Out of the Blues

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  “Come on, tell me. My blood pressure is going up. Who is he partnering you with?”

  “No one.”

  “What do you mean ‘no one’? Somebody has to show you protocols. You’ve handled the first responder duties on lots of bodies, but you have to have someone tell you how to put together a murder book, prepare for court, all kinds of documents, go help find witnesses, perps. And since I’m already doggin’ you out, what were you doing without a Handie-Talkie in a fight with a monster?”

  “I’m not putting together any new cases. He gave me a cold case: Mike Anderson. I had just barely walked in the door when the call came on the child.” She let out a long breath. “God, Wills, don’t you be raggin’ on me already.”

  He turned to the night, looking away; he clamped his mouth tight and squinted up and out. After a minute he reached and drew her close, massaging the back of her neck. “I’m beginning to wonder about your karma—this ‘being alone’ business.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

  —

  WILLS TRACED his finger down her back from her scalp to her tailbone as they lay on the bed facing the open window, the lace curtain flaring slightly at the bottom from an unusually warm April morning breeze. “Don’t move, okay?”

  She heard his bare feet land, heavy steps on the creaking wood floor. Then he was back on the rumpled bed, at her back, encircling her head, and lowering a chain and pendant around her neck. “Saint Michael,” he said.

  He was the patron saint of cops, in gold and about an inch in height with his sword raised, on a chain the length of which settled it right at her heart. She turned it between her fingers.

  “In honor of your promotion and to match your new gold shield. And, if you’re superstitious or religious, for your protection. I know you don’t wear jewelry, but he can hide there or not. Say something. Do you like it?”

  “Wills, I’m—I love it.” She clasped Michael in her palm. “Even with all you’ve had going on with the case and all, you took time to get this?”

  “I got the heavier chain so even with your action-hero ways it’ll likely stay with you. Besides, as a detective I was hoping you’d be able to leave some of that kick-ass stuff behind.”

  She shrugged, holding the pendant.

  “Seriously, it’s just a little less than a year since you were shot in the head.” He tapped at the tip of the scar at her scalp line with his knuckles. “You went off on your own after that, shut out everybody. So it really scares me that Huff didn’t give you a partner. You’re already too much of an I-can-do-it-by-myself person.”

  Salt, nude, except now for the gold chain and pendant, lifted herself into Wills’ lap. “We’ll figure it out, Wills. For now, thank you, thank you, for this gift.” She leaned him into the pillows with her kiss.

  —

  MASSIVE OLD OAK and spreading pecan trees shaded Wills’ street in the historic Grant Park community. There were only one or two surviving antebellums in the neighborhood—most were turn-of-the-twentieth-century or ’20s and ’30s bungalows, like the one Wills recently purchased. Living in town had made his life easier in that he was only ten minutes from the office and could make short stops while he was on the job to let the dogs out to the backyard or for quick walks to the park a block away.

  The Rotties’ low barks greeted them as they climbed the steps to the gate in a beautifully weathered fence that separated his place from the street and the houses on either side. Inside the entranceway the big brown-and-black lunky bitches swung their entire bodies in greeting, the foyer becoming a jumble of bumping dogs. Pansy and Violet snuffled Wonder, then Salt and their master. Wills squatted to get licked and handle their ruffs. Wills’ girls loved them some Wonder, who was smart and affectionate but wanted to run the show. The Rotties happily let him.

  There was plenty of room for the graceful Rotties. Wills had stored most of his furniture while he had been renovating. A big kitchen ran the width of the entire back of the house, walls down to the studs and raw boards, but it was fully functional, and he’d set a beautiful, rough-hewn parson’s table in its center, where he quickly went to assembling sandwiches and fruit.

  Salt let the dogs out in the backyard, then wandered through the rooms, noting a little progress here and there. While maybe not systematic, Wills was meticulous with his craftsmanship—a thoroughly stripped mantel, smooth as skin, fireplace tiles cleaned to their original shine and stacked ready to be mortared back around reconstructed hearths. “I can see how you love this house,” she said, returning to the kitchen. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

  “It may take a lifetime at this rate.” Wills poured lemonade with lemon slices into tall glasses.

  “When will you be able to take your weekends, both days, again?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got no suspects. The husband, even though I haven’t been able to interview him ’cause he’s ‘under a doctor’s care,’ according to his lawyer,” Wills sighed, “and has an alibi. Even the wife’s family confirms he had the fishing trip to Florida planned for weeks.”

  “Any reason to suspect the marriage was shaky?”

  “No. And even if it was, I don’t see him, from what I’ve learned so far, killing his daughters.” Wills put the sandwiches and a big ceramic bowl of mixed fruit on the table. “Come on—let’s leave all that for a bit.”

  After eating, they took the dogs for a walk under the trees that lined the neighborhood. They shared the sidewalks with couples pushing strollers, tyke cycles, and baby carriages. On one corner sat an old brick church, its steeple reaching far above the rooftops. Beside the steep steps was a sign advertising the online contact at AirJesus.net. Music jumped from the open doors, a gospel band accompaning a rollicking choir as the congregation flowed out to the sidewalks.

  With the music following them down the street, Wills stopped and pointed down a weedy access between two houses. “See down that alley? I worked a murder back there five years ago.”

  “The neighborhood has changed, huh?”

  “Some.” He squinted down the shaded lane. “I drive through almost any neighborhood now and I come upon someplace that’s been tied with yellow ribbon.”

  The afternoon began to heat as they headed through the park and up the wide path of the hill to one of the last remnants of the Civil War and the Battle of Atlanta. “Last time I was up here I was chasing perps.” She laughed. “Pepper caught them both at the same time on the other side of the park. ’Course we never heard the end of his crowing. Anyway, I’d gone to this side of the park, in case they got this far. When I heard Pepper on the radio saying he had them, I started back to the car. I happened to look down and there was this little basket right in the center of some newly turned dirt. In it were two white feathers and about six or so yellow rose heads. It was sitting on a flat slate stone with four dimes, heads up. I thought it was an animal grave or a voodoo shrine, who knows. Right here beside this tree.” She looked at the ground, turning over brown leaves with the toe of her shoe. “Nothing left now.”

  Only an old historical society stand-alone brass marker on a post testified to the significance of the hill that had been Fort Walker. It was the highest land elevation in the city. Downtown buildings in the distance appeared over the tops of the trees.

  “Voodoo. Slaves brought it first from Africa to Haiti and then here.” Wills climbed and stood on top of the berm, looking out over the park to the city skyline.

  Salt strode up beside him. “A lot of soldiers died here. My father’s great-grandfather fought this battle. The family said he was never right afterward.”

  Wills reached over and smoothed back a damp curl from Salt’s forehead. “Do you know the rest of the story about Saint Michael?” He lifted the gold chain and pendant from her shirt.

  “Didn’t he fight the devil or something?”

  “Yep, and won. But what a lot of people a
nd cops don’t know is that he’s also an angel of death. But in a good way. He’s supposed to carry souls to heaven, where they’re judged and also given a chance to redeem themselves.”

  “Busy dude, fighting the devil, delivering souls. Speaking of busy, don’t we still need to get to the market? You’re back on tomorrow, right?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He took her hand as they galloped down the hill, allowing gravity and momentum to pull them from the berm.

  —

  THEY DROPPED the dogs at Wills’ place and drove to the market on the north side of the city to an area that was predominantly Asian and Latino, the main artery giving the area its name, Buford Highway, a Southern road, running now through an international community. It had begun as a path used by farmers north of the city to bring their produce to town. In the seventies, cheap housing along the corridor made the area attractive to new immigrants. Those roots took hold so well that when construction began for the ’96 Olympics, the highway drew even more immigrants looking for work. Now marquees in several languages advertised the best food in the Southeast. And for shopping there was no better or fresher fish and produce to be had than from what people called the “Asian Farmer’s Market.”

  Inside the immense converted warehouse, Wills began his systematic shopping through the sections, organized according to ethnicity, and left Salt to her usual wandering. This time it was a display, five shelves, three feet in length, at the end of one of the aisles that caught her eye. Where there would normally be impulse-buy items attracting the attention of people passing in the main corridors, there were dozens of religious figurines for sale—seven- and fifteen-inch Shiva, Ganesha, Buddha, Jesus, and bodhisattvas. They were roughly made and poorly painted, flat white or black, with only slight dabs of color and gilt for the eyes and jewels.

  Wills came by with a loaded cart. “What did you find?” He smiled.

  “Assorted God,” she said, pointing to the label “ASSORTED GOD.”

  —

  “THEY WEREN’T beautiful or even pretty. But they must be worth having for someone, maybe somebody scared, sentimental, or needing luck or good karma? I imagined a woman standing there and choosing: ‘Let’s see. I’ve gotten everything on my list: coriander, dragon fruit, noodles.’ Then Shiva catches her eye.” Salt and Wills sat on the back porch with all the house and porch lights off. The clouds had disappeared and the moon gleamed off everything. Even Wonder’s black fur sparkled in the moonlight.

  “A thousand people shop that market in a day. At night some worker mops the aisles, a manager locks the doors, turns out the lights, and sets the alarm, that little blinking red button. And Shiva sits there, extra arms extended, and Ganesha, his trunk lifted.” She raised her arm elephant-like.

  Inside, the timer on the clothes dryer buzzed. “Your clothes are done, sweetie.” Wills put his hands on his thighs to stand. “Back to reality.”

  The dog stuck his nose in her lap, pushing under her hand, the onyx of his eyes crowding out the amber irises.

  —

  WILLS AND WONDER watched from the front room window until the taillights of her car disappeared down the road. There were nights when he slept over at Salt’s—better to leave in the early morning after a good night’s sleep. “Okay, buddy.” Wills rubbed the dog’s shiny fur, kneaded the lean flank muscles underneath, and followed him to the couch where they both drew deep breaths and began to nod. Wills was soon asleep on the sofa. The dog lay beside him on the floor, ears twitching up when he heard a car on the road, down when it was not her car, his eyes, blinking reflected moonlight, only partially closed, then open.

  CHURCH

  Vibrations from the gigantic pipe organ came through the shiny ceramic tile flooring to the soles of her shoes and up to her knees. The auditorium of the colossal Big Calling Church reverberated with bass notes of something in a minor key. Salt began to walk toward the back of the space, looking up in order to locate the position of the organist somewhere high in the sanctuary above. The pews, walls, floors, and even the windows were all finished in shades of beige and pastel pinks. Enormous columns down the sides of the aisles were filigreed with plaster cherubs and doves.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  Salt startled. “Damn.”

  The two men were sitting together in the otherwise empty nave, less than three feet from where Salt had stopped to look up toward the front. She immediately recognized one of the men as Reverend Midas Prince. His dark features and broad nose were ubiquitous at any and all significant events in the Atlanta public forum—celebrations, televised services, civil rights holidays—wherever the media gathered. He was wearing a suit that perfectly blended with the décor.

  “Get Madison,” he said to the light-complexioned young man beside him who immediately scurried from the pew.

  “I apologize, Reverend Prince. I was startled. I didn’t see you there.”

  “So you don’t normally curse? Or just not in the presence of others? Or in God’s house?” He stood and buttoned his suit coat over a collarless light pink shirt.

  “I’m sorry.” Salt retrieved her badge case from a back pocket. “Here’s my identification. I’m Detective Alt.” She had to raise her voice above a crescendo from the organ.

  The preacher took the ID wallet and opened it, and then took his time looking back and forth between her photo on the laminated card and her, his nose and mouth scrunched as if he smelled something bad. “How did you get in? All the doors are supposed to be locked.” He leaned toward her so he could hear her answer over the organ, which was rising to a flourish.

  Salt waited for the music to finish, but the organist kept building to what now seemed an ever-distant climax.

  “Enough, Karl.” Prince yelled with all his famous oratorical force.

  The silence was immediate, a vacuum in contrast with the previous sonic bombardment.

  The young man returned followed by an Atlanta police officer, dressed in the green fatigues of the SWAT team, their footsteps echoing as they came down the aisle. “Hello, hello, hello, little lady,” hailed Sandy “True Grit” Madison, a square-jawed walking cliché. Even his fellow team members made fun of him, mocking his affected John Wayne walk anytime they could play it for a laugh either behind his back or to goad him. She knew him mostly by his all-hat-and-no-cattle cowboy reputation. But he’d also been with the SWAT when calls on her beat had escalated and procedure required a SWAT response, more manpower and equipment than were available to beat officers—some barricaded gunmen, hostage situations, a couple of suicide and bomb threats, suspicious packages, and explosive materials. He completed his greeting by wrapping her into his six-foot-five bear hug.

  “So you know this woman?” Prince asked him.

  “Sure, Reverend. Everybody knows Salt. She’s kinda like, uh, Wonder Woman, that’s it. Fightin’ the bad guys all by herself. She shot and killed one last year, didn’t you, Salt? And you just made detective, right?” He play-punched her on her bicep.

  “That’s why I’m here, Reverend. I’ve been assigned a case you may be able to shed some light on.”

  “You couldn’t call and make an appointment?” said Prince.

  “Yeah, Salt,” said Madison. “You should come to me first with anything related to Reverend Prince and law enforcement.”

  “You’re right, Madison, but I was out anyway and just stopped by, hoping I could get a few minutes with Reverend Prince. You know how it is.” She turned to the preacher. “Mike Anderson’s parents said you were very busy and hard to get an appointment with, but like I said, I took a chance and now here I am and here you are.”

  “‘Mike Anderson,’” repeated Prince.

  “Mike Anderson. I loved his music when I was a kid,” said the young man from behind the preacher and previously excluded from the conversation.

  “You can be excused,” Prince said over his shoulde
r. With a pout, the young man turned toward the exit.

  “Yeah, but Salt, Reverend Prince is a busy—”

  “Why would anybody be interested in Mike Anderson after all these years?” Prince cut Madison off and stepped toward Salt. “He killed himself on drugs.”

  “We’ve gotten new information.”

  “‘New information.’ What kind of new information?”

  As Prince came closer, Salt realized that he was her same height and remembered that she’d always thought he wore lifts in his shoes or stacked heels. “A witness,” she said.

  Prince made a dismissive, flapping noise with his lips. “What kind of witness?”

  “We’re trying to corroborate, or disprove, his allegations, Reverend. I’d like to ask you about your interventions with Mike before he died.”

  Prince shook back his coat cuff and looked down at the large-faced watch on his wrist. “I have an appointment I need to get to.”

  Prince was already striding up the center aisle as Madison took a business card from the leg pocket of his fatigue pants and held it out to Salt. It had a camouflage background with black lightning lettering for his name and phone numbers. “I’ll walk you out. What door did you come in? I need to check the schedule. Somebody musta screwed up, leaving a door unlocked. I give these guys these cushy extra jobs, and then they do me like this.”

  “Good EJ?” Salt asked, referring to the off-duty job. Most cops worked some kind of extra job in order to supplement their pay. Their law enforcement and jurisdictional powers were active no matter if they were on or off duty.

  “It’s real cushy, Salt. Want me to get you on?” He put his arm over her shoulder as they walked toward the door. “Directing traffic on Sunday is the most work we do. Otherwise it’s just hangin’ around, doing whatever the Rev needs doin’.”

  “’Fraid I can’t. I have all I can do to keep up with the new assignment and my home life.” She slipped from under his arm. “Thanks, though.”