To Live and Die In Dixie (24 page)

“The law stinks,” she cried. “They'll get away with it.”

I was putting the footlocker's contents back together again, trying to remember which sweater had gone where. “No they won't,” I said.

We made the phone call from a convenience store at
Chamblee-Dunwoody and Interstate 285. I sent Jocelyn inside for a Slushie. When the secretary in the homicide division picked up the phone, I started talking in a low monotone.

“Anonymous caller,” I said. “Write this down. Murder of Bridget Dougherty. Tell cops Zak Crawford. Hocked silver cup. Rest of the stuff hidden in his apartment. Willoughby Woods. Girlfriend is Lissa Jordan. They did it.”

Then I hung up the phone, and we ran for the van, laughing like a couple of lunatics. The Slushie was cold and sweet. My butt still hurt.

A navy-blue Buick with a radio antenna on the hood was parked in front of my house.

“That's the cops,” I told Jocelyn. “Hunsecker must not have gotten the anonymous tip yet. Here's the deal: we've been out checking antique stores, looking for the rest of the stuff from Littlefield's house. Understand? If he asks, you know who Zak Crawford is, you saw him with Lissa at the Jordans. But that's all you know, right?”

“Got ya,” she said.

Linda Nickells sat at the kitchen table with Edna, who had her hair up in rollers. The two of them were talking shop.

“I just use a relaxer,” Linda said, touching her shining, dark hair. “No color, because that makes it break. And I'm real careful how I comb it after it's washed.”

I pushed open the kitchen door noisily.

“Hey, Linda,” I said. “How's it going? Been here long?”

She looked up at the kitchen clock. “Not bad. I've been here about ten minutes, talking to your mom.”

Nickells nodded at Jocelyn, who waved and beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the den.

“She's still kind of shook up from the accident last night,” I explained. “Headachey. Where's C. W.?”

Edna got up and got the aspirin bottle from the kitchen cabinet. “I'll see if she needs dosing,” she said.

“C. W. just got out of his meeting with the D.A. He's still trying to track down your gray car. We checked at Littlefield's. There were two silver Honda Accords, and a gray Volvo wagon, but no big gray sedans. Kyle Jordan drives a black Chevy pickup truck, and his wife has a white Camaro.”

“A lot of kids hang out at the Jordans' house,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Jocelyn knows the names of some of the kids we saw. There's one kid, Zak Crawford, who spends a lot of time alone with Jordan's wife, if you know what I mean. And then there are three or four other kids who hang around.”

“Littlefield called,” Linda said abruptly. “He was complaining that you were harassing him, and making false accusations and stuff.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you have a big mouth and the police have no control over what you do, and suggested he call the state agency that licenses private investigators, if he has a problem with you.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

I debated whether or not to suggest she look at Zak Crawford's whereabouts on Saturday. Then I remembered her crack about my big mouth.

“If you can manage to keep it to yourself, I'll tell you something else,” Nickells said. “We talked to Jordan again this morning. Turns out he wasn't at that soccer camp all day last Saturday.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Seems like the coach suspects his wife was fooling around on him,” she said, grinning. “One of the kids
saw him leaving the camp around one-thirty
P.M.
After we leaned on him a little he admitted it was the truth. He called home and the baby-sitter answered. So he drove home, and the wife was still gone. Then he cruised the neighborhood, all her friends' houses, the mall, the neighborhood pool, nothing. He's really pissed. So he goes back to camp, and when he calls home again, the wife is there. She tells him she went to the movies with a friend.”

“Did Jordan believe her? Did you check it out?”

“We're working on it,” Nickells said. “C. W. told me not to tell you anything else. I shouldn't have told you this much. Get Jocelyn to put together a list of those kids' names for me. Phone numbers too. Call me.”

“I will,” I promised.

“Tell your mama good-bye for me,” Nickells said. “I like her. She reminds me of my Aunt Alice. The lady who raised me. Tough old biddies. Both of 'em.”

I
WAS JUST BASTING THE CHICKEN with Edna's secret barbecue sauce when the phone rang in the kitchen. “Somebody get that,” I yelled. “I don't dare leave this grill.”

But after it rang a second and a third time I turned the grill off and ran for the phone myself.

It was Hunsecker. “Understand you've been looking for me,” he said.

“Yeah, uh, I have been,” I said. “So how's the case going?” I didn't want to tell what we'd found at Zak Crawford's apartment if I could avoid it.

Edna walked into the kitchen then, her hair wrapped in a towel turban. “It's Hunsecker,” I mouthed.

She sat down at the table and dealt herself a hand of solitaire.

“Big anonymous tip came in today,” he said casually.

“Yeah?” I said, innocently. “What kind of tip?”

“Somebody called to suggest that the cops search an apartment on Chamblee-Dunwoody for evidence in Bridget's murder.”

“Really?” I said, sitting down. “Whose apartment? Did you guys search it?”

“Some kid who'd been kicked out of All Saints,” he said. “Friend of Lissa Jordan's,” he said. “We checked it all right. Got a search warrant, went over there. Nobody home. We got the manager to open it up. Know what we found? Nothing but a lot of dirty clothes and not enough marijuana to roll a single joint.”

My heart sank. Zak had been home. “That's it?” I said.

“Just about,” he said. “You know anything about this Crawford kid?”

“Not much,” I said. “According to Jocelyn, the kid might have been having an affair with Lissa. Maybe you should check it out.”

“Might do that,” Hunsecker said. “We do know there's a gray Lexus registered to Alex Crawford, the kid's old man. But the father's on a business trip to the West Coast. Can't be reached. And nobody's seen the kid today. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Jake Dahlberg. The guy who lives across the street from Littlefield. He's responsible for the fire that killed that woman and baby at the house on Gormley Street last week. He admitted as much to me.”

“I've got a message here from the arson squad,” he said. “Guess that's what they were calling about.”

He paused a moment. “Garrity,” he said, his voice lowered, “if you've been screwing around in the Crawfords' apartment, I'll have you charged with breaking and entering so fast your head will spin.”

I was tempted to tell him everything. But I couldn't, not just yet. I blustered my way out of the conversation and hung up as quickly as I could.

“Shit,” I said, pounding the table. “All the stuff is gone. Zak must have figured out we were there.”

Edna played the black ten on the red jack. “If
Hunsecker finds out you were there, your ass is grass, Jules.”

I reached out a hand to show her a play, but she slapped it away. “Hunsecker said the car that ran us off the road is registered to Zak's father. The father can't be reached and nobody knows where Zak is.”

“Don't worry,” said a voice behind us. “I've got the proof that they did it.”

Jocelyn stood in the doorway, barefoot, dressed only in an oversize T-shirt. She held a folded up sheet of pink paper in her hand. “I took it when you weren't looking,” she said, apologetically. “I had to be sure we could prove they did it.”

I stalked over to her and snatched the paper out of her hand. It was the “Stairway to Heaven” letter. “Goddamnit, Jocelyn,” I said. “I told you. This isn't worth anything unless the cops find it in their possession. Now all it does is tie us to a charge of breaking and entering.”

“It's okay,” she said stubbornly. “I figured it out. We'll go back and plant it in his car, and you can call the cops again, like you did today. We'll still be able to prove they did it.”

“No, no, no,” I said, exasperated. “We can't plant evidence, Jocelyn. It's too obvious. One anonymous tip might be plausible. Two, a judge would never believe. I just hope Zak doesn't count those letters to see if they're all still there.”

Edna took a long puff on her cigarette, stubbed it out, and gathered her cards into a stack.

“Call Hunsecker back,” she said. “Explain what happened. You've got the one letter. Give him that. Maybe you could plant it back at the apartment. That kid has tried to kill you two once. What's to stop him from doing it again?”

Jocelyn gave me that beseeching look. “No way,” I said. “Hunsecker is Mr. Straight. If he knows for sure that we broke in there, none of the stuff, the letters, the guns, the saber, could be used as evidence against Zak and Lissa. There still might be a way to nail them, and I don't want to screw up the cops any more than we already have.”

I opened one of the kitchen cabinets, got out a Tupperware lettuce crisper, took the letter and sealed it inside the container with a satisfying burp of the lid. Then I put it in the refrigerator, in the back of the bottom shelf.

“We'll figure out what to do with this later,” I said. “Let's eat.”

The chicken had gotten extra-crispy on the grill, but none of us felt much like eating anyway. We all decided to make an early night of it.

After Edna and Jocelyn had double-checked all the windows and doors and gone to bed, I went back into the kitchen, got the oatmeal box down out of the pantry, and fished inside until I felt the touch of cool metal. I took a dishtowel and wiped down my new 9-millimeter Smith & Wesson semiautomatic. The stainless steel gleamed dully, and I flicked away a crumb of oatmeal from the black plastic grip. I was still getting used to my new, high-powered pistol. Last year, after someone had easily taken away my little .22, I'd decided, after much debate, to move up in firepower. I wasn't planning on using it unless I had to, but if I did decide to fire, I wanted the firee to know he'd been shot, and that I was serious.

I had to think to remember where I'd hidden the gun's clip. Finally I spotted the Earl Gray tea canister on the top shelf of the pantry. Once I'd checked to make sure it had all fourteen rounds, I rammed the clip home
and slipped on the safety, then put it in the pocket of my nightgown. I was still feeling jumpy, so I fixed myself a Jack Daniel's and water and took it to bed with me. I put the gun on the night stand and opened my book. But after a few pages and a good slug of bourbon, my eyelids finally gave up the good fight.

 

Barking; the insistent, frenzied yapping and snarling of a small dog jolted me awake. I instinctively reached across the bed to the night stand, grabbed my gun, and ran toward the back of the house.

I knew that dog. It was Homer, our next door neighbor's ill-tempered Boston terrier. Mr. Byerly's lawn mower had been stolen from his garage in May, so he'd recently let Homer have the run of the yard, to scare off petty thieves. From the kitchen window I saw the lights blink on next door and heard Mr. Byerly's back door creak open. “Homer, here, boy,” he called. But Homer was barking furiously now, not about to give up his stance. I snapped the patio light on, but nothing happened. The backyard was bathed in inky darkness.

“Callahan?” Edna's voice called from her bedroom. “What the hell's going on?”

“I think Homer has somebody cornered out there,” I yelled. “Call the cops and stay where you are. I've got my gun. I'm going outside.”

“Homer,” Mr. Byerly called. “Here, boy.” I could see him, a tall gaunt figure in his print pajamas, brandishing a toilet plunger against the unseen invader.

I opened the kitchen door. “Mr. Byerly,” I yelled, “get Homer and go back inside. The police are on their way.”

“Where's Jocelyn?” Edna called. “She's not on the sofa.”

“Dear God,” I muttered to myself. I sprinted down the hallway toward the den and was halfway there when the explosion came, a tremendous
WHOOF
that vibrated the floorboards under my feet. At the same time I heard the sound of shattering glass coming from the basement. Smoke came pouring out of the floor vent by my feet.

“Jocelyn,” I screamed. She wasn't in the den, the covers had slipped to the floor. Then I heard another sound, the sound of running water. The bathroom door opened and she stepped out, bleary-eyed and clearly terrified. “What's going on?” she whispered. “What's happening? Was that an explosion?”

The hall lights flickered out then. I gripped her by the shoulder and moved her along the hallway toward the front of the house. Edna met us in the hallway, her hair in curlers, a robe thrown over her cotton gown. “The back of the house is on fire,” she said. “We've got to get out.”

I propelled both of them toward the front door. “Out,” I said. “Quickly. I think it started in the basement. Hurry.”

The three of us stumbled blindly in the dark, fumbling with the double locks on the front door. Outside, we ran for the sidewalk, then turned to watch yellow-orange flames leaping up over the roof of the bungalow from the back of the house.

Suddenly we heard a series of shrieks, piercing, anguished cries. “Help me, help me, Jesus, I'm on fire.” A woman, her clothing in flames, hurtled into the yard, then dropped to the grass. Behind her came a man, his silhouette outlined by the flames licking at his pants, his shirt, even his long hair.

From nowhere, we saw a second man running from the street toward the two fire-engulfed figures. “Get
down,” he screamed, “get down.” He ripped his shirt off, and tried to blanket the woman in it, but she rolled on the ground, writhing and screaming in agony.

Edna was shrugging out of her robe just as I turned to her. I ran over and threw the robe on the young man, frantically trying to beat out the flames with the thin cotton fabric. “Help me,” he sobbed, “help me.”

The woman was still flailing on the ground, rolling away from her rescuer, screaming for him to get away. “Lissa,” he hollered. “Hold still. Hold still, dammit. It's Kyle. Hold still.”

Kyle Jordan, bare-chested, cradled his wife in his arms, sobbing as he tried to peel away the scorched jeans that had melted onto her long, shapely legs.

It didn't register until then that the blackened, singed shape, lying on my lawn, wrapped in my mother's bathrobe, was Zak Crawford.

Their screams, high, keening wails, nearly drowned out the sirens of the fire trucks and ambulance that careened down our street.

 

“You're burned,” Edna cried. “Look at your hands and arms.”

I'd been so busy trying to beat the flames off of Zak Crawford that I hadn't noticed what the stinging sensation was. But she was right. The palms of my hands looked like raw hamburger and the hair on my forearms had been singed.

“Fire's out,” announced Mr. Byerly, strolling up with a snarling Homer in his arms. Our neighbor was still dressed in his pajamas, but he'd thrown a raincoat over them in the name of modesty, and a soft felt hat was squashed down on his high, hairless forehead. We swiveled around to look. A cloud of gray smoke hung in
the air, but the flames had subsided and the firemen were rewinding their hoses and loading equipment onto their truck.

“I'm afraid to look any closer,” I said. The bungalow was small, humble by other people's standards, but it was the first and only house I'd ever owned and I loved it fiercely.

“Fella over there gave it a couple good blasts from that hose and that fire was gone,” Mr. Byerly said, nodding at one of the firemen. “He tells me gasoline actually doesn't do that good a job for burning a house down from the outside. It lights fast, then burns itself out just as quick.”

“Did you see how much damage there was?” I asked anxiously.

“Not too awful bad,” he said. “Me and Homer walked around to the edge of the backyard. Still pretty dark, but the walls are all standing. I'd say you're gonna need to plant some new grass, and Miss Edna's azaleas got all burned up. Looks like the back will need some siding, or paint, at least.”

I took one of Homer's paws in mine, wincing at the sensation of his nails on my hand. “Is he all right? You know this little pissant probably saved our lives.”

Mr. Byerly puffed his chest out. “Homer's too smart to get burned up. He had ahold of that lady's leg and chased her clean over to the side of the yard. He took off lickety-split for home when those windows blew out.”

“Good boy,” I crooned, scratching his ears. He bared his teeth at me. “I'm gonna buy you a big ol' sirloin steak tomorrow, Homer. You can take a dump in my yard or hump my leg any time you feel like it, from now on.”

“Shut up about the dog,” Edna fussed. “You're going
to the emergency room right this minute to see about those burns.”

Thirty minutes later, Edna, Jocelyn, and I were sitting in the waiting area at Grady's emergency room, all of us dressed in the pink House Mouse smocks we'd gotten out of the van. The cops on the scene had refused to let us back in the house for clothes.

Kyle Jordan sat in a hard plastic chair across from us in the waiting room, his three sleepy children spilling out of his lap. All of us tried to avoid making eye contact. Except Jocelyn.

“I'm going over there to talk to him,” Jocelyn announced, standing up to go. But Edna grabbed the hem of her smock and yanked her back. “Those babies' mama is in there, burned to a cinder. You set still and be quiet now.”

She looked up at the waiting room clock for the third time in five minutes. “If they don't come out and get you pretty soon, I'm calling your sister, Maureen, at home. She'll get you seen in a hurry.”

Maureen works the day shift in Grady's emergency room, but on the surgical side. My hands were throbbing now. “They'll see me as soon as they can,” I said through clenched teeth. “My hands are nothing.” But they hurt like bloody hell.

I tried to concentrate on watching an old episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” on the television mounted near the waiting room ceiling, but it was one of the later ones with Ken Berry instead of Don Knotts, and my heart wasn't in it. Just as I was about to relent and suggest that Edna call Maureen, C. W. Hunsecker and Linda Nickells strode through the waiting room doors. C. W. nodded curtly at us, said something to Linda, and she disappeared into the treatment area.