Aftermath Read online

  “Do I have a right to see the, uh, case file or whatever you call it?”

  “Case file, investigative report—yeah, that’s all a matter of public record since the case is closed.” He gestured at a sleek tabletop printer in the corner beside a row of battered filing cabinets. “I’ll have copies made of everything except the autopsy photos. The coroner’s report is a public record, too, but the pictures aren’t, and—trust me—you wouldn’t want to see them anyway.” Another drink of coffee. Then he lifted the mug in my direction. “Would you like a cup?”

  The abrupt switch from imagining the gruesome autopsy to considering a caffeine injection made me dizzy. I rubbed my face, no doubt undoing much of the cosmetic repairs I’d made an hour earlier. “No thanks.”

  Cade seemed to realize what he’d done, because he waited until I looked up at him again. Though our hands weren’t touching as in the diner, there was the same spark between us. With surprising gentleness, he asked, “Are you looking for answers, Ms. Wright?”

  “Janet, please.”

  He nodded and continued in the same reassuring tone. “Janet, the case file will tell you who, what, where, when, and how, but you know those details already. What you won’t find in there is the why of things.”

  “Isn’t motive one of the most important parts of a case?” I asked.

  “It is when there’s an assailant who needs to be prosecuted.”

  I caught myself leaning toward him as he spoke. Deep voice aside, his accent sounded so much like my mother’s. To remind myself where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, I glanced back at the jail cells with the barred doors like beckoning arms. Turning again to Cade, I put some steel and volume into my words. “Didn’t you need to know, just for your own peace of mind? I mean, this Wallace Landry drifts into town and does a bunch of odd jobs for people. He ends up as my dad’s Mr. Fix It for a couple of weeks and then guns him down—the most important man in Graylee—and you don’t want to know why?”

  “No need to yell,” he continued softly. “I’m right here.”

  I didn’t apologize, but I did drop my volume, saying, “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well?”

  “We did a background search, found an older sister who lives in California. She hadn’t seen or talked to Landry since he was in middle school and she was going off to college. His mother’s in assisted living in Florida with early-onset Alzheimer’s. No other living relatives.” He sipped more coffee. “We talked to an employer from a few years ago, the last time Landry drew a steady paycheck: there were some anger management issues, with a referral to counseling. Landry attended but quit the job shortly after he was approved to go back to work. Then apparently he hit the road as an itinerant handyman.”

  He held open his medium-sized hands, not too smooth but not heavily calloused either, strong without being brutal. “I’ve been in law enforcement going on twelve years, including eight here, as I mentioned. Even when the why of things appears to be obvious—a husband shoots his wife and her lover in bed—it never is. Why didn’t the husband just file for divorce?” He shrugged again. “I’ve read plenty of scientific articles that seem to prove we act first and then rationalize the why.”

  “Do you wish you could’ve asked Landry?”

  “You mean, before I killed him?” Both his tone and his face had become stony again, as if he were trying to mask another feeling. “Because surely you’re glad he’s gone after he did what he did. You said so yourself, back in the diner. Everybody around here is glad—they’re always telling me how much time and money I saved the town and the state by shooting that man dead.” He looked down at his now-balled fists and then slowly splayed his fingers, as if letting go of something.

  What would it be like to kill a man, even a bad man? What would it do to you every day afterward? I couldn’t help but reach out and touch his arm. “You want absolution, don’t you? This is eating you up inside.”

  At first he shook his head like a little boy with a bad cut who refused to admit it hurt. Then he raised his face toward mine. “I’ve met veteran officers in rough places—New York, Chicago, LA—who never had to discharge their service weapons, not even once.” He took a deep breath and leaned back, pulling away from me. “I can’t tell you why Wallace Landry murdered your father. I can’t tell you why anybody does anything they do. Folks who say they understand people are kidding themselves or they’re damned liars.” He dipped his chin in a quick nod. “Sorry for the language, ma’am.”

  Forcing some cheer into my voice, I gave him my best Bronx impression: “Shit, don’t fuckin’ bother me none.” It earned me a smile, and I added, “Seriously, I appreciate your time, and I don’t want to take up any more of it. I can come back tomorrow for the case file.”

  He checked his watch. I’d expected something militaristic with a chronograph and lots of dials, but he wore a suave, streamlined model, an expensive timepiece that would’ve looked good with a tux. The chief had a surprising sense of style. “One of my deputies comes on at five,” he said. “I’ll have him do the printing, and you can come back at six, or I can drop by your daddy’s house later on…um, I mean tomorrow.”

  I considered the implications of his stumble. My friends accused me of always moving too fast, entering into a relationship before I got to know the guy. And I could’ve leapt into Cade’s pause, seeking a romantic rebound, if only to quiet those awful Horsewomen and their taunts. Fresh start, new habits, I reminded myself again. Trying to sound casual, I said, “I’ll be in town in the morning. Why don’t I stop by then and get it from you?”

  He looked relieved. “That’ll work. Thanks for coming on down to the dungeon.”

  It was my cue to help him escape from further awkwardness. I stood, and he did, too, of course. We shook hands for a beat too long—this time I let go before he did—and we wished each other a good evening. As I turned to go, the cells grabbed my attention again. I reflected on Cade’s comment in the diner, his counsel to family members that it was better to move on than be haunted by the details of a crime. For a moment, I considered asking him not to bother with my copy of the case file, but letting things go was never one of my strengths.

  As I left the courthouse, I thought over my conversation with Cade, probing all of the nuances, interpreting every gesture, tone of voice, and length of eye and hand contact as significant. He seemed to like me, but was there something else going on, too?

  Replaying moments of the encounter again and again started to make my head hurt. The sight of the blue Hyundai at the curb brought relief—I could forget Cade for a while, joke around with my new friend, and take a break from the drama.

  Forearms propped against the steering wheel, Tim swiped and scrolled on his cell phone. He jolted when I yanked open the passenger door and dropped onto the seat. “Wishing you’d locked up?” I teased.

  “Kinda-sorta,” he said, tucking the phone in a suit pocket. “Actually, I thought Mr. Pearson came back to grill me some more. He knocked on the window about ten minutes ago.”

  It was a good reminder how small the town was—on the lawyer’s way home, he must’ve spotted Tim’s car and stopped to check on him. “Was he wondering why I lied to him about asking you to take me home?”

  “No, he thought I’d done that already and now was hanging around outside the courthouse. He said, ‘You are not still on the clock, Tim. I did not expect you to work anymore today.’” It was a dead-on impression: no contractions and the pitch just right. He’d even spoke at a normal volume instead of his usual hushed tone.

  It helped to lighten my mood some more. I asked, “Did you make up some paralegal excuse about a last-minute filing or letting some cute clerk check out your briefs?”

  “You watch the news any? It’s never the crime that gets people in big trouble—it’s the cover-up. I told him you changed your mind
once we got into the car and asked me to take you here first.”

  “Nicely done, that bailed us both out. Did he say anything about me meeting with Cade?”

  “No, he just thanked me again for helping out today.” We watched a tall, thickset man of about thirty, dressed in a uniform like Cade’s, stride past us on the sidewalk. Before he entered the courthouse, he glanced our way and his expression went from bland to seriously pissed. It was my turn to jump like a scared rabbit, but he was staring at Tim, not me.

  After he’d gone inside, Tim said, “J.D., one of the chief’s deputies.”

  “What’s with the look?”

  He only shrugged in response.

  I imagined Cade asking J.D. to make a copy of the case file, and the guy talking about seeing me with Tim. Had my friend done something wrong, at least in the eyes of that lawman? I couldn’t help matters if Tim refused to tell me what was going on.

  Chasing it around and around in my mind, coupled with the musings about Cade, made me thirsty for a strong drink and something sinful to eat. Screw my metabolism. When Tim started the car and pointed it in the direction of Brady Stapleton Boulevard, I asked, “Would you mind assisting me one more time, with a dinner recommendation?”

  “What’re you in the mood for?”

  “A strawberry margarita and a pork chimichanga.”

  “Well, there’s really only one option: a little Tex-Mex joint outside of town, on the highway. We get to your father’s house, I’ll give you directions or pull up an address for your GPS.”

  “Are you hungry? I’m buying.”

  Tim glanced over, eyes narrowed, and I gave him my brightest, most innocent smile. Mumbling to himself, he drove onward. After a pickup passed us, however, he pulled a quick U-turn, gunning the engine so that the back end whipped around, wheels squealing. We headed back up bucolic Main Street, drawing stares from a few people on the sidewalks. He said, “You plan to liquor me up and ask me about that pariah thing.”

  I put one hand to my chest. “Moi? What kind of devious person do you think I am?”

  “The kind who comes through town like a tornado, flipping everything over and breaking it all apart.” The pickup ahead of us went down a side street, and Tim accelerated.

  The sudden force pushed me back against my seat. “I just want some company for dinner—I hate eating alone. Cross my heart, I don’t plan on wrecking anything.”

  “I didn’t say that was your plan. Sometimes things just get wrecked anyway.” He signaled, paused, and then screeched through a left turn onto a two-lane road that took us through the residential part of Graylee. Christmas lights brightened a number of houses. The nicest homes were close to Main Street; the size and quality of them declined slowly thereafter. However, even the worst ones looked only out-of-date, not ramshackle.

  I made sure my seat belt was secure and studied the properties to distract myself from our increasing speed and Tim’s dangerous change of mood. Were the neighborhoods more evidence of Dad’s higher-than-average wages, the golden handcuffs that allowed people to live in much better conditions than most small-town folks?

  As if to answer my unspoken question, Tim braked, took a sudden right turn, and jounced us across the railroad tracks that led to the wood pellet plant. Soon we headed down a lane of decrepit bungalows and cobbled-together hovels with dirt yards. No Christmas cheer lit these homes.

  I said, “If you don’t want to come with me, just say so. No need to smash up your car just because you feel like you need to humor me.”

  “‘Humor’?” Tim snapped. “You see anything funny here?”

  We passed three young girls padding along the side of the road in bare feet and shabby clothes. Ahead of them, a boy rode a rusty bike, his feet bare as well. All of the kids were black.

  Jaws clenched, Tim skidded to a halt in front of a house that had a porch built from new lumber, including freshly cut wood stairs and planks leading up to the open doorway. However, the roof shingles were dark with decay, and the overall structure looked beaten down. He said, “I’ll be a minute.” He swung open his door, surged out, and then paused. Turning back to me, he said, “You can lock up if you want.” He shut his door—just short of a slam—and thundered up the steps. In two long strides he vanished inside.

  The boy with the bike pedaled past, staring at me with an expression that was part curiosity, part suspicion. The youngest of the girls seemed to recognize the car—smiling, she waved until she spotted me. Then she dropped her hand and looked confused. She said something to the other two, who faced forward and answered her without even glancing in my direction. The little girl kept me in her sights, having to peer over her shoulder as she stumbled along beside the others, until they made another remark and she fell into lockstep with them.

  Wood stairs thumped, drawing my attention back to the house. Tim approached the car, his expression having gone from angry to ashamed. Trying the door handle and finding it unlocked, he gave me a sheepish smile and got in. “Sorry,” he said. “All that was uncalled for.”

  “What the hell did I do to set you off?”

  He stared through the windshield. “I guess I was embarrassed because of the deputy. Then you gave me that smile, and I knew the grilling would start again.”

  “When have I really grilled you? Name one time.” He didn’t respond, so I continued. “You’re just not used to bantering with anybody, especially women. I ask a few innocent questions, and suddenly you’ve got it in your head that I’m after all your secrets.” With my index finger, I jabbed him hard in the meat of his shoulder, though what I really wanted to do was knock him upside his head for his dangerous driving. I asked, “Am I right?”

  He tapped a quick rhythm on the steering wheel, eyes still forward. Then, he murmured, “Does it seem like we’re always apologizing to each other?”

  “I think I was up by one, so you owe me a ‘sorry’ anyway.”

  “Why do we keep having to say it?”

  He looked pitiful now, as if he thought he’d ruined something important. “Because we want to be friends. I like you and you like me, but we’re still getting a feel for each other. You know, trying to find the things we have in common and the no-go zones.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “I accept.” I let a quiet moment pass and then said, “I get that you don’t have a girlfriend in town, but do you have one someplace else?”

  “The grilling again.” He rolled his eyes. “I drive up to Macon to see this girl sometimes. She goes to the medical school at Mercer. We were undergrads together at Georgia Southern.”

  “Is she fun to be around?”

  “Well, she’s kind of serious. She likes to call herself studious.”

  “But do you two—sorry, ‘y’all’—have a good time together?”

  “I guess. And your next question is a no-go zone.” He started the car and raced the engine, a warning to me.

  I held my palms out. “Fair enough. Sex lives are off-limits. Got it.” I pointed to the front porch. “Why did we come here?”

  “Had to tell my grandmother I wouldn’t be home for supper. She doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Do your parents live around here?”

  “Not anymore.” There was an edge to his voice, telling me of another restricted topic.

  “So this is your home, too?” When he affirmed this, I asked, “How’s it going, fixing up the place on your paralegal salary?”

  “Slowly—student loans and car payments take most of it. I’ve still got to put on a new roof, replace the asbestos siding.” He eased us onto the cracked pavement, and we headed up the road at a sane speed, dodging potholes.

  “You’re a good grandson, Tim.”

  He grunted, and then we drove in silence for a while. At some point, the residents changed from black to Latino, but the homesteads were the same kind of s
qualid.

  Bracing for another tirade, I said, “You could’ve declined my invitation, you know. Just made up some excuse and had dinner at home.”

  He shrugged, working his jaw a little, but he didn’t reply. I knew his blowup had to do with the pariah thing, in part, but there was something more, too. Clearly, he was warring on the inside, trying to decide how much to tell me and how much I needed to figure out on my own. I said, “Some part of you wanted to show this to me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “As the second-richest person in town, I can help the people here a lot.”

  “I guess.”

  “So why hasn’t the first richest person in town done anything about it already?”

  “I don’t know, but you can probably ask him in about five minutes. David Stark eats almost every night at the joint we’re going to.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The restaurant had a hand-painted sign at the edge of the highway: Azteca, Home of the Bottomless Margarita. It probably meant the refills were without end, but the words also conjured a Latina undressed below the waist. I’d read in a magazine that David Stark still was something of a ladies’ man, so maybe he showed up always hoping for both.

  Tim parked us in a well-lit gravel lot that could’ve held fifty cars but currently had fewer than a dozen. I studied the make and model of each pickup and sedan, trying to decide what the first richest person in town would drive. Would he be all man-of-the-people and drive the rattletrap truck with the missing hood and dented fenders, or would he enjoy his wealth in the late-model BMW parked far from the other vehicles?

  “I know what you’re doing,” Tim said. “You’ll never clock his ride.”

  Glad he was back to feeling like my playful sidekick, I studied his self-satisfied expression, and then looked out at my choices again. “There,” I said, pointing. “The blue Hyundai, same as yours. Or, rather, yours is the same as his. You bought this one after seeing what he drove, right? Copy the rich guy and hope some of the luck rubs off?”