Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  “You and Susan really headed to Maine?” he said.

  “We plan to celebrate the holidays in front of a roaring fire at the cabin,” I said. “Very Robert Frost.”

  “How’s that sit with Susan?”

  “I told her if things went south, we were within miles of a Ritz-Carlton,” I said.

  “Good luck with that,” Henry said. He offered his hand and disappeared past the automatic doors and into the terminal. Behind the glass, large artificial trees blinked with red and white lights.

  I planned on driving back to the Navy Yard to grab my duffel bag and two boxes stuffed with holiday food. Susan had her last appointment at five. That meant it would take her at least two more hours to prepare. With any luck, we’d be at the cabin sometime past ten o’clock. No cable, no electricity, enough split wood to keep us warm until April. And if all else fails, I would implore Susan to help keep me warm with her body heat.

  I took the Sumner Tunnel back to the Charlestown Bridge and onward to Chelsea Street. This was one of the times I was glad not to be at my old address. As Christmas approached, Newbury Street would be impossible. Not to mention parking close to the Common, with everyone wanting to skate on the Frog Pond and see the ice sculptures. Escaping town with some good food, a portable turntable, and a few Johnny Mathis records was fine by me. I had said nothing to Henry about all the good cheese and red wine I’d packed for the trip.

  My cell rang when I hit the Charlestown Bridge. It was Belson. I picked up.

  “Connie Kelly is dead.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “They found her body in some bumfuck town outside Atlanta,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “How?”

  “Shot,” Belson said. “Looks like a suicide. I don’t know details. Not my problem.”

  “It’s my problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When your client dies,” I said, “you tend to want to do something about it.”

  “Don’t get stupid and honorable, Spenser,” Belson said. “You’re too old for that.”

  “It’s bad business,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But you know as much about Atlanta as I do Taipei.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “How’s that, hotshot?”

  “I worked a case there,” I said. “Ten years ago. Someone was shooting at horses. And then someone killed the owner of the stables.”

  “Good for you,” Belson said. “Do what you want.”

  “What’s the town?”

  “Conyers,” Belson said. “Case is being worked by the Rockdale County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Bad Day at Black Rock?”

  “Sure,” Belson said. “Why the fuck not?”

  Belson hung up. I drove on into the Navy Yard, parked my SUV, and headed upstairs to my condo. Pearl was waiting for me at the front door. I took her outside and called Susan as we walked. I left a message.

  I called the Rockdale Sheriff’s Office and left a message for the detective working the case. I called up my travel agent and asked for the first flight to Atlanta and a comfortable spot to hang my hat for a few days.

  I walked back inside with Pearl. I poured her a fresh bowl of water. I poured myself a fresh glass of bourbon. Christmas lights had been strewn across the masts of the ships in the harbor. Even Old Ironsides had taken on a festive glow. I turned WBUR on the kitchen radio and began to pack.

  A few minutes later Susan returned my call.

  “I can’t go to Maine,” I said.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said.

  “You didn’t want to return to the days of yore?”

  “They are days of yore for a reason,” Susan said. “I prefer at least four-star service. A few Michelin stars would be nice.”

  “I have to go to Atlanta,” I said. “Connie Kelly’s dead.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I’m trying to get a flight now,” I said. “I’ll bring Pearl back to you.”

  “I knew this,” Susan said. “Somehow I knew.”

  “We both did.”

  35

  I flew out at nine, rented a car at the Atlanta Airport, and drove to the edge of the Perimeter, where I stayed for the night. I got up the next morning, ate a quick breakfast, and journeyed out to the Rockdale County Sheriff’s Office. A few minutes later, I met Detective Sergeant Ray Hambrick, a trim black man in his mid-thirties. He invited me into his small office and offered me water or coffee. I still had half a cup from the hotel that tasted slightly better than motor oil.

  “Are you kin to Ms. Kelly?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Boston.”

  “Her body was just released this morning,” he said. “Her family is having a service somewhere up there for her.”

  “Framingham,” I said. “She grew up in Framingham.”

  “I knew she wasn’t from around here,” Hambrick said, speaking in a cool good-ol’-boy voice. “But most folks aren’t from around here anymore. Used to be just Atlanta. Now Atlanta is pretty much half the state.”

  “May I ask who claimed the body?”

  “May I ask why you’re down here?” Hambrick said. He had on a black fleece zip-up jacket with a silver star pinned on the chest.

  “Sure,” I said, shrugging. “She was my client.”

  “And what did she hire you to do?”

  “And here I thought I flew all the way from Boston to ask you a few questions.”

  “I got a dead woman,” he said. “Woman didn’t seem to have a job. Or any friends. You damn right I’m going to ask a few questions.”

  “You don’t think it was suicide.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Hambrick opened a side drawer of his desk and removed a tin of Copenhagen snuff. He pinched off a bit and placed it between his teeth and gum just like they say in the commercial. He reached for an empty paper cup on his desk to spit. I’d seen ballplayers and cops dip snuff, but I’d never had the smallest desire. I took it the snuff was meant to imply he was serious.

  “Wait,” I said. “No one local identified the body?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Neighbors in the apartment complex said she lived alone. No one seemed to know her. Or a damn thing about her.”

  “Where was she found?”

  “Under some electric transformers outside city limits,” he said. “A few miles from where she lived.”

  “City limits being Conyers?” I said.

  He nodded and spit again. I was happy to be sipping on the bad coffee.

  “Ever hear the name Michael Wells, or perhaps M. Brooks Welles?”

  “No,” Hambrick said. “Funny name. Should I?”

  “He was her boyfriend,” I said. “I’d originally been hired to find him. He’d conned nearly three hundred thousand from Miss Kelly. And then they reconciled for some reason.”

  “Damn.”

  “And he’s originally from these parts.”

  “Double damn.”

  “See,” I said. “Pays to be nice to wandering snoops.”

  “Yes, sir.” He stretched and yawned, spitting a bit more into the cup. Behind him hung several framed photos of Hambrick in football gear. I nodded up over his left shoulder to the wall.

  “Where’d you play?” I said.

  “Georgia Southern,” he said. “You? You look like a linebacker.”

  “Strong safety,” I said. “I put on a little weight since then. Played a couple years at Holy Cross.”

  Hambrick nodded. His phone rang and he took the call, saying “Yes, ma’am” a half-dozen times before hanging up. He looked up and smiled back at me. “Wells?” he said. “Right? Mike?”

  He wrote down both nam
es. I also gave him a date of birth and details about the lawsuits filed in Gwinnett and DeKalb counties.

  “Appreciate it, Spenser,” he said.

  “You mind telling me how she was killed?”

  “Blunt-force trauma to the upper body.”

  I smiled. “I’m not a newspaperman,” I said. “And as you might have noticed, I’m good at sharing.”

  “Shot behind the left ear,” he said, “.32 cal.”

  I felt a bright bit of cold spreading along my back. I took a long, deep breath. “Many people shoot themselves behind the ear?”

  “In my experience?” he said. “Not really.”

  “Find anything else?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Just the gun. She’d been there maybe two, three days. Some kids skipping school found her. Messed them up real good.”

  “Any other trauma?”

  “Like, was she beaten or raped?”

  I nodded.

  “Not anything our coroner saw,” he said. “Body was sent to state examiner in Atlanta and then released this morning. Should get more tests back at the first of the year.”

  “Holidays are a bad time for murder.”

  “State’s always slow,” he said. “And we don’t exactly break murder records out here in Rockdale.”

  “Who else did you speak to besides the neighbors?” I said.

  “Her mother,” Hambrick said. “Local cops knocked on her door. I called up after. She told me that Miss Kelly had moved down from Boston for her work. Said Miss Kelly had been going through a lot of stress lately because of her new job.”

  “She didn’t move down here for work.”

  “I know,” Hambrick said. “She quit her job up in Boston back in September. I spoke to her boss. Some woman, I can’t remember her name, at some charity? The woman said Miss Kelly just walked out.”

  “To be with Wells.”

  Hambrick nodded. “I’ll definitely pass it on.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Isn’t this your case?”

  “Not anymore,” Hambrick said. “Couple boys from the ATF stopped by yesterday. They said they are taking it over.”

  “They tell you why?”

  “Nope,” he said. “But I figured with ATF it could only be three things.”

  “I can tell you it’s not about alcohol or tobacco.”

  Hambrick had been spinning the tin top of his Copenhagen on his desk. He stopped and lifted his eyes at me. “You shitting me?” he said. “This lady connected to guns?”

  “I’d like to talk to the agents,” I said. “Mind passing on their names?”

  He reached into a desk and tossed me a card. It was Bobby Nguyen from the Boston Field Office. “Y’all must be old friends,” he said.

  “Nope,” I said. “But he’ll be thrilled to see me just the same. Where exactly is the Atlanta office located? I’d like to surprise them.”

  “Right near the Varsity,” Hambrick said. “Best hamburgers in the city. My daddy used to work there as a carhop. You know it?”

  36

  Bobby Nguyen met me at the Varsity. At first, I thought he wanted to treat me to lunch. And then I learned he didn’t want me setting foot in the Atlanta branch office. I had shaved, put on a clean button-down, and wore my best pair of Asics, all for nothing.

  “You could’ve just called,” Nguyen said. “Instead of hopping on a plane and showing up here. We do have work to do.”

  “I didn’t just show up,” I said. “First, I flew. And then I drove down to Rockdale County. Lovely county. Did you know they have the best equestrian center in the Southeast? They had the Olympics there and everything.”

  “I know you’re upset,” he said. “I know you want to find out what happened to your client. But it’s the best thing for everyone involved if you just pack up, head back to Boston, and have a merry Christmas.”

  “Doesn’t work that way,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Connie Kelly hired me to help her,” I said. “Now she’s dead. I’d say I owe her.”

  “Maybe,” Nguyen said. “But what happened to her is now our business. Not yours.”

  “Was she killed?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “And we’re pretty sure we know who killed her.”

  “Okay.” I said. “Who killed her?”

  Nguyen looked at me as if I were a dimwitted student. He only shook his head and said, “Nope.”

  We sat on a riser up from the endless counter of the world’s largest drive-in. I’d ordered four hot dogs, which I learned meant they came dressed with chili and mustard, whether you liked it or not. Lucky for me, I liked it. I also asked for an order of onion rings and a Coke. Beyond the plate-glass window and along the interstate, the Olympic torch still burned. I watched it for a moment, ate some onion rings, and then said, “Then where’s Wells? I’ll ask him.”

  “Damn, Spenser,” said Nguyen. “Come on. You start nosing around, bothering people, asking questions, and you’re going to implode months and months of investigation.”

  “As in I might make you guys lose a truckload of automatic weapons?”

  “Exactly,” Nguyen said, pointing at my chest. “Yes. Exactly like that.”

  I took a bite of hot dog and chewed. The bun had been steamed, the chili perfectly seasoned, and the dog itself everything a hot dog should be. I approved and nodded to myself.

  “Your chin,” Nguyen said.

  Nguyen passed me a napkin. I wiped my chin.

  He wasn’t eating, only sipped coffee from a foam cup. Most of the top deck of the Varsity was vacant. A checkered linoleum floor stretched out wide like a giant chessboard. I’d heard that during game weekends for Georgia Tech, they served half the city.

  “It’s no secret that Wells is down here,” Nguyen said. “And I don’t think you’ll be surprised that he’s a major part of what we’re looking into.”

  “You think he killed Connie?”

  Again, the thousand-yard stare. And then a disapproving look.

  “He told me he didn’t have anything to do with Gredoni’s murder,” I said. “He said it was some gunrunners that were double-crossed.”

  “Wells may be an absolute fraud,” Nguyen said. “But he’s also greedy and stupid.”

  “And you’re not down south for the good food and hospitality,” I said. “What’s the connection? Besides Connie Kelly being dead.”

  “I was down here long before that,” Nguyen said.

  “Why?”

  As I waited for him to decide whether he was going to answer, I ate the rest of my hot dog. I sampled a couple more onion rings. Sizzling-hot and crunchy. Henry was wrong about me. I wasn’t a food snob. I just happened to like all food, as long as it was good and honest.

  “If I tell you what’s going on,” Nguyen said, “will you leave?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  “But I promise to share what I learn.”

  “Do you remember what I told you when we first met?” Nguyen said.

  I nodded. “You’d heard that I was a real pain in the ass.”

  “Which turned out to be true.”

  “I’m sticking around,” I said.

  “For how long?”

  I shrugged. “My girlfriend is Jewish,” I said. “Christmas is just another day to go to the movies.”

  Nguyen took a long breath, shook his head, and reached for his coffee. He took a long sip and looked around at the empty tables. He then closed his mouth and smiled at me across the table.

  “If you’re down here,” I said, “then guns are coming from here. This is the source of all your problems. The Georgia/Boston pipeline. Not me.”

  Nguyen stayed silent. I started in on the second hot dog. He didn’t speak as I ate. Not surprisingly, the
second was every bit as good as the first. I thought as I chewed.

  “But who’s the seller?” I said. “Only Wells?”

  “I’m asking you to leave,” Nguyen said. “And I said please.”

  “I would imagine that getting guns down in old Dixie is a hell of a lot easier than up in Mass,” I said. “Probably worth a hell of a lot more up north, too.”

  “If you really want to find out who killed your client, you’ll back off.”

  “Some of those pros who made a run at me would be involved,” I said. “Maybe they’re the ones bringing the weaponry up to Boston?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “’Tis the season,” I said.

  Nguyen shook his head, got up, pitched the rest of his coffee in the trash, and walked out without another word.

  37

  I doubled back to Rockdale County, where Connie Kelly had spent her last few months in an apartment complex called Magnolia Village. The apartments weren’t likely contenders for Architectural Digest. A grid of white three-story buildings were dressed up with green spindled balconies and high shingled gables, supposedly with the vague sense of the antebellum South. Each building had different names, like Tara, Twelve Oaks, and Aunt Pittypat’s. They would’ve looked equally at home outside Cincinnati or Detroit.

  According to Sergeant Hambrick, Connie had lived in a central building on the far side of a third floor. I followed the staircase up and around. At the top of the landing, a curtain moved a bit. Nosy neighbor. God bless us, every one. I made a mental note and continued.

  After knocking and waiting a minute or two, I picked the lock and walked inside. Connie’s apartment reeked of stale food and hot air. Two uneaten baguettes sat on a counter along with unopened bags of peanut-butter cookies and tortillas. Other than food, there was little to tell this unit from a demo model. Corporate furniture with cheap prints of flowers, dissected into scientific parts and species. The couch was yellow cloth, with modern, weirdly shaped blue chairs nearby. A large flat-screen TV hung over the fake fireplace.