Legwork (19 page)

“Maybe,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Shoot.” He looked overhead at the sky above him.
“It all happened a long time ago.
None of it can be undone.
No sense poking it all up now.”

“You never married again?” I persisted.

“Nope.” A brief twinkle flared in his eyes. “Why, you looking?”

I had to laugh.
“I’m prone to seasickness,” I said.

“Then you better keep looking.” His laugh was short but genuine.

“I guess I ought to be going now,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

“No problem, miss.” He returned to his dial and squinted at the reading, my presence already forgotten.
But when I glanced back at him from the far end of the pier, I found him staring after me.
Even at that distance, I could read the regret in his face.

I returned to my car, breathing in deep gulps of fresh sea air.
I was no closer to finding Thornton Mitchell’s killer than I had been the night before.
But somehow, I felt better.

I skipped changing clothes and headed straight to Raleigh.
I was back at my office by noon.
“Geeze, babe,” Bobby D.
said when I walked in.
“You look like you’ve been up all night.”

“You should see the other guy,” I said, searching through my drawers for a bottle of aspirin.
I’d gone without sleep plenty of times, but seldom so sober.
I felt a little lightheaded from the hours on the road.
I stripped off my clothes and changed into fresh underwear.
I lock it in my gun drawer to keep Bobby’s paws off it.
I slid into the dress I kept hanging on the back of my door for emergencies and was dismayed to find it a bit snug.
I had to cut back on the biscuits.
Starting tomorrow.

“I’m hungry,” I yelled to Bobby when I was presentable again.
“Got anything to eat?” This was like asking the pope if he went to church.

“I got me an extra ham and Swiss I could spare.” His mumble told me where the other one had gone.

I snagged the sandwich before he changed his mind and parked my butt on his desk where I could reach the jumbo bag of barbecue potato chips he was busy demolishing.

“Messages?” I asked through a delicious wad of meat and cheese.
Bobby knew his sandwiches.

“That dame you’re working for is getting on my nerves,” he answered.
“Called about three times this morning asking how you’re doing.”

“Three times?” I pulled his copy of the N&O toward me to check the political calendar.
“What’s the big deal all of a sudden?
I don’t hear from her in days and now she’s all hot to find out my every move?”

Bobby reached for a beer out of the trashcan filled with ice at his feet.
“Maybe she’s on the rag?” he suggested.

“I find your psychological insights penetrating,” I told him, but my sarcasm was wasted.
All he’d heard was the word “penetrating,” one of his favorites.
I flipped through the newspaper, scanning each column.
“Okay, listen to this.
Mary Lee Masters has got three appearances scheduled for this morning alone: at a rest home, church, and Kiwanis Club, all near Charlotte.
A pretty busy schedule, if you ask me.
So why does she keep calling me?
And why did mankind ever invent the car phone?” I checked the rest of the schedule.
“Stoney’s heading bade from the mountains for a debate with Mary Lee tonight in Charlotte, sponsored by the League of Women Voters there.
Meanwhile, Stoney’s mother is busy berating the poor saps in Greensboro to vote for her beloved son.
She’s opening a tractor exhibit there.
No mention of Bradley Masters.
I guess he’s scheduled to boff a couple co-eds by nightfall.”

“Sounds like everyone is getting somewhere except you,” Bobby said.

I stole his new beer before he wrapped his fat lips around it and glared.
“Thanks for your support.”

“Well, babe.
Let’s face it.
Your working style seems to piss people off.
You got a couple calls from that Butler guy today, too.
Do me a favor.
Keep on his good side.
I don’t need trouble downtown.”

“I know,” I said.
“I’ll call him back.” Making friends with Bill Butler again was for the common good.
I might need him the next case out, more personal ulterior motives aside.
Time to swallow my pride.

I figured I’d get a lackey or something, which was why he surprised me with my mouth full of potato chips when he answered on the first ring.

“Mmmrphf,” I mumbled.
“Sorry.
We have a bad connection.
There’s potato chips on the line.”

“So, the great Miss Casey Jones surfaces and deigns to give the authorities a call,” he said.

“That’s Ms.
Jones to you.” I couldn’t help it.
I rebel in the face of authority.

He sighed.
“Is it safe to assume you’ve been receiving my messages?” he asked.

“Yes.
I’m sorry about your man.
But you should have told me.
That was a rotten thing to do, putting him on me in the first place.
I’m absolutely shocked at your lack of trust.
You don’t have to put a tail on me.
I haven’t lied to you. Yet.” I decided that omitting details didn’t quite qualify for fabrication status.
“You don’t think it’s Ramsey Lee either, do you?
Or you wouldn’t be bothering to keep tabs on me.”

He ignored me.
“Find out anything that might interest me?” he asked.

I spared him the details and went for the summary.
“No.”

“Keep me posted,” he asked, his voice losing its hard edge.

“I will,” I promised.
“What about you?
Find out anything that might help me?”

“Bradley Masters checks out.
He was in Nassau all right.
That guy’s a weirdo, if you ask me.
He’s down there with some coed but he spends most of his time calling home.”

“What?” I asked.

“We checked the hotel’s switchboard records. He made at least six calls home over the span of three days.”

“Checking his answering machine?” I suggested.

“Maybe,” Bill replied.
“If so, he gets a lot of messages.
Some of his calls have lasted ten minutes or more.
But he sure wasn’t around to kill Mitchell.”

I was silent for a moment, puzzling it out. If he had been calling home, why had Mary Lee acted as if she didn’t know where he was?

“Look,” I finally said.
“What if I told you that Bradley Masters knew where Mitchell’s body had been dumped. Without anyone telling him?”

“I’d tell you that a local station here in Raleigh is the CBS affiliate in the Bahamas.
The prick heard all the details on the evening news.
He just wanted his wife to suffer alone.”

“What else?” I asked, disappointed.
“Learn anything else you can give me?”

There was a long silence.

“Come on, Bill.
You can’t expect me to—”

“Okay,” he interrupted.
“I don’t think it’s Ramsey Lee.
The forensic tests aren’t panning out and he’s being too upfront about how much he hates the victim and is glad he’s dead.
I think the guy is clean.
But I also think he knows something that he’s not telling us.”

“And the SBI?” I asked.
“What do they think?”

“They’re still trying to make it fit,” he said.
“But I smell mutiny in the ranks.”

“Thanks,” I said and meant it.
“I owe you one.”

“I know,” he answered and hung up.

But he’d be the one owing me, I thought, if I saved his ass from embarrassment and handed him the answer on a silver platter.
Right now, though, the chances of that were looking pretty tarnished.
I told myself I just needed to meditate on the possibilities awhile but, before I knew it, I was asleep.
Bobby woke me an hour later with a bellow from the other room.

“Weirdo on line two for you,” he shouted. “Says you’ve been waiting for him to call.”

That could be just about any man who’d appeared in my life so far.
But I suspected it was probably Frank Waters, the terrified television reporter.

“Casey Jones,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“He’ll see you,” a male voice whispered, as if he feared being overheard.
“But it has to be this afternoon. They’re moving him.”

“Who is this?” I asked.
“Who’ll see me?”

“Ramsey Lee will see you,” the voice said. “My name doesn’t matter.” He hung up, leaving me staring at a silent phone.
Where had I heard that voice before?

And what was it about people and secrecy these days?
Did everyone think they were starring in a made-for-television movie?

Bobby was busy cooing into the phone and dipping into a vat of French fries.
He was the only man in Raleigh, North Carolina who could convince McDonald’s to deliver.

“Where are they holding Ramsey Lee?” I interrupted.

He covered the mouthpiece and glared.
“I’m trying to work here.”

“I’ll bet.”

“He’s at Central but the feds are trying to move him.”

“They’re succeeding,” I said.
“Found out about those shell companies?”

He looked affronted.
“I’m working on it right now.” He returned to whispering into the receiver and I steeled myself for a trip to Central Prison.
I wasn’t looking forward to it at all.
I’d been a visitor there before and you had to check your soul at the door.
No matter how much you reminded yourself that you could walk out of there at any time, no matter how much you felt the men imprisoned there deserved it, it was still a place without hope or humanity.
I prayed the ordeal would be worth it.

I had some time to kill before visiting hours began so I spent it wisely: I visited the local Gap store and bought a black cardigan.
There was no way I was entering the stone cold walls of Central Prison with my breasts showcased in the tight orange dress I was wearing.
Between the dress and the sweater, I looked like someone about to introduce a Halloween pageant.
But it was better than imagining a hundred guys ripping off in their cells while they thought of me.

The man at the visitor’s desk was so gray he looked like he’d had the life boiled out of him.
He was also so distressed at my request to see Ramsey Lee that he squeaked something about checking with his supervisor and scurried away.
The supervisor turned out to be a tall black woman who had a drop dead gorgeous figure clad in a well-fitted blue suit.
She must have caused a riot each time she walked through the population areas.
On the other hand, the look she gave me was enough to freeze my kidneys and I made a fast decision not to mess with her.

“This way, Ms.
Jones,” she said curtly.
“You appear on the inmate’s list, which is a complete surprise to me, so I can’t deny the visit.
But you will have to limit your time to twenty minutes.
He’s scheduled to be interviewed at four o’clock by the authorities.”

Probably by J.
Edgar himself, I figured. Hoover might be dead, but he still had more on the ball than half the bozos working this case.

We walked through the cold stone hallways in silence, her frosty look communicating that I was either a prostitute or Ramsey Lee’s white trash girlfriend.
Oh well, I’d been accused of far worse.
I could sense life stirring behind walls and huddled in doorways, like rats in the sewer who preferred the shadows.
Where was a rosary when you needed one?

“No physical contact,” she warned me as we neared one of the visiting areas, “or the visit will be terminated.” She led me into a well-lit room furnished with puke-colored linoleum tiles, soft-drink machines, and half a dozen scarred plastic tables.
There were few visitors in the middle of the week.
The womenfolk were no doubt busy slaving away at a host of underpaid occupations, trying to make up for the wages lost when their losers were sent away to the slammer.
I sat at one end of a bench at a middle table, as far away as possible from an overweight blonde woman whose roots were worse than mine.
She was sobbing into a dirty handkerchief while her loved one, a skinny man as pale as a slug’s underbelly and with about as many teeth, patted her fat pink fingers helplessly.

Ramsey entered the room a few minutes later, his hands and feet bound by shackles.
Overkill, I thought, since no one else in the room was attired in such a fashion.
Unless you counted the teenager in black leather and chains who was tongue kissing her biker boyfriend at the next table.