Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Griffin was currently reading a governmental memo relating to the threat to law enforcement posed by the Y2K problem. With a little less than three years to go to the new millennium, the worrywarts were prophesying a version of the end times, with planes falling from the sky and computers exploding because no one had thought about what might happen once all those nines turned to zeroes. Griffin wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. He hated flying, which meant his only worry on the Y2K front was ensuring that he wasn’t under any malfunctioning planes as they dropped, and the department’s sole computer was so old that it ought to have come with a key attached in order to wind it up. The computer would be doing him a favor if it went up in smoke, because Griffin couldn’t use the damned contraption anyway.

Kevin Naylor, one of the full-timers, appeared at his office door. Griffin liked Naylor. The kid was barely into his twenties, but brighter than any three members of his extended family put together, and was somehow managing to combine his obligations to the department with a course in public administration. But he was supposed to be off duty, and should by rights have been home studying, or even just resting that big brain of his for a while.

‘Kevin,’ said Griffin. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I think we might have a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’

Naylor chewed his bottom lip, as he tended to do when troubled. Griffin had spoken to him about it because he felt it made Naylor appear unsure of himself, or possibly mentally deficient, neither of which was desirable, but it was a habit the boy was struggling to shake.

‘Someone,’ said Naylor, ‘is asking questions about Patricia Hartley.’

Cargill boasted six bars – if ‘boasted’ was the right term, which it probably wasn’t; ‘could fess up to’ might have been more appropriate – of which three were unspeakable, a fourth was tolerable as long as one didn’t eat the food, another was functional at best, and the last might just have managed to keep its head above water even in a town with a greater range of more acceptable drinking and dining options. That establishment was Boyd’s, which was clean, served average food in above-average portions, and was generally untroubled by outbreaks of alcohol-related violence, which meant that Griffin regarded it with a tolerant eye. Boyd’s took its name from Boyd Kirby, who had opened its doors back in 1972, and departed to wipe down that great counter in the sky in 1991. Since then, Boyd’s had been in the hands of Kirby’s widow, Joan, who ran the place much as her husband had done, minus the swearing, Boyd Kirby having regarded the spaces between every syllable of a word as an opportunity to exercise the range of obscenities at his command, which had been considerable.

Boyd’s was quiet when Griffin and Naylor arrived, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays being the days when Joan made the majority of her money, the rest of the week representing pocket change. The bar had a well-stocked jukebox, although light on soul and R&B, which meant none at all. It was currently playing something by the Eagles, because somewhere in town was always playing something by the Eagles, and it might as well be Boyd’s as anyplace else. Griffin counted a dozen customers, of whom he could have named eleven. The twelfth was sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall and a window to his left. From this vantage point, he could watch the parking lot, the bar, its clientele, and the door. A copy of the Washington Post was folded before him, next to a slightly diminished roast chicken platter and two glasses, one half-filled with soda, the other with water. As Griffin approached, the man placed his hands flat on the table, where they could clearly be seen. Naylor hung back by the main door, and joined everyone else in watching Griffin, just in case anything more interesting than the Daytona previews might be about to unfold.

The stranger was in his early thirties, Griffin guessed: not tall, and of medium build. His hair was dark, fading prematurely to gray at the sides. He was wearing a heavy blue cotton shirt that hung loose over his jeans, and a dark T-shirt underneath. Naylor hadn’t been able to tell if he was armed, but Griffin thought he looked like the kind of man that might be. It was the way he held himself as the chief approached. He didn’t appear nervous to be the object of police attention, which meant he was used to it. That made him police, criminal, or a private investigator. Police would have had the manners to introduce himself before asking questions about Patricia Hartley, and private might have had the good sense to do the same.

Which left criminal, and the closer Griffin drew to him, the more this showed signs of being the likeliest possibility. His eyes burned very bright. There was rage in them, and something approaching agony. Griffin had seen a facsimile of it in the gaze of bereaved parents, and those driven to take revenge on tormentors. If this man were not in possession of a weapon and a grudge, Griffin would have been very surprised to hear it.

‘Evening,’ said Griffin.

‘Evening,’ said the newcomer.

‘Mind if I sit?’

‘Not at all.’

He was smiling slightly, more in resignation than good humor, as though this intrusion upon his evening had been anticipated, even as he might have hoped to avoid it.

‘My name is Evander Griffin. I’m the chief of police here in Cargill.’

‘I know.’

Griffin felt unease keeping pace with curiosity. Were this man’s hands not so visible, Griffin might well have had him under a gun by now.

‘That’s usually the cue for someone to offer his name in return,’ said Griffin, ‘or I could ask you to produce some identification, but I find a plain exchange of appellations to be more civilized.’

‘My name is Parker.’

‘And where are you from, Mr Parker?’

‘New York.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘I’m currently between positions.’

‘Unemployed?’

‘By inclination.’

‘So what was your previous vocation, before you became inclined to divest yourself of it?’

‘I’d prefer not to say.’

Griffin grimaced. The man hadn’t done anything wrong – or not so far as anyone could tell – beyond asking questions that the majority of people in the county would have considered unwelcome. He hadn’t broken any laws, but the chief was used to a degree of cooperation from those who strayed into his orbit, because it contributed to the smooth running of the town. If knowledge was power, ignorance was powerlessness. There were gradations of both, but Griffin preferred to remain firmly in credit with the former.

‘What happened to your hand?’ he said.

The knuckles of Parker’s right hand bore traces of lacerations, now almost healed.

‘The jack slipped while I was changing a tire.’

‘Looks like you were punching the tire, not changing it.’

Parker glanced at the limb and stretched the fingers. The action made him wince, and his eyes assumed fresh traces of pain both actual and remembered.

‘I might have lost my temper,’ he said, almost vacantly.

‘You do that a lot?’

‘I try not to.’

‘That seems wise. What’s your interest in Patricia Hartley?’

‘None.’

‘But you’ve been asking about her.’

‘I have, but I’m done asking now.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I thought her death might be relevant, but it isn’t.’

‘Relevant to what?’

‘To another inquiry.’

‘Which inquiry?’

‘A personal one.’

‘Are you a private investigator, Mr Parker?’

‘I told you: I’m between positions.’

‘Yes, you did tell me that. The investigation into Patricia Hartley’s death is ongoing, and therefore it’s of interest to me when someone comes along to check on its progress.’