Brother Thomas sat in his office behind the massive, cluttered desk. The captain’s chair creaked under his massive girth as he leaned back.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, his arms folded across his ample stomach. “You want me to escort Ms. Wells out of the hospital?”
“Not just you,” I said. “You and some of your church members. Mutt, too.”
“And she was admitted because someone shot her.” He gave me the same look I was getting from a lot of people lately. The one suggesting my faculties were not fully operational.
I leaned forward and gestured with open palms. “I can’t be sure they weren’t aiming for me.”
He laced his fingers together as if in prayer. “Mm-hmm.”
“Besides, I don’t want her to be recognized when she leaves.”
“And you think a white girl being surrounded by a bunch of Negroes is camouflaged?”
“We could disguise her.”
He opened his hands. “As what, a black girl? That’d take a lot of work.”
“I was thinking of a big hat and long sleeves.”
His hands came to rest on his desk. “Mm-hmm.”
I took a sip of takeout coffee I’d purchased at a convenience store and winced at how bad it was. “Look, Brother. I don’t have a lot of options, here.”
“Why is she your cross to bear?”
I sat the coffee cup on the edge of his desk. “Like I said, I’m not sure who the shooter was aiming for. Darcy did the spin piece on the men with the prostitute. They worked for Galston.”
Brother Thomas raised his eyebrows.
I could read the doubt on his face. “I’m the one who blew up their car and put her on the story.”
“You can’t save everyone, Brother Brack.” His voice had the same tone the headshrinker used on me after Jo died. It didn’t work then either.
“I’m not trying to save everyone,” I said. “I’m trying to protect one woman.”
“By endangering members of my congregation.”
“This man, Galston, buys properties like the one you showed me. He buys them and sits on them, collecting federal money and not doing any cleanup. And I think he had something to do with shooting my uncle.”
“If you know so much, how come you haven’t informed the po-lice?”
I folded my arms. “They closed the case on my uncle once already. I wouldn’t be surprised if they try and do it again.”
“Young black men die here all the time. Think the police come around and ask why, much less open a case?”
“So you’re not going to help Darcy because she’s white?”
The venom in my words showed in the way Brother Thomas’s face hung in mid-contortion. He started to say something else but stopped himself.
I got up to leave.
He cleared his throat. “Wait.”
Channel Nine News ran a special segment on Darcy during the six o’clock broadcast. They reviewed her career and how she ended up in the hospital, and showed pictures of her with balloons and flowers scattered around her room. They casually announced in the course of the story she would be released in the morning and asked her what she was going to do once she got out. What a beautiful setup.
While the news was on, a group of parishioners entered the hospital and spread out over the fifth floor. Darcy’s room number at the time happened to be five-twenty-one. The parishioners, members of the Church of Redemption, donned their Sunday best. The women wore bright dresses and big hats. The men had slick suits, dazzling ties, and shiny shoes. Everyone was black and Brother Thomas was in charge.
The faithful went room to room greeting each patient and giving away bibles purchased with part of the cash Patricia, Darcy, and I had found in the crab pots. Before Wheel of Fortune came on at seven, the group had made the rounds and left. And room five-twenty-one was empty.
Chauncey called and said he had a car waiting for me in the parking garage close to his office. I said goodbye to the Camry at the airport’s rental car return and took a cab downtown. What I found was a used Audi, a charcoal gray four-door bomber with twin turbos and a six-speed transmission. It looked like a thousand other yuppie-mobiles trolling the streets of our fair city, perfect for stealth cruising. I pressed the unlock button, opened the door, and eased into the driver’s seat. The bolsters held me firmly in place and I shut the door. The key fob went into the ignition and a chime greeted me. I pushed in the clutch and pressed the Start button. The engine fired to life with a snarl. I backed out of the spot and headed to the exit. Two blocks over, I hung a left onto East Bay Street and took the entrance ramp onto the new bridge over the Cooper River.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” I floored the loud pedal in third gear. The turbos spooled up and pushed me back into the seat. I let off the gas before it hit the triple digits. Not as fast as my Mustang, but Chauncey had done well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Since I needed another gun and didn’t want a record of it, I went to the library, signed for a computer, and found on the Internet a local gun show in North Charleston. Suspicious people, and those of us with citations for discharging a weapon in a residential neighborhood, could still exercise our right to bear arms. I just had to be sneaky about it. And lucky for me, Big Al had a booth at the show.
“Back for another watch?” he joked when I strolled up.
“Afraid not,” I said.
“Stereo, right?”
“I need another piece.”
“I saw you on the news,” he said. “You switching to moving targets?”
I tried to read him but he didn’t have a tell.
His eyes went to the money clip I took from my pocket. He said, “I happen to have come across another forty-five in. It’s nickel-plated.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “And something for a backup.”
“Backup? What are you going to do, settle the score with the federal army?”
“Something like that.”
He rummaged through a box. “Let’s see . . . I got a small twenty-two caliber. It’ll fit in your pocket. Of course, I wouldn’t put it there. Be afraid of shooting off the family jewels.” His huge body moved in waves as he guffawed.
“Sold.”
The transaction was done in cash, no records. I walked out lighter by six hundred-dollar-bills.
My favorite gun range had all the bullets I could ask for. And it was open late. I spent a lot of money on shells so the wrinkled old man let me use one of his lanes for free. While he set the target, I loaded clips for the twenty-two. The small pistol popped in my hand and had little recoil. Then I pulled out the cannon.
The forty-five boomed. I took a black marker I’d purchased at a drug store, drew Galston’s melon head on the target, and practiced blowing the seeds out between his ears until the clips were empty. Before leaving, I bought more shells and reloaded the clips.
Lastly, I stopped at Chauncey’s to thank him for the car and to feed Shelby.
I spent the night at my bungalow on Sullivan’s with both pistols close by. The Audi sat in the driveway of a vacant house for sale down the street. The next morning, Tuesday, Patricia woke me early by calling to say she’d meet me at my uncle’s bar.
After another stop to feed Shelby breakfast, which did not go well because he barely looked at me as he ate, and went to Trish when he was done, I drove to my bar. In case anyone was watching, I parked at a beach access half a mile away from the Cove and walked to it along the surf, my sandals swinging from my hand. Low tide widened the shoreline. Several volleyball nets were set up for the day and in full use. Two-man teams played barefoot in the fine-grained sand. I stayed close to the tide and let the water cool my feet.
The sun was bright in the cloudless sky and reflected off the gentle surf. The water and the ocean air created a peace unique in its ability to erase the stresses of the world. I climbed the wooden steps on the backside of the Pirate’s Cove, stopping halfway to put on my sandals. The superheated wood
burned the bottom of my feet. The Cove didn’t open for another fifteen minutes and the back door was still locked. I pulled out a set of keys and let myself in. The alarm should have been on but it wasn’t. I reached for the forty-five. “Paige?”
Paige poked her head out of the office door. “Brack?”
As I got closer, I saw she had a baseball bat in her hands.
I said, “You okay?”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “It’s really tough to run this business when I have to worry about when I’m going to see you on the news again.”
I nodded.
She leaned the bat against the wall beside the door. “What am I supposed to do if something happens to you?”
I had no will and no heirs. All my stuff—everything of Uncle Reggie’s in one storage locker, and Jo’s personal things I couldn’t bring myself to give away in another unit—would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. “I’ll make a will if it’ll make you feel better.”
She stomped over and smacked me on the shoulder. “I don’t want you to make a will, you stupid oaf. I want you to stop being so careless with your life. You may not think you have anyone left who cares about you, but you do. I do. You’re the only family Simon and I have left.”
She was right, of course. I had all but stopped caring about anything when Jo died. What little compassion I had left vanished with Uncle Reggie in the alley. I was a train wreck looking for a busy intersection. Paige showed her stress in the dark circles around her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You should be,” she said. “I’ve been left in the background seeing you every other day on the news after some gun fight or car wreck. It’s got to stop.”
“You want to close up the bar and take time to rest?”
“Are you even listening to me? I’m not asking for a vacation. I’m asking you to think about what you’re doing. For once, think about something besides yourself, Brack.”
“I can’t let his death go. The thought of someone getting away with killing him is too much. I’m not sleeping well. I’m not eating well. Basically, I’m a mess. But I’m onto them, Paige.”
“And when you find them what are you going to do? Have you thought that far ahead?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Just as I thought,” she said. “You’re planning to kill them, aren’t you?”
I muttered something.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes.”
“Then everyone loses. Don’t you see? Reggie’s dead. You’ll go to jail. And none of that is going to bring him back.”
Brother Thomas’s words came to mind. Man doesn’t have the right to avoid reaping what he sows. My eyes moved past Paige to my uncle’s barstool.
“Look at me,” she said.
I did.
She put her arms on my shoulders and faced me. “You think you’re onto them and I believe you. You are the smartest person I know. Smarter than your uncle. He said so. The problem is you’re too smart for your own good.” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I believe you will catch whoever did this awful thing. That isn’t the issue. The issue is they will kill you when you do. You might get a few of them, but how many close calls have you had already? No one is that lucky forever.”
A knock at the front door made her jump. I went to the door to let Patricia in. It was time to open so I left the door unlocked. She followed me into the bar area where Paige stood with her arms cradled across her chest.
Patricia gave me a What did you do now? face. “Is everything alright, Paige?”
“Sure,” Paige said, snapping out of her trance. “Everything’s grand. Can I get you something, Patricia? How about coffee?”
Patricia nodded. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Paige set three cups of coffee on one of the tables and we sat. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons chimed in Patricia’s purse and she answered her phone. I sipped my coffee and tried to enjoy the taste. The habits of my mind wanted to take me to the dark places where the ghosts of my life haunted me whenever I gave them the chance. I struggled to stay in the light and keep it together.
Patricia ended her call.
I didn’t say anything.
“You haven’t asked me what I want to talk to you about,” she said.
“You’re right. What have you got?”
She pulled out a sheet of paper. “It took digging, but I found information about the owners of the three sites listed on the memory stick. I found out which law firm brokered all the deals, anyway. I should have known.”
I said, “Known what?”
“There isn’t much in this town I don’t know,” Patricia said. “As soon as the thumb drive led us to land acquisitions, I should have known whom to call. Only a few firms handle real estate law here—the big-ticket properties in particular. I found out when the current owners purchased each property. After I saw which law firm was on the first one, I should have made the connection.”
Paige said, “What connection?”
“When outside companies come in and buy land, they have their own lawyers. But in each of these cases, a local firm was used. The same local firm, Ketting, Fowler, and Reid. One that caters exclusively to the Charleston elite.”
I sat back in my chair, still fidgeting with my cup.
Patricia said, “See what I’m saying? It’s someone lo—”
“Someone local,” I said. “Someone like Galston.”
Patricia nodded.
I said, “But why? Why would someone like him, with old family money and connections all over the state, buy them? If he did, which we haven’t proven yet. And why is he sending his goon squad after me?”
“That I don’t know.” The Four Seasons chimed again. Patricia answered the call and listened. “What? Why aren’t you at home resting?” A pause. “Where are you?” Her eyes opened wide. “We’re on our way.” She pressed the End button. “Detective Rogers was found dead from a gunshot wound.”
Darcy stood outside a taped-off barrier the police had strung around an abandoned warehouse in the old port district. A group of people stood with her. Everyone’s attention focused on the open door of the warehouse. Police cruisers and an ambulance were parked inside the tape line and several officers and crime-scene technicians kept busy.
Darcy’s arm was in a sling, but otherwise she looked healthy, in fact ruddy, like she’d recently spent time in the sun. She waved Patricia and me over with her free arm. I found it hard to believe four days ago she was listed in critical condition. Aside from the visible changes in her appearance like the bandages and sling, what changed the most were her eyes. Gone was the gleam of childlike inquisitiveness. In its place I saw a hardness I’d seen men get in war. After the first shelling, idealistic fun and games were over.
Darcy held a notebook. “They found him this morning. From what I can gather, he was alone. Camera crew’s on the way.”
Patricia used a hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare off the upper windows of the warehouse. “Are they calling it murder or suicide?”
“They haven’t made any official statements,” Darcy said, “but it looks like murder.”
Wilson emerged from the entrance and spoke with a uniform.
I called out to him and he saw me. He turned to say something more to the uniformed officer and joined us.
“Good news travels fast, I see.” He spoke with no humor in his voice or expression. “What are you doing here, Pelton?”
Darcy said, “Detective Wilson, can you confirm the identity of the victim?”
“No comment.” Wilson stuck a finger in my chest. “What’s up with you bringing the press?”
“They brought me,” I said.
“Well, since you’re here, it will save me the trouble of having to track you down. Stay put. I’ve got something for you to look at.”
He turned and walked inside the building. After a few minutes, two uniformed officers came out and escorted me into the roped-off are
a.
Just inside the open door, one of the officers said, “Hold on.”
I stopped, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Wilson held out several evidence bags in his gloved hands. “Recognize any of these items?”
Ms. July stared at me through the clear plastic of one bag. The spreadsheet pages were in another. All taken from my home when it was broken into. And my fingerprints were probably still on them.
“Wilson, what would make you think I’d know what these are?”
He pointed to Ms. July. “Your birthday is marked on the calendar, unless you know anyone else with the name Brack. The spreadsheets were found with it. I figured they might be connected.”
“They’re my uncle’s,” I said, remembering I shouldn’t let on I’d had them. “They must have been taken when his place got trashed. Maybe now you’ll believe he was killed for a reason.”
He thrust the bags at one of the officers and grabbed me by the shirt. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
I let him vent. It wouldn’t get me anywhere to provoke him further.
The other uniformed officer came up beside him. “Easy there, Detective.”
Wilson gripped my shirt for a second longer, let go, and walked away.
The other men working the scene—I counted five of them— had stopped what they were doing to watch us.
Patricia and Darcy spent the rest of the day composing the story for the evening news. I stayed at the Cove until seven, both guns close at hand, and went to Chauncey’s to feed Shelby before crashing at Patricia’s house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Wednesday at three-forty-three in the morning, a neighbor of mine on Sullivan’s Island called nine-one-one emergency to report a loud boom and a bright flame coming from a window of my bungalow. By the time the fire department organized, which was within five minutes, the wooden structure built a century ago was completely engulfed. After realizing I wasn’t trapped inside, the firefighters made the wise decision to protect the other homes nearby from the flames. My house burned to the ground, taking my Jeep parked in the backyard with it. Sullivan’s Island P.D. phoned my cell, waking me from a deep sleep in Patricia’s guest bedroom to give me the good news.
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