She pressed the fast-forward button, hoping that she wouldn't have to change the film to find the week of her mother's death. She scrolled into 1971, slowing around the first week of March. She scanned the obituaries for her mother's name, then skipped to the next week's paper, then the next. She was about to give up when she saw a photograph on the front page of the September 19 edition.
Hank had only one photograph of their mother. It was a Polaroid, the colors unnaturally bright. Angela Norton was seventeen or eighteen. She stood on an anonymous beach somewhere in Florida, wearing a modest one-piece white-and-blue checkered bathing suit with a large bow around the waist. Her hair was piled on her head and she stood with her hands at her side, palms down, striking a pose. This had been a time when teenagers wanted to look older, more mature, and Lena had always liked the expression on her mother's face: the pursed lips and serious eyes, the streak of blue eye shadow and the dark, Cleopatralike eyeliner placing the young woman firmly on the precipice of the sexual revolution.
For Lena and Sibyl's sixth birthday, Hank had hired an artist from out of town to do a likeness of
Angela's face. The oil painting hung in the living room over the couch. It had been such a staple of Lena 's life that she barely even looked at it anymore.
She looked at the photograph of her mother in the paper, though. Angela Adams, nee Norton, sat in an old rocking chair Lena recognized from Hank's house. A baby was in either arm, their bodies swaddled in blankets.
Above her, the headline read, the grieving
WIDOW AND HER TWINS.
TUESDAY MORNING
SIX
Jeffrey sat in a back booth at the City Diner listening to the messages on his cell phone. The coffee here was the hi-test kind, and when the waitress came over to fill his cup again, he smiled and waved her away, thinking if he drank any more of the black tar his head would vibrate off his neck. He was already hearing a buzzing in his ears and this, combined with the pouring rain outside, was making him feel like he had stuck his head in a hornet's nest.
He pressed the three button on his cell phone, fast-forwarding through the Heartsdale mayor's message asking him to get to the bottom of a group of vandals who were kicking over trashcans on his street, an act that to the mayor's thinking was one of the first signs of lawless thugs taking over the city.
Jeffrey closed the phone after the last message, which was from a vinyl-siding salesman wanting to talk to him about exciting distribution opportunities. There was nothing from Sara and she wasn't answering the phone at the motel. He hoped that she was taking a long bath, then thought about the grime he had seen at the bottom of the tub last night and hoped instead that she'd stepped outside to get some air. He was worried about her. She had been much too quiet, even before Lena had run rings around her. The many times he'd woken up in the middle of the night, he'd found her wide awake, curled into a ball, her back to him.
He hated leaving her alone this morning, especially in that disgusting room. Frankly, he hated exposing her to the seedy underbelly that, until last night, she hadn't known existed. The place was what Jeffrey thought of as a jerk-stop motel, the sort of establishment that catered to truck drivers, whores, and the more than occasional cheating spouse. Jeffrey had spent more than a few evenings in such motels with more than a few women, so he recognized the signs. Even a fool would figure something was going on as soon as he checked in. The clerk behind the front desk had asked Jeffrey how many hours he needed the room.
Jeffrey had parked the BMW in full view of the street in case Lena was looking for him. Though, for all he knew, Lena was halfway to Mexico by now. Part of him hoped she stayed there. He was angry at Lena for not trusting him, even angrier with her for duping Sara, and furious with himself for letting it all happen in the first place.
Sara was right about one thing – Lena had been terrified last night. She'd obviously felt that short of getting Jeffrey to leave, her best option was escape. The question remained: why did she want to get rid of Jeffrey? What could be so bad that she'd refuse his help? The person in the Escalade had been killed. Still, in the cold light of day, Jeffrey couldn't think of anything – not even murder – that would make him turn completely against her. There had to be an explanation, a reason for her involvement in this death. Lena always played it close to the bone, but she had never willfully jeopardized anyone but herself.
And, still, he could not help but wonder if it was Hank Norton's body in the back of the burned Escalade. On the way to the diner this morning, Jeffrey had called the station back in Grant County and gotten Hank's address off Lena 's personnel file. He had tried the phone number she'd given, but no one picked up. Surprisingly, the satellite navigation in Sara's car had actually recognized the address. Jeffrey had taken this as a sign that he should drive by and see if Hank Norton was home. The place looked abandoned, but Jeffrey assumed that was because it hadn't been painted or repaired in the last thirty years. He would've gotten out of his car and checked for himself, but there had been an Elawah County Sheriff's Department cruiser parked right across the street. The man had given him a wave as Jeffrey drove by.
If Hank was in the back of the Escalade, that might explain why Lena had run. No matter the bad blood between them, if someone had killed her uncle, she would hunt him down like an animal. If she had killed him herself… Jeffrey had stopped there, not letting his thoughts take him down that dark road. After almost two decades of knowing Lena, he should have a better idea right now about whether or not she was one of the good guys.
Last night at the hospital, she'd had her chance to ask for his help and voted with her feet. Obviously, she wanted to go it alone. Obviously, Jeffrey wasn't going to let her do it. There was still the matter of her being a detective on his force who was involved in a violent crime. She had left that hospital because she was running from something -something she desperately did not want Jeffrey to know about. Whether she was involved in the explosion or had set it herself, Jeffrey was going to figure out what had happened. Jake Valentine couldn't find his ass in an ass-storm. If Lena was going to be extricated from this mess, it was all down to Jeffrey.
Of course, this would have been a lot easier if he had any idea what the hell was going on.
After he drove past Hank's house, Jeffrey had called the Georgia Department of Corrections to make sure Ethan Green was still locked up. They had assured Jeffrey that Ethan was still behind bars, but as nice as the woman on the phone had sounded, Jeffrey didn't quite trust the information she had pulled up on her computer. He had called Coastal State Prison himself and spoken directly to the warden. It was a relief to hear from the man that Ethan was still a resident of the state penal system, but Jeffrey was not stupid enough to dismiss the con from his list of possibilities.
Though he claimed to be reformed, Ethan Green had been a skinhead since childhood. He was raised in a skinhead family and had been arrested along with his skinhead friends. Jeffrey had seen the black swastikas and disgusting images the young man had etched into his skin. There was no way Ethan hadn't realigned himself with his boys the minute he'd walked back into prison. The only way for animals like that to survive was to live in packs. The only question was how far was Ethan's reach outside the prison walls? The man at the hospital last night had sported a red swastika on his arm. Was he somehow connected to Ethan? Had the imprisoned skinhead sent one of his boys to get to Lena? That might explain her fear. But, would it explain why she would refuse Jeffrey's help?
He looked at his watch, wondering why Nick Shelton was late. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation's southeastern field rep was a busy man. They had chosen the diner as a halfway point for both of them – far enough from Reece to avoid prying eyes and close enough to Macon so that Nick wasn't out of the office too long. Jeffrey had been cryptic on the phone last night as he arranged to meet the man, but he was hoping Nick could fill in some blanks on Jake Valentine and what was going on under the new sheriff's watch. Nick worked on cases that crossed cou
nty lines, and Elawah was in his district. If anyone could tell Jeffrey whether or not skinheads were operating in town, Nick Shelton could. The GBI agent took pride in bringing down the bad guys, and despite his tendency toward the flamboyant, he was a damn good cop.
He was also late by almost an hour.
Jeffrey picked up his cell phone and thumbed to the number for the motel. Before he'd left, Jeffrey had asked Sara to get in touch with Frank Wallace back in Grant County, but they both knew that this was just an excuse for Jeffrey to call in later and check up on her. Jeffrey very seriously doubted knowing who the white sedan was registered to would open any earth-shattering leads. It was the kind of base-covering work that Jeffrey usually assigned to junior officers.
Jeffrey was listening to the phone ring, his chest feeling tight as each one passed unanswered, when Sara finally picked up.
'Jeff?'
'You sound out of breath,' he told her, relieved to hear her voice.
'I went for a walk,' she told him, then started to explain why. When she got to the part about buying a map, he found himself squeezing the phone so hard that it nearly popped out of his hand.
'So,' she continued, obviously excited by her little stroll. 'It was just a vacant lot, but still, I thought I could go to the county courthouse and see whose name is on the property deed. What do you think?'
Jeffrey couldn't speak. Tracking down the registration from the relative safety of the motel room was one thing. Walking into what could have been a den of skinheads – or worse – was quite another.
'Hello?' Sara said. 'Are you still there?'
Jeffrey cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone steady and not go with his gut reaction to demand what the hell she thought she was doing. 'I'm here.'
'I was saying that I can go to the courthouse-'
He stopped her dead in her tracks. 'I need you to stay in the room, Sara. Don't go to the courthouse. Don't make any more phone calls. Just stay in the goddamn room and keep out of trouble.'
She was the one who was quiet this time.
He spoke through gritted teeth. 'I can't do my job and worry about you at the same time.'
She let some time pass before answering. 'Okay.'
He could tell from the way she'd said the word that she was angry, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. 'Promise me you'll stay there until I get back.'
Again, there was the hesitation. Suddenly, he realized he was wrong. Sara wasn't angry. She was disappointed with herself because he was angry. He would almost hear her thoughts, knew that she was berating herself for doing one more stupid thing.
'I know you were just trying to help out, but, Sara, Jesus, the thought of you traipsing out on your own like that… this isn't Grant County. You didn't grow up here. These people don't know you. It's not safe, Sara. Do you understand what I mean?'
'Yes.'
'Baby…' He shook his head, words failing him. 'Please, just stay in the room. I'll get back as soon as I can.'
'No,' she told him. 'Do your job. You're right. I'll stay here.'
Now he felt like a complete asshole. He looked out the diner window. Nick Shelton was getting out of his Chevy pickup.
'It's not your fault,' he told her. 'Listen, Nick just pulled up.'
'Okay,' she said. 'I'll see you when you get here.'
She didn't slam down the phone, but Jeffrey wished she had. Sara wasn't compliant. She was headstrong and arrogant and demanding – all the things a man could want in a woman. Over the last few months, he had watched her go from a fighter to someone who just rolled with the punches. Jeffrey wanted her to be angry again. He wanted her to tell him to fuck off, that she knew what she was doing and he should be grateful she was wasting her time down here helping him out when she could be back home tending to patients. He wanted her to scream at him, to rail against the Powells and all the other bastards who were trying to keep her down.
He wanted his brilliant, beautiful wife back.
'Hey, Chief.' Nick Shelton came through the front door of the diner, rain flattening his long brown hair to his skull. 'Sorry I'm late.'
Jeffrey stood up, shaking the other man's hand. 'No problem.'
'Raining like a pisser out there.' Nick called over to the waitress, 'You got some fresh coffee for me, darlin'?'
She gave him a big smile. 'Sure do.'
'Leave me a little room at the top, will you? Maybe this much?' He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
'Be right back.' She giggled, giving him a wink. Jeffrey had barely gotten a 'good morning' from the woman, but he gathered Nick, with his tight jeans and the heavy gold chain around his neck> was more her type.
The GBI man watched the waitress leave, giving her wide bottom an appreciative smile. 'Might get me some fries with that shake.'
Jeffrey tried to steer the conversation away from the waitress. 'How you been doing, Nick?'
'Working like a dog, is how.' He picked at the napkin dispenser on the table, shredding the first few. 'State cut my budget in half for goddamn Homeland Security. We got gangs and drugs and murderers running around here faster than clam chowder through my grandma but the feds are making us shoot our wad on fighting damn terrorists who couldn't even find Elawah or Grant County on the map. Hell, they don't even need to make the trip. Give us a few more years and we'll all kill each other on our own.'
Jeffrey had never had a conversation with Nick that didn't involve some kind of complaint, but he tried not to fuel it with his own. 'Sorry to hear you're having a hard time, Nick.'
'Bob Burg's working some consultancy job up north making twenty times more than the state ever paid him.'
Jeffrey felt himself getting pulled in. Bob Burg had been Nick's counterpart, handling counties that ran along southeastern Georgia. 'What happened?'
Nick used the shredded napkins to wipe the rain off his face, saying, 'I guess they figured all that time I wasted popping home to sleep and change my underwear could be put to better use. They kicked him out and gave me his territory.'
'They fired Bob?'
' "Merged the offices to streamline the operation,"' Nick quoted in a businesslike drone. 'Bunch of dumb-ass pencil-pushing motherfuckers, and don't even get me started on them cash bonuses they've been handing out to the higher-ups to thank them for all this kissing up and kicking down.' He sat up as the waitress came back. 'Why, thank you, darlin'. You did it up perfect.' He gave her a wink and the woman giggled again before sashaying off.
Nick continued, I can't blame Bob for being pissed off, but he left a freakin' mess for me to clean up. Paperwork missing, files incomplete.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
Nick shrugged, brushing it off. He asked, 'How's Sara doing?'
'She's good,' Jeffrey lied, trying to fight the sadness he felt.
Nick gave him a sharp glance over the coffee cup. 'Heard you and her's already made some friends in town.'
'That got around fast.'
'It's not every day that a crack squad loses a prisoner.' He gave Jeffrey a wink. 'And gets gut-punched for their trouble.'
Jeffrey felt a grin on his face. 'He was asking for it.'
'I have no doubt.'
'Tell me what you know about Jake Valentine.'
Nick grabbed the sugar dispenser off the table. 'Jake Valentine,' he echoed, giving the name a jaunty ring. 'OP buddy Jake was a deputy for maybe two days before he ran for office.' He kept pouring the sugar as he talked. 'There was this old coot, Don Cook, wanted the job, but people in town were sick of the codgers sitting on their asses, collecting their paychecks, while the rest of the town was going to hell in a handbasket.'
'Meth?' Jeffrey guessed. There wasn't a town in America that wasn't being slowly crippled by the scourge of methamphetamine. It was cheap to buy, cheaper to make, and almost impossible to quit. The drug ruined the life of anyone it touched, including some law enforcement officers who had unwittingly walked into booby-trapped labs.
'Meth,' Nic
k confirmed, finally finished with the sugar. He grabbed the creamer, saying, 'Jake's a little wet behind the ears, but he's a good kid.'
'He didn't look old enough to drive a car.'
'That's true, but he's willing to learn, which is more than you can say for most everybody you meet. I guarantee you, if he can hang on to the job long enough for his balls to drop, he's gonna make a good sheriff.'
'He doesn't seem to have much support from his deputies.'
'Maybe one or two will bug out on him, but only when the chips are down.' He added, 'Don Cook's not as powerful as he thinks he is.'
'What about Jake's predecessor?'
'Al Pfeiffer. He was a good guy, but nothing says it's time to retire like a firebomb thrown through your front window.'
Jeffrey was sure he'd heard wrong. 'What?'
Nick nodded, pouring cream into the cup until the liquid touched the rim. 'They firebombed his house. Wife and grandkid barely got out. The old man suffered third-degree burns on his face and arms. Lost one of his fingers. Never made a case because nobody would talk: no witnesses, no crime scene evidence, no nothing. Happened in broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon. Take that as a warning, Chief. These boys don't fuck around. They're making too much money.'
'Skinheads?' Jeffrey asked.
'Guessed it again, Chief.' Nick gave him a careful look. 'Something tells me you've played this game before.'
Jeffrey knew it was his turn to share. I saw this guy outside the Elawah hospital last night – tough-looking con. He had a big red swastika tattooed on his arm.'
'That old thing.' Nick waved his hand like an old lady fielding gossip. 'It's used by the Skin Brothers. Now, there's an interesting bunch of Nazis. Started in the prisons back in the late fifties. Integration on the outside, segregation on the inside. All them white boys running the cell blocks didn't like the black guys coming in and they made it known every way they could.' Nick leaned forward, kept his voice low. 'In the 1950s, you had maybe sixty-five, seventy percent white in all the federal and state prisons, basically in line with the white population on the outside, right?'
Skin Privilege Page 11
