“One more word,” Raylan said, “you’re gonna ride in the trunk.”
“The fuck difference it make?” Rindo unhooked the seatbelt, lay across the back seat, brought his knees to his chest, and kicked, banging the cage with his shackled feet, shaking the car. He did it again and Raylan said, “Tase him.”
“All right, man, I’m chill.”
Rindo was quiet till they got to the Wayne County Jail. Raylan took him in and booked him, told the sheriff’s deputies his criminal history, his successful escapes, and suggested they put the dude in isolation.
•••
He dropped Nora off at the FBI field office on Michigan Avenue. “Thanks for the vest and shotgun.” Nora paused. “Listen, you were right. I shouldn’t have interfered. I shouldn’t have insisted on coming with you. It’s not what I do.”
“I thought you handled yourself like a pro,” Raylan said. “You know how to use a shotgun. I’d take you with me anytime.”
Nora smiled. “Well I appreciate that.” After spending the day with him she felt more relaxed in Raylan’s company.
She was opening the door when he said, “Let me ask you something.” Nora stopped and turned to him. “You told Rindo the shooter used his name and said, ‘It’s too late for explanations,’ or words to that effect. That can only mean one thing: you were there.”
She frowned, eyes holding on him, but didn’t say anything.
“I heard you say it. It’s hard to ignore. You were either at the scene or you weren’t. Which is it?”
“None of your business.” She got out of the car and walked up the steps.
Seven
Raylan walked in his apartment after a long, tough day, thinking about his Stetson. He’d had that one eight years, finally broken in and fit like it was part of him. Maybe it was just as well. Wearing it didn’t make any sense in Detroit.
He went in the kitchen, opened a beer, took a long drink, guzzling a third of the bottle, and felt better. He’d never had more trouble with a prisoner in transport and was glad to be rid of him. The Toledo Marshals found the BMW, but not the two dudes who were in it, and now law enforcement in Monroe and neighboring counties were conducting a manhunt.
Next door, his neighbors were at it again—third day in a row—angry voices coming right through the drywall, the girl’s high-pitched Southern screech and the guy’s deep-bass snarl. Raylan heard a plate shatter, a door slam, and something bang into his living room wall. He was starving and hoping for a quiet night, drink some whiskey and watch TV. Raylan liked the whole Wednesday night lineup, starting with Jeopardy.
After five minutes of quiet, he thought the neighbors had suspended their hostilities and come to some kind of truce when it started up again, louder than before. He finished his beer and popped another one, went in the living room, and heard them on the other side of the wall. Another door slammed closed.
They had taken their fight into the hall, yelling at each other, Raylan wondering what could get two people so angry. He heard a knock on his door, and the girl yelled, “Help, he’s trying to kill me.”
Raylan set his beer down, got up, and opened the apartment door, looking at the girl’s long, straight dark hair and small frame in a tank top, right there till she moved left to avoid the big man’s ham-shank fist.
In the hall now, Raylan said, “You don’t want to do that.”
“Who the fuck’re you?” He looked a little like Gregg Allman, but bigger, long hair, beard, tats covering muscular arms, and sounded like he had a serious buzz on. A heavy Harlan County accent, but still seemed to have his wits about him.
“A concerned citizen,” Raylan said.
“You mean pussy, don’t you? Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, little man? Fore you get into something you can’t handle.”
“I’d like to, but you’re making so much noise I can’t hear myself think.”
The girl, facing him now, waited to see how he’d react. She was good-looking, early twenties. What was she doing with this fool?
“Listen,” the big man said, “you can either go back in there or I’ll throw you in.”
“That’s a helluva impression you’re making on your new neighbor,” Raylan said. “Why don’t we start over, say hello, see can we get along?”
The big man brought his fists up, menace on his face, ready to take a swing. He rushed Raylan, threw a couple heavy haymakers that missed, and now he was breathing hard, slowing a little, but he wasn’t gonna stop. Raylan waited for an opening, stepped in close, and broke his nose. The big man’s hands went up to protect his face.
“Hit him again,” the girl said. “Hit the son of a bitch.” She came over and stood next to Raylan. “You gotta help me. I go back in there, Junior’s gonna give me what for, I’m telling you.”
Junior said, “Get your shit, and get the hell out.”
Two tenants opened their doors and stepped into the hall to see what was going on.
“Will you come with me, make sure he don’t do nothing?” She said it with fear in her eyes and a bruise on her upper cheek.
All Raylan wanted was a quiet night and now he was involved in this domestic altercation. “Hang on a second.” He went into his apartment, slid the Glock in the waist of his jeans, and covered it with his shirttail. He wasn’t taking any chances. This fella Junior was a real wild card, mean and unpredictable. He closed the apartment door and walked in the hall. “All right, let’s get your stuff.”
“I sure preciate your help. I was thinking this time he’s gonna put me in the hospital or worse. Junior has a temper on him as you seen.”
“What’re you doing with him?”
“He was kind and gentle, and a tad shy at first. I don’t think he had much experience with girls and that made him more appealing.” The girl exhaled with a sigh. “Once we got familiar, Junior turned into his real self. I hung in there thinking I could change him. How do you think I did?”
Raylan felt sorry for her. “Got some place you can go? Friends or relatives in the area?”
“Nobody. You’re it.”
They entered her apartment, the girl nervous, looking around. She went to her room while Raylan sat and nursed the beer. Junior was on the balcony off the kitchen, the big man holding a plastic bag of ice over his nose, taking swigs of whiskey from the bottle. Junior glared at him, opened the sliding door, and came into the kitchen holding the neck of the whiskey bottle down his leg, dropped the ice bag on the table, and moved toward Raylan. “Want her, you can have her. Just be ready is all. Cause she gonna drive you out of your fucking mind.” Now in another voice, trying to sound like the girl, he said, “Them dishes ain’t gonna get clean by themselves. Hell, you’re not wearing that shirt again, are you? That’s three days in a row. Junior Poole, all you do’s sit around, drink.” He took a long deep swig of Wild Turkey. “Yeah, I drink. I better, I’m gonna handle that attitude she give me.”
Raylan said. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore. Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“Slick, talk to me in a couple days, see how tolerant you are.”
The girl said, “Why don’t you shut your mouth,” coming out of her room carrying a big plastic Samsonite suitcase and a pile of clothes on hangers draped over her forearm.
“Why don’t you come over here and make me?”
Raylan took the suitcase, led her out of the apartment and back to his, put her suitcase down on the living room floor, and said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, I can fix that. I’m Jo Lynne.”
“I’m Raylan.”
“Why’s that sound familiar? Ever been to Harlan County, Kentucky?”
“Born and raised. Worked in the mines.”
“What’s your daddy’s name?”
“Arlo. I get you something to drink? Beer, Coca Cola?”
“I don’t suppose you got any shine on the premises.”
“Shine, huh? Where you from?”
“Belle Glade originally, east end of Lake Okeechobee. That’s in Florida, you don’t know it.”
“Muck City.” Raylan opened the cupboard, took out a Mason jar of shine that had a peach floating near the bottom and poured Jo Lynne a couple inches in a short skinny juice glass.
“Her soul is her fortune,” Jo Lynne said, quoting the Belle Glade city motto. “We moved to Kentucky I was yet a whippersnapper.”
“I worked in South Florida for a while,” Raylan said. “I liked it down there.” He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and popped the top. “You didn’t happen to know the Crowe family, ran a fish camp near there?”
“Know em? I’m one of em. Full name’s Jo Lynne Crowe.”
“I knew Darryl Jr., Dilly, Dewey, Dickie, Wendy, Coover, and Pervis. Four of them either shot dead or sent to prison. Now you show up here nice as a sunny day.”
“They my cousins, aunt, and uncle. I was living in Harlan County when that jig shot and killed Dewey and Coover and almost put Uncle Perv out of business. Though Pervis Crowe has since departed this world. Passed a while ago. We lost a good one, I’ll tell you that. My guess, Perv’s up there on that piney ridge in the sky, hunting and drinking shine.”
If Raylan was looking for proof it was a small world, there she was sitting at his kitchen table drinking Kentucky’s finest.
“Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. Oh yeah, I heard’a you. Can’t believe I’m consorting with the enemy in his goddamn lair. Uncle Perv’s probably rollin in his grave.”
“I got no quarrel, but if you do, I don’t see anyone keeping you here against your will.”
There was a knock on the door. Jo Lynne said, “I can tell you who that is.”
Raylan got up, walked through the living room, drew his Glock, thinking Junior Poole could be on the other side with a shotgun to go with his surly disposition. He opened the door. It was Junior all right, he had calmed down and looked like a different person—all the anger gone from his face. “Tell Jo Lynne I’s sorry. Tell her JR’s here and he wants to apologize for his actions.”
“I don’t want to talk to him,” Jo Lynne yelled from the kitchen. “It’s happened too many times.”
“I’ll be better, you’ll see,” Junior said in a louder voice that could be heard thirty feet away. “You got my word on that.”
Raylan, uncomfortable being in the middle of this soap opera, said, “Give her some time, go back to your place, and take it easy.” He closed the door and walked to the kitchen.
“This’s what he does,” Jo Lynne said, “blows his stack, then turns into a puppy, comes crawling back. I think Junior’s got something wrong with his brain.” Jo Lynne picked up the Mason jar, poured another couple inches of shine in the glass, brought it to her mouth, swigged the clear liquid, and coughed. “Lord, this stuff’ll cure what ails you. Been some time since I had it.” She took a couple breaths. “Listen, I’m gonna call my brother, see he’ll come pick up his sis. You know Derek? Everyone calls him Skeeter.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Meanwhile, since I got no place to go, you mind I sleep on your couch for a night or two?”
“A minute ago I was the enemy, now you want to stay here. I just want to make sure I got it right.”
“Less you’re kicking me out.”
Raylan wanted to but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Jo Lynne called her brother on her cell phone. Told him she’d broke it off with Junior and was stuck and desperate in Detroit. She listened for a time and shut off the phone.
“What’d he say?”
“That he’d warned me bout Junior and I didn’t listen. I told him we all make mistakes and now I needed his help.” Jo Lynne frowned, holding Raylan in her gaze. “Why do men always have to be right?”
“I thought it was the other way around.”
Jo Lynne smiled. “Skeeter’s coming to get me, leaving first thing in the morning. I decided not to mention nothing bout you. Hey, you mind I have another blast?”
Eight
Against his better judgment, Raylan left Jo Lynne Crowe at his kitchen table in a tank top and short shorts, drinking a cup of coffee, looking pretty good he had to admit.
“Thank you, Raylan Givens, for your hospitality. You’re not so bad after all.” That was high praise coming from a member of the Crowe family. “This may sound crazy, but I could see going out with you,” she said with a smile, her long tan legs stretched out on the chair next to her.
“That’d go over well with your kin.”
“We’d be just like Romeo and Juliet.”
Raylan let that pass and said, “Call Junior, will you? Tell him you’re leaving, or better yet, you left. I don’t want him coming over here looking for you. What time’s your brother picking you up?”
“What time’d he say or what time’s he really gonna be here? I never heard the words ‘Skeeter’ and ‘on time’ in the same sentence.”
“Listen, help yourself to whatever, I’ll check back with you this afternoon.”
“Bless your heart, Raylan Givens.”
•••
“They still have him?” Raylan said. “He didn’t escape again, did he?”
“Trying to be funny?” Bobby Torres said.
They were on Jefferson, passing the Ambassador Bridge. Raylan’s gaze moved past him to the Detroit River and the shoreline of Canada in the distance. “After what happened it’s not out of the question.”
“They’re embarrassed, man. Got Rindo in isolation, locked down twenty-four-seven. Got an eye on him. He’s not going nowhere.” Bobby turned right on Grand Boulevard. “How was it with Special Agent Sanchez?”
“Interesting.”
“The hell’s that mean?”
“She apologized for interfering, admitted she was in over her head but got the job done when it counted. We came to an understanding.”
“So she’s not going to be fucking with us again?”
“Here’s something else. I think she was with the murdered FBI agent the night he was killed.”
Bobby looked stunned. “She told you that?”
“No. It was something she said to Rindo in the car. The shooter said, ‘It’s too late for explanations,’ before he shot Frank Tyner. If she heard it, she must’ve been there.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yeah. She said it’s none of my business.”
“Well, there you go. She doesn’t want you anywhere near this.”
Bobby turned left on Vernor Highway and now they were passing the decorative, bright-colored storefronts of Mexicantown.
“You think Tyner was involved with Rindo and his gang?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were Sanchez and Tyler having an affair?”
“I can’t imagine. She doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Come on, you don’t think she gets laid?”
“You’d have to thaw her out first.”
Bobby passed a delivery truck that was double-parked. “You gonna do something about this? Talk to the chief.”
“And tell him what? A murdered FBI agent might have had ties to a fugitive drug dealer? Tyner might have been undercover for all we know. As Agent Sanchez said, it’s none of our business.”
Bobby pulled up in front of the Martinez residence, same Chevy in the driveway.
Raylan knocked on the door, heard voices in the house. Eladio Martinez opened it, eyeing them with suspicion.
“US Marshals,” Bobby said. “Mr. Martinez, we need to speak to you and your wife.”
“What this about?”
“Invite us in,” Bobby said, “we’ll tell you.”
“How was your trip to Arizona?” Raylan said, sitti
ng next to Bobby on the couch, facing the nervous Martinez couple opposite them in armchairs. “Summer’s an odd time to go to the desert. What’s it get up to, the heat, like one twenty-five?”
“You want to know about our vacation, that why you come here?” Eladio Martinez was trying to stay calm but it wasn’t working. He frowned. “Got nothing better to do?” Mrs. Martinez kept her eyes glued to her husband.
Raylan said, “I’ve always wondered about taking a motor coach. Is that a relaxing way to travel?”
“Is not bad,” Eladio Martinez said, more in control. “You play cards, read, sleep, stop once in a while, have something to eat.”
“I was surprised you had so much luggage,” Bobby said. “More than the others you were traveling with. You buy something in Tucson, bring it back?”
“You married?” Eladio Martinez said to Bobby in a friendlier tone. “Ever travel with a woman? When it comes to clothes and shoes, there is no such thing as too much. Tell them.” Mr. Martinez turned to his wife.
“What can I say?” the woman said, smiling.
Raylan said, “Know what didn’t make sense? You get home from the trip, you been gone a week, and a few minutes after you walk in the door, men come to clean your carpet.”
Eladio Martinez smiled. “You know why? They have the wrong day. I say to them: ‘Hey, what are you doing here? You come next week.’”
Raylan said, “That explains why they were only there for a few minutes, huh?”
“So you were watching us?” Eladio Martinez said. “You saw them?”
“But it doesn’t explain where they went after that,” Raylan said.
Eladio Martinez said, “What does it have to do with us?”
Bobby said, “Where’re your suitcases?”
“In the closet, isn’t that right?” Eladio Martinez said to his wife. She nodded. “Why you want to know?”
“I want to see them. Bring the suitcases in here and let us have a look,” Bobby said. “What’re you worried about?”
Eladio Martinez got up, walked out of the room, and came back in carrying two big blue plastic suitcases and a gray one.
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 6
