” Sloane answered.

  “That’s not what I was expecting.”

  Hud shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He didn’t mind giving the lead over to Sloane. Actually, it was something he could get used to.

  Bill Flowers stood up from his desk and grabbed a manila folder off the top of a file cabinet. “The pictures can verify where they were lying. Longitude and latitude can be determined from there, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Partially,” Sloane said. “I have those pictures. I just need the angle of entry.”

  “I have it for the first victim,” he said.

  “Pam Sizemore. She had a name.” Sloane offered the coroner a glare, but he took no notice of it.

  “Right. Pam Sizemore,” Flowers said. “Ah, here it is, thirty-seven point eight, northeast.”

  “Can you email that to me?” Sloane said.

  “Certainly.” Flowers looked like he was going to say something else, possibly object, but Sloane’s cell phone rang.

  The sound of it echoed in the small office unexpectedly. She jumped, then dug in her pocket as quickly as she could. “Sorry,” she said, looking at the caller ID on the screen. “I need to take this.” Then, without waiting for anyone to agree, she hurried out of the room.

  Hud didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there staring at Bill Flowers. It was just the two of them, and he was glad that Sloane had been called away. “You never answered my question,” he said.

  “I’m sorry Detective Matthews, I’ve been asked a lot of questions recently. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The one you walked away from after Pam Sizemore’s autopsy. I asked you if you remembered my mother. But I know you do. She was part of your crowd at the hotel.”

  Bill Flowers tensed up, and his face paled. “I have not
hing to say regarding your mother. That’s old business and bears no relevance to anything that is going on with this case or any other. I suggest you let sleeping dogs lie, Detective.”

  Hud stepped forward. “I’m not leaving anything lie until I know exactly what happened to my mother and why. Do you understand me? You can go to Burke and have him climb up my ass all you want, I won’t stop. You can get me fired, for that matter. This is my life, and I have questions that need to be answered. You’d do the same thing if you were me.”

  Flower shook his head. “No, I’d know when to leave well enough alone. You can’t bring back the dead. You of all people know that. The past is gone. Let it go. There’s a killer loose. That needs your attention. Not ghosts from the days gone by.”

  Hud took another step and stopped. He was inches away from Flowers. The old man smelled like mothballs dipped in formaldehyde. “I know about Burke’s father and my mother. He was the one who was going to change everything for her. But you know what? My guess is somebody had a problem with that. I don’t know who that somebody was, but trust me I will find out, and when I do, I will make sure justice is served. Do you understand me?”

  “You need to leave,” Bill Flowers said, stepping backward with a horrified look on his face.

  Sloane walked back into the room before Hud could say anything else. “Is everything all right?” she said.

  “Sure,” Hud said. “Just fine.”

  “Good,” Sloane answered. “We have to go.” There was a steeliness in her voice that was hard to miss.

  Hud looked over his shoulder to her. “What’s up?”

  “There’s been another shooting.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Infinite gray skies made it look much later in the day than it actually was. Maybe it was the weather, or the season, as the earth tilted away from the sun, but Hud felt like it was something more. A dark veil had fallen over the lake, and it didn’t look as if it was going to be lifted anytime soon. Another shooting was the last thing they all needed.