by Ralph Dennis
“Glad to have you along.”
“You got some drill in mind?” Egan asked.
Wilt explained it, including the fact that he didn’t mind if he followed Thorpe around uncovered.
“It’s a bitch of an idea,” Egan said.
Wilt decided that Egan had fallen into a pattern and that bitch was his favorite word for the week.
Egan put on his windbreaker and replaced the Durham Bulls cap with one that was folded and carried in his jacket pocket. This one was black with Wake County Sheriff’s Office stitched on it. He trotted across the street and entered the building through a door directly below the hanging sign. He was gone for ten minutes. During that time, Joe went into the cafe and got Wilt a cup of coffee and a milk for himself.
Egan got into the back seat and grinned. “I did it,” he said, “but I don’t know exactly what I did.”
“What was your approach?” Wilt asked.
“A fender bender where the driver of a 1982 blue VW left the scene of the accident. Wanted to check to see if any claims had been made by someone with a car that fitted. Maybe one where the owner explained the fender in some other way.”
“You see Thorpe?”
“He came out and listened to the last part of it.”
“Any reaction?”
Egan shook his head. “That one’s a stone face.”
“But he listened?”
“He listened.” Egan waited. He looked from Wilt to Joe. “What the hell was I doing?”
“Look at it this way. Our man, Thorpe, he’s probably worried now. If I didn’t worry him this morning you did. It’s likely there hasn’t been a policeman, any kind of law, around him for a month, maybe months. Now, all of a sudden, in one morning the Webster law and the Wake law are walking around him. You were Thorpe, would that bother you?”
Egan grinned. “Hey, this is fun.”
“Ain’t it though?”
“What now?”
“We wait,” Wilt said.
A long-legged girl in a tan coat came through the door that was beneath the Weigard & Timmons sign. Egan turned and froze like a birddog. “That’s one of the girls I talked to.”
“You sure?”
“I have reason to remember her. With lungs like hers she probably doesn’t have to type.”
“Lunch time,” Wilt said.
Joe kicked over the engine. He pointed through the windshield. “He goes in that direction we’re good. If he goes that way, we’re in trouble.” Joe hooked a finger toward the rear window.
“Make a u-turn,” Egan said.
“I can do that?”
“With me along, you can do anything but make an arrest.” Egan took his eyes from the girl and looked at the building front and the door. “That him?”
Raymond Thorpe stopped on the sidewalk. He looked in both directions. Then he turned to his left and headed down the street toward the unmarked car. He was on the opposite side of the street.
“Tell me when,” Joe said.
“When he reaches the corner,” Wilt said. He looked over the seat back toward Egan. “Is there a parking lot or a garage down there?”
“A big municipal parking lot.”
“That’ll be it.” Wilt picked up Joe’s notebook. He found the tag numbers. He read them off. “A black BMW.”
Ahead of them, Thorpe reached the corner, looked back over his shoulder and then turned left and went out of sight.
“Go,” Wilt said.
Joe pulled into the traffic. He did some reckless driving to get in the left turn lane. A VW with a fat lady in it almost lost a fender. She leaned on the horn. Joe waved and smiled.
To reach the turn lane, he had to play a game of chicken with late model white Mazda. The driver of the Mazda backed off rather than risk a dent, a ding or a crumpled fender. Joe waved and smiled.
They caught the red light. Joe looked at Wilt to see if he ought to try some way of getting past. Wilt shook his head. “Plenty of time. He’s got to buy his way out of the parking lot.”
He called it close. The light changed and Joe made the turn. He moved slow. As they approached the entrance to the parking lot, the black BMW pulled away and cut into the traffic ahead of them. Two cars separated them. Wilt patted Joe on the shoulder. “That’s what I call timed arrival. Keep it this way, two or three cars back.”
Egan leaned forward and put his elbows on the seat back between Joe and Wilt. “Any guesses?”
“He’s going to have lunch,” Wilt said.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Wilt didn’t know Raleigh well, not anymore. Everywhere he looked something, had changed. Ahead of them, the black BMW worked into the turn lane that led to a mall that he’d never seen. He read the big sign. Heritage Mall and Shopping Center.
They followed the BMW into the mall and watched it brake in a space outside a restaurant. Thorpe left his car and walked quickly, roughed up by the wind as he went, to the front of the restaurant.
“Move on past,” Wilt said.
Thorpe entered without looking back. Joe drove a hundred yards past and then found a place to turn around. Wilt indicated a space a couple of doors down from the restaurant. There was a hardware store there.
Joe cut the engine. “We wait?”
“Not this time. I think I’ll check the menu and maybe have lunch. Can I bring you two a hot dog?”
“A hot dog in there will cost ten dollars,” Egan said.
“I think I can spring for that.”
“Only if it’s not too much trouble.” Joe smiled.
“If they have hot dogs,” Egan said.
Wilt entered the Bird and Bottle. The host met him and stopped him. Did he want to dine?
Wilt shook his head. “A drink,” he said.
The host waved him in the direction of the bar. Before he reached the bar, Wilt located Thorpe, who was with another man. Thorpe sat at a table against the far corner. His back was to Wilt and the front door. Wilt took a look at the man with Thorpe.
The man was tall, an inch or two over six feet, though it was hard to tell, since he was sitting. What had been jet black hair now had threads of gray in it. Gray also frosted his sideburns. His skin was deeply tanned for this time of the year and the tan made the long, bony face almost look like he had Indian blood. His eyes were flat and green. He wore an expensive black blazer over gray slacks. His opened shirt was oxford cloth and so white that it almost dazzled Wilt.
There was a seat at the corner of the bar near the door to the restaurant. Wilt took the seat and ordered a black Jack over ice. He sipped it while he watched the two men. He wished he had some way of knowing what the two men were talking about. Thorpe’s face, no matter what he was saying or how important it was, was impassive, without any expression that Wilt could detect. Hell, with Wilt’s luck, Thorpe could be trying to sell an insurance policy. That and nothing more.
Wilt checked his watch before he ordered a second drink. While he sipped that drink, he realized that the weight of the conversation had shifted. Thorpe said very little. A single word now and then or a nod, that was all. It almost looked like a lecture from the older man. His face was serious. His lips were tight, in a line, almost ruthless.
A half an hour after Wilt entered the Bird and Bottle, the man in the black blazer pushed back his chair and stood. He crossed the restaurant area in long strides and headed for the bar. Wilt turned his stool and pushed his glass toward the bartender.
“One more,” he said. Wilt turned away when the man in the black blazer reached the entrance to the bar.
The man followed the line of the bar and entered the men’s room. He didn’t look back.
Wilt relaxed. For a second, he thought the man was going to brace him.
A couple of minutes later, the man in the blazer left the men’s room. His head was down as he moved toward the corner of the bar where Wilt was. At two or three paces from Wilt the man slowed and lifted his head. There was an insolent grin on his face and his eyes went blink
… blink … like a camera shutter.
The wiseass S.O.B. had made Wilt. And let him know he did.
Wilt finished his drink. Lunch was being served at Thorpe’s table. Wilt paid his tab and tipped the bartender. He felt the man’s eyes on his back as he left the restaurant.
Wilt stood in front of the cafe and took a couple of breaths.
Son of a bitch.
No, this one wasn’t buying an insurance policy.
Wilt eased into the car next to Joe Croft. His eyes were fixed on the front of the Bird and Bottle. “That topcoat warm?”
“Yeah.”
“A man’s having lunch with our boy. My guess is that they’ll leave separately.” He described the man in the black blazer, his height, his tan, and the gray hair. “I want his tag numbers. Maybe we can get a fix on who he is.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Worse than that. He made me, just like that. He played gotcha with me. He did everything but point his finger at me and say, bang.”
“Thorpe see you?”
“I don’t think so. This one is sharp.”
Joe left, turning up the collar of his topcoat. Wilt leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt weight on the seat back. He didn’t open his eyes.
“You think you flushed him?” Egan asked.
“Likely.”
“Where’d he run?”
“The tag might tell us.” He could taste the bourbon. It felt like a thin layer of skin on his tongue. It was too damned early to have a taste like midnight in his mouth.
Time passed. Wilt shut out the heavy breathing from the rear seat. And then he was jerked upright when the door on the driver’s side opened. A blast of cold air changed the temperature in the car. “Yeah, Joe?”
“Had no trouble picking him out.”
“The tag numbers?”
“That was the trouble. It was a motor pool car. Government tags.”
“Internal Revenue?”
“He didn’t look like any I.R.S. man I ever saw. This one’s got a hard edge to him.” Joe started the engine and pulled out of the spot. He headed toward the exit.
“Where can we drop you, Billy?”
“Where I found you. My car’s there.”
Wilt turned to Joe. “He see you?”
“I don’t think he did.”
But he made me, Wilt thought. That bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
A charcoal gray sky. Darkening and the clouds rolling and tumbling as they crossed into Webster County. The wind was high in the trees, bending and flattening tree tops in a motion like surf.
“That’s not car trouble,” Joe said. “That’s my stomach growling.”
“You can eat after you drop by the paper.”
“What …?”
“You’re such an avid reader of the society pages. Right?”
“Aw, Wilt …”
“Go by the paper and see if the society editor has a recent picture of Missy Plowden in the files.”
“Okay.”
“After you eat you, run that picture off to Gus Triffon. See if he thinks this is the woman who was with the man driving the Thunderbird.”
“If he does, we pick up Thorpe?”
“Not yet,” Wilt said.
“Why not?”
“We don’t have a case. What we have is a red and white Thunderbird seen driving onto the Henshaw place the day Cathy Dobbs is killed. A couple of weeks before that, Gus sees a man who might be Thorpe in a red and white Thunderbird with a woman who might be Missy Plowden. No way to place Thorpe with Cathy Dobbs or Dana Moore. Even a friendly judge would have to laugh us out of his court.”
Joe shook his head slowly. “Maybe Egan is right. Just blow the son-of-a-bitch away one dark night.”
“You start believing that, you can leave me a goodbye letter and that badge on my desk.”
Wilt closed his eyes and settled back in the seat. He smothered a burp. That was the Daniels talking back to him about his empty stomach.
Shooting Thorpe dead would be easy. But what if they did, and if the child killings didn’t stop with him dead? Then it was all a bad mistake. A fatal mistake.
Wilt couldn’t live with that possibility. And when he could, he’d resign and buy a bait stand at the lake.
By the time they reached Edgefield, raindrops as big as quarters splattered on the windshield and drummed on the roof.
The sky closed down on them like a black glove.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Wilt slumped behind his desk. There was a crust of a burger on a tinfoil wrap and a few greasy fries in the paper package. He looked pained, as if he had the beginning of indigestion.
“It’s time you got your toes wet,” Wilt said. He to his feet and wobbled to find his balance. The hip was bothering him again, and he knew it was obvious to Joe. He got his tweed jacket from the hook behind the door. He shoved his arms in and took a minute to stuff his shirt in and pull the sides back so the wrinkles didn’t show. He adjusted the knot in his tie.
“My toes are already wet.”
“Let’s go by and see the Chief.” Wilt said.
“Why?”
“That’s usually a good question. Today, somewhat against my will, there’s a very good reason. We want something from him. That means we’ve got to stroke his mangy hide.”
“Why take me along?”
“That’s in case you really have your eyes on being Sheriff. You might as well get acquainted with one of the powers that be.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he said evenly.
Wilt led the way.
“You making progress, Wilton?” Amos had his elbows planted firmly on his desk blotter. His huge belly pushed out and downward, partly hidden by the desk top.
“Could be, Amos.” Wilt tamped an end of one of the Chesterfields on the end of the desk. He lit it and sucked in the smoke. It poured from his nose in twin streams. ”You still got access to the Law Enforcement Intelligence Network?”
“I’ve got it.”
“This is between us. It doesn’t go past that door.”
“Whatever you say, Wilton.”
Wilt drew a memo pad that was on Amos’ desk toward him and scribbled for a few seconds. He pushed the pad across the desk. “How about running this man through the Network and seeing what you can find?”
“He a suspect?”
“He’s right on the edge of being. Still, like they say in the courts, he’s presumed innocent. That’s why I want this kept quiet. You get me?”
Amos nodded. “You know how much I want this sucker off the street. Of course, I’ll do it. If anybody’s got anything on him, the Network will.”
“How soon do you think …?”
“First thing in the morning if I put a rush on it.”
“A rush then. I don’t want this man, if he’s the one, out there long enough to kill a third child.”
“Call me in the morning or I’ll call you.” Amos looked past Wilt and seemed to see Joe for the first time. Joe caught his eyes and nodded.
Wilt turned. He did the introductions. “I don’t think you two have met.”
“Heard good things about you. You get tired of working for this slave driver,” Amos said, “you come over here and join me. I’ve always got a place for a good man.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Chief.”
On the street, in front of the Police Station, Wilt stopped and looked back. His eyes seemed to fasten on the second-floor window behind which Amos’s office was, The rain they driven into on the way back from Raleigh had blown past. The wind was drying the sidewalks and the streets.
“You see yourself working for that load of pig shit?”
“It’s no bed of roses working for you,” Joe said.
“If you feel that way, you could do worse than working for Amos. All you’d have to do is sit back and wait for him to have the heart attack and he’s going to have one as sure as God made gnats. You step in and become Chief.”
“It’s a good plot.”
“Well, you’re a plotter, aren’t you?”
“Some people say that.”
They walked to the cruiser. When Wilt swung his left leg up to place it inside, his shoe sole caught on the bottom of the doorframe. “Damned leg,” he grunted through clenched teeth. His face contorted.
Joe caught his shoulder. “You all right?”
“It’s that fucking leg.” Wilt rubbed the hip, rubbed it and clubbed it softly with a fist. A slick of perspiration covered his face when he closed the car door and settled in for the drive.
Joe drove the short distance across the town square and pulled into the lot behind the Sheriff’s Station. He parked and waited.
“You make your report to the widow Charlotte yet?” Wilt asked.
“Maybe tonight.”
“While you’re there, do a bit of investigating. Find out what she’s got against this Thorpe. I mean, it’s no skin off her ass what Missy Plowden does. Why is she pointing the finger at Thorpe?”
“She probably thinks Thorpe is a fortune hunter.”
“What’s she got against fortune hunters? She likes you.”
Joe felt stung. It showed like a slap across his face. “Come on, Wilt. You know I’m attracted to the lady.”
“And not her money?”
“Hold off on that until I take my first dollar from her,” Joe said.
“How’ll I know?”
“I’ll put it on a chain and wear it around my neck.”
“You’re going to look silly,” Wilt said. He opened the cruiser door and got out carefully. He limped across the parking lot, leading the way to the Station.
By ten of nine, Wilt was at the Blue Lagoon. Before Wilt reached the bar, Kyle had a glass with a couple of ice cubes in it and was pouring the black Jack. “You’re becoming a regular.”
“I like looking at strange titties.”
“Most men do.” Kyle waved Wilt’s money aside. Wilt stuffed it in the tip jar and looked around from the doorway of the main room. The stage was dark. The dancers wouldn’t start for a few minutes. He had a swallow and tasted the Daniels. His eyes did a sweep, right to left. He’d done about three-quarters of the room when he stopped. His head locked.
