Pernicious (19 page)

         
Tasha groaned.

         
“How deep you think this water?” Bob asked.

         
“Let’s see.” He stuck a paddle into the water and it submerged to his wrist. “About three feet.”

         
Bob nodded at Tasha. “How tall was Willie?”

         
“Six feet, I’m guessing,” Tasha said.

         
“Warden,” Bob said, “can a person walk to the bank?”

         
“Don’t see why he couldn’t. It’s sandy and slick on the bottom, though I’m sure you can stand on it. You want me to demonstrate for ya?”

         
“That won’t be necessary, Warden. Now tell me, where was the boat?”

         
“About a few feet away from the body.”

         
“Anything about the boat that struck you as odd? The way it was turned over? Any holes in it? Anything that seemed out of place?”

         
Dill held up his hands. “Whoa, just hold on. You asking too many too fast.” He took off the Smokey and wiped sweat from his pate. “I don’t recall anything special ‘bout the boat, just a regular ten-foot MirroCraft.”

         
“How often does a person drown out here?” Tasha asked.

         
“Hmmm…let’s see…” He counted on his fingers. “I’d say couple or three every year, all depends if the fish are biting.”

         
Bob removed his Stetson and mimicked Dill’s sweat-wiping. “Care to conjecture with me, Warden?”

         
Looking sheepish, Dill said, “I’m game if you promise not to tell a soul.”

         
“What?”

         
Red-faced. “I may have misunderstood you.”

         
“Okay. Let’s say two people came out here at night in a boat and--”

         
“Hold up!” Dill interrupted. “Were they white or colored?”

         
Bob glanced at Tasha. “Colored.”

         
“Had to ask ’cause it makes a helluva difference.”

         
Bob looked at Tasha and shook his head. “Warden, what possible difference could that…Just stick with me here, okay? Let’s say one of them intentionally tips the boat over and swims or walks to the bank, leaving the other--”

         
“Why?” Dill interrupted again. “Why would someone do something so ornery? Huh? Was one of em stink-baiting with the other fellow’s wife?”

         
Bob did not respond.

         
“Now,” Dill went on, “if that was what was going on, I can see why an old boy would do something like that. The other old boy was scum, wasn’t he? Only a scum bucket would sneak around with his buddy’s old lady.

         
“Not only that he goes and jumps into his buddy’s boat if nothing’s going on. That’s maggot-belly low-down! Backstabbing’s one thing…backstabbing
and
jumping into a man’s boat! That’s just plain sorry. If you ask me, the old boy had it coming to him.”

         
Tasha buried her head between her knees and tried unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

         
An hour later, back on the highway, Bob vented his frustration: “What a jerk! Can you believe that guy? I should have charged him with unlawful discharge of a weapon.”

         
“Bob,” Tasha said, laughing, “the man is a fellow officer.”

         
“A fellow idiot. I tell you, Tash, it’s people like him who give law enforcement a bad name. What a waste of time.”

         
“Not exactly. What I’ve seen today I’m a hundred percent sure Willie Davis did not accidentally drown.”

         
Bob sighed. “I was hoping we’d get lucky back there. We need something concrete. What did you glean out of the mother?”

         
“She’s gone. The sheriff there said she, her husband and Keshana took off in the middle of night to parts unknown three years ago. And get this, Perry acquired a taste for easy money in her early teens. She latched on to this elderly, rich white guy with one leg in the casket and a foot in an oil slick. When he died she wiped him out.”

         
“Did he die of an accident, too?”

         
“The sheriff is convinced he died of natural causes.”

         
“Well, Tash, what do you want to do? We really don’t have much to go on here. If you want to shelf it till something concrete comes along, that’s fine with me.”

         
“Bob, please don’t start that again. She’s a cold-blooded murderer, Bob, she’s more than likely to kill again.”

         
“Whatever you want to do I’m with you. I gotta tell you, though, I’ve got a real bad feeling about this one.”

         
“Let’s at least bring her in for a heart-to-heart. Who knows, she might break under a little pressure.”

         
“I doubt it. I think we’re dealing with the unknown here. Look how cleverly she’s covered her tracks. I’ve never seen this level of extensive planning.”

         
“She didn’t plan for you and me tracking her trail, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to lock her butt up.”

         
“Okay. Let’s go see if the DA will buy it.”

                                     
* * * * *

         
The DA was George Baker, forty-something, blue eyes, blond hair, and God’s gift to women, or so he said. He greeted Tasha and Bob into his office with a warm smile.

         
“My favorite two detectives,” he said. “Come in and have a seat.”

         
His office, directly across the street from LRPD headquarters, was meticulously clean, with enough cherry oak furniture to keep a small town heated through a hard winter.

         
Tasha handed him the file folder with the report she and Bob had spent several hours typing and retyping.

         
George leaned back in his chair and started reading.
   
Tasha and Bob sat patiently, trying to discern his expression. Halfway through the file a worry line appeared on George’s brow. When he finished his forehead resembled a prune.

         
He dropped the file on his desk and studied the two detectives.

         
“Is this fuck-with-George day?” he said. “You know what really chafes my ass? Detectives come in here with bullshit and expect me to cosign it, and when I don’t, because it’s bullshit, behind my back they call me Chicken George because they believe their bullshit is prosecutable shit.”

         
Bob cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. We aren’t requesting you cosign it. We were just seeking a second opinion.”

         
“Bob,” George said, “a second opinion is usually sought after diagnosis of a medical condition, what I’ll have if I took this shit to court. No witness, no tangible evidence, and the alleged murders were officially ruled accidents.” He crossed his arms. “Tell me, is this fuck-with-George day? Is it?”

         
“What about a confession?” Tasha said.

         
George covered his face with one hand and squeezed his temples. A diamond-studded gold bracelet slid down his wrist. “Do you have that?” he asked. “I sure didn’t see it in your report.”

         
Tasha said, “We understand that we don’t have much to work with, sir. We were hoping you would point us in the right direction.”

         
George looked toward the door and smiled.

         
“Seriously,” Tasha said. “This woman has collected over a million dollars in life insurance. If we were dealing with one death here, we could easily write this off as a mishap. But sir, three husbands? Three! And each time one died she collected a big lump.” Shaking her head: “No way!”

         
“Detective,” George said, “that may all be true. For me to take this to court…” He paused, looking at the ceiling. “Have you interviewed this woman, what’s her name?”

         
“Perry Davis,” Bob said.

         
“Yes. Have you talked with her?”

         
Tasha and Bob exchanged glances. “Not yet,” Tasha said.

         
George stood up, crossed to the door and opened it. “Well, why don’t you guys do a little detective work and interview the suspect. Okay? Please. After doing so, y’all give me a call.”

         
In the hallway Bob said, “You ready?”

         
“To bring her in?” Tasha said.

         
“Yes.”

         
“I’m ready. How do you want to play it? I’m the heavy?”

         
“Let me play the heavy this time.”

         
“Okay. The mean, tobacco-chewing, heavyset redneck in her face and then she confides in me. A sister-to-sister thang, right?”

         
Bob sighed. “I sure hope so.”

         
“Let’s do it.”

                          
Chapter 8