Blackman's Coffin (13 page)
Nakayla looked at me.
I shook my head. “Sorry. We’re going to turn it over to the police. There might be a connection with Tikima’s death.”
The blood drained from his face. “Really?”
“Maybe. The police will have to make that determination.”
Mitchell turned a few more pages, almost caressing them. Then his eyes froze. He whispered a strange word that I couldn’t make out.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He turned the journal around and pointed. I read phthisic.
“Yes,” I said. “That stopped me too. I don’t even know how to pronounce it let alone know what it means.”
“Tiz’ik,” he said. “Phthisic is most commonly used as a medical term. It means shrunken, atrophied.” He turned the journal so he could read it. “‘My leg began to hurt. I slipped the support strap off my shoulder and pulled my phthisic stump clear of the socket. The pain eased.’”
“Pretty sophisticated for a twelve-year-old,” I said.
Mitchell nodded. “Pretty sophisticated for anybody. Anybody except Thomas Wolfe. He liked medical terms. Phthisic appears on the second page of the first chapter of
Look Homeward, Angel
. He uses it to describe the feet of a carved stone angel. If Wolfe didn’t write this, then someone went to the trouble to copy his handwriting and vocabulary.”
“How much could this be worth?” I asked.
“To scholarship or to collectors?”
“To whoever would pay the most.”
Mitchell closed the book and rubbed his fingers over the leather. “Hard to say. It’s not part of a known Wolfe work and it’s too incomplete to have any publishing value. As talented as Wolfe was, he’s not enjoying the stature of Hemingway or Faulkner.”
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “Is the journal worth killing someone?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
This was the answer I expected. If the journal was worth a fortune, Tikima could have brought it to someone like Mitchell without involving me. Let the literary world know of its existence and sell it on the open market. But Tikima wasn’t seeking to find the journal’s highest bidder; she was launching an investigation based upon it.
I was ready to move to the question I believed to be crucial. “If Wolfe wrote this, then it’s fiction. But in the journal one of the characters, Elijah Robertson, is murdered. Elijah Robertson was the name of the great-great grandfather of Tikima and Nakayla, and he was actually murdered on the dates given in Wolfe’s story.”
Ted Mitchell got up from the table, went to a storage cabinet, and returned with a copy of his biography of Wolfe. “Thomas Wolfe’s fiction was experienced fact set in the context of fiction. That was the big row created by
Look Homeward, Angel
. There were people in Asheville who annotated their copies with the real names, and many of the thinly disguised characters were not depicted in a complimentary way.”
Mitchell opened his biography to a page near the middle and pointed to a photocopy of typescript. We could see the word “Julia” scratched out and “Eliza” handwritten over it.
“Julia was Wolfe’s mother,” Mitchell explained. “The mother in
Look Homeward, Angel
was Eliza. You can see he didn’t bother to change the name until after someone had typed his longhand pages. Asheville became Altamont, other place names were barely changed if at all.” He took back the biography and rewrapped the journal in the chamois. “I’d say if Wolfe did write this, odds are every event is rooted in something he experienced or something someone told him happened.”
“And people were upset by what he wrote in
Look Homeward, Angel
?” I asked.
“Like I said during the tour, he didn’t return to Asheville for eight years.”
Nakayla took the journal from Mitchell and then hesitated. “Maybe Mr. Mitchell should read it. Tell us what he knows to have happened in Wolfe’s life.”
My gut instinct sent a sharp warning. “I’m more concerned about what may happen in Mr. Mitchell’s life. The less he knows about the journal the better.” I turned to Mitchell. “My advice is for you to say nothing about our conversation or the existence of this volume. If the police bring it to you, then say what you want at that point. But I’m not going to mention your name to them.”
“Why not?” Mitchell asked.
“Two people tied to the journal have already been murdered. I don’t want you to be the third.”
***
“Where did Tikima get the journal?” Nakayla asked the question as we walked to her car in the Wolfe Memorial parking lot. “That’s what the police are going to ask.”
I’d been mulling the question myself. With Mitchell’s analysis that Wolfe likely wrote it and that the events described probably happened, the source of the journal would be the best lead for understanding its meaning. But we had no idea where to begin other than the files Tikima had taken from the Armitage office. We. What was I thinking? This wasn’t my case. I’d followed my curiosity about an eighty-eight-year-old journal hidden in an Elmore Leonard dust jacket with my name posted on it. Now I knew the journal might not be that old, was probably a mixture of fact and fiction, and most importantly a problem for the Asheville police, not for former military criminal investigator Sam Blackman.
“So, what do we do next?” Nakayla asked.
“We take this to the police. All of it. You’ll say you found the journal last night, but without my name on it. That’s a tangent Peters would fixate on that will waste time. We’ll show him the Wolfe handwriting connection and your family link to Elijah. If he contacts Ted Mitchell, well, we’ll say we didn’t want to involve Mitchell in something that might be a wild goose chase.”
Nakayla stopped at the driver’s door and spoke over the roof of the Hyundai. “Why not tell him we talked to Mitchell?”
“Because I don’t know why Tikima didn’t go to the police in the first place. Instead, she planned to talk to me. Maybe she heard exaggerated compliments from Cookie at Walter Reed, maybe my notoriety from the congressional hearings attracted her interest, or maybe she just felt more comfortable talking to a fellow military officer.”
“You say Tikima didn’t trust the police, and so you don’t trust the police, but you’re handing them the investigation?” She shook her head. “You’re giving up.”
“It’s not about me!”
The frustration in my voice hit her like a slap. Her cocoa skin darkened. “No. I guess it’s not.” She yanked open the door and got in.
I hesitated, angry at myself for snapping at Nakayla and unsure how to make amends. I’d spoken without thinking, saying I couldn’t be sure of the police while telling Nakayla to depend on them to solve her sister’s murder.
And it was about me. I’d been a good warrant officer, specializing in obtaining evidence and using investigative procedures to support the military prosecutors. As a new civilian here in Asheville, I wouldn’t have access to forensic labs or data bases. I’d be playing detective, a cartoon version hobbling around without the authority to conduct searches or interrogate anyone. A prescription for failure.
The psychologist at Walter Reed had warned me of the stages amputees go through. Depression and feelings of inadequacy will commonly occur. But the flipside of that emotional journey is the compulsion to overachieve, to prove to the world and yourself that you are every bit the man you were before a part of you had been severed from your body and soul. Finding the way between those two extremes would be an ongoing challenge. I needed to find that way now.
I opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Is there a Kinko’s nearby?”
“Yes,” she said coolly.
I maneuvered into the seat and turned to face her. “Before we see Detective Peters, let’s copy the journal and the files. As far as we know, the journal belonged to Tikima and should eventually be returned to you. The files will go back to Armitage. But with our own copies we can work parallel, staying clear of the police while learning what we can.” I thought about the time that might take. “Today’s June 22nd. You’ve got the apartment for a little over a week?”
“Tikima’s now on month to month. As executor of her estate, I’ll keep paying the rent.”
“No. I can’t accept that.”
“Why not? I’m going to hire you. This is part of your expenses.”
“I’m not a licensed investigator. If you insist on paying me, then I’m leaving for Winston-Salem. But if I’m your friend, helping as I can with little expectation of success, then I’ll work day and night.”
Nakayla looked away. I heard her swallow. When she faced me, tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes.
She held out her hand. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Blackman.”
“No. You mean you’ve got a deal, Sam.”
The Asheville Police Department was located on Pack Square in the center of the city. As Nakayla maneuvered her Hyundai through a construction detour, I noticed the square was getting a major facelift. Orange barricades and plastic mesh fencing cordoned off streets and sidewalks.
“What are they doing here?” I asked.
“Creating a new square. There’ll be an amphitheatre at one end and an overall layout to encourage pedestrian traffic.”
To me it didn’t look like the pedestrians needed any encouragement. The sidewalks and outdoor cafés were filled with people.
“The town seems to be jumping,” I said.
“Coming into its own again. Back in the 1960s when many cities spent money on urban renewal, Asheville was too poor to raze its old buildings. All it could manage was to minimize the disrepair. Now that same architecture is a treasure to be renovated, not replaced. People are appreciating what had been the glamour of the early 1900s, a style no one can afford to build today.”
The police station didn’t exude the art-deco or gothic design of yesteryear. The functionality of 21
st
century law enforcement trumped aesthetics, and though nice enough, the municipal building housing the police and fire departments could have been found in countless cities across the nation. In the police station lobby, we asked for Detective Peters at an information window more appropriate for a bank teller.
In less than five minutes, Peters stepped through double doors and signaled us to follow him. He actually smiled when he saw the files under my arm. He led us into a small conference room and we sat at a round table that dispelled the interrogative atmosphere where the officer sits on one side and the suspect on the other.
I passed him my handwritten statement. “Here’s the report of my conversation with Tikima on Saturday, June 2
nd
. I’ve also included a summary of my attendance at her funeral last Tuesday and the discrepancies of the handbrake, footprint, and sand particles discovered at her car on Wednesday.”
Peters slid the sheets to the side without looking at them. He pointed to the folders. “What’s that?”
“These are the files from Armitage Securities that my sister had in her apartment,” Nakayla said. “You told me you wanted them.”
He nodded and I handed them over. We went through them one by one with Nakayla giving Peters the same background information she’d told me. I mentioned the connection between the Biltmore Estate, the French Broad River, and the Armitage guards.
“You think there might have been internal work troubles at Armitage?” Peters asked.
“Just an observation,” I said. “I don’t know enough about anything to venture an opinion. But, you told me Tikima’s body was found downstream of the Biltmore Estate.”
“Does Nathan Armitage know about these files?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Nakayla made a list that we’re going to give him.”
“Don’t.” His sharp tone was an order, not a request. “I’ll be speaking to Nathan personally.”
“And you want to hit him cold with these companies. Read his reactions.”
Peters smiled. “I forgot you played the game.”
I doubted Peters forgot much of anything. “The game,” I said. “I’m only a spectator of this one, but I’d like to follow the score.”
“From Birmingham?”
“From Asheville. I’ve decided to hang around a little longer. Do some legwork.”
Peters didn’t miss the double meaning. “If you’re going to practice walking, I advise you to stay clear of places where you’ll get under somebody else’s feet. My partner’s on vacation, but I don’t need a new one.”
“I’m just a tourist,” I said, knowing all of the places in the folders except Golden Oaks were tourist attractions.
“Where are you staying?” Peters asked.
“The Kenilworth. Tikima Robertson’s apartment.”
Peters looked to Nakayla for confirmation.
“I’ll give you the phone number,” she said. “So you can reach Sam.”
Peters slid back his chair. “Okay. So maybe you can buy me a cup of coffee now and then.”
I lifted my hand like a policeman halting traffic. “Maybe you’d like a cup now and then we’ll show you what we’ve saved for last.”
Peters stopped halfway up from his chair. Nakayla took the chamois-wrapped journal from her purse and set it on the table. Peters eased into his seat and leaned forward. He waited for the story.
Nakayla described its discovery in the Elmore Leonard dust jacket, omitting my name on the Post-It note and saying she’d found it only the previous night. She summarized the content, setting the hook with the murder of Elijah. Then she pulled out the Wolfe biography and I showed Peters the handwriting similarity. A feral look came across his razor-thin face and I knew Tikima’s case had suddenly jumped up several notches in importance. Every cop likes the bonus of solving a cold case and Elijah’s eighty-eight-year-old murder was positively frigid.
He picked up the journal and thumbed through it. “You say the dates Wolfe uses are the actual dates that match your great-great grandfather’s murder?”
“Yes, or they’re near enough. I know he was buried in Georgia, though none of us had ever been to the grave.”
“And you think this is what the burglars were after when they broke into your sister’s apartment the day of the funeral?”
“Yes. Nothing else was taken.”
Peters drummed his long fingers on the journal. “Why didn’t you report the break-in?”
“Because I thought nothing was taken. I’d rather the police focus on finding a killer, not a burglar.”
Peters looked at me. I shrugged, trying to appear sympathetic to the detective’s predicament. The burglary scene was now three days old.
“How many people have been in the apartment since then?” he asked.
“Just Sam and me,” Nakayla said.
“Then I’ll want it dusted. And I’ll want both of you printed for reference. Maybe Tikima has prints on file from her military service.” Peters turned to me. “But as you pointed out the other day, any right-handed prints will have been made by someone else.”
Peters stood, taking the journal and files with him. “I’ll want to review these before talking to Nathan Armitage, and I’ll have the crime lab at the apartment as soon as I can. I’ll need you there to let them in.”
“It’s Sam’s apartment now,” Nakayla said.
Peters shook his head. “Whatever.”
***
Peters had us printed before we left the police station and we’d then gone straight to the Kenilworth, careful to leave our copies of the journal and Armitage files locked in the Hyundai’s trunk. The mobile crime lab arrived a little after one and sent us scurrying to escape the powder, brushes, and lifting tape that would sweep through the apartment.
With a bottle of root beer each, Nakayla and I sought refuge in the shade of the side yard and the comfort of the Adirondack chairs. We watched tenants and visitors slow their cars as they looped around the expansive lawn and saw the police vehicle parked alongside the stone porte-cochere.
“I guess I’ll be well scrutinized by my neighbors for the next few days,” I said. “I’d hoped to live here unnoticed.”
“The building’s big enough that you’ll soon be indistinguishable from the lobby furniture. Tikima said the place offered the anonymity of a New York City residential hotel in the setting of a mountain cabin.”
“Your sister lived in New York?”
Nakayla laughed. “Only in her mind. She’d visit friends in Manhattan at least once a year. She liked the theatre.”
I remembered the brief encounter in my hospital room. “She could be quite dramatic, I bet.”
“When she wanted to be. But in a crisis, there was nobody calmer.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I suspected Nakayla shared my thoughts. What had Tikima’s final crisis been like? Had she seen her assailant or the 38 caliber pistol the medical examiner claimed to be the murder weapon?
Nakayla sighed and took a sip of her drink. “We’ll need to get some groceries after the police leave.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“With what? Grazing on the lawn? I cleaned out the refrigerator last night. You don’t have any wheels and it’s a pretty far hike to Ingles.”
“Okay. A few groceries. Guess I’d better rent a car tomorrow.”
She glanced at my prosthesis. “Are you cleared to drive?”
“Not a stick shift in the Indy 500, but an automatic transmission should be no problem.”
“I’m hanging with you tomorrow and Sunday for sure. Let’s wait till Monday. No sense paying more than you have to.”
I tipped my bottle of root beer to her. “The practical Robertsons.”
“Damn straight. And Monday we’ll have the make, model, and tag number of your rental so the resident manager can add it to her file. I forgot to tell you she gave her blessing for you to sub-rent under the terms of Tikima’s lease.” Nakayla toasted her bottle to me. “You’re now an official tenant.”
I raised my bottle to the old building. “Don’t you mean I’m now an inmate in the asylum?”
“That goes without saying. Anybody sane wouldn’t get involved in this case.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Well, I might be crazy, but we’ll need to approach this investigation logically. And I’d like to stay clear of Peters for as long as we can.”
Nakayla set her bottle on the armrest and folded her fingers under her chin. “Then let’s go back to the beginning.”
“When’s that?”
“When Frederick Law Olmsted enticed Elijah Robertson to leave Chicago and help him create his landscape masterpiece. I think tomorrow we should pay a house call on George Washington Vanderbilt.”
“I can guarantee he won’t be home.”
Nakayla gave me a sly smile. “Maybe. But with over a million visitors traipsing through George’s bedroom each year, I can guarantee that we’ll escape detection by Detective Peters.”
I shook my head. “Not in my experience. We’re more likely to meet George Vanderbilt coming out of his bathroom wearing only a toothbrush.”