by Joel Goldman
He wasn’t certain what to make of the man who said he was FBI except he wasn’t working because he shook too much except there he was on Latrell’s street looking for that dog and oh, by the way, he says do you mind if I ask you some questions like did he see a woman out back of Marcellus’s house and did he know Oleta Phillips. Only reason Latrell believed he was FBI was because of seeing him come out of Marcellus’s back door that night and the way everyone treated him when he seized up.
The other agents hadn’t asked him about a man running away or a woman. The woman was Oleta. He knew that but he didn’t know who the man was, if there was a man. He wouldn’t be tricked into remembering something, that was for sure.
The agent told him someone always sees something. Latrell didn’t doubt that. Oleta had seen him. He went over everything from the time he stepped out of his house until the time he stepped back in, carrying Oleta over his shoulder. He was certain that no one else had seen him.
Yet the agent knew about the woman, asked him straight up did he know Oleta. Why would he do that? Then Latrell remembered the money she was carrying. He figured Marcellus had given it to her for her son being killed. It was blood money and he wanted no part of it. He took Oleta because she’d seen him. Didn’t matter that she thanked him. What mattered was that she’d seen him. That, and when he looked at her, he saw his mother. Saw his mother even now just thinking about her. How many times, he wondered, do you have to kill someone before they stay dead?
The agent had found the money under the tree. That’s how the agent must have found out about Oleta. He was smart not to have taken the money. That would have made sense to the FBI—someone killing Oleta for the money. Leaving it on the ground, that was the smart play. Maybe they found her fingerprints on the money. That’s how come they knew it was her. He was smart not to have even touched it.
Then there was story the agent told him about losing his son. Latrell knew a good lie when he told one, knew how important it was to feel it when he told it because a person could see the feeling in him. No feeling and it was just words. He felt it when the agent talked about his son; he saw the cloud in the agent’s eyes.
Why, he wondered, would the agent tell him about his son? Was it to make him feel sorry for the agent so FBI man could trick him? Was it because the agent knew about his mother and the men and Oleta and Jalise and everything else? The questions made his head spin, leaving him with only one certainty. This man who said he was an FBI agent, who came looking for a dog and who shook too much and asked too many questions, was dangerous.
Latrell went back inside and took off his shoes. He began in the kitchen, down on hands and knees, scrubbing the ?oor, countertops, and tables. Moving into the living room, he swept the hardwood ?oor, vacuumed the area rug, pulled out the sofa cushions, vacuumed them and the sofa, and wiped down the small bookcase filled with his alphabetized CD and DVD collections, double- and triple-checking that they were all in order.
The two bedrooms and bath upstairs were next, even though he hadn’t allowed the dog on the second ?oor. He changed the sheets on his bed, turned the mattress, scoured the bathroom, and waxed the hardwood ?oors until his face re?ected back at him. By three a.m., he had cleaned up after the dog for the last time.
Exhausted, he fell into bed. Latrell had planned to go to the cave tonight to make certain that everything was in order there as well, but he had to be at work in five hours and he was too tired. He’d go tomorrow night, probably sleep there in case any more FBI agents came knocking.
As he was falling asleep, he replayed his conversation with the agent. No doubt about it, the agent had suspected nothing. Latrell would have been able to tell. Still, it bothered him that they kept coming back to talk with him. Maybe they would leave him alone if he remembered something. Maybe the man the agent said had been seen running away. But not the woman. Definitely not the woman.
Chapter Twenty-two
Joy’s car was parked in front of my house when Ruby and I got home. It was a Hyundai Sonata. We were basic-transportation people, not ?ashy-car people. There was a crease in the front fender from a too-close encounter she’d had with the center post in the garage. It had prompted one of the last fights we had had about her drinking before she left. “You don’t have to be a drunk to hit the garage,” she had shouted at me. “No, but it makes it a lot easier,” I had shouted back. By the end, we were shouting people, not talking people.
She still had a key to the house. I hadn’t changed the locks. It wore me out to see her car there.
Ruby ?ew through the door from the garage into the house like she knew she was home, finding Joy in the kitchen before I did.
“Well, who are you?” I heard Joy ask. “Aren’t you the gorgeous dog?”
I found them on the ?oor, Joy cross-legged, Ruby lapping at her face.
“It didn’t take you long to replace me, did it?” she said with a laugh, cuffing Ruby, who instantly rolled over on her back and offered up her belly.
Joy stood, brushing the wrinkles from her jeans. The lines in her face seemed to have softened and the gloom in her eyes was gone, a ?icker of life taking its place. I hadn’t seen her since we’d separated, all of our communications passing through our lawyers or our daughter. I wasn’t certain, but her hair looked shorter, shaped differently, and colored a shade lighter.
“The dog and I are just friends,” I said. “You look different—in a good way.”
She smiled at my compliment. “Thank you, I think.”
We looked at each other, not talking, the dog racing in and out of each room, back to the kitchen, doing circles around us.
“So,” she said.
“So.”
“Thanks for not changing the locks.”
“Wasn’t necessary. What’s the occasion? Something you need to pick up?”
Joy swept her hair behind her ears with both hands, turning her head to the side, then releasing her hair. It was a gesture she’d used as long as I’d known her, a prelude to an unpleasant conversation.
“Wendy called. She’s pretty upset.”
I let out a long breath, the reason for Joy’s visit now clear. “I know. I really blew it, inviting Kate to dinner without giving Wendy any advance warning.”
Joy’s mouth opened wide, her eyebrows rising off the charts. “Tell me you’re kidding? You didn’t really do that.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “I wish I was. I thought that’s why you were here, to tell me what a lousy father I am.”
She chewed her lower lip, arms crossed over her chest.
“Nothing is easy with you, Jack. Wendy didn’t say a word
about Kate. That’s not why she called.”
I felt the fool again, heat rising in my neck. “Then what?”
The shaking started as the words left my mouth. I bent over, cursing between clenched teeth, waiting for the contraction to release me. Joy kept her distance, turning away until I could stand. When she looked at me again, her eyes were wet.
“That,” she said.
“It will pass.”
“From the looks of it, like a kidney stone.”
I caught my breath and laughed, not able to remember the last time she’d told a joke. “I see that you’ve been practicing your stand-up routine.”
“Actually, I’ve been practicing my sobriety routine. Fifty days as of today. My AA counselor gave me a gold star.”
The last time she’d tried AA, she stayed sober for a record 148 days, falling off the wagon on Kevin’s birthday. That was three years ago. The binge that followed wiped out that record with a vengeance. I was stunned but cautious, having seen her go down this road before.
“That’s great. One day at a time, right?”
“First thing they teach you.”
“Well, good for you. Keep it up.”
She stuck her hands in her jeans pockets. “I intend to. How long have you been like this?”
“A couple of months, but I’m not like this all the ti
me. Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a shiver and I can go long stretches without anything happening.”
“Long stretches meaning like days or hours?”
I hesitated a moment, not wanting to concede. “Hours.”
“What are we going to do about you?”
“You don’t have to do anything. I’ve got an appointment at KU Hospital. They’ll give me a pill or a shot or something and I’ll be as good as new.”
“In November. Wendy told me. I’m certain she wasn’t pleased that you invited Kate to dinner, but all she could talk about was that you needed to see a doctor right away and what were she and I going to do about it. Those people at KU will give you the runaround, the once-over, and tell you to take it easy after making you wait two months for the privilege.”
Joy had tried every doctor and medical center in every city we’d lived in for every malady she’d had or thought she’d had. She didn’t like any of them because she didn’t like what they told her: quit drinking. KU Hospital was no exception, though I couldn’t remember who she’d seen there or why. On the plus side, she knew practically every doctor in town.
“They’ve got a good movement disorder clinic. I’m on the cancellation list. I’ll probably get in to see someone sooner than two months.”
“No, you won’t. I checked. You are number sixty-three on the waiting list. A lot of people have to die if you are going to get in before November.”
“What do you mean you checked?” I asked, my voice rising with my irritation.
“Calm down, Jack. Wendy was so upset. I had to do something. I called the clinic and told them I was your wife, which I still am, legally, that is.”
I looked at my watch. It was nine-thirty, three hours since I’d seen Wendy.
“You’re telling me the clinic is open at night?”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t. But I got a hold of the chief neurology resident and browbeat him into having the appointment secretary call me back. She was very nice about the whole thing, but said there was nothing she could do about your appointment. Even said you were lucky to have a wife like me. I spared her the details.”
“You are unbelievable!” My annoyance was giving way to grudging admiration.
“I didn’t use to think so. Now, I’m willing to consider the possibility.”
Her purse was on the kitchen counter. She opened it and handed me a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Your schedule. I made an appointment for you to see Dr. Carl Winters. He’s the best neurologist in town according to his wife, who’s in my AA group. You’ll see him on Monday morning at ten. He’s in the St. Luke’s Medical Building. He wants you to have an MRI of your entire spine, with and without contrast media, and an MRI of your brain before he sees you. You’ll get the MRIs done by the radiology group he uses. They’ve got offices all over town. There’s one in Overland Park and one on the Plaza next to the library. Take your pick, but you’ve got to let them know in the morning. They are working you in as a favor to Dr. Winters, so don’t get pissy if you have to wait a few minutes. Wendy will go with you on Monday but she and I decided that you can get the films done by yourself.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had misjudged both Wendy and Joy. That was nothing to be proud of. I’d spent the last two months feeling isolated and alone when I could have avoided both.
I took another deep breath. “Thank you.”
Joy smiled, picking up the dog. “You’re welcome. Where’d you get this cute little cockapoo?”
“Cocka what?”
“You bought a dog and you don’t even know what breed she is? Honestly, how do you get through the day? She’s a cockapoo—half cocker spaniel and half poodle. What did you think she was?”
“A mutt that was orphaned after everyone she lived with was murdered Monday night.”
She set Ruby on the ?oor. The dog sat at her feet.
“Oh, my. That was your case, wasn’t it?”
“The operative word is was. I was at the scene when Troy Clark caught me in one of my shakedowns. He went to Ben Yates before I had a chance to explain to Yates that I wasn’t crazy or dying and could still do my job while I got this shaking thing figured out. The next thing I know, Yates put me on medical leave and gave my squad to Troy.”
She pushed her lips out in a pout. “Quit acting like Troy tattled on you. He probably told you to see a doctor and you refused. Am I right?”
I shrugged. “More or less.”
“Well then, you didn’t leave him any choice. So how did you end up with the dog?”
“I found her hiding under a bed in the house where the murders took place. I went back there tonight looking for her.”
“Men,” she said with a wry grin, “are incapable of being alone.”
“Living alone wasn’t my choice.”
The familiar weariness rippled across her face. “You were living alone for years without knowing it, Jack. We both were. I just made it official.”
The old battle lines reappeared. The veins in her neck popped to the surface. The muscles in my shoulders tightened and my gut began to quiver.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” I told her.
“Well, at least you’re sorry. That’s something.”
“Thanks again for going to all the trouble with the doctor appointments.”
Joy tucked her purse under her arm. “I did it for Wendy. As long as we have a daughter, we’re still a family. But eventually you’ll have to learn to take care of yourself. I won’t be around forever to look after you.”
The dog and I followed her to the front door. Ruby whimpered until Joy bent low, cupping the dog’s face in her hands.
“You want to know something funny?” she asked, nuzzling the dog.
“Sure.”
“One of the people in my AA group had one of these dogs. She was moving to an apartment that didn’t allow pets and asked me if I wanted hers. I don’t know what made me say yes, but I did. Her name is Roxy. She’s white with a dirty-blond streak down her back, not apricot like Ruby. Otherwise, they could be sisters. We never had a dog while we were together. What are the odds we’d each end up with a dog, let alone the same breed?”
“I wouldn’t bet on us.”
“Then you’d lose,” she said, giving Ruby a final pat on the head.
She was halfway down the walk when she turned around. I was still holding the door open, watching her go.
“Do one thing for me,” she said.
“Sure. What’s that?”
“Whatever happens with you and Kate, don’t force Wendy to be part of it.”
It wasn’t a cheap shot, but I felt it below the belt. I retreated to the kitchen, Ruby at my side. The message light was ?ashing on the telephone. I pushed the button and listened as my lawyer told me that the final hearing on our divorce was scheduled for a week from today.
“At least I was right about one thing,” I said to the dog. “I wouldn’t bet on us.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Ruby slept alongside my futon, waking me while it was still dark. I fumbled with the light, assuming she wanted to go out. I was wrong. She’d already gone. Inside. A lot. I cleaned up after her, wondering if I’d made a bad decision to take in a dog that wasn’t housebroken and that I’d have to leave alone most of the day.
I played back the local newscasts I had recorded and scanned the newspaper for additional information on the investigation into the drug house murders. It was all a rehash of the first reports. The Bureau had cut off the ?ow of information, reducing its public comments to the standard blather about an ongoing investigation and appeals for anyone with knowledge of the crimes to call the TIPS hotline.
Sifting through the mail, I saw a ?ier for a place called Pete & Mac’s, which described itself as a pet resort that offered day care for dogs. They had a facility on Eighty-seventh Street in Lenexa that opened at seven. By seven-fifteen, I’d signed Ruby up for a week of day care and
obedience training, grooming included. She went with her pet attendant, tail wagging, without a backward glance at me, proving that she was charmingly indiscriminate with her affections.
One of the staff helped load my car with a kennel for Ruby to sleep in and enough food, treats, and toys to last a lifetime. I left, realizing that my dog now had a higher standard of living than I did.
I stopped at a restaurant that offered free Wi-Fi access. Using my laptop, I logged on to the website for the County Treasurer’s office and searched for records of property owned by Jill Rice, Thomas Rice, or both. It only took a few keystrokes to find the records on the house Colby Hudson was buying.
The house was titled to Jill Rice. Last year, the county appraised it at $850,000. The property taxes were $12,427. I couldn’t figure out how Colby could afford the taxes, let alone the purchase price, no matter how much Jill Rice discounted it for the pleasure of pissing off her ex-husband.
There was no mortgage on the house. The only lien was in Thomas Rice’s name. While the details of the lien were not explained, there was a link to the Register of Deeds office. I clicked on the link and a page appeared explaining that Mr. Rice’s lien was pursuant to a Property Settlement Agreement, the terms of which could be found at yet another link. I followed the electronic trail, landing at the website of the Clerk of the District Court, where I was able to find and read the agreement. I was pleased at how easy it was to find until I realized that the terms of my own divorce would join the public record in less than a week’s time.
Thomas Rice had a lien for half the net proceeds from the sale of the house. It was the same deal that Joy and I had made. The legalese was painfully familiar. The sale had to be conducted in a commercially reasonable manner, including advance notice to Thomas Rice, and the house had to be sold for fair market value.
Colby wasn’t just buying a house. He was buying a lawsuit if the price was too far below market. It was possible that he didn’t know the terms of the Rices’ agreement. I could tell him and deal with the fallout from explaining how I knew. Or, I could keep my mouth shut until I knew just how bad a deal he was making. That was the right call, perhaps the only one I had made so far.
