by V. K. Powell
At first light Greer eased out of the house and drove into town for her meeting with Carlton Williamson. Despite the early hour, several downtown shop owners had already put out their colorful umbrellas along Elm Street. The aroma of fresh bread drifted from the bakery and blended with the smell of brewing coffee from the diner. The sights and scents seemed more encouraging today and made her optimistic about her meeting.
As soon as she entered the diner, Greer spotted Mr. Williamson seated in a booth in the back. He was the only stranger and stood out in his striped button-collar shirt and loosely knotted tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed and combed to one side. She offered her hand as she approached and introduced herself. Greer noted Williamson’s empty coffee cup and motioned to Janice for another round.
“How can I help you, Detective?”
The man returned her handshake with a firm grasp and met her gaze with clear, light blue eyes. Greer hoped Carlton Williamson had something substantial to contribute to this case because he would make an excellent witness. Not only would his standing as an attorney impress others, but he appeared to be sincere and trustworthy.
“I’m following up on a death investigation that occurred a little over four months ago at the Days Inn where you stayed on your visit to New Hope. The incident would’ve occurred the night before you left. Did you see or hear anything unusual that night?”
Mr. Williamson lifted his suit jacket off the bench seat and retrieved a small calendar from the inside pocket. “Just a second.” He flipped a few pages and ran a finger down the sheet. “Ah, here we go. Yes, there was something.”
Greer controlled a twinge of excitement. “Yes?”
“You’ll think me odd, but I document almost everything. It’s a compulsion—drives my wife nuts, but it does come in handy. That night, I was prepping for a trial, probably two in the morning. It was very quiet for a hotel. Then I heard a muffled thumping noise and thrashing about, like wrestling on the carpet.”
“And?” Greer didn’t want to rush Williamson, but she sensed more to his story.
“I thought I heard somebody say ‘please,’ like they were asking for help.” For the first time, Carlton Williamson’s gaze shifted away from her. “And I’m ashamed to say, I did nothing. I didn’t check to see if anything was wrong. I didn’t call the desk to have them follow up. I didn’t call the police. I became what I most despise about our society—an apathetic citizen.”
Greer’s hope vanished and she struggled to find something reassuring to say to this man who was obviously embarrassed by his behavior. “You had no way of knowing.” It sounded patronizing but was the best she could do. Her disappointment was as palpable as his discomfort.
“But I did look out my peephole about half an hour later when I heard the door open. Guess I wanted to see for myself that this person was okay. I assumed the person I saw leaving was the occupant.” Williamson paused as if considering another possibility for the first time. “You don’t suppose it was—”
“Do you think you could identify this person if you saw them again, Mr. Williamson?” Greer was determined to keep him on track. Witnesses often became preoccupied with the process and modified their stories to avoid a lengthy involvement in the criminal-justice system. She needed him to commit to the details before that scenario took hold. But if Carlton Williamson was half as sharp as he seemed, he’d already played that situation out completely.
“I’m certain I could.”
Hope returned as Greer took out her notepad. “Would you describe this person as fully as possible?”
“Caucasian male, probably about six feet—hard to say through a peephole—not very muscular, shaved head, and an earring of some sort in his left ear. He was wearing a tight red tank top that I found unusual for the fall weather. I couldn’t see below the waist. I was looking through one of those magnifying peepholes, not the full-body variety.”
As Greer noted the details, her enthusiasm rose with each new entry. The description sounded exactly like Baron Wallace, but she couldn’t jump to conclusions. It was possible to challenge an identification made through a peephole into a dimly lit hallway. “Is there anything else, no matter how insignificant it may seem?”
Mr. Williamson thought for a few minutes and rechecked his calendar. “No, that’s it.”
“Would you mind if I looked at your notes?” When he handed over the small calendar, Greer wondered how he could possibly have reconstructed his story from the squiggles she saw on the page. “What is this?”
“My own personal shorthand. I started using it when I was in law school. I wasn’t particularly attentive, so I trained myself to observe and make notes. It helped with studies and later in interviews with witnesses. It’s become a habit, but I’m afraid it won’t make sense to anyone else.”
Greer envisioned a defense attorney asking to see Mr. Williamson’s notes and receiving the calendar with his doodles all over it. The visual made her smile. “Would you be willing to look at a picture lineup?”
“Sure, anything I can do to help.”
Pushing the coffee cups to the side, Greer removed the picture file and placed it on the table unopened. “Look at all the pictures before you make any comment. Study each one carefully, then I’ll ask if you recognize anyone.”
Williamson smiled at her. “I understand the procedure. I’m a criminal-defense attorney.”
“Making sure to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s, in case our suspect gets someone as sharp as you to represent him.” Greer opened the file and pushed it toward Carlton Williamson. “Take your time.”
As soon as he looked at the photos, Greer was certain he recognized the suspect. His eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly, a quirk that she imagined preceded the delivery of his most salient points in court. The wait was excruciating as she sipped her cold coffee and allowed him time to be certain of his decision.
“Okay.” His gaze met hers and he waited for the question.
“Do you recognize anyone, Mr. Williamson, and if so, how?”
“This man.” He pointed to suspect number four, Baron Wallace. “This is the man I saw in the hallway of the Days Inn hotel that night. I’m certain of it.”
Greer retrieved the file, closed her notepad, and placed them both back in her leather folder. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
He collected his coat and stood to leave. “You’re very welcome. I’d hate to play poker with you, Detective. I have no clue if the one I chose is your suspect.”
It wasn’t exactly a violation of protocol to verify this information for a witness, but she’d made it a practice not to do so. But in this case, Carlton Williamson had come a long way and would be an excellent witness. She wanted to extend a little professional courtesy and respect for his efforts and keep him in a cooperating mood. “You’ve done very well.” When he looked at her she nodded. “I’ll be in touch if we go to trial.”
After Williamson left, Greer remained in the booth reviewing their conversation. She now had a witness who had seen Baron Wallace in the hallway outside Paul Saldana’s room the night he died. That same witness could testify to hearing a noise that was beyond those usually associated with early morning hours or sleeping. And, finally, Carlton Williamson heard someone, probably Paul Saldana, pleading for help. For the first time since she started this case, Greer was certain Paul had been murdered. But she still had no idea why.
“More coffee, Detective?” Janice Johnston stood behind Greer with a steaming pot at the ready. Greer wondered if she wanted to fill her cup or pour the scalding coffee in her lap. Janice wouldn’t be happy with her for keeping the secret about JJ’s infidelity.
“Yes, please.” Greer tried not to flinch as Janice filled her cup with the steaming liquid. “How are things?”
The look Janice gave her wasn’t the daggers-and-death stare she’d expected. Janice plopped into the booth across from her and rested the pot on the edge of the table. “They suck, if you want to know.
” Her highlighted medium brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, making her face seem more aged and severe. The smile Greer had associated with this woman for years was sadly absent. “I miss the lying, cheating bastard.”
Greer traced the mouth of her cup with her finger, unable to find a suitable response to the uncomplimentary but accurate description of JJ. “I’m sorry,” she finally said.
“It’s not your fault, so don’t feel bad about not telling me. I know how you cops are with your damn code-of-silence bullshit. This one’s on him.”
“He misses you, Jan. Is there a chance you could—”
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite women.” JJ’s voice behind her accounted for Janice’s pained expression. “Mind if I have a seat?” He indicated the empty space next to Janice.
“Sit all you want. I have to get back to work.” Janice grabbed the coffeepot, swung it dangerously close to JJ’s crotch, and headed for the next table.
“Guess you don’t have to ask how that’s going.” JJ sat down but his stare followed Janice. “What are you doing here so early?”
Greer debated keeping her conversation with Carlton Williamson quiet. She wasn’t sure how JJ would take the fact that he’d missed something during his investigation. “I interviewed a witness in the Saldana case. He heard what sounded like a scuffle in the early morning hours. And he saw Baron Wallace outside Paul’s room shortly after that.”
“Damn.” For a second she thought that was all he had to say. But she could see the wheels turning. “I’ve learned a lot lately, Greer, mostly to be grateful for what you’ve got.” His gaze returned to Janice as she worked the room. “Another is to give one hundred percent, especially in a job like ours. Because the minute you take a shortcut or think you’ve got it nailed, something jumps up and bites you on the ass.”
The sadness in his voice told Greer these lessons hadn’t been easy. Losing someone you loved was one of the most difficult things in life. And loss of respect or integrity in a job as honorable and public as law enforcement was its own kind of hell. Her heart went out to him, but nothing she could say would mitigate his situation.
“I let the pressure of a caseload and clearance-rate stats push me into making a quick, and wrong, call. That guy deserved better than he got, and I’m glad you’re finally giving it to him.”
“I’m sorry, JJ. I wanted you to be right on this.”
“You did your job. I’m the one who fucked up, but I’ll help you fix it. I’ve got my informants looking for Baron. I’ll let you know the minute I get anything.” JJ scooted forward in his seat toward her. “But right now, we might have a bigger situation than finding a drug dealer.”
Greer experienced that tingling sense of foreboding that usually accompanied bad news or an operation gone wrong. “What?”
“Agent Long got the rest of the forensics results back from the state lab today. He left them on the desk in the sergeant’s office. One of the perks of being the second is that I have a key.” He lowered his voice as if everyone in the room had suddenly tuned into their conversation. “They found muzzle-blast residue on the sergeant’s shirt.”
His statement registered with a jolt. “What? Somebody in the lab screwed up. Because if that’s true, it means—” What it meant and she couldn’t bring herself to say was that whoever shot the sergeant was standing within three feet of him. And if the residue pattern was roughly circular around the entrance, that person was also about his size and the weapon was pretty near perpendicular when fired.
They sat in silence for a few minutes and Greer let the information ferment in her mind until it formed an ugly ball of disbelief and confusion. If the shooter had been within three feet of Sergeant Fluharty, he had to have seen him. But if he saw the suspect, why wouldn’t he identify him? An equally far-fetched possibility came to mind. The sergeant could have shot himself. Greer dismissed the idea as totally ridiculous and surmised that the test results were simply wrong. “They need to retest.”
“You know the other possibility as well as I do, Greer.”
“What reason would the sergeant have for shooting Tom Merritt and himself? You know him better than I do. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“But that’s the fly in the ointment, isn’t it? We don’t have a motive for any of this—Paul Saldana’s murder, Tom’s death, or the attempts on Eva’s life, none of it. That’s the missing piece we have to find. And—”
“Jeez, there can’t be more to this nightmare.”
“Long asked the clerk of court for the officers’ sign-in sheet on the day of the shooting. Breeze told us he’d been called on a case and that’s why he couldn’t be on the stakeout. But he didn’t have a case on the docket.”
“This just gets worse. Let’s keep this information between ourselves for now.”
“Yeah, one more thing. We found the truck that ran Bessie and Eva off the road, reported stolen—no surprise there. But it had Baron Wallace’s fingerprints all over the inside. He’s not even trying to cover his tracks.”
“That means he’s more dangerous than ever,” Greer said.
“That’s what I was thinking. Want to split up and look for him?” She nodded. “I’ll take the east side. Check back with you in a couple of hours…and be careful.”
“Will do.”
“And don’t forget about Tom’s funeral tomorrow.”
As she picked up her folder and exited the diner, it was evident that JJ was as conflicted about this situation as she was. They’d both work night and day until they got to the bottom of it. Her head ached from considering all the unpleasant possibilities. She refused to believe that Fred Fluharty—the man she knew and trusted, the man who had mentored and supported her, the man who avenged her lover’s murder—had any nefarious connection to this convoluted case. And she’d never known Breeze to lie about anything. If she couldn’t trust these guys, what did that say about her instincts?
Chapter Seventeen
Greer searched drug flophouses in the warehouse district for Baron Wallace until after midnight. JJ had given up hours ago and tried to convince her to go home and get some rest. But she kept looking, certain she’d find another clue. With each hour that passed without a credible lead, her compulsion deepened. She rubbed the tense muscles in her shoulders and focused on the faded numbers on the side of the wood-frame house she faced.
Her eyes burned from lack of sleep and her stomach growled for nourishment. Black coffee had been her constant companion and the caffeine had become ineffective. No one she’d spoken with admitted any knowledge of Wallace’s whereabouts. Her frustration level made her grumpy and less than cordial with sources. She promised herself this would be the last stop.
She approached the dilapidated residence—an address where Wallace had lived ten years earlier with his mother. The chances of him being here were slim, but with no clues, she had to explore every possibility. She stepped to the side of the door and knocked. No answer. She tried again. After several minutes, something shuffled inside. Several more minutes passed before someone approached the door. Greer turned sideways and cocked her right hand on the grip of her weapon.
The door swung open and a very thin, balding woman who smelled of liniment appeared clutching a worn housecoat to her chest. “What in the name of sweet Jesus are you doing knocking on my door this hour of the night? Excuse me, I meant to say morning. Somebody better be dead.”
Greer produced her credentials. “I apologize for the hour, but I need to locate Baron Wallace. Does he still live here?”
The woman wiped her eyes and squinted at Greer’s badge. “Detective, huh? Well, if you were any kind of detective you’d know that boy hasn’t even been to visit me in over four months, much less lived here.”
“Then you’re his mother, Brenda Wallace?”
“I try not to spread that around since he’s turned out to be such an upstanding citizen and all, but I did give birth to him.”
Greer’s hope was fading as qui
ckly as her patience. “Do you know where he’s living now, a girlfriend’s address, anything?”
“Nope, and I don’t want to. Sorry, lady.”
As Mrs. Wallace turned to go back into the house, Greer tried one last appeal. The timing was right and it certainly couldn’t hurt. “You said he came by about four months ago. Did he spend the night?”
“Yeah, said he was on his way out of town on business. I know about his business and I’m not mixed up in that. But he looked pretty tired and wrung out. So I guess my mothering instinct got the best of me. I let him stay the night in his old bedroom.”
“Would you mind if I took a look in his room? He might’ve left something behind.”
“What’s this all about? I don’t think you said.” She blocked the doorway and waited for Greer to answer.
“It’s a homicide investigation.”
Brenda Wallace grabbed the fabric at her throat and twisted. “Oh, sweet Jesus. You think Baron killed somebody?”
The woman looked truly shocked. It seemed easy enough to accept that her son dealt drugs to schoolkids. Was it such a stretch to imagine it ending in someone’s death? But Greer had sympathy for the woman’s dilemma. How difficult it must be to raise children in today’s society with all the temptations and peer pressure. “I’m not sure, Mrs. Wallace, but I have to eliminate him as a suspect. May I look in the room?”
She stepped back and allowed Greer to enter. “I want no part of this. If he’s done something like that, he’s got to answer for it. It’s in the back, on the right.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Greer opened the door of the musty-smelling room and did a visual examination. The space was empty except for a single bed and a dresser that desperately needed repair. Starting at the entry, Greer worked methodically in a clockwise manner checking for possible evidence. She cleared the entire room before she approached the closet.
She opened the door and looked in. The only piece of clothing hanging on the rod was a blue windbreaker. A crumpled grocery bag lay on the floor, but nothing else. Greer carefully unfolded the top of the bag and shined her flashlight inside. Then she knelt for a closer look to confirm what she saw—a Nikon Coolpix camera.
