Black Widow (20 page)

“I could probably find some.”

He put on his shirt and his shoes and got a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, and he retraced the route around the house and the yard that he’d already searched once with Linda Barden. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he had to check it just one more time. Somebody was toying with him, yanking his chain, and he didn’t like it. The yard didn’t look any different than it had twenty minutes ago, when he’d checked it with Linda’s high-powered flashlight. Whoever had thrown the brick had disappeared without leaving behind so much as a broken blade of grass.

When he came back in the house, Kathryn handed him a mug of coffee. He took a sip and grimaced. “What’s wrong with my coffee?” she said.

“Nothing,” he hastened to assure her. “Nothing at all.”

She crossed her arms and tossed those blonde curls back over her shoulder. “Nothing?” she said.

“Well,” he said, “it’s just a little, uh
_…
insubstantial.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s better than that sewer sludge you drink down at the station.”

Referring to Rowena’s coffee as sewer sludge was nothing short of sacrilege, but he knew there was no way he’d win this battle. He was getting in deeper by the minute, and it wasn’t looking good. In the interest of self-preservation, he decided diversion was the most promising tactic. “How much do you know,” he said, “about Raelynn Wilbur?”

Kathryn blinked, obviously startled by his abrupt change of subject. “Why?” she said.

“Do you know where she comes from?”

“She comes from here, DiSalvo. Elba, North Carolina.”

“Wrong,” he said.

Those blue eyes widened appreciably. “Wrong?” she said.

“She comes from a little place in the foothills of the Appalachians. It’s called Hickory Crossing. Not much more than a wide place in the road. A few houses, a gas station, and a church.”

“And your point is?”

“Her cousin Leroy is the minister there. Probably not ordained. I doubt that kind of church cares too much about those pesky little details. Anyway, this church is different. Special. They bring snakes to their worship services. Big snakes. Wrap ‘em around their necks, hold ‘em up in the air, and sing hallelujah to Jesus.”

She whitened. “Please,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said.

It took her a moment to compose herself. “Are you suggesting,” she said, “that it might have been Raelynn who put the snake on my porch?”

His eyes never leaving hers, he raised his mug to his mouth and took a sip of coffee.

Kathryn ran a hand through her hair. “That’s preposterous,” she said. “Raelynn is my attorney. She worked for four years to get my conviction overturned. She’s my friend. She wouldn’t do something like that. She wouldn’t
_—
”

“You’ve done time,” he said softly. “You of all people should know that given the right motivation, anybody is capable of doing anything.”

“But
_—
”

“I’m not saying she did it. I just wanted to point out the astounding coincidence.” He took another sip of her watered-down coffee. “I’ve been a cop for sixteen years,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“What earthly motivation could she have?”

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Oh, Nick.”

The despair in her voice got to him. He set down his coffee and took her in his arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “No matter what happens, I’m here. I won’t let you down.”

Her arms went around him and she rested her forehead against his chin. “I asked Raelynn once if I could trust you,” she said.

He stroked her hair, fascinated by its varying shades of blonde, all of them beautiful, all of them natural. “What did she say?”

“She said there were only two people in this town I could trust. She was one, and you were the other.”

“Well,” he said, “she was at least half right.”

They held each other for a while, and then she straightened her spine and stepped back, out of his arms. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Have you ever heard of a local organization called the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?”

“The Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?” He thought about it, but it didn’t ring any bells. “Not that I recall. Why?”

“According to Clara Hughes, it was a civic organization here in Elba, thirty or so years ago. They raised money for worthwhile causes, helped out with community projects, that kind of thing. But apparently the organization had a dark underbelly. According to Clara, it was a front for an exclusive private men’s club. While their wives played bridge at home, the men were at the club, entertaining their young black mistresses.”

Both his eyebrows went sky-high. “You don’t say.”

“And I bet even a Yankee newcomer like you can come up with a list of members without having to think too hard.”

“Let’s see. How about Chamberlain and Pepperell and McAllister, just for starters?”

“Bingo, DiSalvo. You win a gold star. What’s even more interesting is that they used to meet in my house.”

He frowned and looked around him. “This house?”

“No, no. The Chandler place. Where Michael and I used to live. That was their headquarters.”

The back of his neck began to itch again, and he turned the information over and over in his head, but damned if he could see what possible connection it could have with either of the murders. With the obvious exception of Kevin McAllister, who kept showing up in the damnedest places. “Did you know,” he said, “that Wanita had a sugar daddy?”

“I’m not surprised. I knew damn well she wasn’t paying for that house on her own. Who was it?”

“I don’t know yet. But her girlfriend seemed to think it might be Kevin McAllister.” He took a sip of coffee. “Funny, isn’t it, how that name keeps popping up?”

“And wouldn’t that be convenient,” she said, “considering that he lives right next door.”

“That’s what I was thinking. He could hold his liaisons right in his own backyard. The little woman wouldn’t be interrogating him about how much time he spent away from home. He could pop in for a quickie just about any time he wanted, and the wifey would never know the difference.”

“It makes sense.”

“Except,” he said, thinking aloud, “it breaks his pattern.”

“What pattern is that?”

“According to my sources, Wanita’s the wrong color. A bit long in the tooth, too. Our boy likes ‘em young.” He eyed her speculatively. “He ever hit on you?”

“Judge McAllister? Christ, no. Why?”

“Just wondering about his code of ethics. If he has one. Would it keep him from hitting on his lovely young daughter-in-law?”

“You just said yourself, I’m not his type. As Clara would put it, he prefers brown sugar.”

“Not necessarily. Raelynn told me he hit on her once.”

She yawned, and he emptied his cup in the sink. “It’s late,” she said. “We should try to get some sleep. Although I’m not sure I can, after this little episode.”

“I’ll give you a massage. That’ll do the trick.”

She drew her hair back from her face and rubbed the back of her neck. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.

“Oh, and there is one other thing,” he said. “One other little unresolved issue.”

She dropped the heavy fall of hair and looked at him. “What’s that?” she said.

“You didn’t follow orders. I still owe you that spanking.”

By morning, everyone in Elba knew that Dewey Webb had been arrested for killing Wanita Crumley. The people who knew Dewey, who’d known him all their lives, shook their heads in bewilderment and said that it couldn’t be true. Those who knew him only by his reputation shook their heads in righteous piety and said that any man who made his living selling sin to sinners was bound to get his comeback sooner or later. The police station was a madhouse, the phone ringing off the hook, news reporters from Raleigh and Charlotte hovering like spiders, waiting to pounce on Nick DiSalvo the instant he walked through the door.

With the phone receiver attached to her ear, Rowena waved a stack of pink message slips as he passed. Nick poured himself a cup of ambrosia. Like a pack of wolves, the reporters followed him to the door of his office. He slammed it in their faces and leaned on it to catch his breath.

Richard Melcher was sitting at his desk again. “Melcher,” he said, “you really are a slow learner, aren’t you?”

“Awfully convenient for you, DiSalvo, that Dewey Webb’s prints turned up on that gun. Considering that until last night, your personal piece of tail was the prime suspect.”

He dropped his cup of coffee and grabbed Melcher by the front of his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair and onto his feet. “If you ever refer to her that way again,” he said quietly, “I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

Melcher’s eyes met his coolly. “You,” he said, “are an animal. An uncivilized, boorish heathen. How the hell you ever ended up with this job, I can’t
_—
”

Nick shook him so hard his teeth snapped together. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “
Do you understand
?”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “I understand,” he said.

Nick released him so suddenly that Melcher lost his footing and nearly fell. “Get the hell out of here,” he snapped. “We have our suspect in custody. Now you can go back to Raleigh and tell your boss what a stupendous job you did here. Maybe you’ll get a corner office out of it.”

Melcher smoothed his tie and returned Nick’s scowl. “Just remember, DiSalvo, this will go down as a black mark on your record.”

“Get out of here!”

When Melcher was gone, he fished a fistful of napkins out of his desk and mopped up the spilled coffee. To steady his hands, he drank what was left of it while he paged through his messages. The mayor was requesting an audience with him first thing. Wanita Crumley’s sister, June, wanted to talk to him. Celeste Geary, the anchorwoman from channel seven in Raleigh, wanted an exclusive interview before the noon news report.

He tossed Geary’s message in the trash, set aside the one from the mayor, and phoned Crumley’s sister and made an appointment to meet with her later in the day. And then, reluctantly, he went upstairs to meet with the mayor.

Marilu looked like an ice cream soda this morning, all pink and white froth. She raised her tanned shoulders and thrust out her impressive chest and smiled at him. “Good morning, Chief,” she said. “Mayor’s waiting for you right inside. Congratulations on catchin’ your killer so quickly.”

He grunted a response and stepped up to the open door and knocked.

“Nick! Come in, come in.” Wayne Stevens leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped over his flat abdomen, a smile on his face. “Fast work,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

Nick shut the door behind him and sat down. “I wouldn’t get too impressed just yet,” he said.

The mayor’s smile faltered a little. “What do you mean?” he said.

“I’m not thoroughly convinced that Dewey Webb killed Wanita Crumley.”

This time, the smile disappeared altogether. “I don’t understand,” Stevens said. “You have the man in custody, and his prints all over the murder weapon. How much more will it take to convince you?”

He debated whether or not Stevens could be trusted. “I think,” he said slowly, carefully, “that there’s something really smelly going on around here.”

Stevens drew his bushy eyebrows together. “Smelly in what way?”

“I think somebody set up Dewey Webb. Just like they set up Kathryn McAllister four years ago. I think the two murders are related. There’s a killer walking our streets, Mayor, and I intend to find out who it is and put him away.”

He could see that Stevens was considering his suggestion. “How many people have you told?”

“Just you, sir. And Kathryn McAllister.”

“Many a good man has had his head turned by a pretty face, DiSalvo.”

“She’s innocent,” he said, “and I intend to prove it.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

The truth was bound to come out, sooner or later. Too many people already knew. Better that the mayor should hear it from his own mouth. “Yes,” he said.

“Goddamn it, Nick!”

“I’m a good cop, sir. I know what the hell I’m doing.”

Stevens sighed. “Damn it all to hell! Why can’t anything be uncomplicated? What about Dewey Webb?”

“Right now,” Nick said, “he’s the only suspect we’ve got. It’ll never make it to trial. We’ll find the real killer, and Dewey’ll be released.”

“In the meantime, DiSalvo, I’m expecting you to keep this little conversation between us. Our official line remains the same. Dewey Webb is our killer. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” he said. “By the way, have you ever heard of an organization called the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?”

It was subtle, the change in Stevens, but it was very real. “I’m not the person to ask,” the mayor said stiffly.

“Any idea who might be?” Nick said casually.

“I’d suggest you drop it,” Stevens said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes.”