Blackman's Coffin (7 page)

Nakayla called from the bedroom, “Peters just pulled up. We’d better get down there before he touches anything.”

I marked my place in the journal with the inside flap of the dust jacket as Nakayla came down the hall. “This kid had quite a vocabulary. Hard to believe he’s only twelve. Shows how bad our education system has gotten in ninety years.”

“I thought so too,” she said. “How far did you get?”

“The hearse just started down the mountain.”

“You can finish it after our little chat with the law.” She opened the door.

“Wait,” I said. “Get a bottle of root beer.”

“You still thirsty?”

“No. An attitude adjustment for Peters. How can a man stayed pissed off if you hand him a root beer?”

Nakayla smiled. “I can tell you’re a cheap date.”

Chapter Six

“Stay here. I’ll get the car.” Nakayla started down the front steps of the Kenilworth.

“No. I’ll walk.”

She turned around. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve got you to lean on, don’t I?”

Her perfect teeth sparkled in the sunlight. “Of course. But I suspect you’re a pretty independent guy, Chief Warrant Officer Blackman.”

Nakayla understood me. I didn’t want the police detective to see her go for her car and then chauffeur me across the parking lot. We began walking, Nakayla holding back to match my pace.

“And don’t tell Peters about the journal,” I said. “He’ll take it in as evidence.”

“He’ll need to know sometime.”

“Not till after I’ve finished reading it. And I want to look at the files on the table. Your sister had them out for a reason.”

“Maybe some of the files are missing,” Nakayla said. “I plan to give Armitage a list.”

“Maybe. But whoever broke in pulled books off the shelves even though the files were in plain sight. I think your first instinct was right. They wanted the journal.”

Detective Peters had parked his unmarked Crown Vic behind Tikima’s Avalon. He was bending over the rear tire, probably collecting a specimen of the sandy soil I’d discovered. We were about thirty yards away when he stood up. He must have been six feet tall and thin as a bayonet blade. He was at least fifteen years older than me but his hair didn’t have a hint of gray. It was the same sandy-brown color as my own, and with the weight I’d lost in the hospital, I could have passed as his younger brother. He wore a lightweight blue suit and white shirt with a paler blue tie knotted around the unbuttoned shirt collar. Peters could have been a Public Defender or a Clerk of Court—he had the off-the-sale-rack wardrobe that met the minimum standards—except the heavy black shoes branded him as a cop. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes, and Peters was looking at mine.

I saw his expression change. He’d arrived pissed off, ready to put me in my place. As I lumbered toward him like an arthritic bear, he looked momentarily confused, then pissed off again. Except now he was pissed that he couldn’t chomp down on me. Picking on cripples hadn’t made for promotions since Nazi Germany. I had a leg up on him and I saw no reason not to kick him with it.

I extended my hand carrying the root beer. “Here, Officer Peters. I thought the mountains were supposed to be cool.”

He took a sip and relaxed. “Pretty good. Thanks.” He leaned back against the Avalon, then remembered it was evidence and rocked forward on the balls of his feet.

“We can sit on the lawn.” Nakayla pointed to a group of Adirondack chairs clustered on the parking lot’s grass perimeter.

“I’d like to get off this leg,” I said.

“Sounds good to me.” Peters gestured for us to lead the way. “Mind if I ask how it happened?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Iraq was the wrong place and the wrong time was any and all the time.”

We settled in the chairs and I stretched my leg. The tender stump tingled as weight came off it. The doctors had been right about one thing. Wearing the prosthesis cut down on phantom pains. It replaced them with real ones.

Peters took a gulp of the root beer and set the bottle on the wide wooden arm of the chair. “So, what’s the military angle on this case? I thought Tikima had been discharged.”

“I’m not authorized to comment on what may or may not be the military’s interest.”

“But you are a Chief Warrant Officer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Most recently with the Criminal Investigation Detachment in Baghdad.” I looked over at the Avalon. “I’m more familiar with cars that blow up.”

Peters shot a glance at my leg and I let him think a car bomb had injured me. I hadn’t lied to him about my past or said that I was officially investigating Tikima’s murder. I hoped to get as much information as I could before I had to come completely clean.

Peters shook his head. “Sorry if I came across the wrong way. We shouldn’t have missed the footprint and the sand on the inside of the tire. If those two soil samples match, then we’ll know a man drove the car some time recently. Unless the specimen is unique, it’ll be hard to determine from where.”

I nodded. “Maybe. But I saw a lot of sand in Iraq. That was wet sand that clung to the tire and coated the sole of a shoe. Wet sand that might have come from the edge of a river.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Nakayla tense. Since her sister’s body had been found in the French Broad, the off-road sand might have come from the site of the killing, or at least the spot where her body was dumped. “Did you check access points upstream?”

“Yes. There are a few places where kayaks and canoes put in.”

“What about the fishermen who discovered the body?”

“They’d come on the river about a quarter mile upstream. They had a johnboat on a trailer and needed a spot large enough to unload.”

I clasped my hands behind my head and took a deep breath of the fragrant air. “So our killer may have needed a space at least as big.”

“Why?” Nakayla asked.

“Unless he lives here at the Kenilworth, he had to have an accomplice follow with a second car. Both vehicles might have been at the river.” I turned back to Peters. “Any way to tell how far Tikima’s body could have drifted?” I knew these questions were painful to ask in front of Nakayla, but I had no choice.

“Given the weights, I don’t believe too far. The site where the fishermen launched would be the limit.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Above that the French Broad flows through the Biltmore Estate. No public access and Biltmore has tight security. We’ll run tests on the soil at all the access points below Biltmore.” He took another drink of root beer and smiled. “I’ll let you know what we find.”

“Are you going to flatbed the car into police headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“And recheck for prints?”

Peters frowned. “We went over it thoroughly the first time.”

“Somebody missed the footprint.”

He shrugged. “You know how it is. You get focused on fingerprints and miss things that aren’t fingerprints.”

I just stared at him. It was a lame excuse for botching a forensics investigation and he knew it.

He cleared his throat. “Look. The case file shows the team dusted everywhere, even behind the rearview mirror and we both know most crooks forget to wipe that clean.”

“And did they find something there?”

“Yes, but too smudged to be of use.”

“Right hand or left?”

“Right, I think. That’s the hand you usually use to adjust a rearview mirror.”

“Not Tikima Robertson,” I said. “Discernible fingerprints or not, that should have attracted somebody’s attention.”

Detective Peters’ face bloomed scarlet. He got out of the chair like it was wired to a thousand volt generator.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To get that flatbed wrecker here. Then my team’s crawling over that Avalon with tweezers and a toothpick. I can guaran-damn-tee you if there’s anything there, we’ll find it.”

Nakayla and I watched him hustle to his car.

“You think they screw up all their investigations this way?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They thought the car hadn’t been moved so they just gave it a quick once over. You started things rolling with the handbrake.”

“You noticed it.” She rubbed her palms back and forth on her thighs with nervous energy. “I’m glad we’ve held back the journal.”

“I’ll finish reading it this afternoon, and then we can decide what to do with it.” I looked at Peters’ empty chair. A yellow jacket hovered over the open root beer bottle, drawn to the sticky syrup drying on its lip. I’d tried to be sweet to Peters but that didn’t mean I still wouldn’t get stung. “Did the police go through those files on Tikima’s table?”

“No. Peters got a list of Tikima’s clients from Armitage at the office.”

“Did Tikima usually bring work home?”

“Yes. Particularly new prospects. Her job was to sell them a package of services.”

“And are those new prospect files on the table?”

Nakayla’s smooth forehead wrinkled. “I don’t remember them all. I saw Senior Sanctuaries, a company that runs several rest homes in the area. They’ve been a client for a number of years. And the Biltmore Company.”

“Biltmore Company?”

“Yes. It owns and operates the estate, plus all the side ventures like the winery and hotel.”

“Armitage provides them security?”

“No. They’ve got their own team. Tikima and Armitage did some consulting for them.”

Nothing unusual there. But Peters had just mentioned the French Broad flowed through the estate, and from the boy’s journal I knew Tikima’s great-great grandfather had worked for the Vanderbilts. “When Peters leaves, let’s go through those files. Maybe we’ll find a connection.” I brought up a mental image of the dining table. The folders had been scattered with a book in the center. “Was your sister a fan of Thomas Wolfe?”

“Not that she ever mentioned.”

“And that book was with the files?”

“I moved it around some, but yes I found it on the table.”

Having a book on Thomas Wolfe in Asheville was no surprise, but I wondered why Tikima didn’t leave it by her reading chair rather than with the files and journal. Like the Biltmore Estate and the Vanderbilts, Thomas Wolfe was mentioned in the journal. But what any of that had to do with Tikima’s murder in June 2007 was beyond me.

We sat quietly for a few more minutes while Peters talked on his two-way. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his wild arm gestures indicated something was keeping him riled up. When he hung the mike back on the transceiver, he walked toward us with a face even redder than when he left. I was afraid blood could come squirting out his ears.

He stopped behind his chair and gripped the back so hard the vibration toppled the root beer bottle to the ground. Yellow jackets would be all over the spill within minutes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Won’t they send a tow truck?”

“What’s wrong?” Peters’ voice held a steely edge. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Our dispatcher told me she’s had two calls about you.”

“About me?” I suspected someone had blown the whistle on my little game.

“Nathan Armitage called in a report saying you saw Tikima Robertson the day she disappeared.”

“Good. He said he would.”

“Why the hell didn’t you mention it to me?”

“We haven’t finished talking yet. It was next on my list.”

Peters’ eyes narrowed to slits. “And who assigned you this case?”

I figured if Armitage had phoned in my name he’d also told the police about my circumstances. “I never said I was assigned by anyone. My interest is personal.”

“Personal.” Peters looked back and forth from Nakayla to me, trying to read how personal it might be. “The dispatcher also said we received a call from the V.A. hospital’s security department. A patient named Sam Blackman is missing. He hasn’t been discharged and is supposed to be confined to the hospital grounds. Now whether that means you’re AWOL or not isn’t my concern, but I’m taking you back right now and you’re going to tell me everything you know about Tikima Robertson.”

I leaned forward in the deep chair and used the armrests to hoist myself up. “Walter Reed was all too glad to get rid of me. I didn’t know I’d become such a cherished commodity here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. From what I understand your brother’s raising holy hell, accusing the military of abducting you.” Peters stepped toward me like he was taking me into custody.

My brother. Had Stanley called and then gone ballistic when the staff couldn’t find me? I reached out and took Nakayla’s hand. “Let me get this sorted out and we’ll finish our talk tonight. I’m confident Detective Peters will make headway with these new clues.”

Peters wasn’t buying my conciliatory act. He stepped between us, grabbed my elbow, and steered me to the Crown Vic. As we drove away, I saw Nakayla pick up the root beer bottle and walk toward the huge apartment building without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

Chapter Seven

On the way to the hospital, Peters grilled me about Tikima’s visit. I held nothing back because there was precious little to be held back. But I didn’t tell him what had occurred since her visit: the discovery of the journal and my suspicion that Tikima had sought me out because of my investigative skills. Peters also wanted to know my plans after my discharge. When I told him I’d be going to Birmingham, he seemed torn between relief that I’d be out of his hair and concern that a potential witness would be leaving town.

As we turned onto the hospital grounds, Peters said, “If you’re not being discharged till Friday, I want you to write up a statement about Tikima’s visit and any speculation you might have as to why she chose to see you when this place is full of vets.”

“I forgot to mention she said Armitage Security Services could have a place for me.”

Peters stopped the car at the entrance to the ambulatory wing. “She knew your background?”

“Evidently.”

Peters opened his door, and then stayed in his seat. “One thing I’m not clear on. Why did Nakayla take you to Tikima’s apartment if she hadn’t noticed the handbrake yet?”

The question stopped me for a second. Nakayla and I hadn’t worked out our story. I’d come for the journal, but I didn’t want Peters to know that. I decided to share my suspicions about Tikima’s motive for visiting me. “I had the same question you did. Why did Tikima choose me? So I asked Nakayla how Tikima found out about me. She said her sister had a friend at Walter Reed who told her I was being transferred. I thought if I could discover who that friend was I could make contact and maybe learn what prompted Tikima’s interest. I went to the apartment to look for a possible lead. A name in an address book or a Rolodex that I’d recognize.”

“And did you?”

“I didn’t have time.”

Peters cocked his head. “Didn’t have time? What were you doing in the apartment while waiting for me?”

“Discussing the implications that someone drove Tikima’s car. That sidetracked everything.”

I doubted Peters believed me, but he had no other choice.

“Have Nakayla show the names to you here,” he said. “Then I’ll want to see them.” He hopped out and was around to my side of the car before I could stand. “I’m going to deliver you to hospital security and tell them you’re not to leave your room unattended.”

I stood and gripped the open door for support. “Come on, Detective. How am I supposed to compose a statement sitting in bed while the guy beside me is gasping for breath? I give you my word I’m not going anywhere. I’ve only got one more day.”

“Sam!”

The shout from the hospital entrance came before Peters could reply.

I was shocked to see Stanley hurrying toward us. He wore red plaid pants and a solid red golf shirt. My older brother is shorter and stockier than I am, and he looked like a giant fire hydrant moving along the sidewalk.

“Stanley. What are you doing here?”

He glanced past me and saw the electronic equipment in the unmarked police car. “Are you under arrest?” He turned his wide eyes to Peters.

“No, he’s not,” Peters said. “He’s been helping me with an investigation.”

Stanley frowned at me. “I thought you were through with that nonsense.”

“That nonsense is the brutal murder of a young woman.” Peters leaned forward and towered over my brother.

Stanley backed up, lifting his open palms as if to surrender. “I’m sorry. I was just so worried. The hospital didn’t know where Sam was. And with all the trouble he stirred up for the government—” His plea trailed off to a whimper.

I extended my hand to Peters. “Thanks for the ride. You’ll get your statement.” He’d been a decent guy in front of Stanley and I wanted him to know I appreciated it.

“And Tikima’s contact at Walter Reed,” Peters added. “We’ll talk before you leave.”

Stanley and I watched the police car pull away.

“Jesus, Sam. How’d you get involved in a murder?”

“She was a vet I met here.” I started toward the hospital entrance, not wanting to go into the story any further.

“Sam, you’re walking pretty good. Ashley and I were wondering if we needed to put some handicapped stuff in the house.”

“Handicapped stuff?” I entered through the automatic doors stride for stride with Stanley.

“Yeah, a walker, special toilet seat. Whatever the doctor says you need.”

Before I could answer, two of the hospital’s security team approached us.

“Officer Blackman?” The younger, bulkier man stepped closer. He looked like he could bench press both Stanley and me without any trouble.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re to escort you to your room. Dr. Anderson wants to examine you since you’ve been off the premises.” He addressed me like I was a kindergartner who had strayed out of the playground.

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I just walked from the curb. I’ve been helping Detective Peters.” I stepped past the young man flexing his biceps to his companion who looked like a retired cop. “Tikima Robertson’s murder.”

The older security guard clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She was a pistol, Tikima was. I’d bet my pension she put up one hell of a fight.” He glanced at his partner. “But you’ve still got to see Dr. Anderson.”

“I will. Just give me a few minutes with my brother. He’s got to drive back to Birmingham.”

Stanley started to speak but I silenced him with a glare.

“We’ll use the library if that’s all right. Five minutes. Come on, Stanley.”

Before either of the guards could object, I set off down the hallway with my bewildered brother in tow. As I hoped, the library was empty. I pointed my brother to a chair and closed the door behind us.

“I’m not being released till Friday. Why are you here two days early?”

Stanley pulled his chair closer to the table as I sat across from him. My brother the banker looked like he was interviewing me for a loan. “Ashley and I thought there were things I’d need to go over with your doctor. We’ve been reading information online about amputees and the adjustment problems. There’s limb shrinkage and psychological stages—”

“And that’s why I’ve been in the god-damned hospitals for four months. I don’t intend to become a burden to you and your family.”

Stanley reared back and I realized I’d shouted at him.

“I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t plan to be at your house for more than a couple weeks. And there’s nothing for you to do here except pick me up on Friday. I thought I made that clear over the phone.”

Stanley shifted uncomfortably and stared down at the back of his pudgy fingers. “I’ll be here Friday, but I’m driving to Winston-Salem this afternoon. There are some issues with Mom and Dad’s estate.”

“Issues? What kinds of issues?”

“Walt Misenheimer said Galaxy Movers is making a settlement offer tomorrow.”

Walt Misenheimer had been a good friend of my parents. With my consent, Stanley had retained him to file a lawsuit against the company that killed our parents. The driver of the Galaxy moving van had failed his drug test, but instead of immediately terminating him, Galaxy had given him a long haul on short turnaround. When the amphetamines burned out, he crossed the median of Highway 52 and slammed head-on into my parents’ Buick. They were returning home from their Saturday afternoon run to Wal-Mart. Their lives were lost because Galaxy failed to enforce their own zero-tolerance drug policy. That’s how I saw the case.

“Walt said never take the first offer,” I said. “Especially when the last thing Galaxy wants is for this to go before a jury.”

“That’s why I want to be there in person. Make them look me in the eye when they put a price on Mom’s and Dad’s lives.”

“Why didn’t you drive straight to Winston-Salem?” I asked. Stanley’s fastest route would have been through Atlanta and Charlotte. “You could have picked me up on the way back.”

My older brother cleared his throat like a professor beginning a lecture. “I thought we’d have more leverage with Galaxy if I had your power of attorney. You know, make a counter offer that they immediately accept or we take them to court.”

Something in Stanley’s voice took me back to our childhood when he would try to convince me to spend my birthday money on a toy he wanted.

“Did Walt suggest that?”

“No. I just thought I’d be prepared.” He forced a grin. “Walt did say he wanted Galaxy to know you would be a wounded vet appearing in court.”

That sounded like a lawyer. Parade me and Stanley’s twin babies in front of the jury.

“If I give you power of attorney, won’t it have to be notarized?”

Stanley’s forced grin slid into a sly smile. “Already done. A notary at the bank understands your situation and completed the paperwork. All you need to do is sign.”

I didn’t like Stanley springing this request on me, not that an earlier discussion would have made any difference. When our parents were killed, I was in the air between Iraq and Walter Reed with a field dressed wound still raw from triage where saving my leg had been a distant second priority to saving my life. Stanley had borne the brunt of burying our parents and I still felt some guilt about it.

“All right.”

Stanley visibly relaxed. “I’ll get the papers from the car.”

“But I want you to call me before you agree to anything.”

“Sure, Sammy.” He scurried out of the library leaving me wondering what was really going on.

***

After the required physical examination by Dr. Anderson proved I’d not been damaged by my unauthorized adventure, I received permission to return to the library. I wrote down my conversation with Tikima for Detective Peters and included my appearance at her funeral. I figured Nathan Armitage had mentioned it in his report and my omission would only make Peters more suspicious of me.

I was giving my statement a final reading when Nakayla entered. She carried a large paper shopping bag in one hand and a thermos in the other.

“Glad to see you’re here and not in jail,” she said.

“Not much difference. Although I’m sure I’d look cuter in an orange jumpsuit.” I waved her to the chair Stanley had occupied several hours earlier. “Did you bring me some reading material?”

“Yes. You can finish the journal. I also brought the Armitage Security files Tikima had in the apartment.” She handed me the journal and set the stack of files between us. Then she laid the Thomas Wolfe biography alongside it.

“Why’d you bring this?” I asked.

“Because it was with the other things. And I noticed Tikima had written the words Ted Mitchell, that’s the author’s name, and a phone number on the first page.”

“Who’s the phone number?”

“I assume Ted Mitchell. He lives here and works at the Wolfe Memorial.”

“What about the friend at Walter Reed? Did you find that number?”

Nakayla nodded. “I called every 202 area code in her address book until I struck gold. Maria Costello.”

The name didn’t sound familiar. “Is she a nurse?”

“Works Physical Therapy. She said everyone calls her Cookie.”

I laughed as I remembered the rotund, dark-haired woman in PT who was always smiling no matter how much I complained. “Cookie. Never knew her real name. We called her that because she would reward you with a chocolate chip cookie if you completed everything in your therapy session. If you didn’t, she ate it.”

“Cookie and Tikima had stayed in touch. You evidently made an impression on her.”

“Because I always got Cookie’s cookie.”

Nakayla spread her fingers on the top of the table as she got to the heart of her story. “When you were transferred to Black Mountain, Cookie told Tikima that she had a live one coming. Both had been upset by the conditions at Walter Reed and Cookie told Tikima you were being exiled away from the media.”

“A little late. The bedpan had hit the fan by then.”

“Tikima had wanted to talk to you, but Cookie said my sister really got interested when she learned you had been in the Criminal Investigation Detachment.”

“Did Cookie say why?”

Nakayla leaned closer. “She said it was personal. That justice was long overdue and she needed someone to help who wasn’t part of Asheville’s history.”

“History?” I looked at the journal and then the Thomas Wolfe biography. “We’ve got plenty of history. Wish I knew what to do with it.”

Nakayla pointed to the journal. “For starters, read it.”

I flipped through the yellowed pages and found where I’d left off. The date was Saturday, July 5, 1919. Henderson had just sneaked inside the hearse. The kid sure told a good story.