“I don’t know.” He shrugged, embarrassed, helpless. “It was a long time ago.”
“Sure was,” Whaley agreed. “Why don’t we go over it again. You might remember something else.”
“The whole thing?” His voice cracked like a girl’s.
“Just from when Dev called you to help him find his lock.”
For three hours Whaley made him tell the story, stopping him at different places. Did he have a snack after school that day? Was his mother at home? What was he doing when Dev called him to go back up there? What TV show was he watching? He blurted out answers fast, barely thinking. Though Whaley remained pleasant after he’d asked him the same questions, two and three times, it became hard to remember what he’d said before. As Butch’s sweaty shirt began sticking to the back of the chair, Whaley finally seemed satisfied.
“Lawrence, I really appreciate your coming in,” he said. “It must feel good to get this off your chest.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, feeling as if he’d crossed some invisible finish line. “It does.”
“There’s just one thing I can’t square up, though.”
Butch felt his bowels turn to water. “What’s that?”
“My brother’s kids went to Pisgah Junior High, just a grade behind you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“They didn’t have gym lockers at Pisgah Junior High. They didn’t get gym lockers until Pisgah High.”
Every cell in his body seemed to freeze. “Are you sure?”
“I called the old superintendent of schools. Pisgah Junior High didn’t even have a gym until 1997.”
Butch shook his head, desperate for an answer. “Maybe it was one of his brother’s gym locks. All I know is what Dev told me. He was really scared about losing that lock.”
“That’s probably it,” said Whaley. “Those McConnell kids were a real scary bunch.”
TwEnty-Eight
“Finding anything?” Jerry Cochran peered into the office Victor Galloway was using while he looked for a powwow–roustabout–
homicide connection.
“Now some tribe’s having a powwow about every ten minutes,” said Victor. “Then there didn’t seem to be a national circuit.”
“So no carnies, traveling from reservation to reservation?”
“No. In ’89 they set up regionally. A few in the southeast, a few up north. More west of the Mississippi. Most of the crime associated with them was petty stuff—larceny, DUIs. You know, party time crime.” He sat back in his chair. He had dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks. “I feel like I’ve picked through lint for about three days.”
“Want to get some lunch?” asked Cochran. “I’m waiting for Whaley to finish up with Butch Russell.”
Victor shrugged. “I’m not all that hungry.”
“Then walk with me,” said Cochran. “You look like you could use some fresh air.”
Reluctantly, Victor shut down his computer. They left the Justice Center and walked the mile into town. The day was already hot, the traffic heavy with cars sporting out-of-state tags.
“Looks like the tourists are here big-time,” said Victor.
Cochran laughed. “They’ll come until the leaves fall, then it’s back home before it snows.”
“Can’t say I blame them for that,” said Victor.
“I suppose. I kind of like winter here. Ginger actually got me up on skis a couple of times last year.” Cochran turned to him. “Before I forget—she wants to have you and Mary over for dinner. I didn’t want to say anything at the office.”
At first, Victor didn’t reply. Then he shook his head, glum. “That’s really nice of you guys, but Mary and I aren’t together anymore.”
“What?” Cochran looked astonished. “How come?”
“Let’s just say I was an asshole,” Victor replied, “and leave it at that.”
They went to Cecilia’s, an Argentine-French restaurant that had a lunch counter that overlooked the street. Victor decided to eat after all and ordered tamales. Cochran followed suit. As they waited they sat on tall stools and watched the town going about its business—a beer truck making a delivery to Mick & Mack’s, people getting fishing lures at the outdoor shop. Cecilia had just brought them their tamales when the beer truck pulled away from the curb, revealing HairTwister’s Style Salon, its front window plastered with Mary Crow for DA signs. Cochran risked a quick glance at Victor, who gazed at the window wistfully.
“You want to move over to a table?”
“It’s okay.” Victor shrugged, unwrapping his tamales. “It’s not like I don’t see Mary Crow signs every day.”
They spoke then of other things—how well cute little Chloe Cochran was walking, how Victor’s soccer team was playing, whether Atlanta’s new quarterback would be any good. Though Victor kept up his end of the conversation, his responses were more dutiful than engaged, as if he were really thinking about something else. Cochran could sympathize. Every time he and Ginger tied up, he felt as if some inner gyroscope had gone slightly off-kilter and the sun wasn’t going to rise in quite the same way until he made it right again. As he finished his lunch, he turned cautiously to Galloway.
“You know, Victor, sometimes you can just stumble into asshole-hood, before you even know it. I do it pretty regularly with Ginger.”
“Oh yeah? What does she do?”
“She calls me out. Ginger has no trouble expressing herself.”
“So you fight?”
“We argue. Sometimes at top volume. Then we make up, and go on.”
“This thing with Mary is a little different,” said Victor.
“How so?”
“After this fight, she apologized to me, wanted to talk things over. I was the one who walked out.”
“Ugh.” Cochran winced. “That is bad.”
“I know. I can’t believe I did it.”
“Well, I’m the last guy to give advice, but why don’t you go over to the flower shop and buy Mary a rose?”
“You don’t understand,” said Victor. “I said some terrible things … ”
“Then that’s all the more reason to go,” said Cochran. “Mary’s a great girl; you make a great pair. Admit that you were an asshole. Apologize and promise never to be an asshole for the rest of your life.”
Victor turned tired brown eyes on him. “You think?”
“I’ve known Mary since the ninth grade. She’s the fairest person I know.”
“Fair as in blind justice?”
“Fair as in justice tempered with mercy.”
For the first time, Victor laughed. “That’s good to know.”
Cochran got up and left a twenty-dollar bill between their two plates. “You do what you want, buddy. Lunch is on me.”
“Thanks.”
Victor watched as Cochran strolled up the street. He gazed at Mary’s campaign signs in the beauty shop window for a long moment, then he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered. “Here goes nothing.”
He did exactly as Cochran advised—bought a single red rose at the florist’s and walked toward Mary’s office. While waiting for the traffic light to change, he almost lost his nerve—what if she was busy? What if her secretary Annette wouldn’t let him see her? Or worse, what if she did see him and wouldn’t accept his apology? He would feel like a fool. But then he looked up into a cloudless blue sky that seemed to stretch forever and thought, You’ve got to try. Otherwise you’ll grow into an old man wondering how differently your life might have turned out if you’d only apologized to Mary Crow.
The light changed. He took a deep breath and crossed the street, feeling slightly silly. He went up the stairs that led to Ravenel & Crow and opened the door. He expected to see Annette, but Mary was sitting at the front desk, searching for something in a file drawer. She looked up when he came in.
“Victor!” A slight smile turned up the ends of her mouth.
He hurried over to the desk, before his courage evaporated. Her eyes were that amazing gold-to-green-to-gray color. “I don’t know how to say this, except to say it. I was an asshole the other night. I had no right to say what I did. You are a person of honor, the best person I know.” He gulped and stuck out the rose. “I—I love you. I hope you can forgive me.”
She looked at him for what seemed like forever, then she stood up and walked around the desk to face him. “Of course I forgive you,” she said softly. “I’d forgiven you before you left my apartment.”
“Then we’re friends again?” He needed to ask, needed to be sure.
“No, Victor,” she said. “I’m friends with Jerry Cochran. Friends with my nitwit partner Ravenel. With you, I’m something else entirely.”
He pulled her to him. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He bent down, kissed her, and in an instant, the world went right again.
The world, however, was not so right at Tote-A-Note Used Cars. Butch Russell sat in Devin McConnell’s office, trying hard to hold back tears.
“It was the gym lock,” he cried. “The fucking goddamn gym lock. We didn’t have lockers until high school, Dev. You got it wrong.”
“I’m telling you it’s not that big a deal,” Dev insisted.
“I’m telling you it is! They got Timothy McVeigh for a missing license plate. It’s the stupid details that get people in trouble. They’ll know we made this up!”
Dev walked over to the window, scanning the parking lot for customers. There were none, and the few he’d had lately looked harder at him than any automobile. It occurred to him that he might make more money selling photographs than cars—for ten bucks you can have your picture taken with a real live suspect in a real live murder investigation.
“Listen to me!” Butch slammed his fist on the desk, jarring him back to reality.
Dev turned back to his friend. “You did the right thing, Butch. Maybe it was my brother’s gym lock. He was in high school. Maybe he was going to beat the shit out of me if he found out I’d taken it. Maybe after spending most of my life with cops in my face, I just fucking forgot the details of the gym lock.”
“God, I wish I’d never listened to you.” Butch buried his face in his hands. “My mom always said you were trouble.”
Dev strode over to Butch, grabbing him by the shirt. “Get a grip, you fucking little Nellie. It’s no skin off your nose about the gym lock. You didn’t know anything about it, except what I told you.”
“But now Whaley knows we cooked this up.” Butch’s forehead glistened with sweat. “I could see it in his face.”
Dev fought the urge to punch Butch out. “No, he doesn’t, Butch. Not if you just shut up and stick with the story.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, except call a lawyer,” Butch said miserably.
Dev pushed Butch away and walked over to the poster of Miss Truck Tire in her skimpy bikini. He couldn’t afford a lawyer; he could barely afford to keep the lights on in his office. If Butch bailed on him, he’d be up shit creek. Then he remembered a trick he’d learned early on, from his brothers.
“You know what we need, Butch?” he asked dreamily.
“What, other than a million dollars and a good attorney?”
“We need a diversion.”
Butch’s laugh edged toward hysteria. “You want to go play slots at Harrah’s?”
“No.” Dev turned back to him. “Did you ever really piss your mom off when you were little?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Well, I was in trouble most of the time when I was a kid. My brothers and I would make some mess, and really get creamed for it. Then we figured out that the best way to hide a mess was to make a much bigger mess. A huge mess. Then my mom would get torqued up over the big mess, that she wouldn’t even notice the little one.”
“So what do you want to do? Blow up the police station?”
“No, stupid. It can’t be illegal. And it’s got to tie in with this fucking murder.” Dev stuffed his hands in his pockets and started pacing around the office. He made slow turns, considering the possibilities. He’d come to the window that overlooked the lot when he saw a red Mazda pull up. For an instant his heart leapt at the thought of a customer, then a familiar figure emerged from the car. John Cooksey, from the Hartsville Herald.
“Oh shit,” he whispered. “Here comes Cooksey.”
“I’m getting out of here.” Butch leapt up and headed for the back door. “See you around, Dev.”
“Wait!” Dev cried. “I just had an idea. I know how we can create a diversion that will knock everyone on their ass.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait till Cooksey comes in here, and find out.”
Twenty-Nine
Mary got dressed slowly, studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if she should put on more make-up. Today had been the first time a man had used the L word since she’d lived with Jonathan Walkingstick—two years, ten months, and three days ago. Victor had looked as surprised to say it as she had been to hear it, but he did not go on to qualify his statement, omitting the usual bromides about taking their relationship to the next level (which reminded her of an escalator) or building a future together (which connoted carpentry). He’d simply said “I love you” and stood there looking so hopeful and terrified that she almost cried. She would have been thrilled with a simple apology. His proclamation of love had caught her by surprise.
“I hope he won’t be weird tonight,” she said, brushing her cheeks with blusher. “Hell, I hope I won’t be weird tonight.” After several days of no communication at all, it was a pretty big leap to go from being broken up to being in love.
The doorbell rang. She hurried to living room and grabbed her purse. “No shop talk,” she reminded herself as she headed to the door. “Nothing about the campaign, nothing about Zack Collier, and not a word about Teresa Ewing.” Though Victor had taken the first step to bridge the gap between them, she knew the span was still fragile, the new threads that reconnected them still easily broken.
She opened the door. Victor stood there, taller somehow, wearing a dress shirt and tie. For a moment she wondered if her funny, goofy Victor had morphed into a more staid and serious suitor, then he smiled his old smile as he leaned down to kiss her.
“Ready?” he whispered.
“Where are we going?”
“Drinks. Dinner. Then maybe we could stop by Finnegan’s on the way home.”
She knew where this was going. “Soccer game?”
“Argentina versus Brazil,” he said. “But we don’t have to stay long,” he added quickly.
“You’re on,” she said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Five hours later, after champagne, dinner, and a soccer game that went through two overtimes and ended in a shoot-out, Victor grabbed Mary for a passionate kiss. Everyone in Finnegan’s was kissing somebody, while on the big-screen TV, Argentine soccer players collapsed in joy as they defeated Brazil 3–2. Across the street, a more somber crowd was leaving Mick & Mack’s—Brazil fans who’d lost because their goalie screwed up.
“Victor!” cried Alejandro Rodriguez, who was weeping with joy. “We did it!”
“Sí, amigo.” Victor slapped Alejandro’s upraised hand. “It’s a miracle. Now, on to those dirty Germans!”
Laughing, Mary moved out of the line of fire. Though she did not yet appreciate all the nuances of soccer, she adored Victor’s enthusiasm. If a game made him this happy, then she would do her best to become a fan. He had, on more than one occasion, sat through some of her tennis matches without complaint. Besides, it was fun to be in a bar where everyone was jubilant. She watched as Alejandro waddled to the bar and announced a round of beer for everybody in an Arge
ntine jersey. Then another man got up and announced a round of beer for everybody, regardless of what they were wearing.
Victor looked at her through the throng of people and pointed at his empty beer bottle, asking her if she’d like another. She nodded. Why not, she figured. Argentina didn’t beat Brazil every day. Neither does a good man tell her that he loves her.
Salsa music came on the sound system; two couples started a conga line. Finnegan’s wasn’t set up for dancing, but she doubted Jerry Cochran would be enforcing any ordinances tonight. Someone had opened a window, allowing a breath of cool night air inside. She moved closer, away from the main crush of the celebration. As she did, she felt the thrum of her cell phone in her pocket. She pulled the thing out and looked at the screen. She’d missed four calls from Emily Kurtz, each a single minute apart. Finally Emily had resorted to text: EMERGENCY! CALL ME ASAP.
“Jeez,” Mary whispered. “What now?” She punched in Emily’s number. She answered on the second ring but sounded as if she were speaking from the other side of the planet. From every third or fourth word Mary could understand, she gathered that the paper had put some kind of Teresa Ewing video up on their website.
“I’m downtown,” Mary shouted above the din. “But I’ll go over to my office and watch it there.”
She clicked off her near-useless phone and looked for Victor. He was making his way toward her carrying two bottles of beer. She hurried through the crowd, remembering her earlier vow of no sensitive subjects broached tonight. She didn’t want to risk spoiling what had been an incredible evening, and yet she couldn’t just tell him she was leaving, going to her office to work.
“Dos Equis with lime.” He handed her the beer. “From the most interesting man in the world.”
“Thanks.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him to the door, where the decibel level allowed nominal hearing. She took a deep breath—knowing she had to be honest with him. Law and elections and defendants were as much a part of her as the Argentine soccer team was of him. “I just got a call from Emily Kurtz. The paper’s put out some kind of Teresa Ewing video. She says it’s really important.”
A Judgment of Whispers Page 20
