Out Of Time (20 page)

“I’m in jail,” she said in a flat voice.

“Yes,” Robert agreed. “You’re in jail. And you’ve had some visitors. Police officers. Do you remember? It was around Christmastime.”

“You mean George?” she asked. “He came to see me. I was surprised. I thought he hated me. I thought he was sure I killed Roy.”

“When did he come to see you?” Robert asked.

“Right after New Year’s,” Gail said. “But George wasn’t mad. He was sad. He said he would help me. But he was just talking. After that, I never heard from him again.” She was silent for a moment. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“What’s George’s last name?” Robert asked.

“The same as a president,” Gail explained dreamily. “George Washington. And then something else. I can’t…” Her voice tra CHer”Thiled off and she looked perplexed.

Robert read my notes. “Is it Carter?” he asked. “George Washington Carter?”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s George.”

“Did someone named Pete come to visit you?” Robert asked. “What was his last name?”

Gail shook her head. “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Roy never liked him much. I never knew his last name. Just Pete.”

“When did he come?” Robert asked. “What did he want?”

Gail’s voice hardened. “He came after George. I don’t know what he wanted.”

“You’re back at that day now,” Robert said. “What is he asking?”

“He wants to know if George came to see me. He’s asking me about Roy now, about what Roy said the night he died. Why does he want to know that? He was there. What does it matter now?” She was quiet, as if listening to someone else. “He’s trying to be nice, but I’m not sure if…” She sat up straighter. “Why is he being so nice? I don’t even know him. I’m going to sit here until he leaves.”

She sat perfectly still as the clock on the wall ticked away seconds.

“Is he gone?” Robert asked.

“He’s gone,” Gail said.

“What about Steve?” Robert asked, peering down at my notes. “Did someone named Steve come to visit you?”

Gail stiffened. “Yes,” she whispered. “A few days after Pete. He says he’s sorry about what happened to Roy. He says they worked together and had been good friends. I think he’s a liar. Roy never mentioned him to me.” Her voice grew sad. “He says he forgives me. He acts like he thinks I killed Roy. But he says he forgives me anyway. I don’t want his forgiveness. There’s nothing to forgive.” Another silence passed and when Gail spoke again, she sounded incredulous. “He’s trying to flirt with me.” Her voice grew angry. “I’m going to die, and he tries to flirt with me? I tell him to leave. That I don’t want his forgiveness.” Gail was quiet, watching and listening. “He won’t leave. He wants to talk to me about something,” she explained.

I scribbled a note on the pad. “What does he want to talk to you about?” Robert asked.

“He says he wants to buy the fishing cabin fr Chineight=“om me.” Gail sounded perplexed. “The fishing cabin? What difference does that make? What do I care about the cabin? It’s not mine anyway. It never was. It belongs to Roy’s stepfather. Roy lied to me about it. He said his parents bought it for us as a wedding present, but that wasn’t true. I found out at the trial that his parents were only paying the mortgage until we could take over. We never had enough money to do that. But I’m not telling him. It’s none of his business.” Her voice trembled with rage. “This jerk is trying to get me to sell him the cabin cheap. I think that’s why he came to see me. I can’t believe it. He didn’t care about Roy. He just wants a bargain. I tell him to go away again. But then he wants to know if George and Pete have come to visit and what they said. I won’t talk to him anymore. Not for a minute. I make him leave. I call the guard and make him leave.”

Gail’s face had grown red and Robert was looking uncomfortable. I quickly pointed to my last question before they both bailed on me.

“What was his last name?” Roy asked. “Who is Steve?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” Gail said angrily. “I think he was working for the prosecutors. He wasn’t Roy’s friend. He was lying. Why did I talk to him at all? I’m so stupid. I’m always so stupid about things like that.”

Her voice swelled with anger and Robert looked alarmed. I shrugged. There was nothing more I could learn anyway.

When he brought Gail out of her trance, she looked at us apprehensively. “Let’s do it,” she said.

“We already did,” Robert told her.

She stared at him, face doubtful. “We did?” she asked.

He nodded. “Take your time. What do you remember?”

She thought back. “I guess I remember talking to you,” she said. “I remember being mad. I remember being here but at the same time it felt like I wasn’t here.” She looked at me. “Did you get anything that might help?”

“Maybe,” I told her. “I’m going to try.”

I could have added that she shouldn’t get her hopes up, but I didn’t need to. Gail was not the kind of person who indulged in hope.

“Listen,” I told her, trying once more to keep my promise to her little girl. “Your daughter wants to see you. I think she’s old enough to handle it. Can’t you give her that choice?”

“No,” Gail said, crossing her arms. “I haven’t been much of a mother to h Ca m>He nodder, but I know one thing: little girls shouldn’t see their mothers on death row. So don’t bring her here.” She glared at me. “And don’t you ever let anyone else bring her here without my permission. I’ll come back and haunt you after I die if you do.”

“Whoa,” I said quickly as we rose to go. “I have no intention of bringing her here without your permission. Get a message to me if you think of anything else.” We headed for the door. I was ready to get out of there. The whole thing had been creepy. And god almighty—come back to haunt me after she dies? Honeycutt women are scary enough alive.

“That was weird,” Gail said to no one in particular as we were leaving. “Kind of like too many tranquilizers.”

By the time I dropped Robert off and returned home to Durham, I was ready for some good news. I didn’t get it.

There was a message from Bobby D.‘s court reporter contact to call her back at home that evening. When I reached her, she sounded glum.

“I didn’t find anything,” she admitted. “Bobby’s going to be disappointed. I hate to let Big Daddy down.”

Bobby would be disappointed? What about me? “Are you sure?” I asked. “Did you check all of Tillman’s cases?”

“I checked all of the Wake cases in the last fifteen years,” she said. “Not just Tillman’s. I ran a search for any cases involving Durham police officers and, except for Roy Taylor, there’s not much there.”

“I was so sure it was something,” I said, disappointed.

“Have you tried searching the Durham County files?” the woman suggested helpfully.

“But Tillman was a Wake County judge,” I said.

“It’s policy to rotate judges to the next county every few years for at least six months,” she explained. “That way no one gets too cozy or sure of what cases he’s going to get.”

“You’re kidding?” I said. “Tillman presided over cases in Durham County?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Maybe your answer is there.”

Maybe indeed. And now I had more than a vague bunch of Durham police officers to go with. If I could get into the Durham County court computer system, I’d run a search for any Tillman cases involving Durham officers named George Washington Carter, Pete or Steve. Better yet, first I’d search the department Che there.”<‘s roster for possible last names. I knew someone who could help.

Despite my aching body—or maybe because of it—I needed a drink. I called Jack at home, but no one picked up. I took a chance and drove out to MacLaine’s. It was empty and a bored-looking Jack was on duty.

“I thought it was your night off,” I said.

“Nothing else to do,” Jack explained. “And Timmy wanted off.”

“Did you hear anything yet on that thing I asked you about?” I whispered.

Jack dropped his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “You mean any drug or corruption scandals involving Roy Taylor or any other Durham police officer? Not a word.”

“Sorry,” I said in a normal voice. “I’m a little paranoid right now. For good reason.”

He peered at my face, seeing what I had tried to conceal with makeup. “No wonder. What the hell happened to you?”

I told him the story of my car chase while he bought me a drink.

“This is not good news, Casey. You’re taking a beating on this case.”

“I know,” I admitted. “Now I’m looking over my shoulder every time I go anywhere. You think it’s that crazy ex-bartender?”

“Could be Tony.” He thought about it. “Want me to ask around?”

“Please. And I have one more favor.”

“Name it.” He spread his arms across the bar, a hopeful leer on his face.

“Down boy,” I told him. “I hurt too much to sneeze, much less do the horizontal hokey-pokey.”

“No sweat,” he said. “I just like leering at you. You’re one of the few women who can appreciate it.”

I took it as a compliment. “Do you know the bartender out at the Lone Wolf?” I asked. “It’s a cop bar off 1-85 near the Starlite Drive-in.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “He owns the place. Used to be a cop himself, but he liked to be on the other side of the bar a little too much for purposes of public safety. He got out and bough Coutxt”t the bar about ten years ago. Usually works it himself, has a little help on busy nights and weekends. You need to talk to him?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Can you set it up?”

“Sure. We’ve had a couple drinks after hours a few times. You know, that ‘bartenders hang out after work to bond’ kind of thing.”

“Thanks.” I sipped my drink. “God, my body aches. I feel like I just flunked out of the rodeo.”

“I could close up early and take you home for a foot massage.”

I considered the offer. “The bottoms of my feet may be the only parts of my body that don’t ache.”

“Okay, then,” Jack said. “It’s decided. I’ll get you slightly drunk, then you can crawl in bed and lie back. I’ll oil and caress your tootsies.”

“You’re a saint,” I told him. “I mean it.”

“Hey,” he said, “That’s what friends are for.”

When I need to burrow inside the bowels of the Durham Police Department, I head—where else?—to the men’s room on the third floor to wait for my pal Marcus Dupree to show up. It’s never a very long wait. Marcus has a thing for men’s rooms. Several things, in fact. For one, his effeminate mannerisms make Liberace seem butch. The bathroom may be the only place in downtown Durham where he can be himself without fear of encountering raised eyebrows. Second, Marcus is a male typist surrounded by underpaid women and humorless policemen. That makes him a stranger in a very strange land. I think he feels safest alone in a stall with four wooden walls around him. Finally, Marcus is a chain-smoker—he prefers Virginia Slims—and not even North Carolina allows smoking inside public offices these days. Rather than lurking outside the front door where he’d suffer verbal abuse from the lowlifes being dragged in for questioning, Marcus prefers to sneak his smokes in the privacy of the urinal.

Of course, it’s not so private when I’m around.

“Lord give me strength, Miss Casey,” Marcus scolded me. “Do you have to sneak up behind a person like that? You like to give me a heart attack.”

“Don’t worry. If I don’t, those will.” I nodded toward his cigarette.

< Fhe th headfont color=“windowtext”>He fanned the air guiltily, his long fingers caressing the smoke. “Now you know I cannot survive a minute with those people out there unless I have my nicotine. Girl, they make me so nervous. If it’s not all those perps staring at me and licking their lips, it’s the new recruits making the same old jokes or those heifers in the typing pool jealously eyeing my wardrobe. It’s not my fault I’m slimmer and prettier. What we need around here is a weight-control program. Those floors are going to give out soon if they don’t encourage a little lunchtime restraint.”

“Now, Marcus,” I told him. “We can’t all have your metabolism.”

“That’s so.” His face brightened. “There is only one me.”

Truer words were never spoken. Marcus was an original. He came from one of those southern families—and there were many—that didn’t blink an eye when one of their own emerged from the womb as a flamer. He’d grown up sitting with the women at family functions, cooking pound cake with the best of them, ironing lace doilies, bleaching curtains, learning the art of southern hostessing and generally being left alone to be whoever the hell he wanted to be.

Rather than going to church each Sunday and praying for his homosexual soul, Marcus had a mama and a whole passel of sisters who attended services solely to thank the Lord for sending them a wonderful provider. And well they should have prayed: Marcus was the oldest of ten children and the man in the house. He’d already sent two little sisters and a brother to the University of North Carolina, then bankrolled two more siblings through technical school. He was only a typist, but he was going to make damn sure that the rest of the Dupree family tree took root in richer soil. I hoped Marcus was treasured by someone. I know I would have snapped him up in a heartbeat, if not for the fact that we definitely played on opposite teams.