Life or Death

by Michael Robotham

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘They started the rumours. There was never any evidence but they decided to smear someone because they couldn’t recover the money and Scotty wasn’t around to defend himself.’

  ‘Did he normally make the run to Chicago?’

  ‘He’d done it five, maybe six times.’

  ‘Always a different route?’

  She shrugs. ‘Scotty didn’t talk to me about work. He was ex-military. When he fought in Afghanistan he wouldn’t tell me about his deployments. It was operational. Secret.’

  Mrs Beauchamp stands and pulls open the net curtain. ‘He wasn’t even supposed to be doing that run.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘One of the trucks was damaged in an accident, so they missed a previous delivery. Scotty was due a vacation, but they asked him to make the run.’

  ‘Who asked him?’

  ‘His supervisor.’ She wipes a spot of dirt from her cheek. ‘That’s why there was so much money in the truck. It was four weeks’ cash instead of two.’

  ‘How did the truck get damaged?’

  ‘Somebody put the wrong gas in the tank.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know – some apprentice or general moron.’ Mrs Beauchamp drops the curtain. ‘I work two jobs – both of them barely above minimum wage, but I still get people looking at me funny if I buy something new.’

  ‘They must have had a reason for suspecting your husband.’

  The woman scoffs and screws up her face. ‘They had a photograph taken at a gas station a month before the robbery. Have you ever seen that picture?’

  Desiree shakes her head.

  ‘Well, you go and look at it! My Scotty is holding a door open for a man to walk through. That man was Vernon Caine. Scotty could have been saying, “How do you do?” They could have been talking about the weather or the football scores. Doesn’t mean Scotty was one of the gang.’

  She’s building up a head of steam. ‘He fought for his country and died for his job and they treat him like some scumbag criminal. And then that boy went and fessed up, but got ten years instead of going to the chair. Now he’s running around, free as a bird. If I sound bitter and twisted – it’s because I am. Scotty won medals. He deserved better than this.’

  Desiree averts her eyes, not knowing what to say. She apologises for taking up Mrs Beauchamp’s time and wishes her a happy Thanksgiving. Outside, the day seems brighter and the trees a darker green against the blue. Desiree puts in a call to Jenkins in Washington, asking for a list of employees at Armaguard, including the name of the supervisor in January 2004.

  ‘That was eleven years ago,’ he replies. ‘There might not be a record.’

  ‘I don’t expect there will be.’

  44

  Moss parks the pickup behind a row of storefronts with offices on the upper floors. He leans back in the seat and closes his eyes, feeling as if his brain has been wrung out and hung up to dry in the blazing sun. It’s his first hangover of the century and he could happily wait another hundred years.

  They’ll know by now – the people who broke him out of prison. They’ll know that he doesn’t have Audie Palmer, which means they’ll report him missing or worse. Whatever happens, this isn’t going to end in early release. Either he’ll be recaptured or killed – buried in a forest or the desert or dumped in the Gulf. According to the stories, Eddie Barefoot has a novel way of getting rid of bodies. He hires a portable wood-chipper and has it towed to a desirable location. The very thought of that crimson arc staining the ground makes Moss want to heave.

  The big question is why? Why do they want Audie dead? Things would be easier to accept if he understood the reasons. Maybe he’d be willing to forgive and forget if somebody could just explain.

  He keeps remembering the way Audie had looked in the clearing. Hunted. Scared. In all their time together in prison, Moss had never seen Audie look flustered or frightened. He was simply noble where others were not. It was like he’d been living ever since Adam bit the apple and Eve had covered up. He could not be surprised or shocked because he’d seen it all before.

  Moss looks down at his bare arms. Sunshine is streaming through the window, but he still feels cold. He wants to be with Crystal … to hold her … to hear her voice.

  There’s an old phone booth on the corner. He fumbles in his pocket for spare change and slips inside, follows the instructions. She answers on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, babe?’

  ‘Hey yourself.’

  ‘How ya doing?’

  ‘You sound drunk.’

  ‘I’ve had one or two.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I found Audie Palmer, but I lost him again.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t think things are going to work out like I planned.’

  ‘I hate to say I told you so.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why do you assume I blame you?’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Give yourself up. Tell the police what happened.’

  ‘I would if I knew who I could trust. Listen, I want you to go and stay with your folks for a few days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t trust these people and I want to be sure you’re safe.’

  Glancing out the window, he notices an overweight man in a business shirt and blue tie pull up in a Mercedes. He gets out and takes a coat from a hanger and picks up his briefcase before walking up the steps, locking the car door over his shoulder.

  ‘I got to go, babe,’ Moss says.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll call you later.’

  Moss jogs across the street and takes the stairs two at a time, jamming his foot in the sprung door before it automatically closes. The lawyer has tucked the briefcase under his chin and is fumbling with a heavy set of keys and a double lock.

  ‘Clayton Rudd?’

  The attorney turns. In his mid-sixties with a potbelly and shock of white hair, Clayton Rudd’s most memorable feature is a southern moustache that twirls at each end like he’s selling fried chicken. He’s wearing a suit that might have fitted a younger version of himself, but now the buttons are pulled so tight they could take someone’s eye out.

  ‘Do we have an appointment?’

  ‘No, suh.’

  Moss follows Rudd into the office where the attorney hangs up his coat and takes a seat behind a desk. His pale protruding eyes seem to rove around, not settling on any object for more than a moment.

  ‘Talk to me, son. What slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have brought you here?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Have you sued? Injured? Wronged?’

  ‘No, suh.’

  ‘Well, why do you need a lawyer?’

  ‘It’s not about me, Mr Rudd. I’m here to talk about Audie Palmer.’

  The attorney stiffens and his eyes go wide behind his rimless glasses. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘You represented him.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘The Dreyfus County truck robbery.’

  Out of view, Rudd uses his foot to slide open the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Moss raises an eyebrow. ‘If you’re considering pulling a gun out of that drawer, Mr Rudd, please reconsider.’

  The attorney looks into the drawer and slides it closed. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he says apologetically. ‘Are you a friend of Mr Palmer?’

  ‘We’re acquainted.’

  ‘Did he send you?’

  ‘No.’

  Rudd eyes the telephone. ‘I’m not supposed to discuss cases. Lawyer–client privilege. You understand? Audie Palmer has no right to complain. He was lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘To have me! I got him the deal of a lifetime. He co
uld have gone to the chair, but he got ten years.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I did my job well.’

  ‘I hope he thanked you.’

  ‘They rarely do. When a client gets off he thinks he’s beaten the system. When he goes down he blames me. Either way I never get the credit.’

  Moss knows this to be true. Every con will tell you he was stitched up by his lawyer or framed by the cops or just plain unlucky. None of them ever admits to being stupid or greedy or vengeful. Audie was the exception. He didn’t talk about his conviction or complain about the verdict. He helped other prisoners with their appeals and to lodge petitions, but had never once mentioned his own circumstances.

  ‘Have you any idea why Audie would escape the day before his release?’

  Clayton Rudd shrugs. ‘The boy has more metal in his head than a toaster.’

  ‘I think that’s wrong,’ says Moss. ‘I think he knew exactly what he was doing. Did he ever mention the money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I reckon you didn’t ask.’

  ‘That’s not my job.’

  ‘Excuse my language, suh, but I think you’re full of shit.’

  Rudd leans back and laces his fingers on his chest. ‘Let me tell you something, son. Fate was working its sorry ass off when Audie Palmer got ten years.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he charged with capital murder?’

  ‘He was but I pleaded it down.’

  ‘That was one hell of a plea bargain.’

  ‘Like I said – I did my job.’

  ‘Why did the DA’s office agree? Why would they?’

  The attorney sighs wearily. ‘You want to know what I think? I think nobody expected Audie Palmer to survive. They didn’t want him to. Even when by some miracle he lived, the doctors said he’d be a cabbage, which is why the DA suggested a deal. By pleading guilty we saved the state the cost of a trial. Palmer agreed.’

  ‘No, it was more than that.’

  Rudd stands and opens a filing cabinet. He pulls out a legal folder that looks heavier than a sandbag. ‘Here! You can read about it yourself.’

  The file has newspaper clippings from the trial, along with a photograph of Audie sitting next to Clayton Rudd in the courtroom, his head still swathed in bandages.

  ‘I couldn’t put him on the stand because he couldn’t speak properly. Reporters were baying like rabid dogs, wanting him to get the death penalty because an innocent woman died along with a security guard.’

  ‘Folks blamed Audie.’

  ‘Who else could they blame?’ Rudd looks at the door. ‘And now if you excuse me, I have work to do.’

  ‘What happened to the money?’

  ‘That’s one more question than you’re allowed. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass.’

  45

  The Law Enforcement Complex for Dreyfus County is located at No. 1 Criminal Justice Drive – an ambitious address that could be seen as a statement of intent or one of wishful thinking. The building looks modern and functional, but lacks the architectural charm of the older-style police stations and county courthouses and city halls that have mostly been sold off because the land is worth more than the history.

  Desiree uses the side mirror of her car to check herself. Audie Palmer’s phone call has been exercising her mind. He denied shooting the mother and daughter but he didn’t beg to be believed or plead for understanding. It’s as though he didn’t care less if Desiree took his word for it or not. He also said that his brother was dead and if she wanted the proof she could dredge the Trinity River.

  Why tell her that now? Why not reveal it eleven years ago when it could have done him some good? Yet something about Audie’s frankness and lack of guile made her want to believe him.

  She recalls the moment she stepped into the motel room. There was something about the scene – aside from the senseless violence – that struck a dissonant chord. Why would Audie kill Cassie and Scarlett? Perhaps he blamed Cassie for calling the police, but why shoot her at that moment – just as Valdez knocked on the door and announced his presence?

  According to the sheriff’s account, Audie squeezed off three shots, killing two people, then broke down the adjoining door, fled through the next room, along the breezeway, down the stairs and across the parking lot, fully clothed, leaving no personal possessions behind in the motel room where he’d spent the previous two nights. All this in the time it took the sheriff to knock on the door, announce himself and use the entry card. It defies logic. It mocks common sense. No wonder she can’t shake her doubts.

  Sheriff Valdez has an office on the fourth floor with a view over a nondescript factory with no sign on the gate or indication of what it might store or manufacture. Valdez doesn’t look up when Desiree knocks and enters. He’s talking on the telephone and hoops his hand in the air, motioning Desiree to take a seat.

  The call ends. The sheriff leans back in his chair.

  ‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a busy time,’ she says.

  ‘It’s hard to be busy when you’re suspended. Any officer who discharges a weapon must be stood down pending the completion of the investigation.’

  ‘They’re the rules.’

  ‘I know it.’

  Desiree has taken a seat. She rests her handbag on her knees, clutching the top with both hands. It embarrasses her a little because it makes her feel like Miss Marple bringing her knitting along to the interview. She puts the bag on the floor between her feet.

  The sheriff laces his fingers behind his head and studies her. ‘You don’t particularly like me, do you, Special Agent?’

  ‘I don’t trust you, there’s a difference.’

  Valdez nods as though his trustworthiness were only a matter of semantics. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to apologise. Aparently you took offence at my line of questioning the other day.’

  ‘You were out of line.’

  ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘It’s not right that you talk to people the way you do, especially a fellow law enforcement officer. You treated me like human refuse … like a criminal.’

  ‘The sight of that young woman and her daughter, lying dead, I guess I lost my sense of perspective.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  Desiree has rehearsed what she’s going to say to Valdez, but the words keep getting caught in her throat like she’s trying to swallow unbuttered bread.

  ‘I’m not very experienced at seeing death so close up,’ she says. ‘You’re obviously accustomed to it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The armoured truck robbery was a bloodbath by all accounts. What did it feel like to shoot those boys?’

  ‘I was doing my job.’

  ‘Talk me through the robbery again.’

  ‘You’ve read the files.’

  ‘You gave a statement about an SUV parked next to the armoured truck, but the original radio dispatch doesn’t mention any SUV.’

  ‘It was parked on the far side of the armoured truck. We didn’t see it at first.’

  ‘That sounds plausible,’ says Desiree.

  ‘Plausible? It’s the goddamn truth!’

  Desiree hides any inkling of pleasure she obtains in getting under the sheriff’s skin. ‘I was hoping to speak to Lewis and Fenway.’

  ‘They no longer work for the county.’

  ‘I would appreciate your help in providing phone numbers or contact addresses.’

  There is a heartbeat of silence. Desiree glances out the window where dust and smoke from a distant fire has smudged the light and turned it golden.

  ‘I can give you an address for Lewis. You got a pen and paper?’ says Valdez.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Magnolia Cemetery, Beaumont, Jefferson County, Texas.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He died in a light plane crash.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Six, maybe seven years ago.’

  ‘What about Fenway?’

/>   ‘Last I heard he opened a dive bar in the Florida Keys.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How about a name?’

  ‘I think he called it the Dive Bar.’

  His sarcasm ignites something in Desiree. ‘Whatever happened to the dashboard footage?’

  Valdez hesitates but recovers, flexing his lower jaw. ‘Footage?’

  ‘The crime-scene photographs show a camera on the dashboard of your cruiser. I couldn’t find any reference to there being footage.’

  ‘The camera wasn’t working.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘One of the many bullets that were being fired in our direction must have disabled it.’

  ‘Is that the official explanation?’

  Valdez seems to chew hard on a ball of anger, rolling it around like a loogie in his cheek. He forces a smile. ‘I don’t know about the official explanation. I didn’t pay much attention. I guess I must have been too busy dodging bullets fired by men who wanted to kill me. Have you ever been shot at, Special Agent?’ He doesn’t wait for her to answer. ‘No, I don’t expect so. People like you live in privileged seclusion in your ivory towers, separated from the facts and practicalities of the real world. You carry a gun and a badge and you chase white-collar criminals and tax cheats and federal fugitives, but you don’t know what it’s like to face down a meth addict swinging a machete or a drug dealer with a semi-automatic. You’ve never worked on the front line. You’ve never dealt with the dregs. You’ve never put your life on the line for a colleague, or a buddy. When you’ve done any of those things you can come back and question my actions and my motives. Until then you can get the fuck out of my office.’

  Valdez is on his feet. The muscles in his neck are bulging hotly and sweat is beading his forehead.

  The phone on his desk is ringing. He snatches it out of the cradle.

  ‘What do you mean? … I didn’t call them … And the school let him go?’ He glances at Desiree. ‘OK, OK, calm down … talk me through it again … where did you last have your phone? … which means it was probably stolen … Stay calm, we’ll find him … I know … It’s going to be fine … I’m going to call the school. Where are you now? … I’ll send a cruiser to pick you up.’