Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  I wasn’t sure if the cops, or Connie’s family, had removed everything of importance. There was a master bedroom, an open kitchen, a living room, and a dining room that had been turned into an office. The most notable thing about the apartment was the lack of clutter, except for the food out in the kitchen. It looked oddly clean and staged.

  I checked out the bedroom first. Connie’s clothes still hung in the closet. Dozens of fancy dresses and enough shoes to impress Imelda Marcos. I checked for clues in the usual spots, under the bed, between the mattresses, and in all the drawers. I had an icky feeling going through a dead woman’s clothes. The smell of her perfume was still strong in the room and on her things.

  After about twenty minutes, I moved on to the converted office. I found several receipts for dinners and movies, department stores, a hairstylist, and a nail salon. I placed anything of remote importance inside an empty shoebox. There were credit card bills, electric bills, and a few letters and birthday cards. None of them said much. Two of them from her mother in Mass, others from college friends. I kept on searching.

  The stale air and the smell of Connie’s perfume started to get to me, and I cracked a kitchen window. I moved on to the kitchen drawers and under the couch cushions and in every nook and cranny. I reached into heating and cooling ducts and came out with a handful of lint. I checked inside the toilet housings and under vanities. Connie may have made poor decisions in her love life, but no one could accuse her of being a slob.

  The heat inside was tremendous. I splashed some cold water on my face and checked her refrigerator. Inside, I found a six-pack of Blue Moon ale. I took one, knowing she wouldn’t mind.

  I cracked the top of the beer and drank it, wandering from room to room, double-checking and looking for anything I might have missed. This time I went into her jackets and pants, searching for any shred of a clue. Sometime after five, I’d finished the beer, stuffed the shoebox full, and decided to get back to my hotel.

  As I headed back to the landing, I’d nearly forgotten the nosy neighbor. Sloppy. On the list of crime-busting techniques, talking to the nosy neighbor was always in the top five. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked once more. Again, I spotted the slight flutter in a side window. I knocked again. This time, the door opened.

  Nosy Neighbor was a sturdy-looking woman in her sixties. She had on a baby-blue jogging suit and wore a canary-yellow hat that read Destin Beach. She was very wrinkled, the makeup caking around her eyes. Her lips had been painted an unnatural hue of red, her hair bleached the color of hay.

  “My name’s Spenser,” I said. I quickly flashed my identification that might have said Georgia Bureau of Investigation or Buck Rogers Kid Cadet. Either way, she didn’t blanch.

  “Miss Kelly,” she said. “How very awful.”

  “Did you know her?”

  Nosy Neighbor, who’d yet to give me her name, shook her head. “Not very well,” she said. “Oh, I mean, we said hello on the stairs or if we saw each other at the grocery store. Most people here don’t know each other. I keep on trying to get them to have more functions at the clubhouse. Like a book club. Or something. Maybe some karaoke?”

  I smiled. Mr. Wonderful. Mr. Understanding. Karaoke, what a grand idea.

  “She seemed perfectly happy to me,” she said. “I never would have believed it.”

  “The police aren’t really sure,” I said. “She might’ve been killed.”

  She looked confused and cocked her head like a dog hearing a high-pitched noise.

  “Was Miss Kelly friendly with anyone in the complex?” I said. “Or did you notice anything strange?”

  Nosy Neighbor shrugged. At the edges of her ears, her unpainted skin was lily white and paper thin. In the falling afternoon light, her face had taken on the strange look of a kabuki mask. The roots of her strawlike hair were a shocking white.

  “I probably shouldn’t be saying this.”

  I placed my hand at the top of her door frame. I gave her enough space not to feel pressure, but close enough to get her to trust me.

  “This is awful,” she said. “So very, very awful.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t think Miss Kelly was a very nice woman,” she said, placing her fingers to her mouth. “Now, I know she was a churchgoer. She was a Christian. I will say that.”

  “Church?” I said. “Where?”

  “The big one,” she said. “The great big one off the interstate. Greater Faith Ministries. Nobody can miss it. They have a cross up by the roadside that you can see clear on up to Atlanta.”

  “Why don’t you think she was a good person?”

  “I think she ran around with men.”

  “Goodness gracious.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I saw men coming and going at all hours of the night. She didn’t hold a job, I know. One man in particular was here most evenings.”

  I pulled out my phone from my pocket and scrolled over to a picture of Wells. I showed it to her. She narrowed her eyes but shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so. This fella had a lot of dark hair. He looked a lot younger than that man. He got over here most nights at one in the morning.”

  “Nice to have a neighborhood watch.”

  “I’m not some kind of Peeping Tom, if that’s what you’re saying,” she said. “I like to be careful. The world has changed.”

  I continued to smile.

  “I just don’t like the way things are headed these days,” she said. “Our country is going to hell in a handbasket. Morals aren’t morals like they used to be. Men marrying men. Blacks burning up the streets. Where does it all end?”

  If I stayed here any longer, I was worried I might find myself in the middle of a Klan rally.

  “Do you mind if I ask if you work?”

  “I’m retired,” she said. “I taught school for thirty years.”

  “And you don’t think Miss Kelly worked?”

  “She was here during the days,” she said. “She’d go to the Kroger. And then to church. Did I tell you about her and that big church?”

  38

  I spoke with the apartment manager, who knew even less than the Nosy Neighbor. I knocked on a few more doors and got pretty much the same, but far less judgmental, answer on Connie Kelly. No one really knew her. But those who spotted her saw her in the company of a dark-haired gentleman late at night. He dressed well. Seemed polite. Sometimes she was seen carrying groceries up to the third floor. She went to Kroger. She did not join the Fantastic Friday Mixer at the clubhouse or start conversations with her neighbors. In fact, few people I found even knew Connie Kelly had lived and died at Magnolia Village at all.

  It was dark by the time I drove back to Atlanta on Interstate 20. I had dinner downtown at Gladys Knight’s Chicken and Waffles. I ordered the signature dish along with a side of fried green tomatoes and braised oxtails. I planned on heading back to Rockdale in the morning and checking out the church. I’d spotted it as I turned onto the interstate. The Greater Faith Life Center looked large enough to house an NFL practice facility. The cross facing the highway was massive, too. About fifty feet into the air, with spotlights illuminating the grandeur.

  I ordered a second beer and a side order of collard greens. Always thinking healthy. The restaurant was narrow and neat. Framed pictures and gold records of the famous owner hung on the walls.

  About nine, I valeted my rental and strolled into the Ritz-Carlton lobby. It was cold, colder than I imagined Georgia to be, and I walked with hands deep in the pockets of my jacket. I figured I might continue my night by combing through the second-half of M. Wells in the Greater Atlanta phone book when I spotted Hawk at the lobby bar.

  Hawk was sitting with an attractive woman in a sparkling blue dress. She was laughing at something he had said.

  “Is this man bothering you?” I said.

  Hawk beamed
. “You know it, babe.”

  He introduced me to the young woman. Her name was Madison. She was tall and brown-skinned, with legs like Cyd Charisse. She smiled, stood, and crushed a cocktail napkin into Hawk’s hand before walking off. Hawk and I both watched her walk.

  “She leave you a list of her favorite books?”

  Hawk studied the cocktail napkin.

  “Sure,” he said. “Look like she a fan of the Kama Sutra.”

  Hawk had an open bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket and a single glass. “Join me?”

  “You just in the neighborhood?”

  “Can’t let you have all the fun down south, white boy.”

  A waitress walked up and I ordered a Blanton’s neat with the water back. I removed my jacket and settled into the deep leather chair. The hotel gardens sprawled out wide and far in the darkness beyond. Small white lights had been strewn over the bare trees as they did back home on Newbury Street. The lobby was brass, leather, and oil paintings, just in case you wondered if they rented rooms by the hour.

  “Connie was definitely killed.”

  “Talk to the cops?”

  “Feds took it over,” I said. “The Boston field agent is down here now. Guy named Bobby Nguyen.”

  “He must’ve been thrilled to see you.”

  “His enthusiasm was palpable.”

  “Learn anything?”

  I shrugged.

  “Besides nothing,” Hawk said. “What else you got?”

  “Looks like Connie Kelly found God in the Bible Belt.”

  “Just in time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She’s a member of a mega church down in Rockdale County.”

  “Rock-dale,” Hawk said. “Mill River. Shit, man. The stuff you get me into.”

  “Connie asked me to help her and I couldn’t do it.”

  “Hard to do when she asked you to butt out.”

  “I should have kept pressing on Wells,” I said. “Find out who he really is. And what he really does.”

  “You do that for free?”

  “I’m doing this for free.”

  The waitress returned with my bourbon. Hawk and I clinked glasses. I took a warming sip.

  “Brother Bliss got work down here.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “And I know some folks who ain’t fans of Brother Bliss.”

  “Will they meet with me?”

  “They will meet with us,” Hawk said, taking a big sip. He pulled out the bottle and refilled the glass. Iron Horse Wedding Cuvée.

  “When?”

  “When you want?”

  “Sooner the better,” I said. “I’d planned to spend the holidays with Susan at the cabin I built with my own two hands.”

  “Shit,” Hawk said. “Susan said to keep you down here long as it takes.”

  “You tell her I was at the Ritz?”

  Hawk stared at me, sipping the champagne. He just smiled.

  “And who exactly are we going to meet?”

  “Some boys who worked for Bliss,” he said. “Got to one through Sarge. Sarge say they been screwed out of some money they owed. Might take a little money to get them to open up.”

  “Ho, ho, ho.”

  “You drunk?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’m not against the idea.”

  I drank some whiskey and looked around the lobby. There was a medium-size tree with white lights and small candles lit upon tables around the bar. Simple and tasteful. Quiet and relaxed.

  “Don’t you have somewhere better to be during Christmas?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “If you’re here,” I said, “these dudes must be pretty bad.”

  “The baddest,” Hawk said.

  “Terrific.”

  “My specialty.”

  We clinked glasses again and made plans for the morning.

  39

  We agreed to meet with Hawk’s contact the next morning at a Cuban restaurant on Buford Highway. Buford Highway was pretty much the Route 1 of Atlanta. Plenty of fast-food franchises, run-down strip malls, and car dealerships. Many of the businesses along the highway advertised in Spanish. I pondered this momentarily while ordering a café con leche and an egg sandwich. Hawk drank a shot of Cuban coffee and studied the door. Hawk always sat facing the door.

  “I haven’t had Cuban food since we went down to Florida.”

  “Good times,” Hawk said.

  “Jackie DeMarco’s crew.”

  “Jackie ain’t done with your ass yet.”

  “Nope,” I said. “He’s stupid. But not forgetful.”

  Hawk stretched in a black turtleneck and a black leather jacket cut so tight it looked like second skin. I’d been wearing my A-2 since we landed. But I’d switched up the Braves cap for the Sox road cap, showing diversity and loyalty.

  “How do you know this guy?” I said.

  “We on the same team a few times.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Much as I trust anyone.”

  “Much as you trust me?”

  “Haw.” He sipped on the small cup of oil-black coffee. A few minutes later, a beefy man with a buzz cut and a mustache walked in the front door. He had on a blue cop uniform and a walk and build similar to Ferdinand the Bull. I was disappointed to see he didn’t carry a flower in his teeth.

  Hawk introduced him as Drew Frye. He was a former Marine and a current patrol officer for Atlanta PD. He had small, mean eyes and a crooked, busted nose. His nose was only slightly better than my own. Frye clasped Hawk’s hand warmly and smiled, saying it had been too damn long. Hawk introduced me. I shook his hand.

  “Don’t tell me y’all want to work for EDGE?” he said. His voice sounded as if he gargled with gravel.

  I looked at Hawk. He didn’t answer, nothing registered in his eyes.

  “Well, if you do,” Frye said, “good luck getting paid. Folks leaving that operation like rats off a leaky ship.”

  “How much they owe you?” Hawk said.

  “Five grand,” Frye said. The radio on his hip squawked for a moment before he switched it off. There were six other people in the restaurant, most of them getting to-go orders at the register. Coffee in foam cups and food in white paper sacks. Morning in motion.

  “Who runs things?” Hawk said.

  “Brother Bliss,” he said. “Remember him?”

  Hawk nodded. “Mmm.”

  “That thing in Burma.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some real shit,” Frye said.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  I leaned back and ate my sandwich. It was nice having someone to take the lead in the investigation. I had more time to enjoy breakfast and check out the comely young commuters grabbing their morning coffee. I smiled at a nice woman in skinny jeans and a parka with a fur-lined hood.

  “Since when is Bliss down this way?” Hawk said. “Last I heard, he was somewhere in North Carolina.”

  Frye craned his neck behind him, and then glanced around the restaurant. His mustache twitched a bit. “Came down two years ago,” he said. “He set up a training school and a gun range for macho dipshits from the city. I helped at first. But then the paychecks stopped coming. I don’t have time for that crap.”

  “Ever heard of a man named Wells?” I said. “Says he’s a former CIA officer?”

  Frye looked at me and shrugged. “Nope,” he said. “But I wasn’t out there long. Taught a few classes. Mainly worked the range.”

  “Where they train?” Hawk said.

  “Rockdale,” Frye said. “It’s about—”

  I held up my hand. “I know it,” I said. “Where, exactly?”

  Frye said the range was fifteen miles from Conyers on a back road deep within Rockdale County. I was sure a couple city
slickers like me and Hawk would fit right in. Frye adjusted his meaty elbows on the table and smoothed down his mustache.

  “I can hook y’all up,” he said. “A friend still works for Bliss. God help him. He doesn’t like or trust him one damn bit.”

  “Love to meet him,” I said.

  “So,” Frye said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his barrel-size chest. He stared at me, and then switched back to Hawk. “What’s y’all’s deal in this?”

  “No deal,” Hawk said. “Just getting the lay of the land.”

  “Sounds like you going after Bliss,” Frye said.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Bliss.”

  “Sure,” Frye said. “But if you do, my friend will watch your back. He’s a cop, too. Just looking for a little side action.”

  “Why’s he still with Bliss?” I said. “If he doesn’t like or trust him.”

  “Sticking around until he gets what’s due,” he said. “Hard head. Keeps believing he’ll finally be paid out.”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Man, it’s good to see you, Hawk,” Frye said. “I tried to find you after we got airlifted out. But you’re a hard man to track down.”

  “Found you right quick, Frye,” Hawk said.

  “Shit.” Frye shrugged. “I got nothing to hide.”

  Hawk smiled.

  “Just what went on in Burma?” I said. “Handing out condoms to the poor?”

  “Do you really want me to tell you?” Hawk said.

  “Might it implicate me in some international shenanigans?” I said.

  “Just business,” Hawk said.

  Frye grinned. He readjusted the shield on his chest and grinned. “Long time ago, man,” he said. “Now I got a wife, two kids, and one big-ass mortgage.”

  “Anything get you out of retirement?” Hawk said.

  “And back in the life?”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Oh, hell, no,” Frye said. “After the last one we did, I burned my damn passport.”

  40

  What do you think?” I said.

  “No reason to doubt Frye,” Hawk said. “But better be locked and loaded.”