Revenant (22 page)

As I was pulling out of the drive, the front door opened. Dorry stepped into the sunshine. She put a hand to her brow to block the sun as she watched me drive away. I couldn't help it. It wasn't that I didn't want to share Emily with her; it was that I couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not for a long while.

By the time I reached Jack Evans's Biloxi apartment complex, I'd quit shaking. I rang his doorbell, and when I started to knock, the door swung open.

“Jack!” I had a very bad feeling. “Jack!” I stepped inside and pushed the door open wide. The place had been trashed. Furniture was broken and I stepped on shards of crockery as I moved into the apartment. My first impulse was to call the police, but I had to see if Jack was hurt.

I found him in the bathroom, crumpled in the bathtub. Blood bubbled at his lips.

“Jack!” I pulled out my phone and called 911 for an ambulance.

“Go 'way,” he urged, and it wasn't liquor that slurred his words. His teeth were gone. I saw one on the porcelain of the tub and felt a rush of nausea.

“Who did this?”

“Go 'way!” He flapped a useless hand. “They'll hurt you if you in' fere. I owe 'em money.”

One leg looked at an odd angle. I was afraid to try to move him. I squatted on the floor beside him and touched his hand. “Help is coming.”

He closed his eyes. “Let me die.”

“Jack, whoever did this is going to pay.” I didn't know if he should talk or stay quiet.

“Stay out of it.”

Wise words, but an unlikely course of action. It was impossible to see someone with the shit beat out of them and just brush it off.

He looked at me. “Stay out of it. I brought this on myself. Gambling.” He was more forceful, and that made me feel a little relieved.

“We'll talk when you feel better. Is there someone I should call? Your son?”

“No!”

“Okay, take it easy.” I started to put my phone away when I heard something at the door. I got up and walked into the floodlights of a television camera. Tate Luckett was standing in the middle of Jack's trashed living room.

“We heard the 911 call,” Tate said. “What happened?”

“Tate, this is a private residence. Leave.”

“But you're here,” he said.

“I'm not working, okay? Now leave.” The worst thing I could do would be to lose my cool. I gave the cameraman a pointed look and he backed out the door. Tate was not so easily intimidated.

“Jack Evans lives here, doesn't he? Is this retribution for some story he's working on?”

“Tate, for the last time, please leave.”

“Can I get a few comments from Jack?” Tate was trying to step around me but I blocked him, daring him to try and push past. We stood like that until the door opened for the paramedics and three police officers.

“Leave or I'll have the officers remove you,” I said.

“I've heard you were cozy with the district attorney.” His smile held distaste. “I guess you do what you have to do to get a job.” He walked out, and I knew he'd be waiting so he could get a shot of Jack.

Jack didn't scream when the paramedics put him on the stretcher, but I saw his leg fall and knew it was badly broken. When they were ready to take him out the door, I threw his windbreaker over his face to hide the damage. Tate could speculate that it was Jack, but he couldn't document it. Instead of riding in the ambulance, I followed, wondering just how much worse my Sunday morning could get.

Two hours later I knew. Jack's spleen had burst and he was in emergency surgery for that and to set his broken leg. His teeth had been knocked out, and his wrist, three ribs and his jaw were broken, as well. He was in critical condition because one of the ribs had punctured his lung, which had collapsed. Had I not found him, he would have been dead in another few hours.

The story would be on the television news, so I called Hank Richey at home and told him what had happened.

“So he owes someone money.” Hank's voice was speculative, and I wondered how much he knew about Jack's problems.

“Does Jack have any relatives nearby?” I asked. I knew he had a son in Seattle, but he was too far away to be of practical help.

“He has a daughter in Pass Christian.” Hank seemed reluctant to say more.

“I'll call her,” I said.

“They don't have a good relationship,” Hank said.

So he knew something I didn't. “She should still know about this. Jack could die.”

“She won't appreciate the call.”

“She can do whatever she wants, but I'll tell her.” I hung up and got her number and called. I barely got as far as saying I worked with her father when she lit into me.

“I don't have any money. If he owes you, that's your hard luck. Even if I had money I wouldn't bail him out. Why don't you ask him how many times he was around to pay my doctor's bills or buy me shoes when I was a kid? Ask him that. How dare he give you my number to call.”

“Jack didn't give me the number. He's in surgery. He can't talk.”

That slowed her down, at least long enough for me to tell her what had happened. She was too quiet, and I knew beneath the pain and anger there was some soft emotion for her father.

“He's at Biloxi General.”

“I'm not going—”

“I don't care. I just wanted you to have the information.” I hung up with a throbbing headache. My cell rang almost instantly, and I considered not answering it.

“I heard you were asking questions about my past.”

I didn't recognize the voice and unknown number that appeared on the ID panel of my cell phone. “Who is this?”

“Deputy Chief Jimmy Riley. Why don't you meet me at Bebop's Bar?”

Something about the call made me hesitate. “I've been meaning to talk to you, but why are you calling me now?”

“Do you want to talk or not?”

“When?” I asked.

“Three o'clock.”

“Sure,” I said, making up my mind to take the bait. “I'll be there.”

T
here were no vehicles at Bebop's, which wasn't surprising since it was early afternoon. The bar was a late place for serious drinking. Located between a junkyard for old cars and the back of an abandoned Wal-Mart in a rundown neighborhood just south of I-10, the bar was hidden from view from the road. Seedy didn't begin to cover the potholes filled with oily water, rusted tin roof and general air of trouble that hung over the place like a black cloud. I felt a ripple of concern as I started toward the front door. The whole thing screamed setup, but I had to see who was inside.

The door was weathered and worn and hadn't been cleaned since it was hung. When I pulled it open, the hinges screeched and stale cigarette smoke made my eyes water. Stepping from the bright sunlight, I was momentarily blinded. Once my eyes adjusted, though, I realized the place was empty. This was not good. Folks didn't leave the door of a place stocked with liquor unlocked.

At home I had a gun and a stun gun, but I normally didn't carry them in the car. Now I wished I'd taken the precaution. Instead of going inside, I eased back, checking the area around the building. There were numerous junked vehicles, many nearly covered by weeds and kudzu, but my heart skipped for a second when I saw an old blue van. Like the one that had been behind me in Ocean Springs. Taking a deep breath, I moved toward it, hiding behind the old junkers. When I got close enough, I was relieved to see it had long been abandoned. There were no seats in it, and the hood hung at an odd angle. It wasn't the same vehicle, but it was a clue that my paranoia was hard at work.

I went back to the bar, pushed open the door and moved cautiously into the room so I could face the door that closed behind me on a spring. Riley had called me for this meeting. There would be phone records. He was a cop. He was too smart to do something stupid.

“Hello!” It was pointless to try to be clandestine. The screeching door had signaled my arrival.

“Hey! Anybody here!” My voice echoed in the emptiness. At the bar, I stopped. There was a white envelope with my name on it. Beside it was an old-fashioned box of matches. One match had been stuck in the top of the box, another leaned against it. Both had been lit, resulting in a strange curl of burned matchstick, a duo united in death. At first I couldn't believe what I was looking at, but then the full impact hit me with the force of a physical blow. My stomach churned.

Spinning around, I looked for whoever had done this cruel thing. My impulse was to lash back, to hurt the person responsible. The bar was empty. Whoever had done this was long gone.

I retrieved the envelope and opened it. There was a single note. “The wrong questions get dangerous answers,” was written inside.

Jimmy Riley wasn't going to meet me. The bartender wasn't coming in to work. The place had been left open for one reason—so I could receive my message.

Using a napkin from the bar I carefully picked up the matches. I'd already touched the envelope. Nonetheless, I took all of it out of the bar, my legs unsteady and my breathing harsh in my own ears.

It wasn't until I was in my truck, the engine running and the doors locked, that the anger set in hard. “You cheap bastard,” I whispered. “I'll have your ass in a sling.” Jimmy Riley might be deputy chief of the Biloxi police, but he was in for a tragic surprise.

Two years ago I'd received warnings to back off a story. When I didn't, my house had been torched. I'd survived, but my daughter had died. No figure could have been more appropriate than those matchsticks, curled and blackened. Jimmy Riley was a sick, psycho bastard, and he was going to pay. The blue van was gone, and I sat in my truck until the shaking stopped and I could drive.

My first inclination was to go to a bar, but I went to the hospital. Jack had survived surgery and was in intensive care. I needed to talk to him, but instead I watched him sleep through the glass window of his room. Whom did he owe money to, and how much? Unless he volunteered the information and this was resolved, they'd beat him again. Violent images turned me toward the elevators. Passing a large window in the hallway, I looked down on the parking lot. A blue van with darkened windows was parked near the emergency entrance, and I reversed back to the nurses' station.

I walked up to the desk and stood a moment. There were two nurses there, but neither of them would look at me.

“Has anyone been by to see Jack?” I asked. A bank of monitors beeped behind the nurses. They were sharing a pizza and one of them passed the box to the other. She dug out a huge slice and they put the box down.

“Excuse me, has anyone—?”

“No.” The younger one answered but didn't look up from the pizza slice she held in her hand.

“Mr. Evans may be in danger,” I said.

“No kidding.” Her look contained only boredom.

My adrenaline was still pumping. I reached down to the desk and flipped the pizza box onto the floor. Pepperoni and tomato sauce spattered on the linoleum tile. “Someone may try to hurt my friend again. I'd like for you to make sure no one goes into his room except medical staff you recognize.”

The girl was frozen in her chair. The other nurse reached for the telephone. I put my hand on it, and she leaned back, eyes darting to her right where there was another phone.

“I'm simply asking you to do your job,” I said softly. “If anyone tries to see Jack, call Detective Avery Boudreaux. And call me.” I wrote the numbers down. “Because if anything untoward happens to my friend, I'll put enough heat on this hospital to broil both of you.”

I waited to be sure they read the phone numbers and then walked away. As I turned the corner, I heard the mad scramble for the phone. They would call security, but it would be too late. I'd already be gone. Later I might feel bad about bullying the nurses, but at the moment I was still too angry.

Once at my truck, I had to make a decision. If I took the matches and envelope to the Biloxi PD for fingerprinting, I risked the chance of running into Jimmy Riley or one of his henchmen. Riley had political connections or he would never have risen so high. That made it difficult to know whom to trust. There were independent sources where I could get the matches and note card fingerprinted. As an officer, Riley's prints were on file, but I wasn't sure which files were accessible by private companies. I headed east, noting that the van was still parked, and pulled my cell phone from my purse.

“Carson.” Avery was surprised. “What's going on?”

“Did you question Jimmy Riley in regard to his job at the Gold Rush?”

“Why are you asking this?” There was an edge to his voice that matched my own.

“Damn it, Avery, I've been up front with you about everything. What did Riley say?”

“We're not going any further with this until you tell me what's going on.”

Avery was stubborn, but he was no match for me. “I'm worried about Jack Evans. I'm beginning to think the beating Jack took has something to do with these murdered girls and a not-so-pretty past of a Biloxi police officer.” I wasn't about to tell him about the threat to me.

“You think Riley is involved in Jack's beating?”

“Maybe.” I didn't, but if Riley was involved in the murders of the girls, Avery might be compromised. One good cop couldn't fight corruption that came from the top. “Riley worked at the Gold Rush, and Jack's been working background on the murders. Maybe he dug something up, something Riley knew.”

“Did Jack tell you anything?”

“Jack hasn't woken up yet. I'm speculating, and it occurred to me that Jimmy Riley was one good suspect. He was there, he failed to notice graves that had been dug in the parking lot he was being paid to guard and he's been on the coast for all the murders.”

“Except Riley doesn't look anything like the composite Adrian Welsh gave us.”

“The man Welsh described was a patron of the Gold Rush. Welsh never saw him do anything except sit at the bar. Riley was there, too, but no one noticed him because he was supposed to be there.”

“Why would Riley stop killing and suddenly start again?” Avery changed tactics.

“Maybe because five bodies have been recently exhumed. I don't have the goddamn answers.” My temper flared. “Why are you protecting him? All I want to know is what he said when you interviewed him. Or maybe you didn't interview him.”

The implication in my voice was ugly, and I didn't care. Jimmy Riley had threatened me by bringing up my dead child. He'd used the thing most painful to me as a goad. If Avery wanted to protect his superior, then I would just have to trample them all down.

“I questioned Riley about his work at the Gold Rush right after we found the bodies there. He told me his job entailed walking the parking lot and making sure young women got safely to their cars. He busted up a few fights and took car keys away from people too drunk to drive. He said he mostly sat in the back shed and smoked.”

“And you believed him?” I tried not to color my question.

“I had no reason not to. His story was the same as the other two police officers' who worked for Alvin. Carson, we questioned all three of them.”

“And not a single one noticed that five bodies were buried at the Gold Rush.”

“If you've uncovered something, you should tell me.”

“What about the night Pamela Sparks was killed? Where was Riley and what was he doing?”

“He says he was on his boat. Alone. His wife had gone to the delta to visit her family.”

So he actually had no alibi. “And this past Friday night?”

“He was out in the gulf fishing.”

“You have his alibi confirmed?”

“Riley pulled out of the harbor, and he didn't come back until Saturday evening.”

“Riley could have docked anywhere along the coast and doubled back to Biloxi.”

“I don't need tips on how to run an investigation. If you know something, tell me.” His patience was gone.

My anger won out over my common sense. “Read tomorrow's paper.”

There was the click of the line in my ear. He'd hung up. A vein pounded in my temple. The fragile relationship that I'd been building with Avery was severed. From his point of view, I'd called him up and acted like a total ass. From my point of view, I'd seen too many cases where the boys in blue protected one of their own.

I used directory service to get an address on Stella Blue. Her house was on my way home, and I stopped there, catching her just as she returned from New Orleans.

She paused in her yard, her short shorts showing tanned and toned legs. I got out of my truck and started across the well-maintained lawn.

If Stella was surprised to see me, she was too cool to show it. She waved me into the house and put a glass of merlot in my hand.

“I don't keep the hard stuff. Too tempting.” She adjusted the blinds. “I saw the drawing of the suspect in the paper. If you came to ask, I saw guys that looked like that in the Gold Rush, but none that stuck out. I wish I could be more help.”

I sipped the wine. “You can help me. Jimmy Riley. Tell me everything you know.”

She sat on the arm of her sofa and thought for a minute. “Jimmy was quiet most of the time, but he liked to talk big, especially about his old man. He was something of a rogue agent for the CIA. Jimmy would talk about how his father would be sent on these secret missions into the jungle. I was never really clear who they were supporting, and I don't think Jimmy or the agents really knew. As far as I could tell by the stories, those spooks had a license to torture and kill anyone who crossed them. He told one story about how his daddy came walking out of the jungle with a guy's head in a burlap sack to take back to CIA headquarters.”

“Did Jimmy believe the stories?” I was beginning to wonder if maybe the deputy chief was delusional.

“He seemed to believe everything he said. He loved to talk about his father. Of course, his old man was never around.” She shrugged. “Maybe Jimmy needed to think his dad was doing something heroic to explain his absence.” Her expression shifted to disgust. “Jimmy had this necklace made of human ears. I saw that.”

I felt the tightening of my lungs. “Human ears?”

“Absolutely. He said his dad gave it to him. He said when his dad caught some of the rebels, he'd chop off one ear and then if they didn't talk, he'd cut off the other ear and string them on that necklace right in front of them. Must have been twenty ears, all shriveled up. It was pretty gross.”

“Did he ever talk about his mother?”

She shook her head. “Not really. But one time his mom came to the club. I thought he was going to hit her. He pushed her back in her car and told her not to ever come there again. He was ashamed of her. He always referred to her as ‘that fat cow.' Like if she were more attractive, his father would've stayed home.”

Jimmy Riley was shaping up to be a close fit for Dr. Richard Jennings' profile. “When Riley worked at the Gold Rush, did he seem to take a particular interest in any of the girls?”

She shook her head. “He liked to talk to me and a couple of the others. He never tried to date us. He was engaged. We figured maybe he was one of the few men who took his pledge seriously.”