Sandhill’s phone rang through spaces as silent as a closed book. “I’d better grab that,” he said, squeezing Nike’s shoulder. “It could be important.”
Nike withdrew her arms from his neck and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Sandhill snatched the phone in mid-ring. Gentleman Jimmy James’s voice hissed through the wires, fear heated with anger.
“What you trying to do to me?”
Sandhill said, “What do you mean, do to you?”
“You doggin’ my ass. You got a guy on me; I made him soon’s I pulled into my driveway. You said I was done.”
Sandhill said, “Chill, James. What’s going on?”
“There’s a po-lice car out front, got that little antenna sticking up. You the only people know about me. What you got someone in my shadow for?”
“I don’t. You recognize the guy in the car?”
“Might be that guy hired me. Coming to shut
me up. Permanent maybe. You got me found out, damn your white ass.”
Sandhill’s mind raced with pictures and probabilities. “No way, James. Whatever’s going down was already in someone’s plans. Your sister there?”
“She an’ her church biddies went to some big prayin’ meeting up in Memphis; be gone a week. Oh man, that car just pulled up the driveway. I think it’s him, man.”
Sandhill subconsciously lowered to a crouch, phone tight to his ear. “Listen, James. You got a back door? Where’s it lead? OK; I want you to dial 911 and yell
Fire!
Call me when you’re safe.”
Sandhill hung up and stared at the phone for eight minutes. He picked it up halfway through the first ring. James said, “Shit, man, there’s a whole buncha fire vee-hicles out front of the house, firemen staring at the place. Kinda funny, I think about it.”
“Where you at, James?”
“Honeylee Blakee’s place, next block over. I’m watching between the houses.”
“Honey Lee…who’s that?”
“Lady friend of mine, man. She old but she bold.” Sandhill heard a woman’s laughter in the background; it didn’t sound that old.
“Where’s the guy was in your driveway?”
“You tol’ me scat, not stand and watch the show. But when the sirens started up in the distance, he burned his tires getting gone. Wherever he is, he not around here. Hope them firemen scared him off for good.”
“Doubtful. Your lady friend let you stay a few days?”
“She like that idea fine, her husband have other thoughts. I got a couple guys in my poker-playin’ crew let me rack with them a day or two.”
“Do it. I’m going to deal with the situation down here.”
“Gonna ‘front the man in the gray suit?”
“Call me in two days, James. Things are about to change.”
“That’s what I comin’ to like ‘bout you, Mr Gumbo King,” James chuckled. “You crazy as a foamin’ dog, but you get shit done.”
Sandhill tossed the phone back in the cradle and turned to Nike’s questioning eyes. “Someone’s watching James. Maybe to remind him to be quiet, or maybe to put him out of the game for keeps.”
“James? That old man you said faked the fall?” Nike said. “Why?”
“James saw someone. Either they’re having second thoughts about being seen, or this is the way they planned it all along.”
“Who?”
Sandhill stood and pulled a black leather vest over his red tee shirt. He went to the table beside his bed and retrieved the holstered Colt, set it on the table. He jammed the badge wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.
“The person I’m going to talk to this afternoon. If I’m right, he’ll be in Mobile in a couple hours.
It’s time to jam a stick in the nest and see what comes slithering out.”
Captain Sampanong made a final check of the radar and GPS readout as the
Petite Angel
entered the wide mouth of Mobile Bay, Fort Morgan to the east, Dauphin Island to the west. Satisfied with the new heading, Sampanong turned to his companion on the bridge. “We’ll be berthed by five, Mr Mattoon, if we don’t meet a lot of traffic in the river.”
Mattoon surveyed the waters through binoculars. A gas platform lay a half-mile to portside. A dredging barge lumbered to starboard. Three hundred yards out, a charter fishing vessel crossed the
Petite Angel’s
bow, its deck packed with beerwoozy anglers who’d paid eighty dollars apiece for a half-day of crossing lines and vomiting. A flat smile crept to his lips as he imagined crushing the boat beneath his bow, watching the flotsam emerge from the stern like shattered china.
Samapanong said, “You look pleased, Mr Mattoon. You plan to announce the new facility soon, I take it?”
“Not personally, Captain. I’ve hired whores to do it for me.”
“Whores, sir?”
“Politicians. Puppets. Ones too proud to see the wires.” He passed the binoculars to Sampanong. “Thank you, Captain. It’s time for me to make several last-minute arrangements.”
Back in the sanctuary of his cabin, Mattoon’s fingers played across the computer keyboard and the screen lit with the image of Jacy Charlane bound on the cot. His palm stroked her pixilated face, and he removed from his desk the agenda for his evening. He picked up the phone and dialed the communications officer.
“Mr Henson? I need for you to connect me to Mobile. The mayor’s office. You have the number in your log.”
The call wouldn’t take long, Mattoon reflected as he listened to connections clicking through the distance, his finger already tracking the next number on the list.
The number that brought Lorelei. By tomorrow she’d be his.
The dark car slid into the apartment building’s lot and rumbled to the numbered slot under a listing carport riddled with dry rot. The apartments, twenty yards distant, were in similar disrepair; boxes built in the fifties, decomposing since the seventies—peeling paint, hanging gutters, cracked, weed-sprouting walkways, grass bleached a waterless yellow. The hot air smelled of rotting garbage.
Sandhill slipped from his truck and walked the fifty feet to the new arrival. A large man in a dark suit pushed from the vehicle, turned away as he reached back into the car to retrieve a battered black briefcase. Sandhill stopped a dozen feet behind the broad back.
“A detective commander living in white-trashville? They must not pay according to your talents, Ducky. Or maybe they do.”
Ainsley Duckworth spun, startled, his eyes narrowing at the source of the question. He chewed a toothpick, his brick-like wedge of brow furrowed. Sandhill saw embarrassment. And an instant of fear, quickly covered.
“What the hell you doing here, Sandhill?”
“I wanted to ask how things were in Montgomery.”
“Montgomery?”
“What were you going to do to James? Threats? Maybe a little rough stuff? Or were you planning a harder road? Must have been a surprise when the fire trucks rolled up.”
Duckworth spat the toothpick to the ground. “What the fuck you talking about, Sandhill? Fire trucks? James who? Get out of here.” Duckworth started toward his apartment, but Sandhill blocked the way.
“What’s going on, Ducky? Why’re you using a moke like Gentleman Jim to get the black community fired up?”
“Get outta my way, Sandhill. I think you’re hallucinating. There fumes coming off that gumbo of yours?”
“Where’s Terrence in all this, Ducks? You’re not creative enough to pull something like this together on your own. And how do the abducted girls figure in?”
Duckworth set his briefcase on the tarmac. “You’re one sick fuck, Sandhill. I’m looking for them, remember? I’m sorry that girl you were watching got snatched, but I wasn’t the one supposed to be watching her. Don’t take your failures out on me.”
Sandhill stepped toward Duckworth, hands balled into fists. Duckworth’s hand slipped beneath his jacket and unsnapped his holster.
“Hold up, whore breath. Another step and this action goes heavyweight. It’s no secret you’re shadowing these cases, getting weirder every day. I’ll drop your ass and say you were babbling craziness, threatening me. You always pack that ankle piece, right? All I say is the crazy fuck went for it and I had no choice.”
Sandhill stared at the grinning commander and realized he’d let anger and impatience spark a confrontation that was going nowhere. He’d learned nothing, lost any chance for shadowing Duckworth, if the man was the one James recognized. He’d tipped his hand; an asshole move. Sandhill turned and walked back toward his truck, followed by Duckworth’s laughter.
“Get back to your kitchen, fry whore. I smell something burning.”
“Go get her, Rose. It’s time.” Truman pulled a medicine vial from his pants pocket and tossed it to his brother. “Make sure she takes the sedative before we leave.”
Rose stared at the vial in his hand, stricken.
“Come on, Rose, move it,” Truman said. “I got the word an hour ago. We’re meeting on the river, same place as last year.”
“Why would he need another girl, Tru? He got one last year. What happened to Darla?”
“How the hell do I know? I don’t send the buyers a questionnaire. Go get her.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t order me around, Tru.”
Truman looked at the television angled toward the couch, the small camera atop the TV. “Don’t go getting all snippy because you’re losing the audience for your playtime, Rose.”
Rose stiffened and stared at his brother. “For my
what
?”
The smirk fell from Truman’s face. “I didn’t mean it like that, Rose, like back then. I meant…”
Rose spoke through clenched teeth. “You weren’t called for playtime, Tru. Don’t ever use that word again. Never. You don’t know what it means.”
“I said I’m sorry. I meant…Never mind what I meant. Just get her, brother.” Truman pursed his lips. “But first, come kiss and make up, Rose; give me one.”
Rose turned his face away. “I don’t feel like it.”
Truman patted his brother’s back. “Things are tense now, it’s that kind of business. But after tonight we’ll have three-quarters of a million dollars in the bank.” Truman pursed his lips again. “Come on, bro.”
Rose leaned over, kissed Truman’s lips and quickly pulled away.
“You and me, brother,” Tru said as he mock-punched Rose’s shoulder. “We’ll let things cool off and start making withdrawals. I’ll wash the money through the business and we’ll live large. Plus we’ve still got more product on the site. I move four and that’s another sweet mill. We’ll live off the interest and never have to work.”
Rose stared at the blank TV. “I don’t want to do this any more, Tru. Steal girls.”
“Come on, Rose. You get like this every time we make a delivery.”
“It’s different. I mean it this time.”
“You get attached,” Truman said, patting Rose’s forearm. “It’s sweet.”
“No. Things are different. Jacy’s…different.”
“They’re all different, Rose. Each a precious little gem. That’s what makes them so valuable.” Truman pursed his thin lips, wet them with a slip of tongue. “Come on, Rose, give me another.”
They kissed again, Truman’s hand slipping down Rose’s back, gliding over his buttocks. “There we go, Rose. You and me. Now go get Lorelei.”
Rose started away, then turned and glared over his shoulder. “It’s Jacy, Tru. J-A-C-Y.”
“Jacy then. Go get Jacy, Rose. Give her the pill. Hurry.”
Ryder heard the outsize voice halfway up the stairs to Sandhill’s apartment. He knocked and, when there was no answer, pushed open the door to see Sandhill side-arm a stack of papers from his dining-room table. Copies of the case files brought by the greasy inspector, Wentz, the pages scattered half the length of the room.
“It’s here, it’s goddamned here,” Sandhill growled, oblivious to Ryder’s presence. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
Sandhill didn’t look happy to see Ryder. He didn’t look happy about anything. “The piece, the goddamned key.” He picked up a sheaf of photographs and threw them across the room.
“Key to what?”
“All this damned BULLSHIT!”
“Jeez, Sandhill, calm down.”
“We’ve got nothing. It’s all WORTHLESS!”
Sandhill kicked the table, upending it, sending reports, timelines, notes spilling all the way into the kitchen area. He punted the table again, sending a leg flying into the kitchen area.
Ryder grabbed Sandhill’s arm. “Sandhill, listen—”
Sandhill yanked his arm away. “Let me be, Ryder. I’m working.”
“You’re not making sense. Stop and listen to me.”
Ryder grabbed Sandhill’s arm again. Sandhill spun, sending Ryder tripping forward over the stacks of papers. He caught himself on a chair piled with notepads and revised timelines, spilling them across the carpet.
“Dammit, Sandhill…’ Ryder stormed back toward the red-faced restaurateur’s back. Sandhill whirled, eyes blazing, fists tight and raised.
“Leave me alone, Ryder.”
“Then stop acting like an asshole. Get your act together.”
Sandhill waved a clenched fist under Ryder’s nose. “I could knock your face through that window.”
Ryder smacked the fist away. “Not a chance.”
The two men circled one another, Sandhill quivering with anger, Ryder reflecting it right back.
A voice barked, “What in the hell is going on?”
The men turned to the open door. An aproned Marie stood framed in the doorway waving a ladle like a hatchet.
“Dora and me got fifty folks downstairs tryin’ to
eat in peace an’ all they hearing is the ceiling thumping like it’s gonna crash down. If you silly-ass fools gonna try and kill yourselfs, do it somewhere else. Conner, you stop lookin’ at me like that else I’ll slap this ladle upside your head.”
“You knew, didn’t you, Marie? About Jacy?”
“Yes, I surely did, Conner.”
He glared at her. “You didn’t tell me. All the time we been together and you never told me.”
“Wasn’t mine to tell.”
Ryder’s head swiveled between Marie and Sandhill. “I’m missing something big here, right?”
Sandhill wavered for an instant, then sat heavily on the floor, his face contorted with misery. “Jacy’s my daughter, Ryder. I found out an hour ago.”
Ryder’s jaw drooped. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“My daughter, Thena’s daughter. Ours.”
“Jesus.
Jee-sus.
”
“Yeah, it’s been a three-Jesus day, Ryder. And it ain’t even over.”
Marie studied her boss. “If you think maybe you can behave without a head-whopping, I got customers to worry over.”
Sandhill nodded his head. “I got it back together, Marie. Thanks.”
Marie turned and walked downstairs to the restaurant. Ryder bent and began gathering papers. Sandhill remained on the floor.
“I screwed up, Ryder. I confronted Duckworth about James, got nothing for it but mud on my face. I had to slink off like a whipped puppy.”
“Screw Duckworth. We’ve got to make sense of the case. Now. Tonight.”
Sandhill stared at the upturned and broken table, the floor littered with reports, notepads and photographs. His eyes were red, his face dark with misery. “Nothing about this case makes sense. Nothing ties together. The events don’t lead, they circle. It’s all meaningless.”
Ryder examined the room, awash in papers and documents, the careful stacks now tumbled together in chaos. “The facts are scrambled. We’ve got to be intuitive, find the invisible lines. You don’t see them, you feel them.”
Harry Nautilus had always felt events were connected with invisible lines that slowly began to show themselves until it was revealed that the detectives had been either missing or tripping over the lines at every turn. It was intuition, the ability to feel the lines—and instinctively know their importance—that made a great detective.
“Touchy-feely crap,” Sandhill said. “Thena’s type of thinking.”
“We need it now, Sandhill. We need to start feeling for the lines.”
Sandhill dropped his face into his hands and mumbled to the floor in a voice as soft as prayer.
Ryder said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Sandhill looked up, his face a mask of bereavement. “I was wishing Thena was here, Ryder, like I’ve done a thousand times before. I want Thena to walk through the door and tell me what I’m
supposed to do, what I’m supposed to connect. What I’m supposed to feel.”
Ryder reached to Sandhill’s shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ll need coffee to keep working. I’ll go downstairs and ask Marie to brew an extra strong pot.”
Ryder closed the door behind him, starting down the steps. The stairway was quiet and he heard Sandhill’s voice behind the door.
“How do I do this thing, Thena?” he pleaded, his voice ragged. “How do I do it, baby? Help me.”