Captain Perry turned to go. Grace followed her. Ham waited and watched.
“They set Rhetta’s barn on fire! And stole Mae’s calf!”
Captain Perry fixed Grace with her stern-commander look. “Then get me proof, Detective. Real proof. Last I heard, anybody can buy rubbing alcohol. Unless the Crime Lab can pull prints off those bottles that you can then match with what we already have in the system, you got nothing.”
Captain Perry went into her office and shut her door. Grace had half a mind to kick it, not because she was mad at Captain Perry, but because she was mad, period.
“There’s no justice,” she bit off.
“We’ll get it,” Ham said. “Those assholes are going down.”
“We should have already had our warrant,” Grace said. “I mean a real one, not just for their damn vehicle. Hell, we shake down the gangs all the time.”
“Because we’ve established that they’re bad guys,” Ham reminded her. “Like the captain said. We haven’t established that the Sons are anything but patriotic citizens who like to live in the country.”
“I hate it that you’re right.” She blew her hair out of her eyes.
“Good. Let’s have angry sex later.”
She formed a fist, then made as if to punch him. Then, with a crick of his forefinger, he urged her to follow him. Grinning like that kid in The Omen, he opened his desk drawer. Inside lay a doll dressed in a onesie that read SKELLIE. She had big blue eyes and a Cupid’s bow mouth. Grace remembered the doll from the days when her nieces had them. They ate, drank, peed, pooped. Oh, yeah, and talked.
Creepy.
“Watch this,” he said. Then he turned over the doll and showed Grace a red switch. “Tech made it for me.” He flipped the switch.
“I gotta poop.” Grace blinked. It sounded exactly the old lady from the lot. Exactly. “I gotta take a dump. I gotta shit. I gotta—”
“I have the safety on, but once I activate it, it’s motion-sensitive,” he informed her. “And there is no way to turn it off. So …”
He scooted over to Butch’s desk and put it in the top right drawer. “Okay, activitated. Once he so much as jiggles it, it won’t shut up.” He very carefully slid the drawer shut and held out his hands like a magician.
“That’s cool,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
He looked hurt, and she shrugged. “I gotta say, you’ve done better.”
“Short notice, man,” he said. “I don’t see you pulling your weight around here—”
“I had magnet duty, man.” She darted over to Butch’s magnet and flipped it upside down.
He just stared at her.
The glass door to the squad room opened and a dark-skinned woman with bad teeth, wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top, walked in slowly, as if she were scared or high or both. Her eyes were swollen and at first Grace thought she had been beaten. Then she realized that she’d been crying.
And she was Haleem Clark’s mother.
“Detective Hanadarko,” she croaked.
“Hey.” Grace came toward her. “Hello, Ms. Clark.”
“Have you found out who killed my son? Have you …?”
She burst into tears and stood perfectly still, sobbing from deep down in her belly. Grace reached out a hand to show her to the interview room and Ms. Clark clutched it with both of hers. Her legs gave way, and Grace caught her.
“Come with me,” Grace said, leading her to the interview room. Ham caught the door, holding it open, as Grace led her inside.
Ms. Clark sat down hard in a chair. She smelled like dope.
She had lost her son.
“Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet. But we’re building a case.” On the beach. At high tide.
“He … he was my angel.”
Grace blinked, wondering why everyone was talking about angels all of a sudden.
“My babies, all my babies,” she said. “All taken away.”
“I know,” Grace said.
“He was not there to buy my shit. I wouldn’t do that.” She buried her face in her hands. “That dealer … he wasn’t my dealer. I didn’t know him.”
Was she lying?
“Where’s my boy? He in heaven?” Tears streamed down her face, and snot, and spit. Grief did not have a pretty sound track and soft lighting and nice clothes. Grief was cruel, and ugly.
Grace looked straight at Haleem’s mama.
“Yes,” Grace said. “I’m sure that he is in heaven. I’m a hundred percent sure.”
Truth, or dare?
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Enough.
Haleem Clark’s case was getting cold. Forrest Catlett might be dying at that very moment.
Enough.
Thunder rumbled through the black sky. Klieg lights blazed against the Sons of Oklahoma flag, but elsewhere, there were huge pockets of darkness, and Grace was crouched inside one of them. She was holding on to the chain-link fence—that cat crawling up the fence had told her it probably wasn’t electrified, and a glance at the utility bill had verified it—and taking deep breaths to dilute the adrenaline coursing through her body.
Impatience and her visit from Ms. Clark—first name Tonya—had pushed her into action; she was about to commit a crime that could yank her off her cases—and every case—for the rest of her life. Breaking and entering, trespass. She wondered what the Sons of Oklahoma would do if they found her on their property. Press charges, or shoot her? They’d be within their rights to drop her like a bobcat.
She made sure all her hair was tucked inside her black knit cap. Pulled the black balaclava over her face. Checked her utility belt. She had more gadgets and gizmos than Batman.
There were guards in flak jackets holding submachine guns stationed at regular intervals along the chain-link fence. Gone was the more benign show of shotguns and handguns of her previous, more legal visit. No one on her current roster of victims had been murdered with an Uzi, but she wondered if it was only a matter of time.
Piano wire curled along the top of the fence. But there were also large sections where the terrain was uneven and boulders sat on either side of the fence, making it difficult to station a man there … and easier to climb in. Especially …
Here, Grace thought as she gazed up at the edge of the trailer hanging just slightly over the fence, shielding anyone who was shimmying up that fence. It was so obvious a way in that she was afraid it was a trap. But she took it, planting her hand on top of the overhang and hoisting herself up. She had on Kevlar and black clothes. Boots.
Then a searchlight buzzed inches above her head and she flattened her upper body on top of the roof. Shake shingles. The searchlight had not been on a minute before. Had she alerted them to her presence? She’d parked Connie behind some trees over a mile away and trekked in, alert to every possibility from land mines to Dobermans. Maybe it was too easy. Maybe she was about to die.
Suddenly the roar of engines approaching from the road tore up the stillness. She flung herself up onto the roof and willed herself to be an invisible pancake. Her heart thundered and she listened.
Horns blared. Guns shot off blam blam blam. There was a lot of whooping and cheering.
“Hey, Tommy, how’d it go?” That was Hunter. He must have stayed behind and watched the fort.
“DeWitt got ’em! He ran like a raccoon but that coon is dead.”
That was Tommy Miller. Grace gritted her teeth and kept listening.
“Good on you, DeWitt,” Hunter said. “Wish I could have seen it.”
“It was a beautiful thing,” Tommy said. “One less thing to worry about. What about your tits, Hunter? That little bitch show up yet?”
“Don’t worry, Tommy. She won’t say nothing.”
Whoa, Grace thought.
“Damn right. Because the minute I find her, I’m shooting her in the mouth.”
“Come on, man,” Hunter protested. “She’s my wife.”
“If I was you, I’d try to forget
that. Biggest damn mistake you ever made.”
There was silence. Then more cheering. Grace didn’t move.
“You want to do the honors?” Tommy asked.
“Sure thing,” said a new voice. Maybe it was DeWitt.
Grace inched her way along the roof, listening to the voices and laughter as the men walked through the compound. She was in it now, neck-deep. What the hell.
Then she heard the lowing of a calf, bleating, really. Speckles. Oh, God, she had proof that they’d been in Rhetta’s barn. She had them now.
I’m here without a damn warrant.
She remained calm—or thought she did, as she kept moving herself along. But her hands were trembling and her mouth tasted sour. She heard movement behind and beneath her, at the boulder she’d used to jump-start her climb. A sentry. Thank God she hadn’t had to use the wire cutters in her belt.
The report of a weapon ricocheted across the compound. Grace froze. Planned her counterattack. Waited to see if she’d been the target.
Evidently not. Laughter and cheers rose up; then music started up—I’m proud to be an American—and a lot of hooting. For hours. Grace glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge how long it would be before sunrise. No stars, filmy moon.
She rested her head on the rooftop.
Gradually, the celebration began to die down. The klieg lights went out.
“Time to wrap it up,” Tommy declared.
The Sons said good night to one another like normal, civilized men. Doors opened, closed. Then footfalls echoed directly below her, and she realized she was on top of someone’s home.
Shit.
“Here to relieve you,” said a male voice behind and below her.
“Glad to be relieved,” another male voice replied. The changing of the guard. So she couldn’t go back out the way she came.
But she couldn’t stay here, either.
Carefully, she scooted to the right, where the roof merged with newly created shadows as the moon moved in the sky. She leaned over and looked, seeing nothing but blackness.
Leon Cooley’s face blossomed in her mind. She remembered that in her dream, he had warned her not to jump without looking. She turned herself around and slithered to the edge. Held her breath, and tried to find toeholds for her boots.
Her boot tip touched something and she almost grunted with relief. She experimentally ran her foot along it—it seemed to be a level, solid surface, so she lowered her weight onto it.
It held.
She put her other foot down.
That held, too.
She let herself stand on it. It was the top of a shed much like the one in Rhetta and Ronnie’s barn. Taking a breath, she let go of the roof and made herself as small as possible. Waited a few beats, and shimmied down the side.
Then she crab-walked in the darkness in the direction she had heard the gunshot and the music. An owl hooted. She kept going.
It was a long building with corrugated aluminum siding, like many of the buildings on the property. Grace scanned the area as she sidled up to the door and leaned against it, and then slowly tried the knob. Locked. She ran her hand along the latch and smiled. She had brought a lock-pick kit. She unfastened it from her belt and went to work. Ordered her hands to stop shaking.
Got the lock picked.
Slowly, very slowly opened the door.
A light was on; she stopped, remaining motionless while she ascertained that there was no one else in the room. She chanced flicking on a penlight, and crept inside. What she saw chilled her blood: targets, as in target practice, but with photographs of faces where the dark silhouettes would normally be. Six of them: Haleem, Chris Jones, Malcolm, with bullets right between their eyes, and a fourth guy she had never seen before. Numbers five and six had no bullet. Five was white and middle-aged. Six was young, and black.
They’re still alive, she guessed.
She whipped out her phone and took pictures, quickly, and sent them to Ham. Then she turned it off, because if it so much as vibrated at the wrong time, she was dead.
Witnesses, she thought. They saw something these guys did.
I’ve got you, assholes. Not now, but soon.
Jubilant, she edged back to the door. Tested opening it a crack. Went out and crept around the building to the other side. She couldn’t go out the way she’d come—the sentry—but maybe there was another weak spot along the perimeter.
God, I hope so, she thought.
“There is,” Earl whispered from his position on top of the barn. And if, well, he sent a little … intuition … her way, he didn’t think he’d get in a peck of trouble over it.
“Hello,” Rhetta said into the landline phone. She checked the time. Two a.m. Don’t let it be Mom or Dad. Or Grace.
“Mooo,” someone whispered. “I smell barbecued beef.”
Oh, God. She rolled over and nudged Ronnie. He woke instantly. She pointed outside; there was a squad car out there, watching their house. And a shotgun in the barn.
He reached for the phone, but she shook her head. She was afraid they would hang up.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
The phone clicked. Rhetta dropped the phone and threw herself into Ronnie’s arms.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“Good news first,” Ham said to Grace when they met up the next morning. It was Friday. They were stopping in at a donut shop because it was Ham’s turn. Grace pointed to all her favorites—maple bars, chocolate cream filled, lemon custard—while Ham held out his phone and brought up one of the target pictures she had taken.
“This white guy? The one without the bullet? I know him. He hangs out with Indian. Sometimes he comes to the diner with us.”
“Shit, Ham, are you kidding me?” Grace cried. Heads turned. She lowered her voice. “Two French crullers,” she said to the clerk. “And that’ll do it.” She looked back at Ham. “Did Indian say anything to you about this guy being a witness to a crime?”
“Naw, but he was acting all jumpy last time I saw him.” Ham whipped out his wallet and paid the clerk. “He’s a heroin addict, though, so he acts jumpy a lot.”
“God, we have to find him. And Jeannie. We have to pry her loose, make her talk to us.”
He nodded. “Bad news. One of the uniforms who’s been patrolling the area around the Catlett residence found a bunch of insulin bottles. Looks like they were dropped. Rhetta did an inventory and Bobby checked with Dr. Salzman. Forrest doesn’t have a week’s worth of insulin with him. He probably doesn’t have any.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. “That’s gotta be wrong, Ham.”
“It’s not.” He took the box of donuts, and they walked toward the door.
“Shit.” Grace’s mind began to race. “We’ve got to find him. He’ll go into diabetic shock. Then a coma. They’ve got to give him sugar, get him to a hospital.”
“Butch is going to talk to Kendra.” He opened his truck and handed Grace the box of donuts. “That scumbag in Edmond, Bo Halliford? Local law in Edmond’s got him. He confessed to sending the note but he doesn’t have Forrest.”
“Of course not.”
Pieces were both shaking loose and fracturing. They had to hustle it up.
She grunted. They started driving. Then she did something she should have done right away: She dialed her old phone number.
Someone answered on the first ring.
“Who is this?” Grace said.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call me,” said a voice.
It was Jamal.
Jamal came to the station, in his gang colors, but one look at the detectives and he pulled off his do-rag and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he took off his stupid-ass huge necklace and threw it in the trash. Grace gave him a donut while Butch carried his “I have to shit” doll to the department Dumpster.
“First, your grandfather,” Grace said. She’d thought this through. She needed Jamal’s help and she didn�
��t want to distract him. But she had to be honest about Mr. Briscombe.
“Daddy D?” His voice came out choked, scared. His eyes widened. Grace grabbed his hand.
“He had a stroke. On top of his heart attack. He’s in bad shape. But he’s alive.” She took a deep breath. “I think he’s hanging on for you.”
“I got to go, to him, now,” he said.
“No, please, wait. One minute. Jamal, I need your help. I’m getting close to the guys who killed your brother. It’s not a gang. Look at these photographs.”
She showed him the photographs on Ham’s phone. One, two, three, four, five, six. He looked visibly shaken.
“What are these? Where did you get them?” he asked, holding the phone tightly.
“We think they witnessed something. Malcolm, too. We want to find the ones who are still alive. They might help us convict Malcolm’s murderers.”
“I know that kid,” he said. “That one without the bullet. He’s a friend of Malcolm’s.”
“Do you have an address?” she asked him. “Can you help us find him?”
He shook his head as he stared at the picture of Malcolm with the bullet in his head. “They lived near us. Then they moved.”
She shut her eyes. Opened them. Moved to the neighborhood with the minimart? Moved there?
“Please give me his full name. And the names of his parents, if you have them. Especially if their last names are different. And give me their old address, please, Jamal.” She handed him her detective’s notebook. “Then I’ll take you to see your grandfather.”
“Okay.” He wrote slowly. He had beautiful handwriting.
Then he handed it back to her. She carried it to Bobby, who was just hanging up the phone.
“Can you run this, man?” she asked him.
“I’ve got something,” he said, taking the notebook from her. “There was a receipt in the bag with the insulin bottles for KD Supply. It’s an electronics store and it sells all kinds of remote-control devices, that kind of thing. Turns out someone bought a piece of rocketry equipment called an AT-2B.” Bobby typed on his keyboard. “It’s a transmitter.”
“As in … it sends out a signal,” Grace said. “An SOS.”
Bobby nodded. “Quite possibly.”
Nancy Holder Page 21
