by Greg Iles
He’s right about that. “You realize that Cyrus may have killed Kate?”
He nods almost imperceptibly.
“And that Cyrus would never have gotten within a mile of her if—”
“I’ve already gone farther down that road than you ever will,” Drew says softly. “The irony is that if Cyrus did kill her, that will free me from jail. But it can’t free me from my own judgment—or yours—or worst of all, my son’s. And whether you believe it or not, those judgments will be harder for me to bear than a life sentence in Parchman prison. If I caused Kate’s death, I will live in hell until the day I die.”
I study him without speaking. I’ve heard many people say this kind of thing over the years. And they do suffer—usually for a month or two. Then they thank the stars for their freedom and happily go back to their old ways. I don’t think Drew is like those people. He is quite capable of torturing himself for years. But that doesn’t make what he did any less reprehensible.
“If Cyrus killed her, that may free you on the murder charge,” I tell him. “But you still may do thirty years for sexual battery. And if a jury ever finds out about this little drug arrangement, you can count on it.”
His eyes lock onto mine. “Did you tell anyone about it?”
I wait before answering, watching him for signs of self-concern. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t even thank me. He seems resigned to whatever fate awaits him.
There’s a soft knock at the door behind me, and then someone pulls it open. Looking back, I see Chief Logan gazing down at me, his dark eyes sober.
“I need to see you a minute, Penn.”
Drew glances up at him. “Hey, Don.”
Logan doesn’t even look in Drew’s direction. The days of special treatment for the police chief’s doctor are over.
I get up and follow Logan to his office. He sits behind his desk, puts his face in his hands, and rubs his temples with his thumbs.
“What’s happened?” I ask. “Have you found Cyrus?”
“No.” He looks up. “But somebody did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cyrus has been hiding in a safe house downtown. North Union Street. Fifty minutes ago, a car pulled up to it, and a guy wearing black from head to toe got out holding two pistols. One was silenced. He shot the two guards on the porch, but nobody heard him. One of those guys is still alive, but they already shipped him to University Hospital in Jackson with a severe head wound. He’s unlikely to make it.”
My stomach has gone hollow. As Chief Logan speaks, I flash back to my years as an assistant district attorney in Houston. This kind of thing happened all the time there. But here, in my hometown? A placid little city that wouldn’t even be called a city anywhere but Mississippi? This kind of crime is as alien as a terrorist attack.
“After the gunman took out Cyrus’s guards,” Logan goes on, “he walked calmly through the house, shooting people as he went. Cyrus was in a back bedroom with a girl. With that silencer, I doubt he heard anything but grunts and muffled cries. Maybe a scream. When Cyrus walked out, the shooter nailed him five times with the second pistol. Then the shooter dropped both guns and walked out like he didn’t have a care in the world. He even left the car out front.”
“Was it a Lexus?”
“My first thought,” says Logan. “But no, it was a Camry with Adams County plates. It was stolen a few minutes before the crime.”
“This was obviously a professional hit.”
Logan nods. “Just like Sonny Cross.”
“Anybody say the shooter was Asian?”
“He wore his mask the whole time, and he never said a word.”
“The guy who shot Sonny wasn’t wearing a mask.”
“I know.” Logan takes a pen from a mug that reads TALLADEGA! and starts tapping it on his desktop. “The total body count from this little encounter is five wounded and three dead. Probably four by morning.”
I shake my head, not quite able to accept that my strongest alternative suspect in Kate Townsend’s murder is dead. “Did you learn anything about Kate’s murder from the survivors?”
“My detectives are still over at the hospital questioning them. But so far, all we’ve got is computer matches on the shooter’s handguns.”
“That fast?”
Logan nods, his face unreadable. “The silenced one was stolen from a residence in Biloxi a few months ago.”
Biloxi…gambling capital of the Gulf Coast. Also the base of the Asian drug gangs. “Well, that sure tells us something.”
The chief is watching me closely. “The other handgun was bought and registered right here in Natchez, two years ago.”
A chill of anxiety runs along my skin. “Who bought it?”
“Drew Elliott. And it’s never been reported lost or stolen.”
I feel as though my body mass has doubled. Breathing is difficult, and the idea of moving seems impossible. “Drew’s been in jail all night. Right?”
Logan sighs. “As best I can determine, yes. But I wasn’t here myself. And there’s no closed-circuit camera in his cell.”
Again I remember the escapes I’ve read about in the Examiner. For some reason, inmates at the city jail are allowed to exercise in a fenced area behind the station, and more than a few have disappeared from this flimsy enclosure. “He couldn’t have gotten out for like forty minutes and then come back, could he?”
“I don’t think so, Penn. But I can’t be certain.”
“Christ, Chief.”
Logan looks up at me, his eyes filled with regret. “That’s not really my main concern, to be honest. I’m more worried that Drew used his cell phone to hire this done.”
I struggle not to let Logan see how much this possibility worries me. “Who could Drew call that could have found Cyrus? Both you and Sheriff Byrd have guys working around the clock, and they couldn’t find him. How could Drew?”
“Granted,” says Logan, but he still looks unconvinced.
“The theory that Drew slipped out and did the shooting himself has the same flaw,” I point out. “How would he know where to find Cyrus?”
“You told me Kate Townsend visited Cyrus regularly.”
“But only at Brightside Manor.”
Logan raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
I’m not sure. “Don, let’s be realistic. This had to be the Asian crew that popped Sonny Cross.”
“I hope so. Because I gave Drew access to his cell phone when I shouldn’t have. And I sure regret that now.”
“This was some kind of drug hit. It had to be.”
“Like I said, I hope so. But you’ve got one more problem.”
“What?”
“We recovered another pistol at the scene. You’ll be interested in that one, too.”
“Why?”
“It’s a Springfield XD-9. And it’s registered to you.”
It takes all my composure to keep my mouth from falling open. “I can explain that, Don.”
Logan nods, but he looks far less confident in me than he has for the past couple of days. “I hope so, Penn. Because this looks bad. Really bad.”
“I lost it the other night, chasing a guy who tried to blackmail Drew. Two guys, actually.”
Logan shakes his head, clearly furious that I’ve been holding back information. “Why didn’t you report it lost?”
“Because I lost the gun on hunting camp land. Dr. Felder’s camp, right behind St. Stephen’s. I knew if anybody found it, it would be a hunter from that club. I called Dr. Felder the next day and told him to warn his members to be on the lookout for it. I also told Coach Anders at St. Stephen’s to watch for it, just in case I lost it on the field. I searched the field and the track myself but found nothing. One of the blackmailers must have picked it up. That’s the only explanation.”
“Okay. I’ll call Dr. Felder tomorrow and try to verify that.”
Two days ago, Chief Logan wouldn’t have had to make such a call. My wo
rd would have been enough. “I can’t believe this,” I murmur.
“What?”
“That Cyrus is dead. I needed him alive to save Drew. I needed a confession from that son of a bitch. I mean, DNA might prove that Cyrus had sex with Kate, but it can’t prove he killed her. It can’t even prove he raped her. And now we’ll never know what Cyrus knew about her last hours, if anything. Barring the discovery of an eyewitness who saw Cyrus kill Kate, Drew is going on trial for murder.”
The chief’s gaze is not without sympathy. “Don’t give up hope yet.”
“Why not? Have you found a witness?”
Logan’s eyes shine with knowledge I can’t read. “Cyrus was hit five times,” he says. “That’s what two witnesses told my detectives. But when my patrolmen responded to the 911 call, they didn’t find his body.”
“What?”
“There was nothing but some blood where the witnesses said he fell.”
I stare at Logan in disbelief. “Do you think the wits lied to you? I mean…Christ, was Cyrus really shot at all? Could the whole thing have been staged to make us believe he’s dead?”
“This is real life, Penn. Forget that TV shit. The girl Cyrus was in bed with made the 911 call, and she’s not part of his crew. She’s a white girl from Morgantown. On the 911 tape you can hear a black guy screaming at the girl to hang up, then the phone goes dead. I doubt Cyrus’s guys would even have called 911. Anyway, the girl told us Cyrus was wearing a bulletproof vest. His homeys confirmed that he owns one. Kevlar with ceramic inserts.”
I’m trying to visualize the scene. “Even if that’s true, why would Cyrus be wearing it in his bedroom?”
“Expecting a hit, maybe? Cyrus heard about Sonny and got scared?”
The prospect of Cyrus alive and breathing has me wired with excitement. “Have you covered all the hospitals? Of course you have. I don’t know—”
“Penn,” the chief cuts in.
“What?”
“I’m going to interrogate Drew. Right now. I’m assuming you want to be present?”
Suddenly, and for the first time, I view Don Logan as a potential enemy. “Don, Drew was in your custody while these shootings occurred. I think we’d better wait until—”
“I’m going in there,” Logan says in a voice edged with steel. “You can take it up with the Supreme Court later, but right now I’m going to do what I have to do. I’ve been more than fair with Drew, but he hasn’t reciprocated. And I’ve had enough of people getting hurt and killed in my town. Kids are dying, and Drew knows more than he’s saying. More than he’s saying to me, anyway.”
I hold up my hands in supplication. “Let me call his attorney first. That’s all I ask.”
Logan looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re his attorney. I just told you I’d let you be present.”
“I’m not Drew’s attorney, Don.”
“Who the hell is?”
“Quentin Avery.”
Logan freezes in his chair. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head. “You know who Avery is?”
“Yessir, I do.” The chief stands and removes his gun belt. Every move communicates an attitude of defensiveness. “And I’m not waiting around for that SOB to make a federal case out of this. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all the lawyer Dr. Elliott needs. The interrogation starts in one minute.”
He walks past me without meeting my eyes.
“Don, wait,” I plead.
“Fuck you.”
Chapter
23
When I called Quentin Avery to tell him about Drew’s impending interrogation, I got his wife instead. Doris Avery was reluctant to bring Quentin to the phone, but I heard him protesting in the background, and then his rich voice came down the wire from the far northern edge of the county.
“What are you pulling me out of bed for, Penn Cage?”
I quickly related everything that had happened since we last talked. Quentin sounded intrigued by the attack on Cyrus, and still more by his disappearance. But he wasn’t worried about Drew being interrogated by Chief Logan. If I felt nervous, he said, I should observe and make sure that Drew answered only questions pertaining to Cyrus’s death. Quentin’s nonchalance worried me. I felt that he was misreading Drew—whom he still had not met—and that Drew’s belief in his own innocence might cause him to make statements against his interest in the legal sense.
But Quentin turned out to be right. Chief Logan got nothing out of Drew other than a denial that he’d been involved in the attack on Cyrus and his guards. Drew appeared even more shocked than I to hear of the attack, but he was very interested in Cyrus’s escape. Like me, Drew raised the possibility that Cyrus might be attempting to fake his own death. As Chief Logan tried to shoot down this theory, I decided that if Cyrus was trying to fake his own death, he’d done it without premeditation, by simply taking advantage of a tragic but fortuitous event. But Drew seemed committed to the theory that the entire attack had been orchestrated by Cyrus to rid himself of his own men—potential witnesses against him—and then “die” to escape being punished for Kate’s murder. “What better way to avoid prosecution?” Drew challenged Logan. “Cyrus is probably on his way to Chicago or Los Angeles by now.”
Logan ended his interrogation no wiser than he’d begun it. I warned Drew not to answer any more questions without myself or Quentin present, promised to visit him in the morning, then let Chief Logan walk me to my car.
“Something’s not right, Penn,” he said. “I don’t know whether it’s Drew or something I don’t know about yet. But something’s deeply wrong in this town.”
“Maybe something’s been wrong for a while, Don. Maybe it’s just coming to the surface at last.”
“You talking about drugs?”
“And the other things tied up with it. Race problems, teenagers in trouble, big enough money to draw out-of-town predators.”
“What about this Marko kid?” Logan asked. “What’s his story?”
“You didn’t have him on your radar before this?”
“No.”
“He’s a Croatian exchange student who wants to be Al Pacino.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something Sonny Cross said.”
Chief Logan looked like he wanted more information, but I was too tired to tell what I knew about Marko Bakic. “What’s your problem with Quentin Avery, Don?”
The chief took out a cigarette and lit it. After a couple of drags, he said, “Avery sued my uncle in a personal injury case. Danny Richards. Uncle Danny owned a trucking company. They hauled pulpwood, mostly. Well, one of his drivers was drunk one Friday. Black, of course. Some of those guys buy two cases of beer in the morning and drink all day up in the cab. It’s crazy, of course, but how you gonna stop them? Uncle Danny checked his drivers lots of times, but you can’t be up in the trucks with them all the time. Anyway, this particular driver overcorrected on a turn and spilled a load of logs on a housewife coming back from the grocery store. Paralyzed her. Avery took the case and pushed it to the limit. The driver didn’t have anything but a mountain of debt, so he spent a few years in jail, then got out. He’s driving log trucks again.”
“And your uncle?”
“Avery shut him down. All the assets of his company were seized to pay the punitive damages. The case was litigated in Jefferson County, of course. Uncle Danny killed himself two years later. Drove into a bridge piling, stone sober in broad daylight, one-car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
Chief Logan blew out a long stream of smoke. “That motherfucker comes into my station, he’d better hope there’s people around the whole time. Otherwise, he just might slip on a banana peel.”
I waited for more, but the chief added nothing to his story. It’s an ancient rule: lawyers make enemies. “I’ll see you, Don.”
He dropped his butt and ground it out on the pavement. “Yeah.”
As I drive away from the police station, my mind construct
s a montage of images I never saw in life but which I now know happened: Cyrus White being attacked by a black-masked killer; the ethereal Kate Townsend walking alone into the Brightside Manor Apartments to score drugs for her married lover’s wife. And playing beneath these images like the black-and-white filmstrips of carnage I saw in driver’s education class, the death of Sonny Cross, my own personal nightmare of muzzle flashes and panic and black blood. My feelings about Sonny remain mixed. He was a flawed man, but he did his best to protect his hometown from a scourge he knew more intimately than most of us. It was an obligation he felt deeply, and as he died, he passed part of that obligation on to me, like a falling soldier passing a regimental banner to a comrade.
Reflecting on the hurricane of violence that began spinning through my town two days ago, I ask myself what lies in the eye of that storm. And the answer that comes to me is simple: Marko Bakic. Given what I told Sheriff Byrd tonight about Sonny’s interrogation of Marko this afternoon, Marko is probably sitting under a hot light down at the sheriff’s department right now. But maybe not. Billy Byrd has a lot to deal with tonight.
Dialing Directory Assistance on my cell phone, I request the home phone number of Paul Wilson, the retired professor who sponsored Marko in the student exchange program. It’s after eleven, but Paul keeps late hours. I’ve seen him jogging with his dog after midnight in his subdivision. I know this because I often keep late hours myself, especially when I’m writing. After Paul’s phone rings five times, I start to hang up, but then the professor answers in a wide-awake voice.
“Penn Cage! What’s up, fella?” Paul is a Yankee, and he obviously saw my name on his caller ID.
“Hey, Paul. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”
“It’s not late over here. Janet and I were just having a glass of pinot noir and watching Puccini on PBS.”
A hysterical laugh almost escapes my mouth. Paul has instantly fulfilled my stereotypical image of him. I’ve heard that he and Janet drink a lot of wine, and I know from talking to him that he listens to too much NPR.
“Have you heard from the police tonight?” I ask.
