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gone into Dobbs to do laundry and buy groceries. And
when Lomax could not seem to make them understand
what the deputies wanted, she was able to explain with
the generous use of hand gestures.
They knew, of course, that el patrón had been mur-
dered in the shed over by the big house?
“Sí, sí.”
Whoever did such an awful thing had left fingerprints
on the axe handle, she explained, so they were there to
take everyone’s prints.
At this, the men exchanged furtive looks and started
to protest, but Richards tried to reassure them by prom-
ising that they were not there to check for green cards
or work visas and the fingerprints would be destroyed as
soon as they were compared with the killer’s prints.
They were uneasy and highly suspicious, but Lomax
went first and that helped convince them that they were
not being singled out. As he wiped the ink from his
fingers, the others came forward one by one and let
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Denning ink their fingertips and roll each one across
the proper square on the white cards. Someone woke up
the man in the cot. Reeking of alcohol, he, too, shuffled
over to give his prints.
When Denning started to pack up their cards, Richards
said, “No. I told them they’d be destroyed as soon as
you did the comparison, so why don’t you go ahead and
do it now while we’re questioning them, okay?”
Grumbling, Denning went out for a powerful magni-
fying glass and his field microscope and set to work. He
had blown up the prints of the killer and marked the most
prominent identifiers on each print—the forks, eyes,
bridges, spurs, deltas, and island ridges that are easiest
to spot. From the position of the killer’s fingerprints on
the bloody axe handle, he was able to say which were
the three middle ones, which meant he could look for
conspicuous markers on one of the workers’ three right
fingers and see if they matched one on the killer’s.
While he squinted at the lines and ridges, Lomax un-
locked a nearby door that opened onto quarters for a
couple with children. It was marginally better than the
bunkhouse: a good-sized eat-in kitchen that also func-
tioned as a den with thrift store couch and chairs, two
tiny bedrooms, a half-bath with sink and toilet.
“Mrs. Harris comes out a couple of times a season to
check on things,” Lomax told Jamison and Richards.
“Makes sure the stoves and toilets and refrigerators
work. Has the Goodwill store deliver a load of furniture
every year or so. She’s good about that.”
“Even after their separation?” asked Jamison.
“Oh yeah. The big house isn’t part of Harris Farms,
but the camp and the sheds are. She was over here the
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day we moved the others to Farm Number Three to see
what was going to need replacing or fixing.”
“Was Harris around?”
“Like I told Major Bryant, ma’am. I didn’t see him
after Sunday dinner at the Cracker Barrel. I figured he
knew she was going to be here, so he just stayed out of
her way. She’s got a right sharp tongue on her, if you
know what I mean.”
Despite their earlier friction, Jamison raised an eye-
brow to Richards and she gave a half nod to indicate
that Mrs. Harris’s presence had registered. Someone
else to check on.
In the meantime, she set her legal pad on the table
before her, looked at the list, and asked Lomax to send
in Jésus Vazquez.
An hour later, the two deputies had finished question-
ing all four men, who each swore that he knew noth-
ing about the murder. They were all vague about that
Sunday, although they remembered Monday very clearly
since that was when their friends left on the trucks, the
same day that la señora swept through the camp. No,
they had not seen el patrón either day.
Who hated him?
Shrugs. Why would anybody hate him? He was the
big boss— el gran jefe. He gave orders to Lomax, Lomax
implemented them. Only one man admitted ever speak-
ing to Harris and that had been months ago. The work
was hard, but that’s what they were there for. Their
quarters were okay. They got paid on time. Lomax and
Juan between them kept the camp pretty stable because
Juan had children. So no open drug use. No drunken
displays of violence or excessive profanity.
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The sheds? Why would anyone go over there on
Sunday? Sunday was a day off in the wintertime. Those
who were leaving had spent most of the day packing up.
Those who were staying had either played cards or gone
into town or visited a club—El Toro Negro in Dobbs or
La Cantina Rosa in Cotton Grove.
By midday, the deputies had finished with their ques-
tions and Denning had cleared all four men. Their relief
was evident when Denning tore the fingerprint cards
to shreds. Nevertheless one man held out his hand for
the scraps and stuffed them into the half-empty mug of
coffee on the table.
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C H A P T E R
24
A farmer’s wife adds comfort which only a certain quality
of feminine ingenuity can devise and execute.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
Dwight Bryant
Late Tuesday Morning, March 7
% Although Dwight would always prefer fieldwork
to clearing his desk, paper had piled up that needed
his attention and a rainy March day was as good a time
as any to tackle it. After deploying his detectives, he
spent the morning reading reports, filling out forms,
updating the duty rosters, and earmarking things that
Bo needed to see.
Time to get a little more aggressive about filling the
empty slots in the department, too, he thought. Even
if Dalton’s provisional promotion were made perma-
nent, they were still going to be short two detectives if
Jamison really did leave. Three officers were needed in
the patrol division and they could really stand to beef
up Narcotics. Maybe he and Bo ought to go talk to
the criminal justice classes out at Colleton Community.
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Hell, maybe they should even start trolling in the high
schools.
By midday, the most pressing chores were behind him
and when Deborah called around 12:30, he agreed to
splash over and join her at a nearby soup and sandwich
place where she was already having lunch.
This close to the courthouse, the café was always
busy. The sky had begun to lighten, but there was still
enough rain to make courthouse personnel reluctant to
walk very far. The place was jammed today with every
seat taken and a long line waiting at the counter. As
soon as he reached the table where Deborah and an-<
br />
other judge were seated, he sensed her barely concealed
excitement.
“Here, Dwight,” said Judge Parker, setting his dishes
and utensils back on his tray. “Take my seat. I’m fin-
ished.”
“You sure?”
“Just holding it for you, son.”
“Thanks, Luther,” said Deborah, as the older man
rose. “And I really appreciate it.”
He laughed and white teeth flashed in his chocolate
brown face. “Just remember that you owe me one.”
“Owe him one for what?” Dwight asked, sliding into
the chair on the other side of the narrow table. She was
wearing the cropped blue wool jacket that echoed her
clear blue eyes. Around her neck, gleaming against her
white sweater, was the thin gold chain with the outline
of a small heart encrusted with diamond chips that she
had worn almost every day since the night he gave it
to her.
“He’s going to ask Ellis Glover to assign Ally Mycroft
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MARGARET MARON
to him for the rest of the week. Get her out of my court-
room.”
Dwight grinned, knowing how that particular clerk
irritated Deborah. “So what’s up?”
“It’s—” She paused, then gave an exasperated, “Look,
something odd happened yesterday. I didn’t give it a
second thought at the time, but it must have registered
on my subconscious and talking about the murder with
Luther just now made me remember, which is why I
called you. And I know we said I wouldn’t stick my
nose in your work and you wouldn’t complicate mine,
but— Oh God! Sorry. I’m babbling, aren’t I? Here,
have the rest of my soup.”
“Why don’t I just get my own?” he said, amused that
she was taking their agreement so seriously.
“Because you might not want to wait on the line.
Because maybe I’m seeing mountains where there’s not
even an anthill, but I had a migrant in court yesterday
for a first appearance. Simple possession. He lives at the
camp out there at the old Buckley place. One of the
Harris Farms workers.”
“And?”
“And I asked him through the interpreter if he knew
Buck Harris. He said he did, but only by sight. Then
he said, ‘Es muerto, no?’ or something like that, but I
didn’t think twice about it because you’d just told me
that the torso belonged to his boss, and besides, I got
distracted by a screaming woman and a crying baby.”
“Well, damn!” said Dwight, immediately recognizing
the significance of what she was saying.
“Right. How did he know Harris was dead? He’d
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been in jail since Saturday night. Even you didn’t know
it was Harris till yesterday.”
“Where’s this guy now?”
“Still over there in your jail so far as I know. I set his
bond, appointed him an attorney, but unless he made
bail, he’s still there. His name is Rafael Sanaugustin,”
she said and scribbled it on a napkin. “And for what
it’s worth, I got the impression that he wasn’t really in-
volved, that it was more like something he’d heard and
wanted confirmed.”
After reading the name, Dwight tucked the napkin in
his shirt pocket. “Who’d you appoint?”
“Millard King.”
He finished the rest of her vegetable soup in three
spoonfuls and pushed back in the chair. “Thanks, shug.
And I’m probably going to regret saying it, but any
time your subconscious throws up something like this,
nose away, okay?”
She cut her eyes at him as he stood. “Really?”
“Just don’t abuse it,” he warned, looking as stern as
he could in the face of her sudden smile.
The rain was now a thin drizzle as Dwight took the
courthouse steps two at a time and cut through the
atrium to ring for the elevator that connected the third-
floor courtrooms with the Sheriff ’s Department and the
county jail down in the basement. To his bemusement,
when the doors slid open, there was the same attorney
Deborah had appointed to defend that migrant.
Millard King had the blond and beefy good looks
of a second-string college football player. Courthouse
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MARGARET MARON
gossip had him engaged to a Hillsborough debutante,
the daughter of a well-connected appellate judge. King
was said to be politically ambitious, but no one yet had
a handle on whether that meant he wanted to run for
governor, the North Carolina Assembly, or the US
Senate. As he was only twenty-eight, it was thought
that he was waiting for a case that would give him big-
fish name recognition in Colleton County’s small pond.
Besides, said the cattier speculators, his sharp-tongued
wife-to-be would probably have a thought or two on
the subject.
He nodded to Dwight as the chief deputy stepped in
beside him. “Bryant. How’s it going?”
“Fine. Talk to you a minute?”
“Sure. I was just on my way down to the jail.”
“To see”— Dwight pulled out the napkin Deborah
had given him —“Rafael Sanaugustin?”
“How’d you know?”
“That’s where I was headed myself. I need to have a
talk with your client.”
“About those two little rocks? That’s hardly worth
messing with, is it? Unless you think he’s part of some-
thing bigger?”
“That’s what I want to ask him. I’ll call around and
see if we can find someone to translate.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” King said with an air
of smug complacency. “I’m pretty fluent.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve studied Spanish since high school. My room-
mate in college was Cuban and we spent our junior year
in Spain. The way things were going even back then, I
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figured it wouldn’t hurt to be able to speak to voters
directly if I ever got in the game.”
Heretofore, Dwight had paid scant attention to ru-
mors that the debutante had cut King out of the pack to
further her own aspirations. Having been there himself
in his first marriage, he had felt a stab of sympathy for
King, a sympathy that was now plummeting to the base-
ment faster than the elevator.
If King had fixed his eyes on the prize as early as high
school, maybe it was a match made in heaven after all,
Dwight decided, and a spurt of happiness shot through
him as he thought of his life with Deborah. He could
almost feel sorry for the younger man. Would the sat-
isfaction of reaching even the highest office in the land
equal the pleasure of planting trees with a woman you
loved?
They were almost too late. Three Latinos were there
to bail Rafael Sanaugustin out—two women and a
man—and they were just finishing up the paperwork
> when Dwight called over their shoulders that he was
here with Sanaugustin’s attorney to see the prisoner.
“Five minutes and y’all would’ve missed him,” the
officer said and explained why.
King stepped forward and introduced himself in
Spanish that sounded to Dwight every bit as fluent as
he had earlier bragged.
Wearing jeans and wool jackets, the three looked
back at him impassively. The women were bareheaded
and appeared to be in their early thirties; the man wore
a brown Stetson and was at least ten years older. When
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MARGARET MARON
he spoke, it was to Dwight. “Juan Santos, crew chief at
Harris Farms.”
“Sanaugustin is a member of your crew?” Dwight
asked.
The man nodded.
“You were at the farm yesterday? On the tractor?”
Again he nodded.
“One of these women related to him?”
Santos nodded to the shorter woman. “His wife.”
“Please tell her that I’m sorry, but she’s going to have
to wait a little longer. I need to question him first.”
Both women immediately tugged on Santos’s arms
anxiously, speaking so rapidly that the only words
Dwight caught were los niños.
He shook off their hands and before Millard King
could translate, said, “They say we cannot wait long.
The children come home at three-thirty.”
Dwight glanced at his watch: 12:56. “We’ll try to be
brief.”
“How long?” said Santos. “We’ll go to the grocery
store and come back.”
“Fifteen or twenty minutes for me, if he cooperates,”
Dwight said. “What about you, King?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Bueno,” Santos said.
Sanaugustin’s wife protested sharply, but the crew
chief herded them both out of the office and the jailer
brought Sanaugustin down to the interview room.
When the migrant worker came strolling in, he was
obviously surprised to see two Anglos instead of his
friends. According to his booking sheet, Sanaugustin
was five-eight and thirty-three years old. He had straight
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black hair, wary dark eyes, a prominent nose, and a small
scar on his left cheek. His jeans, black sweatshirt, and
the unbuttoned plaid wool lumberjack shirt that topped
them were all a little worse for the wear after three nights
in jail. He hesitated in the doorway, but the jailer nudged
him inside and closed the door behind him.