William Krueger - Boundary waters

A small earthquake seemed to pass through Booker Harris, and whatever had held him in check collapsed.

“Fine,” he hollered. “Fine. You want to kill the man, you go right ahead. You’ve been throwing other people’s asses in jail for years-time maybe you had a visit there yourself. For thirty years, you’ve been dead set on undoing the good things I’ve done for you. So go ahead, throw it all away. And while you’re at it, you can double-kiss my ass, little brother.”

“Fuck you,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, and fuck you right back.” Harris slammed his hand down on the coffee table. The coffee cups jumped like startled little men. “I told you to stay away. God damn it, I told you I’d handle this. I’m going to let you in on something, Mr. Next Governor of the Golden State. I don’t know what all this is about out here, but I sure as hell know it ain’t got nuthin’ to do with Marais Grand.”

Nathan Jackson froze. He looked hard at his brother’s face until Harris guiltily turned away. “How do you know that. Booker?”

Jo, who’d stood back silently taking in all the sound and the fury, said quietly, “Because he’s always known who killed her.”

The men in the room-Schanno, the Benedettis, Jackson, Metcalf, and finally Harris-turned their full and amazed attention to Jo. She was a little amazed herself. But suddenly, it had all made sense.

Vincent Benedetti grabbed his son’s sleeve. “What am I missing here? Angelo, do you know what’s going on?”

“Hang on a second, Pop. I think we’re about to find out. Go on, Ms. O’Connor.”

“You all thought this was about men, about the two of you. But it was really about women, wasn’t it. Agent Harris?”

“What are you talking about?” Benedetti complained. “Speak plain.”

“Pop, will you just give her a chance?”

Jo moved closer to the leather chair from which Benedetti eyed her irritably. “You said your affair with Marais Grand began shortly after she came to perform at your casino. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And your wife threatened to leave you when she found out?”

“That’s right.”

“In fact, you said she threatened to kill you if you ever cheated on her with Marais Grand again.”

Benedetti shrugged. “She had a temper.”

“You ended that affair. But you had another fling with Marais Grand, shortly before she left for Nashville, and Marais claimed that Shiloh was the result.”

“So?”

“Did your wife know about the second affair?”

“Hell, Theresa knew about everything. I don’t know how. It was lucky for everybody Marais went to Nashville.”

Jo went on, “When Marais came back with little Shiloh and the tabloids were stirring up rumors of the old flame’s being rekindled, how did your wife react?”

Benedetti said, as if it were only natural, “She went berserk. I told her it was all lies.”

“But she didn’t believe you.”

“Who could blame her?”

“The night Marais Grand was killed, you were in Los Angeles. There were witnesses.” Jo looked up at the younger Benedetti. “What about you? Where were you that night?”

“Me? On a houseboat on Lake Mead with Joey and his folks. He’d just graduated from high school.”

“What about your mother?”

He thought a moment. “She stayed home, I guess. She was pretty upset back in those days. Didn’t go much of anywhere except to St. Lucia to light candles and pray.”

“Then she was alone?”

“I guess.”

“What are you getting at?” Vincent Benedetti sounded as if his patience was nearly exhausted.

“Angelo told me yesterday about a meeting between your wife and Agent Harris that took place in St. Lucia shortly after Marais Grand was killed.”

“In St. Lucia?” He glared at Harris. “She never told me.”

“There was a reason for that,” Jo said. “And there was a reason Agent Harris never looked officially in her direction during the homicide investigation. Think about it a moment. Wouldn’t an irate wife be a reasonable suspect in the killing of a woman reputed to be her husband’s lover?”

Everyone looked at Harris. He faced them like a man before a firing squad.

Jo said to him, “You must have had something pretty solid on her before you met her that day.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you deny you spoke with Theresa Benedetti in the church?”

“I was involved in a homicide investigation.”

“In a church?” Nathan Jackson cried. “Bullshit, Booker. Look at me. I said look at me, God damn it.” He studied his brother’s face, then his own face opened up in horror. “My God. Oh, my God. It’s true.” He looked as if he were going to fell over. “Why, Booker?”

“Why? Because you’re my brother. Because I’ve spent my whole life covering your ass, Nathan. It just came naturally.” He turned away from Jackson and bent to a table where the coffee server and cups had been set out. He poured coffee, took a sip, and seemed disappointed. “Cold,” he said. He put the cup down and looked at Jo. “We grew up in Watts, Ms. O’Connor. A lot of people never make it out of Watts, and a lot of those who do never look back. We were lucky, Nathan and me. We had a mother-she was a seventh-grade history teacher-who believed fiercely in ideals and in us. Dwight, he was lucky, too. When his own mother abandoned him, we took him in. Mom raised him like her own.” Harris glanced at his brother. “Christ, she believed in you, Nathan. Believed you were destined for greatness. Believed you could do something for black people. Dwight and me, we grew up covering your thoughtless antics. Covering you for her sake. Feels like we’ve been fighting a rear-guard action all our lives. You surely do know how to talk the talk. And you even do a damn good job of making it look like you walk the walk. But I know you, brother. And I know you got all the substance of a soap bubble. You want to know why we did it? I’ll tell you. Family, that’s why. In the end, that’s all that matters. Not ideas-they change. Not justice-hell, I don’t even know what that is. Family, Nathan. In the end, family’s all that abides.”

“What did you have on Theresa Benedetti?” Jo asked.

Harris took a deep breath and plunged in. “MURs for starters. Phone records. A call had been placed to Marais Grand from the Benedetti residence a few hours before she was killed. I knew Benedetti was in L.A. at the time. A little investigation made it clear that Mrs. Benedetti had been home alone that night. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Why did you approach her in church?” Jo asked.

“I wanted the meeting in private and in a place where the truth might matter to her.”

“I don’t like the way this is going,” Vincent Benedetti said.

Jo ignored him. “What did you say to her?”

“I told her about the phone call. I told her it seemed an odd thing that Marais Grand had been killed but the little girl, who was a potential witness, hadn’t been harmed. I told her I thought it was touching, something a mother might have done. I told her I wouldn’t blame a woman for trying to keep her family together, whatever it took. I also told her we had a bloody fingerprint pulled from the girl’s closet door.”

“Did she confess to killing Marais Grand?”

“She claimed it was in self-defense. I told myself that, in a way, it probably was. She also revealed to me that her husband had fathered Shiloh.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yes. I knew Nathan believed Shiloh was his daughter.”

“You struck a deal with Theresa Benedetti, didn’t you? Silence for silence.”

He nodded. “If she guaranteed that her husband would never say a word about the child, never lay a claim to Shiloh, I’d make sure the investigation didn’t touch her. She was safe.”