by Sarah Cortez
A few full-bloods floated facedown after being lost for two or three days. They were strong men, well built, with the exception of the distended gut from too much drinking. All were known to have frequented the park and the Indian bar nearby. All were going through hard times and break-ups. Then two half-bloods rose from the bottom. One with his woman just twenty yards away, still sleeping after having relations. For a week she told the story of his sweetest day, their closest time together-ever. This day he had drowned. Then she took up with a guy who stayed over nearer the park and they poured wine on the ground for her man every time they took to drink together.
Once they found a drowned stranger, a sort-of stranger, a guy from another tribe who was a known exhibitionist and molested the street women, often paying them in cigarettes after he was finished with them. One had to be hospitalizedhe had been so brutal in his business. When they pulled him from the water, his man-thing had been sheared by what appeared to be a sharp branch. They said he'd tried to bribe Jimmy for a turn at Jolene years ago.
Once, or twice maybe, a white man came floating and I began to believe Jolene had given up on Indian guys altogether. I've considered it myself, but can't stand the never-ending explaining you have to do to date outside. One came up so fast they found him minutes after he'd swallowed waters, yet no effort was made to clear his lungs by the followers or the police. I figure she shamed herself in seducing the historical enemy and wanted no part of being affiliated with him after the fact.
I saw Jimmy earlier this week. Maybe I'll follow him, take him down to the water tonight, bring her comfort. Soothe the blue-black night waters welling with Jolene. Soothe them.
Memphis, Tennessee
tanding behind her husband's left shoulder, the woman emitted hiccupping sobs that set Daniel Carson's teeth on edge. His skin prickled with the same sensation as if he'd raked his nails against a chalkboard. Carson forced himself to focus on his client's face. Failure to catch any lies could have fatal results.
The man pursed his porcine lips and shook his head. As if commiserating, his ice-blue gaze locked with Carson's, and he shrugged. "You have to understand, my wife is so upset because this is our only daughter."
Carson nodded once, as the fleeting image of his own daughter-a pigtailed girl with a gap-toothed grin-brought a twitch to his face.
Seizing on this minute gesture, the man leaned forward onto the leather blotter built into the massive mahogany desk. He steepled his fat fingers. "So, you're a family man?"
"My domestic situation has no bearing on the matter at hand."
The man blinked, and irritation flashed across his face. He quickly regained his composure, no doubt deciding it unwise to piss off a man in Carson's line of work. "You come highly recommended," he began, then paused, as if waiting for a response. Carson inclined his head but said nothing. Sighing, the man continued, "You understand that discretion is of the utmost importance."
"Naturally. Has there been any communication since your daughter's disappearance?"
This time the scowl remained planted on his face. "Only the one call, demanding a million in cash." The woman's sobs grew louder, and her husband reached up to pat the hand she laid on his shoulder.
"And the police are not involved?"
A firm shake of the head. "No. Given my position in the community, I'd prefer to handle this matter privately."
"Of course." An avid outdoorsman, true to his Cherokee heritage, Carson had no interest in antiques or other furnishings, yet even his untrained eye knew that the library in which they sat was the work of a well-funded interior designer-as was the rest of the manor that had once overseen the whole Norfleet family estate.
Now the home lay in the midst of an exclusive subdivision, dwarfing the expensive houses crammed into modest-sized lots. Carson knew from research that his client had bought the old home for half a million and tripled his investment within three years, according to the latest property tax assessment. Both the bluebloods and the nouveau riche alike would raise eyebrows if they knew what kind of man had purchased this piece of Memphis history and joined their polite society.
"What can you tell me about your daughter and the missing money?" Carson asked.
The man's frown deepened, and he clenched his hands. Then he paused to collect himself. He turned to his wife. "Darling, why don't you see after some coffee?" He glanced over at Carson with thinly veiled disdain. "Or maybe you'd rather have whiskey?"
A tiny muscle twitched at the back of Carson's jaw, but his expression remained neutral. "Coffee, please," he said in a soft voice to the raven-haired woman with gentle brown eyes. She nodded and left the room. As she passed through the doorway, she used a fist to stifle her sobs. When Carson returned his attention to his client, an edge clipped his words: "I don't drink."
Carson's eyes bored into those of his newest employer. After several tense seconds, while the older man struggled with his ego, common sense prevailed and he offered an almostcontrite smile. "Sorry. That was poor manners."
"Agreed." Carson's hooded expression warned of the consequences that a subsequent lapse in manners would incur. "You were telling me about your daughter's disappearance."
Carson leaned back into the leather armchair as his client started speaking. He studied the man's face as he committed the information to memory-notes could leave a trail. Just as he had scanned the land and vegetation as a boy-and later as a member of the elite Shadow Wolves in search of drug smugglers-he watched and measured each nuance of every expression, searching for signs of deception or evasion.
For the next two hours, his attention never wavered from the man before him. He extracted the details leading up to his client's employment of James Hicks, a Navy SEAL with a dishonorable discharge-the man who was now demanding one million dollars. Carson mentally recorded key facts from the sailor's personnel file. He also gathered information about Buddy Martin, his client's accountant.
After receiving the phone call, the businessman had contacted Buddy, his friend and confidant of more than twenty years. Since then the accountant had failed to answer repeated calls to his home, office, and cell phones, and Carson's client feared the worst.
"Why go after Buddy?" Carson asked.
"It could be as simple as the fact that he kept a sizable petty cash fund for me at his office."
"How sizable?"
"A quarter-million, give or take."
Carson studied the man's face for several seconds. "But there's more than petty cash involved, isn't there?"
"I've noticed that funds have started disappearing from my various business interests."
"You think Buddy's in on this?"
"It pains me, but I can't trust anyone at this point."
Carson's client had been given forty-eight hours, now down to twenty-eight, to turn over the money, or he would lose everything: his daughter, his reputation, his social status. The life that he had carefully built would be destroyed.
Carson maneuvered the Dodge Charger through the maze of East Memphis streets, guided by the robotic female voice of the global positioning system mounted on the windshield. Tara had laughed when he bought the device two years ago, chiding him for relying on technology, rather than the innate skills cultivated by his people over generations.
It was a matter of efficiency. Even allowing for the occasional error-when the gadget directed him to make an illegal left, for instance-his GPS had saved him countless hours plotting and memorizing the lay of the land in every city he worked.
As it wasn't yet 3 o'clock, Carson easily found a spot near the SEAUs apartment. He removed the Glock 17 from the space between the seat and armrest. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his Wranglers, where it was hidden beneath the hip-length leather jacket, and exited his car. After scanning the area for residents or visitors, Carson removed the gun when he reached the shared foyer.
His other hand reached for a reverse peephole viewer, which revealed stairs directly behind the door, a dining area to the
left, and a hallway leading to the living room.
He pocketed the viewer and stepped to the side, ringing the doorbell. When several seconds had elapsed, he rapped firmly on the wooden door.
Nothing. The odds of a dog were slim to none.
Seconds later, Carson entered Hicks's home. The still, silent air confirmed that he was alone in the sparsely furnished town home.
Clearly, the man continued to follow the military's strict code for tidiness, at least downstairs. Not a scrap of paper was lying about. All the dishes were neatly put away in the cabinets. The remote controls were arranged side by side next to the cable box.
Upstairs reinforced Hicks's fastidious nature. Carson could have bounced a quarter off the queen-sized bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. After searching the closets and the bathroom, he moved on to the second bedroom, which was an office.
Here Carson found the only personal item in the entire apartment: a framed photo of a red-haired woman. He studied the picture. She was posing on a bench in New Orleans' Jackson Square, the St. Louis Cathedral soaring in the background. He removed the photo from the frame and tucked it into his breast pocket.
Driving downtown on Main Street, past the gentrified Mid America Mall, Carson slowed as he approached the converted warehouse that housed Buddy Martin's office. Half a dozen city vehicles, including four police cruisers, crowded the street. Carson casually turned west onto Linden, but not before spotting the sedan marked Forensic Medical.
The meat wagon had already arrived, so police must have been on scene for at least an hour or two. Given the looming deadline, Carson hated the delay but adjusted his plans.
He drove north and then east, returning to the revitalized section of downtown Memphis. He deposited the car in a public garage across from the commercial playground of Peabody Place, where he blended in with the tourists who thronged the shopping oasis in the still-bleak inner-city zone.
Carson joined the small crowd of gawkers who had assembled at the crime scene perimeter. Snatches of conversation confirmed that Buddy Martin had been found dead of multiple gunshot wounds, most likely killed the previous day. The receptionist had been out all week, visiting her mother in New Jersey.
After twenty minutes, Carson concluded that he had learned all he could. He headed north toward Charlie Vergos's famed Rendezvous. He could think of no better temporary office, preferring a slab of ribs to overpriced coffee any day of the week.
Carson had visited the Memphis institution on several occasions, but the surly waiter who seated him didn't recognize him. Perhaps because he now had dark blond hair and green eyes-a dramatic departure from his natural coal-black hair and brown eyes so dark they, too, looked black.
A few keystrokes later, Carson discovered that Hicks's black 2007 Land Rover was registered to a Jennifer McLaren of 1375 Agnes Place. He also confirmed the twenty-fouryear-old Miss McLaren as the redhead from the photo in New Orleans.
Carson's food arrived and he made short order of the tender, smoky meat. As he ate, he scanned the current edition of the Memphis Flyer, the local tabloid, which he had picked up in the lobby. Carson turned to page seven, to an article on an exhibit opening referenced on the cover. On the lower righthand corner of the page, his client's frosty blue gaze stared back at him-this time from the face of a stunning brunette, hair upswept to showcase a swanlike neck. He checked the caption, tore out the photo, and placed it with the snapshot of Jennifer McLaren.
"She's not here." Standing no more than five-foot-two, the elderly woman in the doorway managed to look formidable with her scrawny arms folded on top of an ample, but sagging bosom. The short, wide body and skinny appendages made her look like a dwarf, but Carson suspected that Jennifer McLaren's grandmother had been a magnificent specimen some forty years earlier.
"Can you tell me where she is, ma'am?" said Carson, returning his credentials to his back pocket.
Piercing green eyes peered out from the wizened face. "Why would I do that?"
"Because it looks like one of Jennifer's friends might be dangerous," said Carson. "One woman is already missing. For all we know, Jennifer could be next."
One birdlike claw, sporting a fresh coat of pink nail polish that clashed violently with the auburn hair dye, flew to her throat. "Dear God," she whimpered. Her mouth tightened in a crimson slash. "It's that Hicks boy, isn't it?" She studied Carson's face and then nodded to herself. "I told jenny that boy was bad news. The damn fool kept handing over her hardearned money every time he smiled at her ... Well, come on in," she said at last, returning her gimlet stare to Carson. "Can I offer you some coffee?"
"That would be mighty kind of you."
He returned to the Charger, checking his watch. This time tomorrow, his client's daughter would either be dead or alive, depending on whether Carson completed his mission.
Jenny's grandmother had given him an address in New Orleans, where the girl had moved the previous month. The woman wasn't sure about the circumstances, but she thought that jenny and Hicks had been having troubles.
Driving away, Carson considered his options. Leaving now would put him in New Orleans around midnight. If he waited to check out Buddy's office, it would be morning before he reached the Big Easy.
Of course, the link to New Orleans was circumstantial. He didn't have time for a dead end that would eat up more than half his remaining time.
Carson resigned himself to several hours of cooling his heels. He headed west on Union and returned to the garage near Peabody Place.
He took out his cell phone and dialed. "Daddy!" squealed a voice almost instantly.
"Were you waiting by the phone?"
"Yep," came the smug reply.
"How'd you know I was getting ready to call?"
"We women have our ways." The grown-up words coming from her eight-year-old mouth reminded Carson of the fleeting nature of childhood.
After a few minutes of banter and a recap of her day, he asked to speak with her mother.
"Hey, handsome." Tara's sultry voice never failed to warm him. "And where in the world is my husband now?"
Carson let her know that he was in Memphis and quickly turned the conversation to her and their life in central Texas, what he thought of as his "real life"-separate from the world of his job.
Reluctantly, he ended the conversation. Carson snapped his phone shut and sat for a few minutes, savoring the peace that these conversations always produced.
He finally stirred himself and headed to Beale Street, where he passed the evening hours listening to a performer who sang like Johnny Cash and looked like Jerry Springer. At a quarter to 11, he settled the tab for his nachos and club soda and went back to work.
As Carson left the lights and activity of Beale Street and Peabody Place, he tossed his car keys in the air and caught them. He whistled softly while he walked, casually scanning the now-deserted section of Main Street.
By the time he arrived at the redbrick warehouse, Carson had confirmed that he was alone. He quickly dispatched the lock on the street-level door and entered. He turned left at the second-story landing. To his immediate left, yellow crime scene tape sealed the glass door with black-and-gold lettering that announced: Sherman "Buddy" Martin, Certified Public Accountant.
He sliced through the tape with his horn-handled pocketknife and spent only a few seconds longer on the lock.
When he opened the door, the coppery scent assailed his keen senses like a blow to the gut.
Carson walked through the empty reception area and stood in the doorway of the main office. He surveyed the scene before him, aided by the narrow but bright beam of his mini Maglite. From the spatter of blood, brain, and bone on the wall, window, and floor, he could see the killer had used hollow-point ammunition. The top of the desk was bare; the police had confiscated everything.
He then turned his attention to the open closet door in the far corner of the room, which revealed a large steel safe, also open. And empty.
Carson methodica
lly scanned the area, starting with the ceiling and working his way down to the floor. The light glinted off an object in the corner. He studied the space between him and the safe. Convinced that his passage wouldn't disturb anything, Carson crossed the room and kneeled in front of the safe.
He played the beam over the floor next to the wall and spotted the item that had caught his attention. Part of the object had fallen into the crack between two of the pine floorboards, and part had slipped under the radiator. Carson used the tip of his pocketknife to slide the article onto his gloved hand. It was a sterling silver earring in the form of a delicate three-inch chain that ended in a flat, pointed ellipse, similar to a feather or leaf.
Carson smiled, thinking how the nature symbolism would appeal to Tara, who insisted upon educating their daughter on her Cherokee heritage.
A thin hook at the top threaded through the ear. Holding the item in his hand, he realized how easy it would be for the wearer not to notice its loss; it weighed less than half an ounce.
Click.
Damn. Someone was coming in through the street-level door. He had maybe ten seconds before the newcomer arrived.
He chanced a glance out the window and saw a Crown Vic, the stereotypical unmarked police car. Things were getting complicated. Not impossible, but definitely complicated.
Carson stepped to the shadows in the opposite corner, on the same wall as the door. He heard the footsteps ascend the stairs and stop outside the reception area. The hallway door opened a few seconds later, just long enough for someone to pull out a weapon in response to the door's broken seal.
Carson braced himself for the sudden glare of the overhead light. Instead, a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness.
"Police! Step outside with your hands up." The words came out thick and imprecise.
Carson stood in the darkness, waiting for the officer's next move.
"This is your last warning." There was no mistaking the slur. "Step out or I will shoot."
