Pernicious (15 page)

         
“Do I get to carry a gun?”
No!

         
Didn’t much happen, crime-wise. “Tasha, when does the drama start?”

         
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the majority of time she sat around waiting for something to happen. Neal had expected drama. So she drove to the quarry out by Sweet Home, miles outside of her jurisdiction, and parked between two dump trucks.

         
“You want drama, Neal?”

         
“There’s nothing here but gravel.”

         
She kissed him. “TLC drama, Neal.”

         
How long were they there? An hour? Two? Their first time, though she hadn’t planned to go that far, in the backseat of a cruiser. He took his time, kissing, talking, caressing; none of that tap-zap-nap crap he fell into a habit of doing after they were married.

         
What went wrong? How could two people madly in love, just head over heels with each other, go so miserably wrong? Was it simply because he wouldn’t work?
Maybe, maybe not.
 

         
Was it me?

         
A little bit, she guessed. If she hadn’t believed all the things he’d promised; if she hadn’t expected so much from him. Neal wasn’t working when they first met, a clue to his future work habits.

         
Neal sincerely believed he would one day wake up rich.

“I’ll be a millionaire soon, Tasha. You’ll never have to work again.”

         
“I don’t mind working.”
       

         
“You’ll have a choice. Work or don’t, it’ll be up to you.”

         
Some choice. If she hadn’t worked they would have starved.

         
I still love him. I can’t deny that. The man has his faults, but I still love him.

         
What if she tried marriage again, one more go at it? After all, the man practically lived with her. The only difference between now and then, she could tell him to leave.
       
Tasha well knew that the current situation was not fair to Neal…
and Derrick
. And what would Derrick think when he grows up? You can divorce anytime and still live together.

         
So why did she divorce him?

         
Because he got on my nerves!
And if I remarry him, he’ll probably get on my nerves again, and a few months down the road I’ll be mad at the world, wondering why I remarried Neal Montgomery. Yes, but I’m mad at the world now. I’m just not
sure who to blame it on.

         
A song playing on the radio caught her attention. She turned the volume up. Tina Turner’s melodic alto voice vibrated the dash.

         
I wish it was true, Tina. Love has everything to with it. Everything.

         
She read a road sign: Dawson, Arkansas. Pop. 5,756. A smaller sign, several feet beyond, read: Home of Alan Druckinmiller.
Who’s he?
She’d never heard of him.

         
She stopped at a mom-and-pop grocery store, bought a Coke, went to a pay phone and called the Dawson County Police. The phone rang and rang.

         
Finally a voice said, “Hello, Dawson County Police.”

         
“Yes, I’m Detective Tasha Montgomery, Little Rock Police. With whom am I speaking?”

         
“Sheriff Ennis Bledsoe at your service. What can I do for you, Detective Montgomery?”

         
“Yes, I’m here in Dawson to--”

         
“You’re in Dawson right now?”

         
“Yes.”

         
“Which way did you come in?”

         
Does it matter?
“Sheriff Bledsoe, I’m--”

         
“You can call me Sheriff, Detective. That’s what most people call me.”

         
“Okay. Sheriff, I’m here to speak to a Doreen Robinson. I’m letting you--”

         
“About what?”

         
Tasha rested the receiver on her shoulder and sighed.

         
The LRPD honored a courtesy policy: consult with the local authorities before traipsing inside their jurisdiction.

         
Yet she didn’t want to spend two minutes chatting with this yahoo about the rising price of Angus beef.

         
She replaced the receiver. “Sheriff Bledsoe, I’m simply informing you of my intentions.”

         
“You’ll need backup.”

         
“No, not necessary. I’ll talk to Doreen Robinson and head back to Little Rock.”

         
“Where are you now, Detective?”

         
“I’m not sure.” She read the sign atop the store. “Duncan’s Grocery.”

         
“You just stay right there and I’ll come get you. I’ll show you our new jailhouse. We just had it remodeled. I’ll make you coffee and we can talk.”

         
“Thanks, Sheriff, but no thanks. I’m sorry I gotta go.”
        
Inside the car she realized that she hadn’t gotten any directions.
Craps!
She reached for her cell phone in the passenger seat.

         
“No, I’m not calling him again. Can’t be too hard to find.”

         
Two hours later, after riding down miles of dirt road, she found the street she was searching: Harkrinder.
 
“Bingo!”

         
Tasha drove slowly down the cratered road and stopped at 564 Harkrinder, a quaint single-story frame house. The front lawn needed mowing, knee-high grass and waist-high wild sunflowers.

         
Tasha got out and crossed to the front door. It was ajar. “Hello!” She pushed it open. “Hello!” Her voice carried throughout the house.
Empty.

         
She started to step in when a voice behind her shouted, “Hey, you! What you doing in them people’s house!”

         
Tasha jumped and whirled around.

         
He was a big man. Basketball tall. Heavyset. Dark-skinned. A well-cropped mini-afro.

         
“You enjoy sneaking up on people?” Tasha said, not masking her displeasure.

         
He grinned, pearl-white teeth. Broad nose, bags under sleepy-looking eyes and a wrinkled forehead, he projected an air of congeniality.

         
“I scared you, didn’t I?” he said.

         
“You didn’t scare me,” Tasha lied.

         
He laughed. “Girl, you almost jumped out your snake skins.”

         
“Excuse me! I’m thirty-three years old!”

         
“Whoa up, Detective. Don’t get your feathers ruffled.” He held out his hand. Tasha ignored it. “I’m Sheriff Ennis Bledsoe.”

         
“Sheriff Bledsoe, why didn’t you tell me on the phone Doreen Robinson had moved?”

         
“You didn’t give me a chance. I offered to come get you and you hung up in my face. I bet you’ve been riding around for hours looking for this house.”

         
“How long?”

         
“How long what?”

         
“Since Doreen Robinson moved?”

         
“You want to go back to the station with me? It’s hot out here. We could talk there, soak up air conditioning. I’ll make you a cup of my best coffee.”

         
Tasha shook her head. “How long?”

         
“Hmmm…about three years ago, give or take a few months.”

         
“She leave a forwarding address?”

         
“No. Mrs. Joyner there,” nodding at the adjacent house, “told me they left in the middle of night. She came over and asked Doreen where they were going. Doreen didn’t say. They’ve been friends for years, it’s strange Doreen didn’t tell her.”

         
“
They?--
who all are you referring to?”

         
“Doreen, Burt, her husband, and their granddaughter, Keshana.”

         
“They just up and took off, just like that?”

         
“Sure did. Say, look, why don’t you come down to the station. We just had the place remodeled and I’d like to show it off to somebody. Come on, what you say? Mosquitoes will start biting soon.”

         
“No thanks, Sheriff. I haven’t much time.”

         
“I know you didn’t drive this far to look at an empty house. When you get back to Little Rock, don’t say we weren’t friendly to you.”

         
Tasha crossed to her car and got in. “Thanks, Sheriff. Maybe next time.” She started the engine.

         
“Too bad you’re in such a hurry. I wanted to tell you what I know about Doreen’s daughter. Perry.”

         
Tasha turned off the engine. “What did you say?”

         
“You heard me,” walking back to his cruiser. “Guess I’ll see you next time.”

         
“Did you say you made the best coffee in Dawson?”

         
He turned, grinning broadly. “Follow me.”

         
Sheriff Bledsoe showed Tasha around the Dawson County jail and the Dawson County police station. She was not impressed. The jail, though recently remodeled, looked the average run-of-the-mill, two-celled county jail with a fresh coat of gray paint. The police station, circa 1800’s, was equally unimpressive. One main room, approximately the size of her living room, an interrogation room and two small offices.

         
“What you think?” he said after the tour.

         
“Impressive,” Tasha said. “Very impressive.”

         
He went over to a homemade cabinet and plugged in a coffee machine. “I’ll make you a pot of the world’s greatest coffee.”

         
She didn’t often drink coffee; it made her jittery.

         
“I prefer mine black,” he said, watching the coffee drip. “How ‘bout you?”

         
“You are talking coffee, right?”

         
He chuckled. “You do have a light sense of humor. That’s a good thing for a burglary detective.”

         
“And you’re slick,” Tasha said. “You know I didn’t say anything about being a burglary detective.”