by Layton Green
“Do you have someone who can watch the register?” he asked.
Realizing it was serious, she called out to a guy with blond dreadlocks named Nate. “Maybe you should just tell me? I paid that parking . . .”
She trailed off as Preach held up his cell phone, showing her the crime scene. “We’re looking for someone who can identify the deceased.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth. “That’s Lee. This isn’t a—ohmygod.”
“Lee is Farley Robertson?”
She nodded, her hand still covering her mouth.
“Why don’t we step outside?” Preach said gently.
“How . . . why . . .?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know yet. Ms. . . .”
“Hale.” She moved her hand to her temple. “Ari Hale.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Hale, but I need to ask you a few questions about the deceased. Would you like some water, a chair?”
She blew out another breath. Despite her shock, she maintained her poise. “I’m okay.”
Nate sauntered over, frowning at the two policemen and casting a quick, hungry look at his coworker when she wasn’t looking. After a deep breath, the woman led the officers through the rear entrance, to a gravel lot littered with cigarette butts and maple leaves.
“You said you had class at eleven,” Preach said. “What do you study?”
She looked surprised at the question. “I’m a 3L at UNC. Law school.”
He nodded, impressed. She knew her rights and was comfortable with police. “And you work here during the week?”
“Wednesday through Sunday evenings, plus this day shift. Lucky me.”
“How long have you worked here?” he asked.
“Two years.”
“And how well did you know Mr. Robertson?”
Her eyes flicked to Preach’s cell phone, and she bit her lip. “He paid on time and treated us fairly, but we didn’t talk that much. He mostly handled the back office and author events.”
“Do you happen to know his next of kin?”
“His parents have passed, and he doesn’t have kids. There’s a sister in California. I don’t think they speak very much. I’ve never met her.”
“What about close acquaintances?”
“No one he’s mentioned to me, except for Damian Black, of course.”
Preach’s eyebrows lifted. “The horror writer?”
“The one and only. They were childhood friends.”
Kirby scribbled the name in his notepad, and Ari raised a finger. “There is another guy who comes in more than most.”
“A customer?”
“Most of the time he disappeared into the office with Lee. I’m not sure what they did back there.”
“How long would he stay?” Preach asked.
“Five or ten minutes, usually. The guy always strutted out as moodily as he came in. Like a rooster with a chip on its shoulder.”
“Maybe that was the appeal,” Kirby said.
Ari gave Kirby an amused glance. “I don’t think it was sex. Though I’m pretty sure Lee was gay.”
“Was he seeing anyone?” Preach asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I don’t suppose you know this customer’s name?”
“He’s a barista at the Rabbit Hole. Look for the guy in his thirties with the beret and the moustache, puts the hip in hipster.”
“Have you noticed a recent change in Mr. Robertson’s behavior?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together as she thought. “He seemed more energetic lately.”
“In a positive way, or a negative one?”
“I would characterize it as nervous energy.”
“Any reason why?”
“No.”
“Was there any sign of drug use?”
“Not in front of me,” she said, in a way that implied the question was not unwarranted. They would see what the autopsy turned up.
“I know it sounds cliché,” Preach said, “but I have to ask: did Mr. Robertson have any enemies?”
She shook her head, though her lips parted as if she were about to comment.
“Ms. Hale?”
“At the end of my Wednesday shift, he was arguing with someone in the back. I heard them shouting all the way from the register.”
“A customer?”
“A writer. A real writer, if you know what I mean. Lonely, socially awkward . . . a weird guy.”
“His name?”
She hesitated.
“We’re just gathering information,” Preach said.
She nudged a piece of hair out of her face. “J. T. Belker.”
Preach glanced at Kirby, who made another note. “Do you know what they were arguing about?” the detective asked.
“No idea. They were still back there when I left.” Ari eased off the wall and twisted one of her silver thumb rings. “Any more questions? I should get back. I’ll need to call a staff meeting.”
“Was Farley the sole owner?”
“As far as I know.”
“Okay. Try to keep the store running for now. I hate to ask—” Preach opened his cell phone again, displaying the photo of the corpse—“but could you take a closer look at the body? We found two small crosses on Mr. Robertson’s chest. Have you ever seen him with those, maybe on a necklace?”
Ari took the smartphone and enlarged the image. Her eyes widened as she brought the photo closer. “The head wound,” she said, in an oddly subdued voice, “could it have been caused by the back of an axe?”
“I suppose,” Preach said. “Why?”
“And those crosses . . . I don’t suppose they’re made of wood and copper?”
He exchanged a sharp glance with Kirby. The junior officer shifted to a more alert stance, and Preach’s eyes bored into Ari. “How’d you know that?”
“So they are?” She was staring at the photo with a dazed expression.
“One wood, one copper. Does that mean something to you?”
“I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but the wound, the position of the body, the crosses: those are the exact details from the murder of the old pawnbroker in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.”
3
Preach was staring at Ari as if waiting for the punch line. She handed him the phone and took a step back, distancing herself from the disturbing image of the crime scene.
“You’re sure?” Preach said, not sure what to make of what she said. Maybe it was a coincidence.
“I just read it again this summer.” She led them back into the store, to a row of shelves marked Classics. After sliding out and rejecting two versions of the famous novel, she opted for the Magarshack translation. “Here,” she said, pointing at the bottom third of page 96. He followed along as she read:
Being a small woman, the blow fell across the crown of the head. . . . It was then that he struck her again with all his strength, and then again, every time with the back of the hatchet and across the crown of the head. Blood gushed out as from an overturned tumbler, and she fell straight on her back.
“So the victim in the book is an old woman?” Preach asked. “What about the crosses?”
She held up a finger as she flipped the page:
Suddenly he noticed a ribbon round her neck . . . he succeeded in cutting through the ribbon without touching the body with the hatchet, and took it off: it was a purse. There were two crosses on the ribbon, one of cypress wood and another of copper, and, in addition, a little enameled icon; and with them a small greasy chamois-leather purse with a steel ring and a little ring. The purse was full to bursting. Raskolnikov shoved it into his pocket without bothering to see what was in it, threw the crosses on the old woman’s body, and, taking the hatchet with him this time, rushed back to the bedroom.
Preach took the book and read it twice more himself, his eyes lingering on the page. The inference was inescapable.
Kirby had been reading over his shoulder. “Hot damn,” he muttered. “Ho
t buttered damn.”
Before they left the bookstore, Preach and Kirby gave the back office a thorough search and found nothing of interest. Ari gave them a copy of Crime and Punishment and promised to contact them if anything arose. After Preach thanked her, he and Kirby walked a few streets down to a burrito joint that shared space with a Buddhist Center. In his youth, the storefront had housed a thrift shop his mother used to drag him to.
Preach ordered a sweet potato burrito, Kirby a plate of corn enchiladas. “I thought for sure those crosses meant we had a religious wacko on our hands,” Kirby said, finding an open table next to the Art-O-Mat. A string of plastic red chilies hung along the wall beside them. “The Lord’s Avenger come to smite Creekville for its sins.”
Preach was relieved the placement of the crosses did not appear to have religious significance, nothing to do with his own past. He managed a half-smile. “Just your garden variety crime-scene-from-a-famous-novel murder.”
Kirby scooped off the sour cream and most of the cheese from his enchiladas, then sat and stared at his plate.
“The bodies get easier,” Preach said. “Though I’m not sure they should.”
“Yeah,” Kirby said, forcing down a small bite. “So what the hell’s it all mean?”
Preach reached for a grimy tube of habanero sauce. “It means we have a few leads.”
“Do we start with the barista or the writer?”
“The barista. Let’s get a little more color before we talk to the more probable suspect. And check with Terry, see if we need to circle back with any of the neighbors.”
“I thought we’d talk to them first.”
“We’ll get there. The neighbors aren’t going to bolt; the suspects might.”
Kirby nodded as he chewed. “Seems kind of obvious, you know, a writer leaving a clue from a novel.”
“Most murders are creatures of the obvious.”
“Oh yeah?”
Preach waved a hand. “Obvious motives, obvious clues, obvious suspects. Not many homicides possess true subtlety.”
“What’s obvious about this one? There’s no evidence of theft, no clues besides the crosses.”
“It’s early. Let’s talk to some people and let forensics do their thing.”
Kirby took a few more bites and washed it down with a swig from a large flask. Preach looked at him askance.
“Coconut water,” Kirby said. “Good for the skin.”
“Gotcha.”
Behind the counter, someone turned on a television showcasing a local broadcast from outside Farley Robertson’s townhouse. Every customer turned to stare at the caption announcing Creekville’s first murder in a decade.
“That was fast,” Kirby said.
“That’s how it goes. Buckle up.”
Preach watched in disgust as the reporter tried to sound somber but failed to hide his excitement at catching a big story. The broadcast switched to the Wandering Muse. Ari gave a sound bite, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.
Kirby’s eyes lingered on the screen. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s harder, preachin’ or wearin’ blue?”
Preach eyed the copy of Crime and Punishment on the table, then flicked his gaze to a group of tattooed street kids in the corner, hunched over a basket of chips and salsa. One in particular caught his eye, a Latino boy with a pockmarked face and vacant eyes.
He felt the familiar heave of empathy, and the fingers of his free hand tightened against his jeans. “Being a preacher is harder on the mind,” he said, forcing his thoughts away from another Latino boy, a candy-colored tree house in Atlanta, a case that had shattered the detective’s spirit like a hammer through a pane of glass. “Being a cop is harder on the soul.”
The Rabbit Hole Café was on Main Street, a few blocks from downtown and next door to the Cybrary, a public reading room that focused on eBook stations and free Wi-Fi. Creekville’s version of a library.
Preach’s hometown had always blended radically progressive with old school Southern, but to him, the dichotomies had become absurd. The Provence Café next door to Mami’s Chicken and Waffles; the chicken feed store that rented its second floor to a start-up incubator, furnished with bean bags and living walls; the Piggly Wiggly in the same shopping plaza as a restaurant specializing in bone marrow dishes paired with growlers of local craft beer.
A collection of hybrid and electric cars, scooters covered in stickers, vintage convertibles, pedal cars, and retro cruising bicycles filled the gravel lot of the café. A pair of Segways was parked against the rear wall. Preach and Kirby entered through a side door, made their way through a lounge filled with sofas and board games, then entered a room with a stained concrete floor and brick walls painted dull orange. Patrons lined the communal wooden tables, hands gripping ceramic mugs, laptops glowing in the dim light.
Behind the register, burlap sacks displayed coffee beans from two-dozen countries. A young woman with pierced lips was taking orders. The man beside her sported a beret and a green Atari shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled inside a sleeve. Rimless glasses, corduroy pants, and a handlebar moustache completed the uniform.
The man glanced up from steaming a cup of milk. “Been a long time, Joe.”
4
The detective found the barista’s small eyes and drank them in, saw the story of a man trying hard to maintain the cool edginess that had always been his calling card. His name was Wade Fee, and he had been Preach’s running mate in high school. His chief lieutenant.
“About sixteen years,” Preach replied. He hadn’t wanted their first meeting since their senior year in high school to go down like this.
Memories oozed out of cracks in the reservoir of his forgotten youth. Long summer nights at the neighborhood pool. Sneaking girlie mags and cigarettes into their fort in the woods. Cutting school for jaunts to Surf City in Wade’s convertible, a different pair of girls every time. Hitting the mountain trails with backpacks and a case of beer. The pizza joint where they all used to meet after the game to decide where to party.
Preach hadn’t contacted any of his old friends because he hadn’t figured out what to say. He knew Wade, especially, had felt betrayed by his sudden conversion from hard-core hell raiser to . . . someone else.
Wade poured foamed milk into the cappuccino. “I gotta say,” he said, his voice a soft growl, “I never thought I’d see the day Psycho Joe walked into town with a badge and a gun. Turning into a Jesus Freak was weird enough, but a cop?” He smirked. “Or is it all penance for high school?”
“That was a long time ago,” Preach said.
“Not here it isn’t.”
Preach folded his arms. “We need to talk.”
The barista’s perpetual scowl deepened. He set the finished drink on the counter and jerked his head at the girl with the pierced lips. She gave Preach a bold, flirtatious glance before taking over.
Wade wiped his hands on a towel. “Let’s take it outside,” he said, then led them to a sprawling outdoor area dotted with Adirondack chairs and picnic tables. Wood chips covered the ground, the smell of pine infused the air.
They found a quiet corner. After Preach introduced Kirby, Wade leaned his elbows on his knees and grunted. “So what’s this about?”
“You heard what happened this morning?” Preach asked.
“Everybody heard.”
“You seem pretty distraught.”
Wade spread his palms, then leaned back and lit a smoke. “Man’s gotta tear up every time something bad happens?”
Preach’s voice remained calm. “You don’t have to shed a tear to show respect for the recently deceased. Especially someone you knew.”
Wade snorted and looked away. “Ask your questions, Joe. We’re busy.”
“This isn’t an interrogation. We’re just trying to flesh out the picture. How well did you know Farley Robertson?”
“I went to the bookstore every now and then.”
“But did you know him personally
?” Kirby asked.
“I just said I did, dude.”
“You know what we mean,” Kirby said. “Did you know him a bit more than that’ll be ten bucks for the book on moustache wax, please?”
Wade flushed and stood. “We done here?”
“Did you know him?” Preach asked quietly, after giving Kirby a warning glance.
“Yeah, sure, we hung out in the office now and then, had a single-barrel and rapped about literature. He came in here as well, appreciated a good cup of tar.”
“Any idea why someone wanted him dead?”
“Lee? Nah, man. None whatsoever.” He rose and took a step toward the side door. “We straight now? I’ve got a job to do.”
“I have to ask,” Preach said apologetically, “where you were last night. As a matter of routine.”
A nasty grin slunk onto Wade’s face. “You want my alibi, Joe? He’s sitting in the back office, same place I was last night. It’s the door behind the pool table. Go on in.”
“Thanks.”
“Riiight.” Wade took a deep drag on his cigarette and put it out on the wall. “So why’d you come back? After all these years?”
Preach stood and brushed pine straw off his jeans, sad at the bitterness in his old friend’s voice. He handed the barista his card. “It’s good to see you. I’d like to catch up sometime.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Fair enough,” Preach said softly. “But if you think of anything I might need to know, call me.”
“Psycho Joe?” Kirby asked, as they returned inside.
Preach shoved his hands in his coat. “Kid stuff.”
Kirby chuckled. “What kind of kid were you?”
“The kind who had no idea who he was.”
They walked into the game room. Preach knocked on a metal door set into the wall behind the pool table.
“Well, c’mon in!” a gravelly baritone called out.
Preach stepped into a smoky, low-ceilinged office with exposed ductwork and a floor stripped of tile. A kitschy aquarium took up half of one wall, a desk and file cabinets another. A rockabilly tune streamed from an iPad stand.
