A Shred of Truth (29 page)

“Good plan. That’ll get the neighbors gossiping.”

“No lives of their own, I take it.”

“Actually, they can’t see our place through the woods, but if there’s any chance of stirring their nest, I’ll take it. What else do I have for excitement?”

I thought I saw one of the dogs raise an eyelid.

Trish turned and pointed down a long corridor. “The study back there has a door onto a small deck. That might be your safest alternative.”

“We’ll get outta your hair then. Glad to know you’re okay.”

“I’ll tell Chigger you did your duty.”

“No need for that.” I winked. “Let him worry.”

“Aramis, you are a troublemaker.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Freddy and I started down the corridor, nearly home free.

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. Our escape was curtailed by the clump of footsteps on the front porch. The doorbell chimed, and I was reminded that abrupt noises or movement could disrupt the sedative’s effects. Snorfles and grunts came from the dogs. What were the chances they’d both wake up simultaneously?

Then: claws scrambling on waxed hardwood and low growls like machinery in need of oil.

Another ring.

The canine machines roared to life. Pistons started firing. Growls turned to deep-throated snarls.

I threw backward glances as Freddy as I hurried along, hoping to be out of here before the mastiffs realized we were in their territory. The dogs were throwing themselves against the front door with mighty thumps.

A few more steps to the study.

Circling once in frustration, one of the mastiffs moved beyond the entryway’s perimeter and spotted me. He stopped on stiff front legs, his ears upright. He bared his teeth.

And charged.

“Go!” I pushed Freddy through the doorway.

The dog was already halfway to us, powered by muscle-corded legs and back. Ropes of saliva waved from his short, square muzzle, while dark hazel eyes burned with hatred for the intruders who threatened his domain.

I stumbled into the study, tried to slam the door, but an old-style iron sat on the floor, holding it against the wall. I gritted my teeth, yanked on the knob until the impediment was moved aside by the arc of the door. Before the latch could snap into place, the mastiff careened into the wood. It buckled. I planted my foot against the base of the door, using leverage to keep things in place as the beast threw himself forward again. And again.

“Come away from there! Stop it this instant!”

Trish’s calls registered somewhere in my head, but my first concern was that Freddy find an exit and leave me an easy trail to follow. My shoulder bounced against the door with the dog’s continued attacks.

This battering ram was coming through. In a matter of seconds.

“Are you out?” I yelled. “Freddy?”

No answer. Turning, I saw that he was indeed out—out cold. The poor man had panicked—understandably so—and run headlong into a sliding-glass door.

I reached behind me, grasped for a low bookcase, and hooked the edge with my fingers. I pulled it toward me over the Berber carpet. Marble book-ends hit the floor and shattered, but the case continued to slide, and I hefted it against the door in place of my shifting body. A temporary solution.

Ker-accck!

I dashed to the glass door, flicked the lock, and slid it open.

“Freddy?”

He groaned as I hooked his arms, swiveled, then hauled him halfway onto the deck. His coat snagged in the door’s track, and I heard myself curse.
My peripheral vision registered the bookcase toppling and dusty volumes fanning over the study floor.

The dog hurdled the barrier. Veered our way.

Ripppp!

I tore the coat free.

With both hands on Freddy’s wide leather belt, I yanked him through the doorway. Before I could bar the beast’s path, he drove his powerful jaws and teeth down into my companion’s calf muscle, pinning him to the deck. A natural behavior: subdue and restrain.

My most handy weapon now was the sliding door. It swished through its track and bit into the dog’s ribs. He bellowed, caught in the vise between door and jamb, but he stayed trained on his prey—head down and fangs bared.

Through the glass, I saw Trish peering over the fallen case. She was calling to her dog but without results.

I looked away. Slammed the door one more time, with all my force.

The mastiff yelped and hopped back.

The split second allowed me to pull at Freddy and get the door closed. On the other side of the glass, the beast roared again, his black nose shoved forward, spittle flecking the pane. Behind me, I heard movement through the bushes. Reinforcements.

“Aramis! Let me give you a hand with your friend.”

Detective Meade? And who was that beside him? Another cop?

Despite my reservations about their presence here—and our own breaking and entering—Meade’s voice was a welcome one.

“Let’s get him over the railing,” I shouted. “He got tagged by that dog.”

Uninsured and dressed in bum de la crème, Freddy would’ve been nudged to the end of the ER line at Metro General had it not been for a detective at our
side. A brief exam. Sterilization of the wound. A few stitches and a tetanus shot. In no time, he’d be back out hobbling on the streets.

I stood next to Meade in the waiting room. “Thanks.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Interesting timing, though, showing up when you did.”

“We were well within our bounds, within Metro Nashville limits. I was meaning to ask the lady of the house a few questions about her brother’s relationship with Johnny Ray.”

“So you weren’t following me?”

Meade fixed me with his gaze.

“Dude, I should go.”

“It was for your well-being, Aramis.”

“You still think I’m a suspect? You know I didn’t hurt Felicia.”

“I’ve been lied to before.”

“Join the club. Listen, I have to get over to Lipscomb.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Got a final to take. Plus, I shouldn’t even be here.”

“With me, you mean?”

“No offense, Detective.”

Yesterday AX had chopped off my mother’s hair in retaliation for my lunch meeting with Meade. I hated to guess what he’d cut next time. Of course, my prime suspects were out of town—Mr. Hillcrest in Columbus, Ohio, and Chigger in Georgia. But AX might have an accomplice. Members of the Kraftsmen perhaps. Or Anna Knight’s ex-husband. He could’ve used bluster and threats in my shop to cover a deeper purpose.

I turned toward the door.

Meade said, “Is there anything you’d like to—”

“No. Trust me on this. In a few days I’ll be able to explain.”

“ ‘Trust me,’ he says.” Meade filled his next sentence with a sting of accusation.
“This from the same individual who skirted the truth yesterday during lunch. A lunch, I might add, that a certain detective paid for.”

“Hey, you offered. That’s not fair.”

“Just servin’ up some of my mama’s deep-fried guilt,” he fired back.

Though born and raised in Music City, the detective had never allowed me to hear his local accent. Cool and professional—that was his way. A man of education. Urbane. More than anything else, this change frightened me.

“What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

“Essentially, you lied.” The accent had vanished but left me wary. “You told me you went home after dropping off Miss Daly on Oak Street, yet we retrieved a security tape from a camera at FedEx Kinko’s on Third and Broad. It’s marked with Saturday’s date, 10:32 p.m. You are seen clearly at the exterior phone booth placing a call to 911.” He set his hands on his hips. “You tell me, Mr. Black. What exactly am I to make of that?”

O
blivious to the ER’s activity, Detective Meade’s eyes bored into me. A response—that’s all he wanted. What, if anything, should I tell him?

Voice one:
If you talk, your mother will suffer
.

Voice two:
But she’ll die if you try to deal with this on your own
.

“Have you gone mute?” Meade goaded.

For nearly three days I’d carried the burden of knife attacks, e-mail threats, murder, and renewed-but-fragile hope. Sammie had her own bereavement to bear at the moment, while Johnny Ray was off in pursuit of his dreams. Dad was his usual prickly self. Freddy was a victim in this game, to the extent that I’d even—briefly—considered him a villain.

I was tired.

Voice one:
Think of your mom’s safety
.

Voice two:
You’re running on empty, which will do her no good
.

“Okay.” I stepped away from the windows, glanced around the waiting room. “You want the truth?”

“I expect nothing less.”

I lowered my voice. “Yes, I lied. But only because I was afraid.”

“Guilty parties usually are.”

“Not for myself. For my mom.”

“Your mom?” Meade leaned back. “I thought you told me … Isn’t she gone now?”

“That’s what I grew up believing, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Wait. Are you suggesting she’s alive?”

“Maybe.”

He gave a caustic laugh. “Oh really. And I was born yesterday.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Believe me, Mr. Black, I am not amused. You”—he leveled a finger at my face—“told all of America on that TV show that you watched her die.”

“Lemme explain.” I gestured him into the hall, away from the waiting room’s occupants. “First, you have to promise you’ll answer some of my own questions.”

“To the best of my ability, within the constraints of the law.”

Good enough.

There’s some truth in the adage that men like to communicate shoulder to shoulder, while women prefer face to face. We leaned against the wall, watching medical personnel, wheelchairs, and gurneys pass by. Meade remained stoic as I gushed forth an abridged version of my weekend. No mention of my Desert Eagle. Or of our B and E into Chigger’s place.

When I was done, Meade asked if my brother believed Mom was alive.

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“You said you had some questions for me?”

“Okay. I know I’m poking my nose in here, but that witness at the hotel—was she a big black woman? From New Orleans?”

“At this point, I’m not free to divulge the identity of our witness.”

“Did this witness see a third person get into my car?”

“The person you claim was wearing a black ski mask?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’re positive?”

“The witness only saw you dragging Miss Daly down the stairs to the Honda.”

“What about Felicia’s payment info at the hotel? Did you run it? She told me this guy had paid for her trip, so maybe it was his credit card.”

“Already checked. The card was in her name, and her flight was paid for in cash two weeks ago at a PDX ticket counter.”

PDX: Portland International.

“There’s gotta be something though. Some clue.”

“The human psyche is a delicate thing,” he commented.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you’ve told your experiences the way you perceived them.”

“You think I’m full of it.”

“Actually, you’ve presented some credible details. Based on prelims from TBI’s Microanalysis Unit, there were tire impressions on Oak Street indicative of a heavier vehicle, such as a van. There were also fragments on the pavement consistent with older automobile glass and flecks of gray paint on the recovered tricycle.”

“There you go. I couldn’t have made that stuff up.”

“Please understand, Aramis. I want to get to the bottom of this too. My instincts have served me well over the years, and, no, I’m not convinced that you committed a homicide. I was upset, though, by your omissions during our lunch at the plantation.”

“But you understand why. Right?”

“I’m certainly trying.”

“I can’t lose my mom. Not again.”

He tilted his head and ran a hand over his mouth.

“Maybe,” I said, “you could check with police records in Oregon and find out all you can about her disappearance. I’m telling you, they never found her body. You think the amnesia angle’s a possibility? It’d be a crazy
twist. Especially since her first husband—my biological father—did time in the state pen for her death.”

“I remember that from your TV segment. Isn’t he dead now?”

“Died of cancer. But he’s the one who sent me her handkerchief. Maybe there’s other stuff he held on to, more secrets. He could’ve passed on something to one of the guards. Or a cellmate. There’s gotta be a piece of the puzzle that brings it all together.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Appreciate it.”

Coal black irises studied me. “Don’t you have a final tonight?”

“Social psychology. Ugh.”

“A fascinating topic. I’m sure the curriculum’s changed since my college days, but I took a similar class at Lipscomb.”

“You were a Bison? Dude. You never told me.”

“Did you know Pat Boone attended there?”

“Any relation to Daniel?”

“I’ve dated myself, I see.” Meade hooked thumbs into his front pockets. “Later I completed my studies at TSU, then went through the police academy over in Hermitage. When Chief Serpas took over, Vice got rolled in with everything else, and I took the detective position at West Precinct.”