That must have been after he’d written the letter, right before his medical transfer for an interview. Isaac knew he’d set the investigation in motion, and he’d trusted in the system to work, trusted that people would do their jobs. After his own experience, how could he have been so naively optimistic?
We’d gotten enough from Sue Ellen for our purposes, but I knew a lot of other people would want to speak to her. The question was what to do with her in the meantime. None of us felt comfortable turning her over to the police until we knew for sure Deacon’s corruption hadn’t spread beyond the prison to his old employers. Jim had worked on a multi-agency corruption case a few years earlier and had access to a safe house in Destin, with no questions or interference from other agencies when he used it. We finally settled on keeping her there until he could make some progress with the Feds, and someone could make some progress apprehending Deacon James. After confirming that this plan was okay with Sue Ellen, Jim and Richard began making calls and putting things in motion.
Before they left with Sue Ellen, I realized there was something important I’d forgotten to ask. “Did you send the newspaper clipping to Noel?”
“Yes. After Isaac died, I sent an anonymous letter to the State Attorney’s Office.”
She smiled at Jim. “Obviously it never made it to your desk. Nothing happened. This might sound crazy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Deacon had something to do with Isaac’s death. I don’t know how, but the why is pretty obvious. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just let it go. A few months ago, I began to suspect that Deacon was… taking advantage of people again. I didn’t know about the other guards, but it makes sense that they were too. It probably wasn’t the best idea, but the note to Noel was the only thing I could think of.”
“Did Deacon ever mention Noel?”
“No, but I do remember something else he said. You asked me before about Isaac’s wife. He knew her name. I remember because it was so unusual—Vanda. He said, just like Wanda, except with a V.”
CHAPTER FORTY
While Richard and Jim were running around settling Sue Ellen’s arrangements, I took the opportunity to review my notes and make a phone call. It was a brief call, but by the time Richard returned, the Reverend Robert Johnson had confirmed my suspicions.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” I said.
Richard objected. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, and we can order in.”
“Believe it or not, there’s no law yet that says we can’t talk outside. I’d like to get the hell out of here, if you don’t mind.”
Richard obviously wasn’t happy, but he knew he couldn’t handcuff me to a radiator. The new building had central heating. We got barbeque sandwiches from a woman in a cart around the corner. I wanted to walk to one of the downtown parks and eat there, but Richard and Mike both objected, so we compromised. Instead we got in Mike’s jeep and drove to a city park a few miles away. I rolled my window down and let the wind whip my hair until it stung my eyes. After a couple of blocks of airing out, Mike turned the air conditioning on, but I left my window down, eyes closed and face tilted to the sun.
Some sort of organized day camp had started for the summer at the park, and teenagers in matching yellow T-shirts led lines of children snaking around playground equipment. Their game was unrecognizable from our vantage point, but I could hear their squealing laughter. We’d chosen a relatively secluded area a hundred yards away. Our nearest neighbors, a couple of teenagers discreetly feeling each other up, left at our approach.
I set my lunch on a peeling red picnic bench. It was well-shaded with a small stream trickling nearby, which tricked my brain into thinking it wasn’t quite so unbearably hot. I thought of the tourist T-shirt I’d passed up, It’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity. My feet led me to the stream and I peered down at the water. The ground beneath was comprised of reddish-brown goop, and I wondered what nasty surprises lurked in the water, waiting to be discovered in a few decades. I wasn’t in the cheeriest state of mind.
Mike and Richard waited patiently for me, and when I sat down we unfolded our barbeque wrappers into placemats and ate in silence. When I’d finished, I balled up the aluminum foil and tossed it in the trash before moving to sit on the ground, my back against a tree trunk. Its large trunk was able to accommodate multiple people, and Mike sat at a right angle to me. Richard moved to face us from the bench and began speaking.
I didn’t really listen to what he was saying—like I said, I wasn’t in my happy place—but he droned on about Sue Ellen, about things we already knew, about how dangerous Deacon James was. He stopped to stare at me, his unspoken question hanging in the air. What are we going to do with Sydney? He probably knew if he asked it aloud I’d start walking back to Tallahassee in my flowered flip flops.
“Now with Sue Ellen, the Feds have everything they need to arrest him on the corruption charges, and the police have a warrant for him on the WFC assault. The Feds already arrested his buddies, and it’s just a matter of time before one of them breaks on your kidnapping as well. It’s just a matter of time before they pick Deacon up. There’s nothing else we need to do.”
“You’re forgetting something,” I said. “He killed Vanda Thomas.”
“What?”
I couldn’t see Mike, but Richard’s mouth had dropped as he spoke. Agitated, he rose from the bench and paced a small circle, causing puffs of dirt with his heavy steps.
“And he probably killed Isaac too, but I’ll never be able to prove it.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you can prove he killed Vanda? This I’ve got to hear.”
“No, I didn’t say I could prove it, but he did it.”
I could feel Mike slide around the tree and sit closer to me. Whether his movement was to reassure me or just hear me better, I didn’t know. Richard’s face was still a mask of condescending disbelief.
“Let’s look at what we know. Deacon James was a cop when Vanda was killed. He was at the scene of the fire, practically next door, the night Vanda was killed, and after Vanda was killed. He was Chet Hawkins’ investigator, his go-to guy, on Isaac’s prosecution. Chet Hawkins, a meticulous prosecutor, is dead, and none of his personal notes, none of his correspondence or memos, nothing that could detail Deacon’s efforts in the case, or even the fact of his involvement, remains in the State Attorney’s file.”
“There’s a strong argument that the presence of Isaac’s sooty prints on Vanda’s body actually indicates that he did not kill her. Somehow the investigating officer wasn’t aware of the fire at Jimmy’s, or at least the significance of its timing, and you and Sammy never received any reports from the fire.”
“Legal arguments to the contrary aside, practically speaking, Chet couldn’t turn over what he didn’t know about.”
“And you don’t think that should have come up in conversation with his investigator, who was at the scene of the fire? I’m not impugning Chet Hawkins. Don’t you think it’s odd that Deacon never would have said, to Chet or to you or to Rudy or someone else, ‘No, I wasn’t at the murder scene because I was still at the fire—remember? Boy, that was a big mother. Never seen anything like it. Funny thing, those happening the same night.’”
I thought I heard a snicker from Mike at my flip Deacon impersonation, but Richard looked even angrier. I continued. “He told Sue Ellen that Isaac killed his wife because she was a whore. You and Sammy never knew about her sexual escapades. He also called her by name—‘Vanda, like Wanda, except with a V.’ Robert Johnson had said those exact words when I spoke with him about the fight at Jimmy’s, so I gave him a call after Sue Ellen left. He said that was part of Vanda’s routine, sort of a tag line that she used with all the men.”
“So what?”
“So Deacon knew her. He knew Vanda from Jimmy’s, and I do mean in a biblical sense. We know he’s been shaking down women, and even girls, at the prison for sex. Is it such a leap to think he was doing that with prostitu
tes when he was a cop? That’s not exactly an unknown phenomena, and it could be what got him kicked off the force.”
“Fast forward 20 years. Doesn’t what he tried to do to me seem a little extreme for someone afraid I’ll uncover his little prison corruption scheme? And the connection to Isaac is too tenuous. Isaac may or may not have kick-started an investigation at the prison, but he died a year and a half ago and nothing’s happened. No one’s been arrested, and no one was going to be.”
“Not until he pissed you off,” Mike said. Richard looked at both of us. His face was flushed, and his belt seemed too tight. He left abruptly, heading toward the place where the teenagers had been making out.
“That probably wasn’t the best thing to say,” Mike admitted. “At least it stopped the escalation.”
He scooted around until his shoulders brushed my own.
“He’s just scared, Sydney. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. He’s right. Deacon is a dangerous guy, he’s really gone around the bend, and I just reminded Richard that you’re number one on the psycho’s hit list.”
When I didn’t respond, Mike kept talking. “And this whole case has floored him. Intellectually, we’ve all been at this long enough to know that these things happen. A convergence of inadvertent fuck-ups results in what’s euphemistically known as a miscarriage of justice. But it’s something else to find out, 20 years after the fact, that you were one of the converging forces and didn’t even know it. It’d be easier if Rudy or Chet had been dirty, but they weren’t.”
He sighed. “I’m sure Rudy’s going through the same thing.”
I knew Mike was right. It was one thing to reassure a colleague that everyone makes mistakes. Learning to live with your own, extending forgiveness to yourself, was much more difficult, sometimes impossible. I felt bad for Richard, I really did, but right now that sympathy took a backseat to doing what was right, finding the truth. In my position, Richard would feel the same way. I had to keep going, and I had to stay alive in the process. Those things didn’t leave room for much else.
My thoughts were interrupted when I felt Mike’s hand slide under my own. He didn’t look at me when he spoke.
“What Sue Ellen said about Deacon… he was like that with you, wasn’t he?”
“Yep,” I answered. My voice was flat because I felt nothing.
Mike release his breath again in a deep sigh, and in my peripheral vision I could see his head tilt back so he looked at the sky. He sprang up suddenly, pausing halfway up to kiss the top of my head. His lips felt soft through my hair. Then he extended a hand, grabbing my left arm above the elbow where the worst injuries had been bruises, and helped me to my feet. Ever the peacemaker, he walked toward Richard, now sitting on another bench. I followed.
Richard smiled rather than growled as we approached, but it was a sad shadow of a smile. “You’re probably right, Sydney. I just don’t see how we can ever prove it. We have nothing to test for DNA. We have no witnesses. I just don’t know where we can go from here.”
This time Mike and I both extended arms, helping Richard up, and we all walked back to the car arm in arm. Three jaded musketeers, tilting at windmills, to mix my literary metaphors. Richard rode in the back seat, and as he lifted a leg to leverage himself in to the Jeep, I patted his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll figure something out.”
In fact, I already had.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I had figured something out, but I knew my posse wouldn’t like it, so I wasn’t telling them. When we got back to the PD’s office, I pled exhaustion and Richard arranged for me to sack out in a vacant office with a sofa. It was what I would diplomatically call a vintage piece of furniture, obviously carried to the new building for sentimental reasons. I suspected the stains on the worn upholstery had been around longer than most of the attorneys, but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t planning on sleeping on it. Instead I headed for the phone.
First, I left slightly cryptic messages for Annie and Charlie to let them know that Sue Ellen was safe. I was sure they’d figure it out, and if not they had the number at the PD’s office. Mike or Richard could set them straight. Next, I determined that Noel was still AWOL. Neither her employer nor her family had heard from her. (Thankfully Ginny had answered rather than Mrs. Harrison. I might really need to lie down on the nasty couch after a tongue-lashing from that woman.) I checked my home and work answering machines but learned nothing. It was time to take action.
Melinda informed me that Mike was in with Richard, discussing another case, and sent me on through. Good—two birds with one stone.
“Hey,” I said, peeking around the office door. Richard motioned me in as he finished a phone call. I took the chair next to Mike.
“You were right,” I began, the most effective sort of beginning with most men. “There’s nothing else we can do right now. Hopefully the Feds will turn up something with the other arrests, or maybe when the case gets back in the spotlight a witness will come forward, someone who saw them leave Jimmy’s together.”
I slid my butt forward until my slouching form barely remained in the chair and sighed. “Right now, I’m worn out. I’ve been beaten up, shot at, and lost my best underwear. It’s time for a little retail therapy, maybe a few days at the coast with a good book. I’m heading home, boys.”
“Now?” Mike asked. He might be reading me too well.
“If I leave now, I’ll be home in time to make all the arrangements tonight and head to St. George Island tomorrow.”
I don’t know how much either of them believed me, but what could they say? I’d told them I’d leave after I spoke to Sue Ellen, and now she was in protective custody. Both men had been practically begging me to leave for days, to do exactly what I had just announced I was doing. I agreed to check in as soon as I got home, and again tomorrow when I got where I was going.
I patted Cecil’s dash in greeting and told him I’d missed him, but he was too pouty to respond. I looked forward to taking some of the back roads home with the top down. Mike and Richard had walked me to my car, and stood like fond parents waving their only child off to college. No, not really. More like wise guys waiting to see if their buddy’s car will explode when he turns the key. I wondered about that for a moment myself. Unfortunately I have a very vivid imagination, and I held my breath as I turned the key.
Nothing. No boom. No click. Nothing. Cecil wouldn’t start. The engine wouldn’t even turn over.
Now Deacon James was really starting to piss me off.
Mike had a good friend who happened to be the rare mechanic who makes house calls. He said there hadn’t been any damage to Cecil. Deacon had just removed a few crucial parts, and once those were replaced his engine was purring again. Mike’s friend only charged me for the parts, so $56 and three hours later I was finally on the interstate. Because of the delay, the sun was just short of setting, and my psyche wasn’t ready for driving back roads alone in the dark in a convertible.
The way I figured it, at this point the only person who could prove Deacon killed Vanda (and possibly Isaac) was Deacon himself. I was hoping he was just stupid enough to do it too. I didn’t know when he’d tampered with Cecil, but tomorrow morning he’d see that Cecil was gone and know that I’d left town. Probably. Just in case, I’d put a call in to Annie and Charlie to spread the word. I had no doubt someone would tell Deacon. And Deacon would come for me.
I’d be waiting. Not much of a plan, I know, but I had until tomorrow to fill in the details. Ralph might have some ideas, but I was afraid they’d all involve him sitting in my living room with a gun. No way was I letting Deacon near Ralph, so I guessed that left me on my own. What else could I do? Sue Ellen was in hiding, Noel had vanished, Richard was on the verge of a breakdown, and I wouldn’t be far behind. I had to do something. It had to end, and I had to end it now.
It was nearing 11 p.m. Tallahassee time when I exited the interstate. I hadn’t s
een any rain, but apparently we’d gotten a much-needed shower. The roads were wet and the temperature had dropped into the 70s. Traffic was light. Even on Monroe, the bane of my traffic existence, I was one of the only cars on the road. I rolled down the windows and let the air cool my cheeks. It might be a nice night to turn off the AC and sleep with the windows open.
Instead of pulling directly into the carport, I paused at the head of the driveway long enough to check my mailbox. It was empty. Ben was fulfilling his job as good little neighbor. In fact, it looked like he was still on the job, this time as “unannounced house guest,” or whatever title required him to raid my fridge and watch my TV. I saw the TV flickering when I coasted up the driveway, and I could hear it when I got out of my car. Sounded like wrestling. Good. I’d pop some popcorn and we could play “Who’s the Ho?,” making up biographies for the skanky women characters that always show up at the end of the match and help throw things.
It was good to be home. I took a moment to stretch out the kinks and see if the banana spiders had taken up their summer residence at the corner of the carport yet. The porch light wasn’t on, so I had to squint in the dark, and my eyes were drawn to the moonlit backyard. I started daydreaming about a barbeque in the back with the posse when this was all over. Maybe I’d invite Ralph over and they could tell war stories. I’d like to see Ralph and Jim go head-to-head. He’s never met a State Attorney he could tolerate, much less like, but he might make an exception for Jim. Or maybe he’d just convert Jim to the defense.
My lovely daydream was interrupted by the tickling of hungry mosquitoes and intruding thoughts of the latest West Nile virus statistics. Grabbing my keys and the soda I’d nursed on the drive, I left my bag in the car. I was too tired to carry it in right now, and Ben would be happy to play the part of the long-suffering lackey. I said as much when I walked in the kitchen and put my soda in the fridge. He didn’t answer.
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