Neely Tucker - The Ways of the Dead

“And went back to playing basketball.”

“For cover, to establish an alibi.”

“And what does he get out of this version of events?”

“A clean conscience and a juvenile adjudication, if he testifies at trial against his associates.”

“Because, magically, he didn’t participate.”

“He was the youngest accomplice. He could make a fair showing to a jury that he was young, intimidated, didn’t realize this was going to be violent, and, when it turned out to be, was under deadly pressure to go along with what the big kids were doing.”

“So you guys have already cut the deal.”

“Yes.”

Sully sat back, trying to hold his temper in check.

“You didn’t say this was off the record. Any of it.”

“I didn’t. You can source it to a ‘law enforcement official familiar with the investigation.’”

“When’s the presser?”

“Tomorrow. Noon if the chief can get everyone together. Highsmith and Deland will get murder one, assault, robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and a couple of others.”

Sully looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to ten. He could get it in the suburban edition if he quit fucking around.

“Meaning he could skate when?”

She shrugged. “Prisons and parole boards release people, not the U.S. Attorney’s Office. But I would say Mr. Jackson would be celebrating his thirtieth birthday back in D.C.”

“You got the wrong guys, Eva. They’re not on the hook for this.”

“That would be remarkable, buying yourself nearly twenty years in lockup for something you didn’t do.”

“Maybe he thought that deal would be less worse than what would happen to him if he didn’t.”

“Meaning what, life without parole?”

“Meaning a very short life span, for him or someone he knows.”

“He’s not on the wrong side of anybody, Sully. He’s a featherweight.”

“Which doesn’t mean somebody doesn’t have something on him.”

“Are you going to enlighten me? Or are you just talking out of your neck?”

“You can’t tell me everything you know, and vice versa. But I’m telling you, Eva, don’t get tied in tight on this.”

Outside on the street it was dark. He dropped his phone, maybe a little drunk, then stooped down to pick it up, got Tony on the rewrite desk on the phone and dictated a few paragraphs about the impending plea bargain. Tony asked him, stifling a cough, the name of his source and Sully told him that wasn’t going to happen. There was a pause, and Tony asked if he was absolutely certain about the leak and Sully said he could add it to the Ten Fucking Commandments.

He hung up and called R.J. at home.

“Holy shit, Sullivan,” he bellowed. “Beautiful. This is going to lead the paper.”

“Yeah.”

“So…”

“So yeah.”

“So now what about Reese and Pittman?” R.J. said. “What about the other, what are we calling them, mysterious deaths?”

Goddamn. He was right to the point.

“’s the same as it was before.”

“That can’t be. I know Reese had the affair, and I hate to agree with Melissa about anything. But we’ve got to have something really solid to go ahead with this right now. Just him having the affair isn’t going to do it. Public sympathy-”

“We already have him nailed.”

“Dazzle me with how.”

“Failure to disclose. Failure to report his knowledge to MPD about a young woman missing and believed dead. He knew damn good and well that she went missing, that the last time anyone saw her was at Halo, and he alone knew she was alive at least eight hours after that. We can establish that he, an officer of the court, knowingly withheld that information from law enforcement to preserve the secret of an adulterous affair. Minimum, judicial misconduct.”

R.J. paused. Sully could visualize him stroking his beard.

“You’re not bad at this. If she was just missing, well, maybe it was just a moral dilemma. But after her body was discovered last week, it’s a game-changer. She was killed-I don’t care if they call it a murder investigation or not-and she was killed in that neighborhood, perhaps on the day of their liaison. Christ, he’s sounding like a suspect.”

“So.”

“So I’ll talk to Edward. I can get you another day or two. I’m not saying we’re there yet. I’m saying we can make a case. I’ll have Chris do the presser tomorrow. But you’ve got to go on this, champ. You’ve got to go hard.”

At home, in the darkness, Dusty next to him in the bed, both of them teetering on the edge of exhaustion, of sleep. Other than it being a long time after midnight, he had no idea of the time. The sex had been something close to violent, and he was trying to let the afterglow lull him all the way to sleep.

“Who is this we’re listening to?” she said.

“Tom Waits.”

“It sounds like he’s gargling.”

“Don’t blaspheme.”

“‘Freeways, cars, and trucks.’ Is this supposed to be profound? What else would you see on the freeway?”

“It’s about being in love.”

“Well, I’m not in love with him, I can tell you that.”

“How was class this week?”

“Kicked my ass. I was cranky, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-I mean, really realize-there was so much math to being an RN.”

“Math?”

“Chemistry. Dosages.”

“I can barely add.”

“No kidding. I’ve seen your checkbook.”

He laughed, softly, in the dark, turning to let her leg drape over his. “That’s mostly subtraction.”

“My mother always said”-she yawned, closing her eyes, setting into her pillow-“to date men with at least six figures in the bank.”

“Momma didn’t date me.”

“Obviously.”

“How is she?”

“Playing tennis three days a week, down there at Boca.”

“You feel nice.”

“Mmm,” her voice drifted lower, sleepier. “You’re too amped up about-about this Sarah Reese thing, baby. Feels like I don’t know you.”

He debated telling her about the gunfire, but that was over before it started. He could never explain and she’d never understand.

“These three guys, the suspects?” He decided to go that route. “They didn’t do this. The judge was screwing Noel. These other women, missing, dead… something out there is really fucked up. It’s not as neat as what the police are saying.”

“I still can’t believe the Judge Reese thing. What are you going to do?”

The music went off. It was quiet, the occasional passing car, a breeze in the trees outside, the year getting colder.

“I don’t know,” he said, almost a whisper. “Find out who killed Noel. That seems to be the key to the lock.”

“Can’t you just let it go? It’s eating you up. You’re-you’re different.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Let it go. It’s-I can’t explain.”

After a while, she yawned and pulled the covers up, the last nesting before sleep. “Can we at least go somewhere when it’s over?” She hated murder and the talk of it, he could tell.

“Where to?”

“You’ve never taken me to New Orleans.”

“‘Never.’ Well, damn. We’ve only been dating, what, not even a year.”

“Still.”

“I took you to New York,” he said, feeling defensive but not wanting to sound that way. “We ran away to Broadway. Stayed at the Algonquin.”

“But New Orleans, though.”

“Okay. Alright. You want to spend Christmas in the Quarter?”

“Sure,” she said. He felt some of the tension release in her shoulders. “We could do that. We could eat beignets.” She was almost asleep, her body heavier on him, her breath slowing. “You could take me to that bar where you used to work. I could check it out. Maybe they’d hire me.”