by Nancy Holder
“"Cha-ching, paydirt,”" Grace said happily.
They both leaped out of bed and Grace gathered up her clothes. “"Cowboy up. Let’'s ride,”" she said.
Then she re-remembered her dream about the dog and Earl’'s admonitions about tough times. Her mood sobered and she studied Ham, the screwy blond eyebrows, sleepy bedroom eyes, creases on either side of his mouth. Could tough times be Ham, getting hurt? Dying? On the job?
“"Let’'s be careful out there,”" she said. “"I got a feeling.”"
He lifted a brow as he stuck one leg through his underwear. “"Say what?”"
“"Something in my gut, man.”" When he looked at her curiously, waiting for more explanation, she shrugged and gave him a fleeting smile. She’'d tried to tell him about Earl but hell, she wouldn’'t have believed him if the shoe had been on the other foot.
Which it should be. She looked down at her right foot, clad in her left boot, plopped down on the bed, and yanked it off. She could feel her senses snapping awake, fizzing and sizzling along her nerve endings like antacid tablets. She realized she was hungry.
In the kitchen, she grabbed some more cold fries and two bottles of Coke. Handed one to Ham as they blasted out the door. It was eight o’'clock on a Saturday night, not too late to pay a citizen a visit. Especially if said citizen ran over Malcolm Briscombe.
Ham drove his GMC and Grace called in the name. It was a single-family home on the outskirts of Nichols Hill, which was one of the ritziest parts of OKC. Wide streets, lots of trees, nice.
“"Twelve-oh-seven,”" Grace said, watching the numbers on the houses. “"Should be the next block.”"
They pulled up. The truck ticked when Ham pulled out the key—--cooling down. Grace was just getting warmed up.
There was a Prius hybrid parked in the driveway. The garage door was shut. As they exited Ham’'s truck, Grace pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and darted around the side of the house. Glory hallelujah, there was a window into the garage. She peered in. It was very tidy. A washer and dryer and a bicycle, but no panel van. Yeah, well, if she had killed a kid with a vehicle, she’'d dump it, too. So the lack of same didn’'t prove anything except that it wasn’'t there.
Just in case, she skirted the driveway, although it was wishful thinking that Rhetta would lift that distinguishing mark off the concrete. No sense jinxing it.
Ham was at the door by the time Grace caught up with him. He smelled like sex. Maybe they should have showered.
As she gave her head a shake—--negative on the garage—--he rang the doorbell. She tucked the flashlight under her arm, and they both pulled out their badges.
The door opened partway; there was a chain on it. Grace saw an eye and part of a face with a lovely honey complexion.
“"Ms. Barlett?”" Grace said. “"I’'m Detective Hanadarko and this is Detective Dewey. We’'re investigating a car accident. May we talk to you?”"
“"What?”" She sounded utterly nonplussed. “"Who was hurt?”"
“"Do you know someone named Malcolm Briscombe?”"
“"No. You must have the wrong address.”"
“"No, ma’'am, we don’'t think we do. We can give you our badge numbers and wait while you check with the department,”" Grace said, letting the woman see her.
Grace gave her the appropriate phone number and the woman called it in. As they waited politely on the porch, Grace could feel Ham’'s disappointment. It was doubtful that someone who had committed a felony would be so …... judicious. But stranger things had happened. Look at Earl.
“"Okay, I’'ve verified your badge numbers,”" Ms. Barlett informed them as she took the chain off the door. “"May I please know what this is about?”"
“"May we come in?”" Grace asked. Sometimes vampires and cops had a lot in common—--there were occasions when both had to be invited in.
The woman opened the door, leading them from an entryway tiled in China blue to a sunken living room featuring matching blue-striped sofa and two chairs upholstered in solid blue. Nice place but not palatial. She liked blue. A lot.
“"About this accident,”" Ham said. “"One of the vehicles involved had a magnetic sign of yours on the door.”"
“"That’'s why we’'re here,”" Grace added.
The woman looked surprised and worried. “"I quit selling real estate. I don’'t use those signs anymore.”"
“"Who else has access to them?”" Grace asked.
She shook her head. “"No one. I cleaned all my stuff out of my office months ago. I threw them out.”" Grace could hear the anxiety in her voice. It didn’'t mean anything except that she was anxious. Innocent people got scared, just like guilty ones.
So someone might have spotted it in her trash, or at a dump.
“"Is it possible you missed one of your signs?”" Grace asked. “"Maybe one was taken while you were still selling real estate?”"
“"I guess.”" Ms. Barlett’'s shoulders lowered; Grace’'s line of questioning was reassuring, nonconfrontational. The long finger of the law was not being pointed at her. “"I’'m trying to remember …... I left things in my office for a couple of months. I’'d paid my rent in advance and I couldn’'t break the lease, so I backburnered clearing it out.”"
“"You didn’'t sublet?”"
“"No, it was an office of several agents.”" A cloud passed over her features. “"There was someone new, just got his license. Dwight something. He wanted to take over my lease but …...”" She trailed off.
Grace leaned toward her. “"But what, ma’'am? Please tell us whatever you have to say. It might be important.”"
She caught her lower lip. “"Well, I don’'t like hurtling around false accusations, so can this be …... off the record?”"
“"Of course,”" Grace lied.
“"I was the only black agent in the agency. And …... I’'m not sure the broker was comfortable with that. And Dwight was black, too.”"
A potentially racist broker. A white supremacist van with a black agent’'s magnetic sign. Those puzzle pieces might fit together in some twisted way.
“"This …... Malcolm, was he hurt? What happened?”" Syndee Barlett sat down on her vastly blue sofa.
“"Would you mind telling us where you were Thursday night?”" Grace asked.
“"Oh, God, I was here,”" she said, paling. “"I was alone.”" Grace could observe her comfort level dissipating like water in a hot frying pan. “"I called my mother. I can verify that—--”"
“"You’'re not a suspect,”" Grace assured her, even though that might also turn out to be a lie. “"But if we could take a statement now, and we might need you to come downtown later …...”" She pulled her detective’'s notebook out of her belt. Slid out her pen and clicked it.
“"Yes. Yes,”" Ms. Barlett said. “"Of course.”"
Turned out she had worked for OKC Home Realtors for five years. It was a large group with a number of real estate agents. But she’'d gotten out of the business when the economy went south.
“"There weren’'t a lot of folks buying houses in my area,”" she said. “"And I didn’'t have the stomach for foreclosures.”"
“"That would be tough,”" Grace agreed.
“"Jim …... my broker, he wanted me to go after all the upside-down mortgages and snap them up.”" She blinked. “"Said I’'d be ‘'perfect.’'”"
“"In what way?”" Ham asked neutrally.
Ms. Barlett remained silent.
“"Anything you have to say, you can tell us,”" Grace assured her. “"Was it some kind of racial statement?”"
“"Look,”" the woman answered, not angrily, “"I never lodged a complaint against him, anything like that, and it would be …... unfair to say anything now.”"
So, yes, it had been racial. While Grace kept her game face on, her mind was processing information as it came in. The Sons had to have bought their land from someone. Say they went into the real estate office to deal with their bigoted friend Jim, and snatched a sign or two for l
ater. It would be easy to do. Say they went in a lot of times to sign papers and shit.
“"Did you ever have any dealings with a man named Tommy Miller?”" Grace asked. “"Or see him in the brokerage office?”"
Ms. Barlett gave it some thought.
“"It would be a bunch of acres off the 270, mostly undeveloped but with a few buildings on it,”" Grace prompted.
“"No. I usually handled residential, simple stuff.”" She thought a moment. “"Jim had some ‘'boutique’' clients, he called them. He liked to brag about his deals to ‘'inspire’' us. After a while, I stopped listening. I knew I was getting out.”"
“"Could you give us a list of the other agents in the office?”" Grace asked. “"And the name of your boss? The actual broker?”"
“"Sure. He’'s James Morrison.”"
She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “"He’'s Jim Morrison.”"
Ham chuckled.
About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.
“"Are you working now?”" Grace asked her.
The woman nodded. “"For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.”" She smiled sadly. “"Or make the attempt. It’'s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.”" She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.
“"Tell Kendra Burke that,”" Ham muttered.
Jamal’'s image blossomed in Grace’'s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’'d make a donation to Get Out Now.
Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.
“"If you think of anything, please call,”" Grace said.
“"If you get my sign back, please let me know,”" she replied. “"It’'s very …... unnerving to think that someone committed a crime with my sign on their door.”"
“"Yeah. It’'s a good thing you’'re out of the business,”" Grace replied.
When they left, Ham turned to Grace. “"She was nervous around us. White cops, man.”"
“"Yeah.”" She nodded. Wind blasted around her, flapping at her olive-green jacket. “"White cops. Jim Morrison.”"
It was almost ten by the time they drove past OKC Home Realtors. Big building of genteel brick, closer to downtown than Syndee Barlett’'s residence, the whole thing leased to James Alan Morrison III. The lights were off and nobody was home.
“"We can check the land sale through the Public Access System, get the title report,”" Grace said. “"Talk to him next week. No sense waving a red flag.”"
“"Yeah,”" Ham replied. “"No sense.”"
It was Sunday at three in the afternoon, and rocket club was almost over. As Grace drove to the launch site on the prairie by the North Canadian River, she checked her phone for word from Ham. He had returned to battle over their warrant. No news yet.
She had volunteered to pick up Clay; Doug had taken his car in for a tune-up after Mass and it looked like he needed some brake work.
Pulling Connie over, she got out, admiring the brilliance of the sky against some distant green hills. It was as if the wind had blown all the gray away, leaving a vast field of cornflower blue hanging overhead like the dome of a basilica. Malcolm would never see another day like this.
There were two groups shooting off rockets today, Clay’'s school club and the local branch of the big Tripoli organization. The parish kids had come in a big van; the Tripoli guys had SUVs and shop trucks. There were a couple of ATVs—--all-terrain vehicles—--used for retrieving the rockets, as she recalled. The groups were situated close together, probably so they could share tools and advice, all very civic and fun.
She walked over gravel and dirt, giving a wave at young Father Alan, who was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, his clerical collar, and a baseball cap. He had hairy arms. A group of young boys thronged a two-foot-tall cylinder painted red, white, and blue. Grace didn’'t spot Clay among them.
Fingers in her belt loops, she ambled on over to the rocketeers. The cute young priest smiled at her. Father Alan had invited her to Mass every single time she’'d picked up Clay at some function or other. She had absolutely no doubt that he was praying for her to come back to the church. Probably had Clay doing that, too. Maybe Clay worried about her soul at night, fretted that if she died he wouldn’'t see her up in heaven, like he was gonna see his mom.
“"Hi, Father,”" she said. “"Where’'s Clay?”"
Father Alan frowned and looked around. “"He and Forrest went to retrieve a rocket.”" He glanced at his watch. “"But they should have been back by now.”"
Tough times.
She got a little scared.
“"Where?”" she asked.
“"Well …...”" He straightened and peered to the west. “"Hmm. They should be over there.”"
Her fear level rose a little higher. “"You don’'t know where they went?”" Her voice was shrill. Some of the boys looked up at her, then at one another. Then around, as if, like Father Alan, they’'d just realized that two of their party were MIA.
“"I saw them over there,”" one of the kids said, pointing east, toward the hills.
Father Alan grinned ruefully. “"They must have gotten distracted. You know how kids are.”"
Tough times.
“"Yeah,”" she said. “"How long ago did they go?”"
The same kid shrugged. “"An hour?”"
“"It wasn’'t an hour,”" Father Alan insisted.
“"It’'s been a while, Father,”" another boy piped up.
She started walking across the dirt as she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a bellow.
“"Clay!”" Her voice echoed off the mountains.
There was no answer; picking up speed, she ran-walked past a wave of prairie grass, looking back over her shoulder at the priest and the boys, all of whom were watching her. She got that creepy-crawly feeling that parents and guardians got, the one that moved you past assuming your fears were exaggerated to contemplating the fact that things did go wrong. She put on the turbo; her boots crunched over the sandy ground in a rapid-fire rhythm, like bullets from a semiautomatic.
Move faster.
“"Clay!”"
These are not our tough times, she thought. My family has had more than its share. Not Clay.
An unreasoning anger toward Earl flared through her nervous system. Goddamn it, if he couldn’'t tell her all of it, why did he tell her any of it? It went to show you that God was a sadist—--
And then she heard the roar of an engine. She squinted as dust kicked up, and she made out the shape of an all-terrain vehicle, and two boys on it, Clay doing the driving. Forrest Catlett sat between him and the handlebars, making the vehicle top-heavy and unstable. No helmets, no nothing, just two reckless boys, yelling their heads off.
Clay hung a sharp U-turn and hit the turbo, going much, much too fast, blasting along as she closed up the distance. The ATV wove past a barrier of sawhorses and ripped through yellow caution tape. She didn’'t know if Clay meant to do it, or if he had lost control of the ATV …... which was now headed toward a huge boulder.
“"Oh, God!”" Grace screamed.
“"The range is hot!”" someone shouted. “"Ma’'am!”"
She ran so fast she was flying, scrabbling across a rock bed, losing her footing, tumbling over her boots. And in her mind’'s eye, for one flash of an instant, she was running toward the Murrah Building after McVeigh and Nichols blew it all to hell, and Clay’'s mom had been blown apart. A hundred and sixty-eight lives lost; and she had helped carry out the bodies, finding Mary Frances herself, and Clay was so tiny and small and helpless—--
This can’'t happen to us, she told herself, at the exact moment that the Tripoli group started yelling at her. There was a huge bang; as she looked over, she saw that their rocket was taking off. She had run through their launch site
. She moved fast, to get clear, and there was more yelling.
She looked up. The rocket had turned and was arrowing back toward the ground, gyrating and tumbling, snaking out of control. She ran toward Clay, waving her hands to stop; Forrest flapped his arms crazily. They kept going.
Clay clipped the side of the boulder; the ATV rocked onto two wheels, nearly tipping over on its side.
“"Shit! Shit! Shit!”" Grace yelled, charging.
The rocket crashed to earth, kicking up huge amounts of dirt. Grace kept running; three men caught up with her and fanned out into a half circle around the ATV as it began to zigzag like the rocket. The men gave chase, like rodeo clowns trying to slow down a bull. Grace stumbled over rocks and brush. Flooding with adrenaline, she closed the distance between herself and the ATV and leaped at it, grabbing onto the rear wheel cover and dragging her weight like an anchor. Clay jerked his head over his shoulder, eyes wide. He was very scared.
“"Damn it, what are you doing?”" Grace shouted, her boots kicking up tremendous amounts of dust as Clay somehow managed to stop.
“"I’'m sorry, I’'m sorry,”" Clay cried. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. “"We were just trying to figure out how it worked. Then I couldn’'t stop it.”"
“"You people are in so much trouble,”" a man said, approaching. He looked at Grace. “"I’'m the range safety officer and I can’'t begin to tell you how many rules you’'ve broken. I told that priest to watch his group—--”"
“"You’'re damn lucky you didn’'t fall over,”" the second man declared, trotting over to them. He had a grizzled beard and a ball cap that read DESERT STORM. He pointed at the boys. “"That’'s my ATV. I told you you could sit on it, that’'s all.”"
“"That was what we were doing, Dr. Anderson,”" Clay said. “"But I hit something and it took off.”"
The man grunted.
“"Th-that’'s t-true,”" Forrest piped up, stammering. His face was so white it was almost gray. But he was smiling very faintly. He turned to Grace. “"W-we just wanted to s-sit on it.”"
“"Okay, Clay,”" Grace said; maybe to someone else, she would have sounded angry. But she was shaking with terror; she stuffed her hands in her jacket to hide them. Then, on second thought, she pulled them out and held them in front of herself, to show Clay just how frightened she had been. He grimaced.
