One Right Thing (Marty Singer Mystery #3)

by Matthew Iden

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I edged back into the shadows of the carport as the headlights of a green Camry washed over me. I’d squeezed myself behind a flimsy tool shed and a rusty rake was poking me in the kidney, but I had to ignore it. I was concentrating on the driver of the Camry. My SIG was out and, while it had a black matte finish, I covered it with my free hand anyway to hide any glint. The driver stopped short of the carport entrance, pulling in only as far as the driveway—a habit that I’d already guessed by the blotch of oil stains on the cement. A pause. Then the headlights winked out and a large, heavy man heaved himself out of the car with a groan. He slammed the door shut and sauntered towards the front door of the little house, briefcase in hand. A tight green shirt and pink tie warred with each other across his front, the shirt straining so hard over his belly I could see his white undershirt peeking through. Even without the terrible fashion sense I knew who it was, but waited until his face was lit by the feeble yellow porch light next to the door for confirmation. Moths and beetles flew in suicidal circles around the light, careening into the vinyl siding with a repetitive ticking sound. The man reached out to open the screen door.

  “Warren,” I called, just loud enough.

  The detective froze. The hand holding his house keys was extended in front of him. Then, “Singer?”

  “The same.”

  He paused for a half second, then said, “I’m going to reach in my pocket for my phone. Act like I’m checking my email. No calls.”

  “Okay.”

  Warren placed his briefcase on the ground then fished around in his pocket and came out with a smartphone. A sterile white glow lit his face from below, all highlights and shadows, like something out of a horror flick. He wandered closer to the carport, as though he was in a cell phone daze.

  “Afraid someone is watching you, Detective?” I asked.

  “Looks like somebody is,” Warren said with his head bent, studying his phone. He played like he was fiddling with the buttons. “You gonna shoot me?”

  “Waste of a bullet.”

  He grunted. “So. Did you mean to blow that old barn across the county?”

  “It just happened that way. Though I’m not shedding any tears for the lost product.”

  He hmphed. “Boys down at the fire station owe you. They got all excited, chance to pull overtime and put on their hazmat suits. Can’t beat it with a stick.”

  “Glad I could help.” I waited.

  “What do you want, Singer?”

  “We’ve got a problem, Warren. There’s a gang in your town producing enough meth to rock the East Coast drug trade. In under a week, I fingered the members, made inroads with one of their flunkies, and found the location of one of their labs. But, as far as I can tell, I’m the only one looking into it. And I don’t even work here.”

  He nodded, like he’d read something in an email he agreed with. “You want a medal?”

  “Warren, my cat could’ve done the work. It took me an hour in the local library and a morning to stake out a lab. That’s it. You’ve had months to do the same. Which, based on some of the things you said out at the trailer park, leaves just two possibilities.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Either you and Palmer have one hell of a case against the Browers and you’re waiting for the right moment to drop the hammer on them.”

  “Or?”

  “You’re dirty as hell,” I said.

  I expected an explosive denial or a string of name-calling. He sighed instead. “Ain’t no one going to believe I’m checking my email for half an hour on the front stoop. Kitchen’s around back of the house. I’ll open the door. We’ll talk through the screen.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Since you asked, pretty fucking dumb. But if you really want to know what it is you stuck your nose into, come round back. Don’t matter to me none.”

  Warren clicked his phone off, picked up his briefcase, and went inside. Lights snapped on, illuminating the front yard in squares and rectangles. There was some banging around, then some classic country music—George Jones, maybe—filtered through the walls. It went on for a couple bars, then Warren turned up the volume.

  Keeping my SIG out, I padded out the rear of the carport and around the side of the house. I knew the way from snooping out Warren’s place earlier. By the time I got around the side, the back door was open and I could see him through the window over the sink. A spotlight bathed the yard in pools of light. I steered clear of the back door and crept to a far point in the backyard and watched the kitchen. The light snapped off, plunging the yard in darkness, then Warren appeared silhouetted in the doorway. He raised his hands, slowly turned in place, then leaned against the door frame on the other side of the screen door, looking out into the yard.

  Circling to stay out of his direct line of sight, I sidled up along the house until I was next to the screen door. We’d be speaking almost at right angles to each other. I could barely make out his profile, but I could hear him breathing through his mouth, a fat man’s sound. “I’m here.”

  “Yippety doo,” Warren said.

  “You were about to tell me how you’re not taking money to ignore the chronic meth production in your county,” I said. “Or how you were about to expose the whole operation and bring in J.D.’s killer. Or maybe how you didn’t have a clue that any of it was happening.”

  “I know,” he said. “I been over every inch of this piss-poor county. That’s the Sampsons’ family farm. My granddad used to help bring in the hay when it was a working concern. I could tell you the number of bricks in their house, how many fence posts they got around their property, the last day anyone ever lived there.”

  “So you knew about the labs?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You knew it was the Browers running the show?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ve known how long they’ve been cooking meth? When they start, when they finish, when they ship it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I paused. “You dirty, Warren?”

  “Would I tell you if I was?”

  “Maybe. In a weak moment. Or if you thought you could take me out.”

  “If I wanted to take you out, Singer, I would’ve brought you in for jaywalking and made sure you hanged yourself out of remorse. If I ain’t done it yet, it ain’t likely to happen now.”

  “That’s the only reason I’m standing here talking to you.”

  He sighed. “All right, if we’re done pulling each other’s peters, what the hell do you want?”

  “You know what I want. If you’re not dirty and you knew about the labs, why haven’t you shut them down?”

  He didn’t say anything. The night was quiet except for the buzz of the fluorescent kitchen lights. In the house, George was telling anyone who would listen about a woman who’d left him with nothing but love letters.

  “Warren? Why haven’t you shut the Browers down?”

  He sighed. “The chief told me not to.”

  “Palmer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because he’s in on it.”

  “What?”

  Warren scrubbed his face with his hands. “We’ve known those clowns have been baking for a year or more. It don’t take a Nobel prize winner to deduce how they pull in their cash. They don’t run numbers, they don’t pimp or own a cathouse, they don’t have the skill to chop cars, and they’re too dumb to rob banks. What’s left for your average unskilled country crook?”

  “Used to be growing weed. Knocking over liquor stores. Now it’s cooking meth.”

  He nodded. “They picked meth. Not sure how they figured it out.”

  “You don’t have to be a genius to make the stuff.”

  “Nobody’d accuse them of that. You know that old line about walking and chewing gum?”

  I smiled despite myself. “So someone had to hold their hand, teach them what to do.”

 
; “It probably took a paint-by-numbers set, but yeah.”

  “What about Jay?”

  I heard a rustle, then Warren blew his nose. He muttered something about goddamn allergies, sniffled a few times, then inhaled noisily. “They were doing it before he showed. Jay’s just happy to be their bitch, running around and checking on the batches, but he ain’t no mastermind.”

  “And J.D. wasn’t it for the same reason,” I said. “Too late to start the party, but not too late to join.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why do you think Palmer’s part of this?”

  “I told the chief a year, year and a half ago what the Browers were doing. Hell, I took him for a drive and showed him the damn labs. He said to lay off. And we’ve been laying off ever since. I haven’t done squat but give the Browers a parking ticket.”

  “Palmer’s the one teaching them how to cook meth? Come on.”

  “No. But he’s part of it. Willing to give them a safe zone in return for a cut.”

  “No other explanation?” I asked.

  “You got one, I’ll listen.”

  “Biding his time?” I suggested. “Doing it right so he can put them away for good.”

  “That would be fine if we were doing legwork, getting background evidence,” he said, his voice full of frustration. “But I’ve been told to do nothing. Zilch. I don’t know when the magic hour is supposed to happen, but if and when it does, we’ll be starting from zero. It ain’t a matter of doing the case the right way. It’s a matter of there ain’t no case.”

  “Who’s the mastermind, then, if not Palmer?”

  He paused, sighed. “That’s the question, ain’t it? If I had a clue, I would’ve told Palmer to go screw and busted whoever it is. Instead, I get to sit on my ass and clean up after you.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “What if I’m in on it? What if I’m the DC connection now that J.D. is gone?”

  He made a rude noise. “You’re a Class A meddler, but blowing up one of the meth labs takes you out of the suspect pool.”

  “I could just be incompetent. Took the lab out by accident.”

  “Then called it in to the local fire department? Kind of strange for a badass drug dealer from the big city.”

  Shit. “You trace the number?”

  “Yep. Pretty sloppy, Singer.”

  “Had to be done,” I said. “And, hey, now you trust me.”

  “I said you’re probably not working with the Browers,” Warren said. “Don’t mean I trust you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” We were both quiet for a second, then he said, “You know, right, that if I can trace that call so can Palmer? You might want to take a pass on going back to the Mosby.”

  “I was thinking about that.”

  “So what’s your next move, supercop?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know,” I said. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Ain’t nothing I can do from where I’m standing. You got any outside contacts?”

  “Some.”

  “Anything they can do to help out?” he asked. “I ain’t real keen on being found hanging by my own belt from a jail cell ceiling, either. If you catch my drift.”

  “A buddy of mine is getting stonewalled by Warrenton DEA. But he’s working on it.”

  “Shit. Thanks for nothing.”

  “It’s more than you’ve got right now,” I said, then changed gears. “Where do you think J.D. fit into all this? Why’d they waste him?”

  I could sense him shrug. “Who the hell knows? Maybe skimming off the top. Maybe he wasn’t such hot shit after all. Couldn’t hook them up in the big city like they wanted.”

  “Ginny Decker said he’d come back to Cain’s Crossing to turn things around. That he was on a mission to take the Browers down.”

  “Bull. When the Browers decided he could be their connection to DC and offered him a cut of his own, he jumped quick enough.”

  “Once a con, always a con, huh?”

  “Yep. I don’t know why you think he deserved any more than he got. He must’ve made a hell of an impression on you up in DC.”

  “Maybe he got what was coming to him. Then again, maybe he didn’t. I’m willing to dig a little to find out.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. Personally, I couldn’t give a shit about J.D. Hope. But if you’re intent on taking the Browers out, I’ll be happy to sit back and watch.”

  “That’s a big help.”

  “I gotta think of the future, Singer. You could get in your car right now and be back home by midnight. I don’t have the luxury. You find out your buddy can bring down something official on the Browers, I’m ready. But not until then.”

  Warren pushed himself away from the door, took a step back, then started to close it. Our rendezvous was over. Or almost over. I was tiptoeing away when Warren called me back. “How do you know I ain’t in on it? I’ve known the Browers a long time.”

  I smiled. “A hunch. It’s a small town. You know where I’m staying. You’ve had about a thousand chances to stop me or run me out of town or let me take a beating. You might talk a big game, but so far none of that’s happened. Which makes me think you’re happier about me looking into this than you’ve let on. A little push here, a little prod there, and I end up doing the dirty work. Not a bad strategy for a cop who wants to do the right thing but might get killed if he tries.”

  I listened to Warren’s breathing, simultaneously whistling and guttural. “You ain’t near as dumb as you look,” he said. And shut the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lee’s Auto Body and Repair was a two-stall garage shop with a dozen cars in various stages of repair and age scattered around its parking lot. White spotlights lit the ground in stark pools and cast long, razor-edged shadows over the asphalt. I’d remembered it from my daylong search for Jay-bone. It was late and they’d closed up for the evening. Since it was Friday in a small town, they might be closed for the weekend, as well. I squeezed my car between a twenty-year-old Cutlass missing its front-right fender and a Tahoe with a dent in its grill about the size and shape of a telephone pole. I had to slide across to the passenger’s side to get out. I backed off ten feet and checked it out. Too new. I scattered a handful of dirt on the windshield and hood then looked it over again.

  The dirt was a nice touch, but one of the spotlights lit my car like it was on a Las Vegas stage. I glanced around, looking for anyone taking a late-night stroll. When I didn’t see any, I grabbed a chunk of tar-covered asphalt and smashed the bulb in one throw. I held my breath, listening for alarms or shouts, but Lee’s was on the edge of town and I might as well have shot the light out with my gun. A ten-dollar bill, folded in quarters and slipped in the space between the shop’s front door and the jamb, kept me guilt-free.

  I walked across the street to wait in the shadows. Ten minutes later, a white Coupe de Ville rolled to a stop along the curb. The interior light flashed on for five seconds, then off, just like I’d asked. I walked up to the car, opened the passenger-side door, and slipped inside.

  Mary Beth looked at me from behind the wheel. “Where to?” I gave her the address to J.D.’s motel and she frowned. “Why do you want to go there?”

  “How about I tell you on the way?” I asked, looking behind us. She put the Coup de Ville in gear and we glided away from the curb. It had been a while since I’d ridden in a boat the size of this one. It was like riding on a cloud.

  Once I was sure we weren’t being followed, I gave her the short version of what I’d found out about J.D., the Browers, and the situation in her hometown. I included the part about blowing up their meth lab but excluded my conversation with Warren. It might’ve put her mind at ease a bit to finally understand the nature of the detective’s stonewalling and the weeks of noncommunication, but I didn’t need her confronting him or otherwise kicking over the applecart while I was still trying to figure out what I needed to—or should—do.

  “Aren’t the
Browers going to want to kick your ass for taking out their lab?” she asked. Then, “Oh.”

  “You understand now?”

  “You hid your car and now you need a place to stay.” She bit her lip, concentrating. “You don’t think they’ll look at J.D.’s motel?”

  I shrugged. “They’ll try the Mosby first. When they don’t find me there, they’ll drive around looking for my car. If I’ve got any luck left, they won’t find it in a lot full of other cars. At least, not in a single night. And with you dropping me off at the motel, there shouldn’t be any trace.”

  “What about the motel owner? He’s the one who had my brother’s things, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he feel about you?”

  “Ah…not so great,” I said. “Which would be a problem if I planned on checking in.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be safe. But I could use a ride in the morning.”

  She didn’t look happy, but dropped it and we agreed for her to swing by at eight to pick me up. We were closing in on the motel, so I told her to pull behind the custard stand where I’d staked out the motel before. She shut off the lights and turned in her seat to look at me. Her eyes were large and liquid. In the colorless night, they looked like black pools.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For hating you.”

  “If it helps, I understand—”

  She stopped me with a shake of her head. “I knew what J.D. was. I’ve always known. A good guy who made bad decisions. Pushing limits like a little kid. Until he crossed a line he couldn’t come back from. It’s not your fault that you were the one who had to stop him. Someone would’ve eventually. I should be glad it was you and not some junkie or crook with a gun years ago.”

  I said nothing. The crawling sensation in my gut was almost unbearable.

  She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Anyway, I wanted you to know I appreciate what you’re doing. And that I’m…I’m ready to face whatever it is you find out. There’s a good chance that J.D.—I won’t say he deserved it, nobody deserves that—but that he did something to cause his own death. I don’t like thinking about it that way, but I’m not going to be blind to the possibility.”