Drowning Barbie (21 page)

Chapter Forty-two

The office had returned to normal, at least a semblance of normal. Essie was back at her desk. Her brother-in-law Danny sat in a chair in the corner, his eyes trained on the door and a .50 caliber, definitely-not-government-issue Desert Eagle with a ten-inch barrel, in his lap. Ike knew Danny had a permit so he said nothing about the weapon he considered more appropriate for an artillery unit than a Navy SEAL. But his was not to reason why. Danny had also let his facial hair grow out—not quite a beard, more like a souvenir of a three-day binge. Ike didn't know if the whiskers related to his being on a vacation and not on duty, or had become the trademark of the SEALs, or intended as a fashion statement. If the last, he'd failed. To be considered high fashion, a celebrity two-day-old stubble required its owner to be wearing at least a thousand-dollar suit or one that could pass for a cool thou. Less than that and you were just another bum. He smiled a greeting at the second-oldest Sutherlin, beard, cannon, and all, and moved on. If Danny's presence made Essie feel safe, so much the better. Having him babysit her meant, first, Ike didn't have to assign one of his own people to the duty, and second, he had Essie back at her dispatch desk.

He allowed the K-Cup machine to do its angry crocodile sounds and spit out a fresh cup of coffee and headed toward his office. Too many bodies, too few killers in custody, and the missing girl, Darla Smut or Dellinger, still on the loose. Since his conversation about the girl's possible future with Ruth, the last situation preyed on his mind a bit more than the others. He couldn't say why he believed it, but he felt certain she had not gone very far, that she had holed up somewhere nearby. But where?

Essie shouted across the outer office, “Okay, Ike, come clean. What does ‘The Blessing of a Civil Marriage' mean?”

“It means that you and all the gang, friends, family, in-laws, outlaws, are invited to the church for a ceremony and then some eats and then finally to stop bugging me about the
when
.”

“It's a wedding?”

“Close enough.”

“What's that mean, ‘close enough'? Is it or ain't it?”

“Yes.”

“Billy's Ma said they had enough food to feed the Chinese Army.”

“They weren't invited.”

“So Monday is the big day.”

“Big, yes. Danny, nice piece. Essie, face front and answer the phone.”

“It ain't rung…shoot, there you go again. Picketsville Sheriff's Office. Go ahead.”

Ike went into his office. The tidy elves had not come during the night and the same piles of papers and reports that covered every inch of his desk had not moved. Still no write-up from Feldman about the call to the church. He punched the call button on his intercom.

“Essie, where's Jack Feldman?”

“He did a double and is off today.”

“Find him and tell him I want to talk to him now.”

Ike returned to the stacks on the desk. Once a month, he would sort through the mess, rearrange it, dispose of most of it, and start the process of rebuilding the height and breadth of the stacks again. He felt pretty sure that there were no clues in the current piles to the murders of Smut, Dellinger, or Barbarini. The last would be the FBI's problem anyway. When he'd thought about it a while, the suggestion he'd made to Karl about seeking a connection to the dead man and New York had merit. The dead guy did not take a bus to Picketsville and bury himself. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to plant the New York hood in this particular backyard. Why?

“I've got Jack on the line. You want me to put him through?” Essie had mastered the intercom about the same time as Ike, and the office benefitted from it. Until the previous spring, yelling at one another across the thirty feet between their desks had been the rule. Things were quieter now.

“I'll talk to him.” Ike waited until the proper buttons were pushed in the correct sequence.

“Sheriff?”

“Feldman, you were sent on a call to the Episcopal church a couple of nights ago. This is Saturday, where is your paperwork?”

“There wasn't nothing there, Ike, just another phony call. That preacher is a little flighty, you know. Hell, all them Holy Joes are.”

“Blake Fisher is a lot of things, Feldman, but flighty isn't one of them. The fact there wasn't anything happening does not mean you don't write it up. Paperwork is a pain but we do it anyway. I want the report from your watch on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Ike hung up rather than wait for a reply. Feldman had the distinction of being his worst deputy and sat high and alone on the top of his list to be fired if downsizing were to be mandated. The mayor kept threatening to cut Ike's budget citing fiscal hard times as his reason. Ike suspected his motive had more to do with the fact that Ike had caught him on the thin edge of ethical impropriety a few times and he was back at work searching for a much more accessible and pliable sheriff to run against Ike.

Ike turned his attention away from the mountains of paper on his desk and considered his next move. What if the girl had lingered in the area as he suspected? Surely LeBrun or his people would be looking for her by now. He sat upright. Crap, it could be, if the history was right. One of the men working for LeBrun could very well be Feldman. He should put him on some other duties, something away from the office, away from information. Send him out of town for a seminar on customer relations. Lord knows, if Blake Fisher had it right, Feldman could use the training. Or should he put a tail on Jack and see where he led them? Hell of a way to run a department, he thought, when you have to shield victims from the people who're supposed to protect them.

George LeBrun had a room at the Road House, he'd been told. Did Feldman frequent it? That Leota woman had staked out the place. That couldn't be good. Librarians were good at surveillance in the stacks, shushing loud whisperers, and apprehending booknabbers, but staked out at a biker bar and watching a known killer? Lord love us.

Ike stretched and put his feet up. Think. Okay, if LeBrun stayed true to form, by now he should be well on his way down the rat hole of meth addiction. If that's true, I could pick him up and put him back in jail for breach of his release agreement. Then half, maybe more than half, of my problems go away. If I knew that, if I could prove that…

“Danny,” he shouted, “I need a minute of your time. Essie, Charley Picket will ride shotgun for a while.”

Charley and Danny traded places.

“Yes, Sheriff?” Danny was raised polite and the Navy kept him that way.

“You look like hell.”

“Sir?”

“No, no, it's a good thing. Listen, I know you can't hang around Picketsville forever being Essie's shadow. You could be called back to duty any minute, or you will run out of leave time, or something else. We need to free you up.

“I don't mind watching over Billy's wife, Sheriff.”

“I'm sure you don't, but I do. So, how long has it been since you spent any time in town?”

“Except for short visits, ten years, maybe more.”

“You ever move with the crowd that hangs out at Alex's Road House?”

“The guys I knew growing up who moved in that direction are all dead or in jail.”

“Okay, then, here's what I think will solve Essie's problem, free you up for something more enjoyable than guard duty—”

“But I'm okay with guard duty.”

“Of course you are. Good to hear it, but I have a bigger problem to solve and Charley and Billy can protect Essie just fine. So here's what I'd like you to do. I need a man inside that bar. This is a small town. There is no one on my staff who isn't known, but you've been out of circulation long enough so they won't know you and, as I said, with that beard you look like one of the barflies that hang out there.”

“They'll spot me for a stranger, though.”

“I have that covered. I have access to a Peterbuilt tractor. You will bob-tail it to the Road House and make yourself at home. Say you're waiting for a call from your dispatcher to hook up a flatbed. Once you settle in, let on that you might be in the market for some drugs, you know, crack, meth, weed, whatever. That will get the right kind of attention. Then keep an eye on George LeBrun. I am almost certain he's using again. If he is, call me and we'll bust him. He goes back into the slammer and ends your bodyguard duty.”

“You think I can do that?”

“I think that you have done a lot more dangerous things than this as a SEAL. If you're up for it, I'll deputize you and we're in business.”

Chapter Forty-three

The big truck rumbled up to Alex's Road House, black diesel exhaust spewing from its dual stacks, and country music blaring from the cab. Leota took a picture of it. The music stopped suddenly and a bearded man, by the look of him one of LeBrun's thug friends, dismounted and entered the bar. One more reason to stay out of the place. She realized that decades spent in the safe harbor of library science had insulated her from a society that had changed rapidly over the years. But, she reasoned, how would she ever get at LeBrun if she didn't find a way in? She needed a plan but could think of nothing more to do than to keep on doing what she'd been doing for the last three days—sitting, waiting, and taking useless pictures. She had nearly lost track of the days and hours. It might have been four days, come to think of it. It would, if you counted the first few hours. Perhaps it wasn't just the days. She might be losing her mind as well. If anyone she knew had been keeping tabs on her they would say she was. Ten minutes passed and the truck driver came out and walked around his rig. Those big rigs look ridiculous without a trailer attached, she thought, kind of like a man with his pants down. Not that she had a lot of experience in that department.

The man seemed to be checking the truck—they called it a tractor, she remembered—and reached inside the cab to retrieve something or another. Then he made a call on his cell phone. He nodded and went back into the bar. Leota settled back, took a sip of water, a small one. She had learned her lesson about over-hydrating while sitting in a stakeout.

***

The bartender nodded noncommittally at Danny's request to be fixed up with someone who could sell him some “painkillers.” He leaned forward on the bar and nursed his drink. The Desert Eagle had been too much weapon to tuck into a waistband and he had returned to the truck and swapped it out for a snub-nosed police special. It did not have the stopping power of the cannon, but at close range, a .38 caliber bullet correctly placed would do the same job. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. On the other hand, no one in the joint knew who the hell he was. Why not just plug LeBrun, wipe the truck, dump the piece in the lake, and tell Ike he changed his mind about playing cop? A quick shave and he would be in the clear. If he understood what Ike told him, killing LeBrun meant Essie would be safe and several local problems would be solved at the same time. Ike would guess what he'd done but would not or could not pursue it, not if he wiped the gun and truck clean.

He put the thought aside, but left it open as an option.

A few minutes later, the man in question himself came down from upstairs somewhere. The bartender, who apparently owned the place, asked him about a girl, Cherise or something that sounded like that. LeBrun scowled and said he hadn't seen her and didn't know anything more about her and Alex should stop bugging him about her. The bartender looked as if he wanted to press the point and then he must have read something in LeBrun's face and walked away. A second man joined LeBrun and they ordered a beer each. The new guy looked familiar. Too familiar. Local, for sure, but Danny couldn't quite place him. Someone he'd seen around lately. It would be important to identify the guy. He tried but came up empty. To make sure his cover wasn't blown, he pivoted his barstool away from the two men and stared at the wall with its posters of naked women and accompanying graffiti commentary.

The position made it difficult to hear what the two men were talking about. He closed his eyes and went into SEAL mode. Listening for sounds, alerts, and potential danger were all part of his training and it had saved his ass more than once. He kept his hand on the butt of the pistol under his shirttail.

It would be hours before he had anything useful to report to Ike. In fact it would not be until late the following night that he heard one sentence, but it would be all he needed.

***

The afternoon wound down. The three-to-eleven shift came, checked in, and went. Ike fretted. Saturday nights always got busy. Weekends, if normal, could interfere with his search for Darla and his plans for LeBrun. He'd had the call from Danny earlier. He'd settled in the bar and not been recognized. So far, so good, but no news about LeBrun's drug use or anything else useful. All Ike could do was wait. He did not like waiting, not anymore. In his other life, as he sometimes referred to it, he'd once spent three days in an irrigation trench up to his knees in water, a cold, beating rain soaking his clothes, to get a single photograph of an armored vehicle carrying a man in uniform. He did not know who the man was or why Langley wanted his
picture. But he shot it, left the ditch, and spent a week on antibi
otics
fighting double pneumonia. But back then patient waiting defined the job.
Now he had a teenaged girl on the loose, and who knew how many men hot on her trail who would kill her without batting an eyelash. One of those men, George LeBrun, through a glitch in the legal system and expensive legal counsel, now sat free as a bird in Alex's Road House instead of serving out a life-plus term for murder. Ike loved the legal system. He had graduated from law school. He knew why LeBrun sipped cold beer on the outside at the moment. He didn't like it, but he understood it. On the other hand, he intended to see to it that the scuzzball's vacation from the penitentiary ended soon and permanently. He thought of Danny sitting within shooting distance of the town's worst nightmare with a loaded gun in his waistband. Would he be tempted to solve one pressing problem and free up Essie on his own? Had Ike subconsciously set up that scenario? Was this another one of those Freudian things? Should Ike worry about that? He decided he wouldn't. There were Ike rules and there were other people's rules. Shit happens.

He pulled up to the parking area next to the Administration Building the same time as a delivery van pulled out. Café Michael, known by readers of
Southern Living Magazine
as one of Lexington's luxury restaurants, had been painted in discreet lettering on the van door. Thank God the food had not come from Frank's Catering. Good food and maybe a bottle of decent wine, and the evening might not be a complete bust after all.

“I hope the box contains the brown trout or seafood Provençal,” he said to Ruth when he'd made it through a security check at the main door.

“One of each. We'll share. I also found a decent white in my cooler and there is coffee later. I can't vouch for that, however. Agnes made a fresh pot, but it's been awhile.”

“Serve it up and then tell me why we are here in the office planning our almost nuptials and not over at your house.”

“Several reasons. In the first place, the house is too easy.”

“Pardon?”

“I know you, Schwartz. You would eat the food and before I could say ‘guest list,' you'd have us in the bedroom composing sheet music.”

“You're easy, Harris, but not that easy. Come on, what's the real reason?”

“Okay, you're right, I'm not that easy. But today, with what's going on at your end—you know, the girl and all—and my current stress level, I think I might be the one calling the tune, if you follow, and when it comes to that area, you really are easy. I need to protect me from me.”

“We could lock the door—”

“Forget it. Now, talk to me, Sheriff. My mother says she's been in contact with Mrs. Sutherlin and the arrangements for the…I guess we call it the reception…are all laid on. She said she thought the woman was a little odd.”

“Dorothy Sutherlin is about as normal as they come in this town. Your mother is the odd one.”

“Hey—”

“Come on, Ruth, she calls herself Eden Saint Claire. Her name is Paula Harris and she is steeped in the process of not-writing a book about academe in the mode of Grace Metalious. Who's the odd one in this picture?”

“Point of view, Schwartz, point of view. The truth is that Picketsville is a hotbed of oddness and you and I walking down the aisle on Monday afternoon may qualify as the icing on the cake of weirdness, to mix a metaphor, if that is what I just did.”

“Something to do with parallelism, I think. So which of these two dishes shall we start with?”

“I'm thinking about taking your suggestion and locking the door after all. Which do you prefer, the desk or the floor?”

“The trout, Madam President. First things first. Seafood is garbage if eaten cold and congealed. Then, I think, after the Provençal, some wine, and communal nuzzling, I would prefer the carpet to risking being stabbed by paper clips and ballpoint pens. Or we could just go home.”

“Good thinking. So, as Frank, our local ptomaine purveyor, would say, ‘bone appatit.'”