Blood Money (Joe Dillard Series No. 6) (8 page)

“She sleeps later than she used to,” I said.

“She doing all right?”

“Yeah, she’s okay. Bad day every now and then because of side effects from medication, but for the most part, she’s doing really well right now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Leon said. “So what can I do for you, brother Dillard?”

I sat down across from him and took a sip of the coffee.
 

“I’m sure you heard about the shooting over in Kingsport. Jordan Scott? Killed the rapist?”

“Course I’ve heard about it. I read in the paper that you were representing him. Surprised me a little, to tell you the truth. I thought you were cutting back, what with your wife’s illness and all.”

“She insisted that I take it.”

“You’re in for a hard road, brother. That’s a rough bunch over there.”

“That’s why I called you. What do you know about them?”

“Probably more than I should. Certainly more than I’d like to. This deputy that was shot, Todd Raleigh. You know who his daddy is?”

“I know his name is Howard Raleigh and that he’s a county commissioner. That’s about it.”

“He’s a real peach, that one,” Leon said. “Comes across as a community leader type and an entrepreneur, owns several businesses in the county, convenience stores and a car wash and a couple of used car lots, but that’s mainly how he launders his real source of income, which is cock fighting. Owns a big farm in a remote part of the county, been fighting and breeding roosters there for almost twenty years. Big operation, big money.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The reason he’s been able to operate for so long is that the sheriff is in his pocket.”

“Owns him lock, stock and barrel. Back about ten years ago, a few years before I became sheriff over here, they had a sheriff in Sullivan County named Rufus Seale. Big ol’ beer-bellied, red-headed man who liked to beat on inmates at the jail and always had a half-chewed stogie in his mouth. Got himself elected on an old school law and order platform, but everybody that knows about such things knew that he was taking graft from Howard Raleigh to protect his bird fighting operation. The problem with Rufus was that he got arrogant about it. I’ve heard it told more than once that Rufus started showing up at the cockfights, in uniform, and passing his hat. He’d walk out of there with three, four thousand in cash, which didn’t sit too well with Howard Raleigh since Howard was already paying him a tidy sum of cash every month. About three months after Rufus started showing up and passing his hat, he went deer hunting up in Johnson County and wound up getting shot through the heart. It was eventually ruled a hunting accident.”

“But you don’t think it was an accident?”

“Howard Raleigh either shot him or had him shot,” Leon said. “I’d bet my life on it. Enter Raymond Peale, a roofing contractor with no previous law enforcement experience. Howard Raleigh nominates Peale to replace Rufus Seale at the next county commission meeting, and lo and behold, he has the votes to get ‘er done. So Peale becomes Raleigh’s hand-picked sheriff, Raleigh’s son winds up becoming a deputy, and the rooster fighting continues on unmolested by the evil hand of law enforcement.”

“What about the feds?” I said. “If you know all of this, surely they must know it, too. Why haven’t they gone in and busted it up?”

“Because they’ve been focused on counter-terrorism for the past ten years. A cockfighting operation in rural Tennessee hasn’t been at the top of their priority list. But just between you and me and that German shepherd, they’re on it now. Peale and one or two of his deputies have taken to selling drugs that they steal from the evidence locker and there’s been some cash from drug busts go missing. There’ll be an arrest or two sometime in the not-too-distant future.”

“And you know all this how?”

“Because I’m a friend to all, brother Dillard. I get along with everybody, and it serves me well.”

“I need someone on the inside at the sheriff’s department over there,” I said. “If this Todd Raleigh that Jordan Scott killed really was a serial rapist, then I’m betting he had some problems at work. A rapist with a badge and a gun can’t be a good combination. My guess is that there have been complaints filed against him for misconduct. I’d love to get my hands on them, because if I can sucker the prosecution into putting on testimony about his character, then I can attack him and flip the focus of the trial from Jordan Scott to Todd Raleigh. Do you think you might be able to help me out with that?”

Leon reached up and started pulling at his ear lobe with his left hand. With his right, he took another sip from the coffee cup and set the cup back on the table.

“Let me just stew on this a second,” he said. “What you’re asking me to do is to help you gather information that will eventually lead to the character assassination in a public trail of a fellow law enforcement officer who recently had half his head blown off.”

“While he was committing a rape. That’s an important detail, don’t you think?”

“You’re positive he was a rapist?”

“I’ve already talked to the young woman he was raping in the park when Jordan shot him. She’s the daughter of one of Raleigh’s best friends, an old high school buddy. Raleigh had been at her house the night before. That’s how he knew she would be in the park early the next morning. He knocked her off of her bike, dragged her into the bushes, and was raping her when Jordan told him to get off of her and then shot him. So yeah, I’m sure. I’m hoping to get DNA samples from Raleigh and have them compared to samples that were taken from some of the other rape victims so I can prove he was a serial rapist, but I’m not too optimistic about it. My understanding is that Raleigh was cremated. The pathologist should have samples from the autopsy, but I doubt the judge will allow me to test them.”

“There ain’t gonna be any samples,” Leon said. “If Todd Raleigh was a serial rapist, Peale and Raleigh’s daddy will have destroyed the samples by now.”

“Sounds like a fine, upstanding bunch of folks they’ve got running the show over there,” I said.

Leon pointed a long finger at me. “You listen to me, brother Dillard,” he said. “I know when you set your mind to something you ain’t afraid of the devil himself, but you be careful messing with those boys. Sticking your nose in the middle of their business will be like crawling under a rock to catch a rattlesnake with your bare hands. The chances are good that you’ll wind up getting bit.”

Chapter 13

ZANE
Barnes entered his father’s house quietly through the kitchen door. It was just after dark, the night outside quiet and still. He could hear the television in the den where he knew Roscoe would be sitting in his recliner, either sleeping or watching the Atlanta Braves play baseball.
   

Zane had been a millionaire until the recession and the credit crunch started bleeding him dry. He’d been building upscale houses in the western North Carolina mountains for years, but when the economy went suddenly and unexpectedly into the toilet, he was unprepared for the fallout. He had four houses under construction when George Bush announced, near the end of his term, that the federal government was about to embark on a massive bailout of the Wall Street financial industry. The credit crunch that ensued shut down the real estate market. All four houses were still vacant. Building them had cost him nearly two million, and he’d been paying interest on that money for so long now that even if the economy turned around and he was finally able to sell them, he wouldn’t turn a profit. His stock portfolio lost sixty percent over a six-month period in 2008 and still hadn’t recovered. His gold-digging wife had taken his two teenaged children and left him a year ago when she realized how much trouble he was in. Between the alimony, child support and mortgage payments, he was paying out more than thirty thousand a month and nothing was coming in. Another year and he’d be broke.
 

But back in January, Zane had discovered, completely by accident, what he hoped would be his ticket out of the financial morass. He’d gone to Buck Mountain hoping to talk to Roscoe about borrowing some money, although he wasn’t sure how much money Roscoe had. Zane rarely saw the old man, despite the fact that he lived less than an hour away. He’d never cared much for his father. He thought Roscoe a simpleton, a lazy redneck content to squat on the land he’d inherited and waste his life teaching English to teenagers who didn’t give a damn. Since his mother had died, Zane had made only perfunctory visits at Christmas, and those had been brief.
 

He was desperate, though, and he thought he might be able to use Roscoe to get him past his financial woes if he could talk him into either selling his land or, at the very least, pledging it as collateral so Zane could borrow enough money to get him through another year or so until the economy made a complete recovery. Roscoe’s land was also home to large stands of valuable trees: white and red oak, hickory, walnut and elm. The timber rights alone would probably be worth a hundred grand. Maybe he could talk him into selling the timber. He’d walked into his father’s house that day and found him fully clothed and fast asleep in his bed. When he reached down to wake him, Zane noticed a glow, almost a sparkle, coming from beneath the pillow where his mother’s head used to lay. He pulled the pillow up and his jaw dropped. He shook his father awake.
 

“What’s this?” Zane had demanded.

Roscoe, bleary-eyed and groggy, sat up slowly. “What are you doing here?”

“I said what’s this?”

“Something I found.”

“Where?”

“At the end of the rainbow.”

“Is there more?”

“None of your business.”

Zane had grabbed Roscoe’s shirt and shaken him:
“Is there more?”

The old man smiled and nodded: “Lots more.”

“How much?”

“You’ll never know.”

“Where is it?”

“I already told you, at the end of the rainbow.”

Zane had threatened, harangued, pleaded, and begged, all to no avail. Roscoe refused to tell him anything. He finally left and devised a plan the next day to gain control of Roscoe’s property. The lawsuit that followed, however, had done nothing but cost Zane more money. Even the possibility of losing his freedom had failed to loosen Roscoe’s tongue.
 
And now, with the first hearing in front of Judge Beckett only twelve hours away, Zane had decided to make one final attempt. He walked into the den. Roscoe was exactly where he thought he’d be – in the recliner. He was wide awake.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Roscoe said.
 

Zane turned off the television. He sat down on the couch across from Roscoe.
 

“I’ve had a change of heart,” Zane said. “I want you to come and live with me. I have plenty of room. It’s a great place, beautiful, right on the river. I know you’ve never seen it, but I think you’d like it. I have a cook and a few other people who help around the house. They’ll wait on you hand and foot. I have an indoor swimming pool and a whirlpool, a sauna, you name it. You’ll eat good food, and I’ll make sure your medical care is the very best available. You can live out your life in luxury. You won’t have a worry in the world.”

“I believe I’ll stay put.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Zane said. “Really, I’m sorry. I’ve behaved very badly. You’re old and you’re sick and you need help. It’s my place to help you. Let me help you.”

“I’m not sick and I don’t need help. From you or anybody else. Why don’t you grow some balls for once in your life and just come out and say what you really want?”

“I’m your son. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Just let me help you.”

“You love two things, boy. You love yourself and you love money, and the only reason you’re here right now is that you’re afraid you might lose in court tomorrow. All you really want is for me to tell you where the rest of it is, and that ain’t gonna happen.”

Zane kept his tone steady. “Please, let’s not fight. I’m not here to argue or bring up the past or cast aspersions.”

“I’m going to watch my ballgame,” Roscoe said. “Feel free to leave any time.” He pushed a button on the television remote and the set came back to life.
 

Zane stood.
 

“Fine,” he said. “You’re a fool, always have been. You’re going to rot in the worst nursing home I can find. And as soon as the jury finds you incompetent, I’m going to hire a crew and clear this mountain. I’ll bulldoze every building, sell every tree. I’ll find it. Believe me, I’ll find it. And as soon as I do, I’m going to divide this place up into little pieces and sell it off a bit at a time.”

“You wanted to know how much,” Roscoe said.
 

“What? What did you say?”

“There are a hundred of them. You took one; that leaves ninety-nine. But you’ll never get your hands on it. Not in a million years. Now get out.”

Chapter 14

ROSCOE
Barnes, clad in the same black suit he’d worn when his wife and daughter were buried, crawled out onto the brick ledge beneath the courthouse clock. His balance wasn’t what it had been when he was a youngster, back when he could stand in the bow of his little row boat, the one in which he stalked small-mouth bass along the banks of the Nolichuckey River. Sometimes, when the water was calm, he would climb up onto the edges in the bow, shift his weight gently from right to left with his arms outstretched, and imagine he was floating above the cool water. But that was then. This was now.

He made it out onto the ledge, sat and let his legs dangle, craning his neck so he could read the time on the clock behind him. It was 8:15 a.m. The hearing was supposed to start in at nine. Charlie Story and Joe Dillard had already gone inside. Now he was waiting for Zane. Roscoe had a message for him.

A couple of good things had come out of the lawsuit Zane filed against Roscoe. One was that Roscoe had gotten to know Charlie much better. He’d always thought a great deal of her, but now he felt as though he knew her heart. She was a special person, he believed, someone who cared about others, someone who held strong convictions about right and wrong and who wouldn’t compromise those convictions. He believed she would become an excellent lawyer and would one day make some lucky man a fine wife.