Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Tucker McKenzie had finished his work at the Kernigan house and at the scene of the body’s discovery, and was promising a full report by morning. According to Knight, the house search had produced little of note beyond the meth and the gun. If Donna Lee had been seeing someone – an older white man, if her school friend was to be believed – he had left no trace of his presence in her daily life. A canvass of the neighborhood around the school had so far served only to confirm that none of the residents interviewed had noticed the truck that picked up Donna Lee after band practice. The police would continue trying to establish her movements from that moment on, but for now it remained the last time anyone had seen her alive.

And still no trace had been found of Sallie Kernigan, although Malvern PD confirmed that there was no record of her arrest on charges of solicitation, nor did any Malvern gossip suggest she had engaged in acts of prostitution as intimated by some of her neighbors. Naylor had also driven out to her place of work, but had returned with no new information other than that Sallie appeared to have been well liked by her coworkers. She’d had some trouble with men ‘taking liberties,’ according to one of her fellow cleaners, a woman named Bobbye Osborne, who reminded Naylor of a younger version of his mother, but she’d learned to deal with it.

‘You have to, when you’re a woman,’ said Bobbye Osborne, ‘and more when you’re a black woman.’

Naylor hadn’t disagreed.

Then Griffin told Knight of the meeting with the Cades, and the promise of cooperation from Jurel Cade and the sheriff’s office.

‘What about Parker?’ said Knight.

‘At first, Jurel wasn’t pleased to learn of his involvement, but he mellowed in the end, relatively speaking.’

‘Because Pappy ordered him to?’

‘Perhaps “advised” would be more appropriate, for the sake of appearances.’

‘So what next?’ said Knight.

‘We see what evidence hasn’t been lost or destroyed from the Jackson and Hartley killings, and work on establishing connections between those girls and Donna Lee.’

‘What if they were just random victims?’

‘It’s of no account. The same man likely killed at least two of them, and he’s either local or has passed through here on occasion, enough to know the lay of the land. By tomorrow we should have more names to add to the list of people we need to talk to.’

Before leaving the Cade compound, Griffin had asked Jurel to help compile a record of known sex offenders in the county, along with those residents whose racism veered toward the extreme. Billie Brinton had already done the same for Cargill and the surrounding area, regardless of whether the individuals in question had ever been convicted of, or even charged with, any crime. It was, the chief decided, depressingly long for a small town.

‘Anything else?’ he said.

‘Only that the discovery of the meth in the Kernigan house, along with the unregistered firearm, has got me thinking again about Tilon Ward.’

‘He knows more about the Kernigans than he’s telling us, I’ll grant you that,’ said Griffin.

‘Tilon Ward is a criminal,’ said Knight. ‘All criminals are, by nature or proclivity, dishonest.’

‘I still don’t make Tilon for a killer.’

‘I’m not suggesting he is, only that his secrecy could be an impediment to progress.’

Knight wanted to say more, but did not. It was not for him to remind Griffin that he had no obligations toward Tilon Ward, no matter what Ward might have done, or tried to do, for him in the past.

‘You may be right,’ said Griffin. ‘You want to take a run at him, see if you can succeed where I couldn’t?’

‘I already dropped by his place. According to his mother, he left an hour or so earlier, and she couldn’t say when he’d be back.’

‘Did she tell you where he went?’

‘She claimed not to know.’

‘Claimed?’

‘I was reluctant to believe her.’

‘We can try again come morning. Who’s on duty tonight?’

‘Petrie and Giddons.’ Two of the part-timers. ‘And I’ll hang on for a while, just in case. I took a nap earlier, so I’m good to go.’

Which might or might not have been true, but Griffin didn’t object. He wanted time at home, and not only to eat and bathe. He required space to think.

‘Did Billie clear that desk for Parker like I told her?’

‘Over by the window.’

‘You could look happier about it. We have an investigation in progress, and some of the expert help we need.’

‘This is me looking happy.’

‘If you say so.’ Griffin headed for the door. ‘But that’ll teach you to be careful what you wish for.’

43

The motel’s honeymoon suite wasn’t exactly somewhere a bride would choose to spend her wedding night, not unless she’d been around the block a few times and was happy to settle for a roof over her head and a kitchenette with a toaster oven. It did come with a seating area: a couch that erred on the side of firm, and a pair of easy chairs that weren’t noticeably easy at all. Parker spread his notes over the burn-scarred coffee table, along with a detailed map of the county, and commenced drawing up a rough plan of action for the days to come. He’d have to wait until morning to see if Billie Brinton could find contact details for the family of Patricia Hartley down in Lucedale, Mississippi, since Jurel Cade claimed to be unable to help. According to Jurel, the Hartleys weren’t actually staying in a property owned by the Cade family, and he wasn’t sure if they even had a telephone.

Parker realized that he hadn’t eaten. Although he was tired, the prospect of spending the evening in his new accommodations seemed both dispiriting and pointless. The murder of Donna Lee Kernigan was likely to be the main subject of discussion in Cargill that evening, and if a man sat quietly in a bar, pretending to mind his own business, he might learn a lot, assuming the news about his appointment to the local police department had not yet circulated too widely. To combat his tiredness, Parker changed his shoes, an old trick he’d learned from his days on the force, and picked up the novel he’d been trying to read for weeks: Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. He had wanted something entirely removed from his own experience, and in which he could lose himself when he chose, but had not been able to concentrate on a book in weeks. His thoughts kept drifting to the dead, and their voices called to him from a past that now belonged to another man. He folded the novel inside a copy of the Burdon County Courant that the motel had provided free of charge. He’d attract less attention with reading material before him, although he supposed that depended upon the nature of the bar in which he ended up. There were drinking establishments in which a man with a book would draw the kind of interest more usually associated with dancing bears and snake charmers on the basis of novelty value alone.

He left his room and stood for a time watching cars and trucks roll by. Music drifted from Boyd’s: Townes Van Zandt had usurped the Eagles, however temporarily, which could only be considered an improvement. A brand new Lumina pulled into the motel’s parking lot: a classic rental car, confirmed by the Hertz rental agreement visible on the dash as it pulled into a space close to Parker. Two men emerged, both dressed in business suits, but only one of them looked like a businessman. The other was textbook private security, from the bristles on his mustache to the gun in the shoulder rig that his too-tight jacket failed to disguise. Lack of concealment was probably the point, Parker thought, because this did not strike him as a man who cared to hide his worst aspects. He carried himself like one permanently poised to inflict violence, and who would require scant cause to do so, if any cause at all. His gaze, as it drifted over Parker, was like being showered with effluent.