by Matthew Iden
I nodded, thoughtful. I’d never met a cop who wouldn’t cheat if it helped him close the book on an investigation, but maybe they did things differently here.
Palmer continued. “And, I don’t want to be a bad host, but I sure would appreciate it if you wouldn’t nose around things yourself. I know you might be tempted. You’ve certainly got the pedigree for it. But we’ve got some problems of our own and it could really send the wrong message if an ex-cop were to start asking questions real similar to the ones we’re going to be asking.”
I said I understood, which wasn’t really agreeing. Palmer slapped me on the back and left, a bundle of well-groomed energy. I turned back to Warren.
“Any chance you’d tell me what the lead is that convinced your chief that Hope’s murder is an out-of-town snuff job?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “What part of ‘don’t poke your nose into this’ did you not understand?”
“Never hurts to ask,” I said.
“You don’t know that,” Warren said, a trifle grimly I thought, and showed me the door.
ii.
Stale coffee, bright lights. Too early. A phone bleeps three desks over. The smell of paper and copier ink, sweet and burnt, is making me nauseous as I try to finish a report. Stan walks over, a little hitch-swing in his step. He stands there, sipping loudly from his mug.
I sigh and look up. “Land something?”
“You could say that,” Stan says. He wipes a finger over his upper lip, trying to hide a smile.
He’s a good cop, I remind myself. “You in a sharing mood?”
“You know Francis, over in Major Narcotics? Looks like he’s had his eye on our crack king over in Fort Dupont for a while. Piece of trash named Maurice Watts. Wastes anybody who takes a shine to his girl or his car or his music.”
“Like our friend Darnell?”
“He was number two. If you don’t count the little girl.”
“Out of?”
“Four. Ballistics links to all of them.”
I frowned. “They been sitting on this?”
“No evidence, no witnesses. Not all of them were soldiers or street dealing for him, so it took a while to make the connection.”
“Okay.”
“One call came through. Seems they got themselves a bitch. Some white kid from the sticks, trying to make his bones.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Stan wipes his lip again. “I shit you not. Looks like this loser delivers product, picks up the cash, shines the shoes, does whatever the boss tells him.”
“And you think he’s good for Darnell and the rest?”
A theater shrug. “Francis says the homies are falling-down laughing at this kid. They’ve got him running all over God’s green earth, he’s so damn eager to please. Not much of a stretch to see him capping whoever the boss tells him to.”
“So, this hick goes from dropping off baggies to stone-cold killer?”
“It’s a theory.”
“A lousy one, Stan,” I say. “Nobody saw a white kid in black Southeast shooting people? Four different times? Gimme a break.”
“He shot that little girl.”
“Someone shot her. And that’s all we know.”
His smile fades. “Hey, Marty. Don’t shit on this, okay? I didn’t say we’re ready to pick him up. I said it’s a theory.”
“Okay, Stan,” I say, turning back to my screen. “You let me know when you got something to back it up.”
Stan stomps away and I forget about it.
Chapter Six
Breakfast that morning had been a tepid cup of coffee, two eggs, cheddar grits, and toast at a diner named Lula Belle’s. The seats were sticky and the wallpaper was a tan-and-brown affair with a Civil War motif of exploding cannons, charging Confederate infantry, and mustachioed men on horseback waving sabers. My paper place mat listed famous landmarks of central Virginia and informed me that the state bird was the cardinal, the state tree was the dogwood, and the state mammal was the Townsend’s big-eared bat. The diner was next door to my hotel and my waitress was a woman I would swear was the sister to—or clone of—the desk clerk at the Mosby. I ordered breakfast, then leaned over to snag a newspaper from the table beside mine.
I leafed through it in five minutes, noting two things of interest—that a teeny-tiny town like Cain’s Crossing had its own newspaper, The Sentinel, and that ninety percent of the articles were written by one man, Chick Reyes. I went through the paper a second time, wondering when The Sentinel’s star reporter found time to sleep. Reyes had three front-page stories, the crime wire, a feature on a new interstate spur going in, a garden section, a town council meeting, and the obits—all covered in one issue. Either his stories were complete inventions or the guy had an energy level I could only dream about.
The articles were well written and to the point, snappy, in perfect inverted-triangle pattern of the type they teach in journalism class. For a town as small as Cain’s Crossing, there was a conspicuous lack of fluff. I would’ve expected half the columns to be on swimming pools opening or Mrs. Carter’s grandfather found wandering around the town square in his boxers. But the articles had real subjects, presented the facts, disclosed an interview or two, and ended succinctly. Reyes could’ve been writing for the Washington Post or New York Times.
I’d just turned back to the first page to go through the paper a third time when I caught a glimpse of Ferris, Dorothea’s helper, walking down the sidewalk. I scrambled out from behind the table to catch up with him. Oblivious to the heat, he was dressed in jeans and a waffled, long-sleeved undershirt that had a dark sweat stain discoloring the small of his back.
“Ferris,” I called, chasing after him.
Ferris glanced over his shoulder. When he saw me, he hesitated, struggling between ignoring me and stopping. In the end, courtesy won. He stopped and turned to face me. “Yes?”
“Got time for a cup of coffee? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He shook his head. “Running errands for Ms. Hope. Can’t stop.”
“Not even for a second?”
“Sorry.” He turned to go.
I grabbed his arm. My hand, not small, didn’t make it halfway around his bicep. Ferris turned to look at me, and I saw something interesting in his eyes. Not a threat, exactly, but not the expression of hired help I’d seen in the sunroom of the Hope house.
“You know Mrs. Hope and Mary Beth have asked me to look into J.D.’s murder,” I said, letting go of his arm. “You don’t care who killed J.D.?”
“I care,” he said. “I grew up with him.”
“You did?”
He sighed slightly, already tired of our conversation. “Never knew my dad. My mama cleaned house for the Hopes. She died when I was seven. Ms. Hope raised me like I was one of her own.”
“So, J.D. was like a brother to you?”
“No.”
“No?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“J.D. wasn’t so bad when he ran around here, busting into cars and getting into trouble. Ms. Hope didn’t like it, but at least he was around. But it hurt her terrible when he went away and got himself thrown in jail. J.D. was my brother until then.”
“And when he came back?”
Ferris just shook his head, turned, and walked away. I called his name again, but he didn’t even break stride. I could’ve chased him, but for what? I needed his cooperation. If I were to get on his bad side, I would not only lose any hint from him about J.D., I’d never actually hear another word out of his mouth.
I went back inside and picked up the paper again. The family of the murder victim had told me to get lost, I’d had a fruitless meeting with the local police department, and Ferris had shucked my questions without missing a beat. When it came to solving J.D. Hope’s murder, I had some background, but no real leads. What I needed was someone with real information who didn’t have a personal interest in the case. Someone with contacts, hard facts, and maybe a theory or two about J.D. H
ope’s murder that didn’t lead down a dead end. Someone who might have an interest in hearing what I turned up.
. . .
I got into my car to drive to The Sentinel, using a one-page tourist map I’d grabbed off the diner’s counter, then realized that the newspaper office was a block and a half away. So I got back out of the car and walked to the corner of Maple and Pearl where The Sentinel, according to a sign in the front window, had taken residence in 1923. I was drenched with sweat from the short walk and sighed with pleasure when I hit an ice-cold wall of air-conditioning inside the front door.
The foyer was a real throwback, with maple-carved doors topped by transoms and pebbled-glass windows with hand-painted letters. A door on the left was open and through it I could hear the tapping of computer keys. As I made my way down the hall, pinching my shirt away from my body, a palm slapped hard on a desk, and someone yelled, “Shit!”
I poked my head in. A man was seated at an antiquated rolltop desk in front of a computer screen, his back turned to me. He was cursing under his breath and alternately looking down at the keyboard, then at the screen, as if the answer to his problem could be found somewhere in between. He had thick black hair and a gunslinger’s mustache so wide that it extended past his face. The jeans and blue-and-white checkered shirt he wore could be made more formal by the corduroy blazer hanging from the back of the chair. While I watched, he yanked open a side drawer and pulled forth a small tin of what I figured were mints. He grabbed two, popped them in his mouth, and went back to focusing on the computer.
I tapped on the glass of the door with my keys. “You Chick?”
He jumped, startled, and I expected him to growl at me in his best J. Jonah Jameson voice. Instead, he spun around and jumped out of his chair, a smile on his face and his hand extended like a lance. “That’s me. Sentinel’s owner, operator, and star reporter. Who am I shaking hands with?”
I introduced myself and asked him if he had time for some questions. “Though judging by the number of bylines you’ve got,” I said, “I understand if you can’t talk until after dinner.”
Reyes grinned, which spread his mustache wide, displaying very white teeth. “It’s not so bad. The trick is to write something early in the morning. Then, if you feel like slacking off, you’ve at least got something to build on. Learned that in the Army.”
He gestured to an old ladder-back chair next to the desk. I sat. Reyes took the seat in front of the computer. He clicked the monitor off, then turned to give me his full attention. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m interested in the murder of J.D. Hope,” I said.
“Pulled in by the billboard?” he asked, grinning again.
“It caught my eye,” I said. “But I, ah, knew J.D. in a former life and felt obligated to do more than just give the family my condolences.”
“Knew him how?”
I considered. I might as well tell him. Reyes was going to find out anyhow, sooner or later. “I was his arresting officer years ago in DC. It sounds stupid, but I had a soft spot for the guy and was surprised when I saw he’d been killed.”
“You thought Hope would die an old man?”
“Not necessarily. But let’s just say your odds of making it to retirement age increase significantly once you stop running drugs for crack gangs in Southeast DC and move back to the boonies.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Reyes said. He leaned back in his chair, grabbed a pencil off his desk, and started turning it in his hands. “The Cain’s Crossing PD give you any help?”
“Sure,” I said. “They told me J.D. Hope was a shitbird who got what was coming to him and that I should keep from meddling as long as I was in your fair town.”
The grin popped on again, like a flashlight. “Lloyd runs a tight ship over there, doesn’t he? I do all the crime reporting in this town—hell, I do all the reporting—and I can’t get more than three sentences from the chief that actually mean anything. I’d be lucky to get a full statement if a meteor hit the mayor’s house.”
I frowned. “He didn’t seem tight-lipped to me.”
“No, no, no. Not tight-lipped. He talks a lot. But when you’re an intrepid reporter like myself, you’re hunting for meat on the bone, you know? Something you can tear off and turn into a real story. Lloyd says plenty, but when it comes to substance…well, let’s just say that when I get back to the computer here and check my notes after interviewing him, most of the time I don’t have shit. He’s one cagey dude.”
I squirmed in the chair. It was a perfect “L” shape and, while great for my posture, was about as comfortable as sitting on a waffle iron. “So you’ve had to cultivate other sources for times when the chief doesn’t want to sink any ships?”
“I have,” he said and sat there, grinning at me.
I sighed. “Quid pro quo?”
“An ex-cop that knows Latin. Amazing.” Reyes got serious for a second. “You said it yourself, I’ve got most of the bylines in the paper. If I see a chance to get a shortcut on a story, I have to take it.”
“Okay. I’m here totally unofficially. I couldn’t be more unofficial. I’m not even a private investigator. I’m just a guy who’s got more experience than most and has a penchant for getting to the bottom of things. I’d be happy to find even one little nugget of proof that J.D. got offed the way Chief Palmer says he did. If I had that, I’d drive right back over to the family and let them know their son and brother got what was coming to him.”
“But?’
“The brush-off I got wasn’t that severe, but it was total. And I don’t like walking away from things empty-handed when I’ve made up my mind to get some answers. So, I’m checking this out on my own.”
“And you don’t have squat to work with?”
“That’s about the size of it,” I admitted.
“You figure you’ll talk to The Sentinel’s ace reporter Chick Reyes and see what you can get out of him.”
“Nothing so crass,” I said. “I was going to see what I could get out of you in return for me sharing with you whatever I find.”
“A mutual scratching of backs, huh?” he asked, grinning.
“Exactly. You tell me what you know, I use it to get some answers. If those answers add up to a Pulitzer for you, great. Just keep my name out of it. Simple.”
“I’m supposed to invent some story for how an entirely new angle of the investigation just suddenly made an appearance?”
I shrugged. “You’re the reporter. But that’s only if there’s something to find. I’ve got a feeling that there’s not much more to see here than what Palmer is saying. Unless you’ve got something to tell me?”
Reyes tossed the pencil onto the desk, opened the drawer, and took two more mints from the tin. He offered me one, which I declined. “Ever try to quit smoking?”
I shook my head. “My dad smoked cigars. That was enough to keep me from starting.”
“Lucky,” he said and popped the mints. “So, J.D. Hope. Not the prodigal son. I wasn’t here when he left for greener pastures and a jail term, but stories cropped up all the time. Like when I’d do background. I’d ask someone what the drug scene had been like or where they chopped cars or who boosted stereos and J.D.’s name would be at the top of the list. Fondly, you know. Shake their heads and say something like, ‘that old so-and-so.’”
“And when he came back?”
“Different story,” he said. “I tried interviewing him, got nowhere. Tried the old lady. Same thing. Everyone was curious, of course. Would Dorothea take him back in? Was all forgiven? But they kept their distance and pretty soon the town got bored and went back to talking about NASCAR.”
“That doesn’t explain why the cops think he got popped by a hitter from DC,” I said. “Or, if he did, why he deserved it. The chief said Cain’s Crossing had some gang trouble. Was he mixed up in that?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but I’m a known quantity, you might say,” Reyes said. “It’s not like I can pretend there are o
ther reporters in town. Somebody tells me something, they know it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”
“So you know someone who might know something, but they won’t talk to you?”
“Yep.”
“But they might talk to me?”
“Uh-huh.”
I waited. He grinned. I sighed. “Quid pro quo?”
“Promise you’ll tell me what you find?”
I pretended to lick my finger and cross my heart. Reyes grabbed the pencil off the desk, scribbled something on the back of an envelope he plucked from the trash, and handed it to me.
I glanced at it. “What’s this?”
“That’s the address of J.D. Hope’s ex-wife.”
Chapter Seven
The address Chick gave me was for a mobile-home park on the outside of town called Woodland Corner. There was no office, just a small gravel lot that combined visitor parking spots with a huge Dumpster. I parked my car and walked into the lot. The soft hum of window-mounted AC units filled the air, punctuated occasionally by a distant barking and a mother yelling for “Jack” at the top of her lungs.
The lot numbering in the trailer park wasn’t even close to being complete or even coherent, and I wandered for fifteen minutes trying to find the number I’d jotted down. It gave me a new appreciation for mobile homes. The trailers were a mishmash of styles and construction, temporary homes turned into permanent abodes. Each was set back from the border with its neighbor by a car-length of grass. Toys and grills and tools took up the extra space. Clotheslines—some empty, some with long-forgotten tenants—webbed a few of the yards. Kids splashed and played in a stream that ran behind the property, trying to make the most of it on a sizzling-hot day. I had half a mind to join them.
Ginny Decker’s residence was a Fleetwood that hadn’t been moved in so long that a seven-foot sapling had grown through the triangular-shaped hitch on the front. The rotting of the wood deck that led to the door also testified to the long-term nature of the trailer’s placement, though it wasn’t a standout in the neighborhood. Of the sixty or so mobile homes that called the Woodland Corner trailer park home, it looked as though fifty had been wheeled into place decades earlier.
