by Layton Green
Whenever she needed to leave without leaving, whether to flee the soul-numbing reality of the trailer park or a humiliating situation at school or to escape an abusive stepfather, all three of which had come and gone like bad weekends, Blue went to the safe space in her head.
She went to the movies.
Was this an Indiana Jones problem? Crocodile Dundee, Lethal
Weapon, Beverly Hills Cop ? Just thinking about those films brought a smile to her lips, calmed her down a fraction.
But no. This was not a time for larger-than-life, sugar-coated eighties films. The danger outside was all too real. She had to channel true emotion. RagingBull territory. The Color Purple. The Killing Fields.
Grit, realism, survival.
Blood and fury.
With a deep breath and a snarl, Blue strode to the cabinet above the sink and grabbed the bottle of Southern Comfort. The whiskey burned as it went down, so bad it made her choke. But she kept it down and felt better. Calmer, more in control.
Okay, Blue. Think.
Cobra didn’t know who had been in the woods that night, or he wouldn’t be going door to door. Should she hide ? Run away? Give him the camera and come clean?
All of those options were risky. Hide, and she looked guilty. Give him the camera, and he would probably decide to tie up loose ends. She could run if she had to, but she didn’t have the money to get very far, and she feared he would find her. Contrary to what regular people thought, people on the street all knew each other. Unless she took to the woods—and she didn’t have the skills to survive long term—Cobra would catch wind of her before long. Someone would narc.
She couldn’t go to the police, either. Cops didn’t protect people like her.
Pushing out a breath, she decided she had to face him and throw him offthe scent. The variety show flyer suggested a high school student, or maybe the parent of one. But there were a dozen teens living in the trailer park. Blue kept her dark hair short, as short as a boy’s. She had worn a denim jacket the night of the murder. With any luck, whoever had glimpsed her in the woods would assume he had seen a young man.
The only other identifying object was the Ghostbusters key ring. No one had seen her with it, she was sure of that. She never took it out. It was one of the few things she owned that belonged to her father, a private thing she kept from the world.
A knock at the door. Soft but insistent.
This was it, then. More deep breaths. She bit down hard on her lip to calm her nerves. Right before she opened the door, Blue took another swig and let the whiskey fire spread through her belly. She channeled the working class sneer of DeNiro, the helpless rage of a young black woman in rural Georgia in the 1930s.
In the open doorway, so close she could smell the musk of his cologne, a clean-shaven face peered at her from deep inside the hood. His stare was like an ice pick, cold and bladed, unfeeling.
“Yeah?” she said, somehow managing not to croak the word.
He thrust his hand forward, causing her to flinch, but instead of striking her, Cobra opened his palm to reveal the food stamps, key ring, and flyer she had dropped. “These belong to you? I found them in the woods.”
It was the first time she had ever heard him speak. His voice was soft and calm, with the faintest trace of an accent. Though she yearned to grab her father’s key ring and slam the door in his face, she flicked her eyes down at his palm, noticing the underside of a black ring, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “Nope.”
His stare lingered so long she felt tendrils of fear creeping up her legs and down her arms, slow and malevolent. “What about a friend?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“That’s too bad.”
Blue put a hand on the door frame. “That’s life.”
His eyes roamed past her, studying the interior. The intelligence in his eyes unnerved her. She had imagined him as an empty vessel, a dumb thug with a gun.
Then again, that was probably the assumption people made about her. Ignorant white trash from the trailer park.
“You smoke ?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
He was still holding his left palm out. With his other hand, he reached into a coat pocket, withdrew a packet of Marlboro Lights, and offered her one. She accepted. With a deft series of movements, he shook the cigarettes out, returned the pack to his coat, then took a lighter out of his back pocket. At first, she thought it was the silver lighter she had lost, and her knees felt watery. Watching her the entire time, Cobra lit her cigarette, and then his own.
It was a stainless steel lighter, but not the silver one. He closed his palm over the lost items. “Ask around for me. Find out who these belong to.”
Was he toying with her, she wondered? Did he know?
“Okay,” she said, forcing indifference into her voice.
“There’s something in it for you if you do.”
“How do I find you?”
“I’ll be back. Soon.” He blew smoke, backed away slowly, then turned and started walking down the gravel drive pockmarked with potholes that snaked around the trailer park.
“Hey,” she called out.
Cobra stopped, did a half-turn.
“Thanks for the smoke.”
He took another drag, raised the cigarette in acknowledgment, then continued on to the next trailer.
With a shudder, Blue shut the door and sank to the floor, shivering as if she had the flu.
6
After leaving Claire’s house, Preach returned to the office to start on some paperwork. Top of the list was getting a court order for David’s cell phone records. That shouldn’t be a problem. In general, privacy concerns ceased at death in the eyes of the law.
His eyes lingered, as they often did, on the cubicle that had belonged to one of his old partners. Preach visited him every now and then in prison, wincing at the gradual dimming oflight in his eyes. From Preach’s time as a prison chaplain, before he joined the Atlanta PD, he knew the true horror of incarceration was not the loss of freedom, but the daily choices one was forced to make to survive. Navigating the jungle without becoming one of the animals.
Most people who landed behind bars—not all, but most—had disadvantaged upbringings and poor choices to blame.
It was prison that turned them into criminals.
After finishing the paperwork he tapped his pen on his desk, thought about what to do, checked in with forensics, and headed back to his cruiser.
The crime scene in the woods behind the mill was almost more eerie in daylight, a square of yellow tape screaming for attention in the ancient silence of the woods. An aberration of nature among the foraging squirrels and the bucolic chirps and whistles of the birds.
The pines swayed and creaked in the wind as Preach took a knee and stared at the muddy remains of the sunken pool where David’s body had lain. An old, shredded bird’s nest hung like a shroud from one of the branches extending over the drained sump. No new insight came to him, and he slowly circled the crime scene.
Nothing stood out among the carpet of wet leaves except for discarded beer cans and a few plastic bottles. So far, forensics had uncovered a few heel prints on the dirt path. Most likely a set of work boots, most likely male.
That meant little. Even if someone had swept the ground, a few old prints might have been missed. It would be impossible to ascertain whether they were related to the murder.
Again, the fact that called out most to the detective was one of detraction. The lack of evidence of broken branches or other signs of a struggle.
Where, he wondered, was the real crime scene ?
Preach gathered his thoughts while grabbing an early dinner at his favorite ‘cue shack. The special of the day was burnt tips, the caviar of the barbecue world. Though considered a delicacy of Kansas City style, the true provenance of burnt tips was shrouded in culinary lore. All Preach knew was that he was biting into a succulent, fire-crisped, wood-smoked, fat-caramelized, swoon-worthy piece of cubed p
ork so good he had almost forgotten, for a brief moment, about David and Claire.
Almost.
Preach had never been good at leaving the job behind. There was a fine line between lazy detective work and healthy detachment from a case. Another razor-thin margin separated diligent investigative work from dangerous obsession.
The pressure of a murder, the heightened emotions and public scrutiny, blurred the lines even further.
He took a few bites of fried okra and sipped on his sweet tea as the other patrons gave him sidelong glances and tried not to sit too close. They either recognized him from the news last year or sensed from his demeanor and overcoat draped across the chair that he was not a regular civilian. When he had first started on the job, the isolation had bothered him, but over the years he began to wear it like a second skin.
After he finished eating, he steepled his fingers and continued to think. The most common motives for a murder were, by far, money and love. A slew of related motivations fell under the umbrella of these two broad categories, such as jealousy, lust, greed, or revenge.
Of course, there were always outliers. Motives and murderers that defied easy categorization, or even reason. Psychopaths, sufferers of weird fetishes, political or religious fanatics.
But in terms of domestic homicides, money and love accounted for so many murders that it was foolish to look elsewhere unless presented with compelling evidence.
On paper, David’s case should be less challenging than most. A high school student narrowed the playing field. Unless the kid had a secret life, his world should be limited to family, friends, and school. A small town like Creekville shrunk the possibilities even further.
Yes, David might have had a secret life, or his murder might involve some bizarre motive. Those were always possibilities.
But if Preach had to bet?
He was placing his chips on money or love. A drug deal gone bad, a jilted rival. He hated to think about it, but someone even closer to David might be involved.
With this case, he worried less about failure and more about what skeletons he would dig up in the process.
Brett Moreland lived in a sprawling granite house in a Chapel Hill subdivision full of similar McMansions. In contrast to the leafy, graceful environs that defined most of the beautiful college town, Brett’s treeless neighborhood stood out like a hippo in a trout pond.
An old town filled with old money, home to the oldest public university in the country, Chapel Hill had long been the state’s genteel uncle. Raleigh was the heart of government and Charlotte was the business hub, but if one wanted to rub shoulders with the North Carolina elite and make a deal with the true power brokers over a fine scotch in the back of a country club steak house, then one delved into the oak- lined heart of Chapel Hill.
In the dying light Preach glimpsed a lake between the houses. He parked on the curb and walked to Brett’s front door. Above him loomed a twenty-foot portico supported by white pillars, and he estimated the house was six or seven thousand square feet. In Chapel Hill this type of place would run a few million. At least.
Brett answered the doorbell after the second ring, dressed in a tracksuit and huffing from exertion. “Sorry, just finishing up a workout.” As Preach took off his coat, Brett noticed the officer’s thick chest and arms. “You lift ?”
“I do.”
“Nautilus, free weights, isometrics?”
Preach shrugged. “Sometimes I pick up heavy things to try to clear my head.”
Brett gave him a quizzical look and dabbed his forehead with his towel. “Come on in. Glass of water? Tea? Something stronger?”
Why did people always feel the need to offer an on-duty policeman a drink, Preach wondered? “I’m fine.”
Brett waved at the living room. “Make yourself at home. Let me grab a beer and I’ll be right with you.”
After an annoyed glance at his watch, Preach absorbed the cream- colored walls, a chandelier dangling from a high ceiling, and bands of wrought iron wrapping the balcony on the second floor. Almost no knickknacks, very little art or furniture, and a giant television above the gas fireplace. A bachelor’s pad.
As always, the detective chose his seat carefully, selecting a high- backed armchair with his back to the wall. The chair faced a windowed nook that afforded a view of an expansive green lawn ambling down to the lake. An electric blue speedboat was tied off to a wooden dock.
Brett returned with a mug of foam-topped beer. He held it up. “You sure ?”
1 m sure.
The host sat on the edge of a suede sofa. “So, what’s up?”
Preach waited before he spoke, hoping Brett would absorb some of the gravity of the situation. As successful as the man obviously was, Preach got the sense he didn’t absorb very much.
“What’s up?” Preach repeated.
“1 mean, 1 know what’s up. 1 can’t believe the kid’s dead.” Brett looked down at his beer and let out a long breath. “But what’s up with me ? What do you want to know?”
“What do you do for a living, Brett ? Claire mentioned marketing.” He brightened and began speaking very fast. “Strategic management consulting for online companies. Mostly vertical integration marketing. You familiar with that ?”
“Nope.”
“The product, the industry: doesn’t matter. 1 can leverage it all. There’s unlimited growth potential. 1 teach companies how to find their own customers online, keep them invested, and sell to them throughout the year. Inbound, automation, outbound distribution. Cutting out the middleman. Sound good? You want to see it in action?”
He reached for a laptop on the coffee table, and Preach held out a hand. “Some other time. 1t looks like you’re doing all right for yourself” A cunning light entered Brett’s eyes, revealing, Preach thought, a bit more of his true self.
Brett talked fast and hard and might like to play the fool, but he was not stupid.
“It’s almost too easy,” Brett said. “The vast majority of business owners, they’re in love with their product, so they can’t see the big picture. You know how they say you should never represent yourself in court ? My motto is no one should be in charge of their own sales and marketing.” He draped an arm across the sofa and took a satisfied swig of beer.
If I had to have dinner with this guy, Preach thought, I might have to poison my own drink. “I guess we have a similar job.”
Brett’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that ?”
“We both clean up after other people’s mistakes.”
Brett looked unsure whether he should laugh or not. “I prefer to think of it as strategic management consulting.”
“So do I. For the police chief of Creekville. I need to know where David went the night of the murder, Brett. Do you have any insight on that?”
“Claire said they had an argument—” he paused for a beat, as if wondering if he should have disclosed that detail—”and David drove off. She said that’s the last time she saw him. I have no idea where he went.”
Preach thought Brett’s hesitation was a little too obvious. Was he making sure the detective knew about the argument with Claire? “When was the last time you saw him?”
“They came over for dinner the night before. Rib eyes on the grill. Pittsburgh rare, melted blue cheese, the works.”
“Do you know what they argued about that night ?”
Brett’s eyes slipped away. “Dunno. Grades, girls. Maybe me, I guess.” “You?”
“Hey man, it’s no secret the kid and I didn’t get along. What can I say? I wasn’t daddy.”
“You mentioned his grades,” Preach said, keeping him off balance. “They weren’t good?”
“Oh, they were great. Claire was always pushing harder.”
“And David resented that?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Preach let that go. “Did David have a girlfriend?”
“Claire didn’t talk about that?”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
; Brett spread a hand. “Okay, okay. Not a regular one, but the kid did alright, you know ? Football star, got his mother’s looks. He was chasing after this one girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day, but isn’t that how it always is with chicks ?”
“Which girl was that ?”
“Mackenzie Rathbun. She was older, a college girl.”
Preach took out his pen and pad and made a note. “How did he know her?”
“Over the summer, David bussed tables for a few bucks at The Courtyard. It’s a high-end restaurant near—”
“I know it. Did they ever go out?”
“According to David, she barely knew he existed.”
Could be an angle, Preach thought. Maybe David got himself in trouble trying to impress her. “Tell me more about the tension between you two. He worried you were trying to replace his father?”
Brett took a drink of beer, sniffed, and crossed his legs. “I’d marry Claire today if I could. I mean, have you seen her? Hey, she said you knew each other in high school.”
“Small world.”
“Yeah. Anyway, she wanted to wait until David graduated.”
“That’s almost a year away.”
“Tell me about it. I tried to move them in here, but she wasn’t having it. Because he wasn’t having it.”
“Why not?”
Brett gave him a sharp look. “I already told you. I’m not his father.” “That was the extent of it?” Preach said calmly. “He resented another man in the house?”
“To be honest, I think the kid just didn’t like me.”
I can’t imagine why not. “Did your arguments ever get violent ?” “What ? No. Hey man, are we just talking here, or are you accusing me of something? Because I can call my lawyer.”
“Do you need a lawyer, Brett ?”
“No,” he muttered, and took a swig of beer.
“Then we’re just talking.”
