Touch of Evil (19 page)

“Interesting way to put it, as an either-or choice,” she said. “Law enforcement or the hospital—nice way to set us at each other’s throats. Sort of takes the focus off your damned bridge, doesn’t it?”

A pet project of Major’s, the bridge across an arm of Bone Lake’s south end was something he’d promised to accomplish without raising taxes. He might have managed the feat, too, if not for the current economic downturn.

“That bridge will finally bring real development to the lakeshore. It’ll pay for itself in increased tax revenues in fifteen years. See if it doesn’t.”

“So tell the voters that in public hearings. Tell ’em the money picture’s changed and you’re going to have to raise taxes now to pave the way for prosperity later. You’re a trained trial lawyer. You can sell it.”

“I gave the taxpayers my word, so let’s say we go with Southern Humane Detentions, shall we? I believe they offer the more advantageous package.”

She’d figured this was coming—figured and planned for it. “And I believe I saw Erik Whatley’s Cadillac parked by your
house when I drove past yesterday. Which makes the third time I’ve seen it there this past week. Documented it, too—which makes me wonder what I’d come up with if I dug into
your
finances?”

A long pause followed…but Judge Major didn’t hang up. At length, he said, “You mess with me, I’ll bury you. I know enough to—”

“Here are my conditions,” she said. “I’ll cut the budget by precisely one-third of what you asked. And I’ll stay out of your business—
if
you take privatizing my jail off the table and you leave this county with a viable ER. Otherwise, I’ll be coming for you, and you can bet I know just where to look.”

“But you’ll be equally exposed—”

“Too bad a religious man like you doesn’t play poker,” she said. “Because if you did, you’d damned well know I never bluff.”

A few minutes later, Justine hung up, smiling. Justine, who had never played a hand of poker like her husband, but knew how to bluff just fine.

At the sound of a throat clearing, she looked up to see Larry Crane in the doorway, his face flushed and gleaming beneath a layer of perspiration. Her mood evaporating, she wondered, How long had he been there, and how much had he heard?

In his hand, he held a manila file folder, which he used to fan his sweating face. “Could I…could I speak to you, Sheriff?”

“You coming down with something?” she asked. “Because if you are, don’t come one step nearer.”

She was already working close to the edge of exhaustion. Getting sick now was definitely not an option.

As Larry closed the door, she noticed his hand shaking. “No sense taking chances on anyone overhearing,” he said.
“I’ve gotta ask you something, Sheriff. And I need a straight answer.”

Alarmed at what she heard in his voice, Justine surged to her feet, her height barely exceeding his in her heels. “What is it? What’s wrong?” For this wasn’t the awkward scapegoat the guys called Ichabod, but an entirely unfamiliar Larry Crane who stood before her.

“Who’s behind the money you took? Really behind it, I mean.”

Searing shame shot through her, with anger on its heels. Had he been eavesdropping? “What the hell would make you ask that now?” she demanded. After all, he hadn’t dared when the accusations first arose—none of the deputies had, for fear of losing their jobs, though she knew they’d talked among themselves about it plenty.

“Just tell me,” he demanded. “Otherwise, I’m done.”

A sigh slid loose. “I don’t know,” she said. “You can believe me or not; that’s up to you. When the money turned up in my accounts, I really did think it had something to do with one of Lou’s investments. Maybe a less-than-legitimate one, but I was in too much of a financial bind to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She knew she should have, had regretted the decision ever since. But there could be no changing it at this point.

“So you never heard Sheriff Wofford—the old Sheriff Wofford, I mean—mention this Sunrise Happy Doodle International?”

She snorted, a sound half disgust, half laughter. “Are you kidding? I’m pretty damned sure I would have remembered a name like that. But I don’t get it. Why dredge all this up right now?”
Did you just get your balls out of cold storage?

“Because I finally got the chance to go through Roger’s banking records.” Larry slapped down the file folder on the edge of her desk. “And you’ll never guess what I found.”

“Wire transfer records?” she guessed. “Deposits from the same offshore…”

She didn’t bother finishing but instead flipped open the file to find the highlighted information. Sure enough, she found a pair of deposits, twenty grand each, from the same offshore entity. “What the hell
is
this?”

“Good question,” said Larry, and in spite of his gawky physical appearance, he looked as sharply focused as any investigator she’d seen. “And whatever it is, I intend to find out.
Wherever
it leads me.”

She grimaced at his tone, though she respected the fair warning. “You be sure and do that, Deputy. And here, let me get you a card.” Pulling open her top desk drawer, she plucked out a card from Troy Macomb, the Texas Ranger who’d been doing his damnedest to bring her down. “Why don’t you call this fellow? Compare notes if you need to.”

Larry took the card, his hand still trembling and his expression abruptly turning sheepish. “I came here half expecting you would fire me. Like Savoy.”

She felt her brows climb. “You figure you’d end up shot, too, in my pasture?”

His eyes flared. “Of-of course not, Sheriff. N-no, I never thought about that.”

He sounded amazed, as if he’d suddenly realized his bravado might put him in greater danger than the risk of unemployment.

Justine dredged up a wry smile. “Calm down, why don’t you? Crisis is averted. Your job’s safer now than ever, and if I’m ever tempted to really off a deputy, I can think of several candidates ahead of your name on the list.”

Larry relaxed visibly, tension ebbing from his stance and voice. “You know, when I saw that same exact unexplained wire transfer on Savoy’s bank records, I got to wondering if you both might be dirty, and if the other guys were right, if I’ve been a fool to trust you. I might be a fool about a lot of
other things, but I’ve gotta tell you, I am damned glad believing in you wasn’t one of them.”

As he left her with a copy of the bank statements, Justine sat back in her chair and smiled, thinking that was probably the most reassuring thing she’d heard all week. Which didn’t mean that tempting fate by inviting her deputy to call the Ranger as she had would not come back to bite her in the ass.

If lying were a capital crime, the hangman would work overtime.

—Proverb

Saturday, October 24

Though Caleb LeJeune’s service was sparsely attended, to Ross’s surprise someone with taste and money had clearly organized it, judging from the rich wood of the casket, the fineness of the red-and-white flowers, and the quality of the memorial cards that had been printed. Either that or Caleb’s mother had been so shell-shocked by grief, she’d allowed the funeral director to talk her deeply into debt in order to send off her son in style.

But Ross, who’d come in Laney’s place to represent the family, didn’t believe it. No one in his right mind, especially the third-generation owner of the Peaceful Slumber Funeral Home, would extend credit to a woman surviving on disability on Tanager Trail, much less one raising three grandchildren on her own.

After the minister wound down, Ross waited for a few T-shirt-and-jeans-clad mourners to speak to the family. Among them, he spotted familiar faces: from a stringy-haired young woman he’d seen after her common-law husband had blackened both of her eyes to an unshaven, middle-aged man who had sawed off two of his own fingers last year using power tools while drunk.

The fact that both were neighbors, Ross decided, didn’t
bode well for the chances of Caleb LeJeune’s three beautiful, blond children. The older of the two girls—Ross thought she looked about ten—already wore the sullen, streetwise look of a runaway in the making, and every one of them, down to the littlest, a preschool-age boy, had been dressed in clothing too threadbare and ill fitting for school, much less their father’s funeral. But it was clean, at least, as were their faces; their grandmother was trying.

As the neighbors straggled out, Ross walked toward the thickset woman standing with the children near the casket. Dee’s dark blue dress fit poorly, and her fried yellow hair had two inches of gray at the roots. Ross introduced himself while, beside the woman, the little boy kicked at his sister, the red sole of his torn sneaker flapping like a tongue.

Ross decided on the spot to set up a fund to benefit the family. He was well aware who had money in this county, and he knew how to approach them for anonymous donations. Heaven only knew he’d given enough to their pet causes, both personally and through the Chester R. Bollinger Foundation, to cash in a few chips.

From the corner of his eye, Ross noticed a mourner he hadn’t spotted earlier. A trim man with a shaved head and a dark soul patch beneath his lower lip, he had been sitting near the back. Other than Ross and the funeral director, the stranger was the only male present in a suit. Unless Caleb, inside his closed casket, was better dressed in death than Ross had ever seen him living. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he told Caleb’s mother.

“Thank you,” Dee LeJeune said, her puffy eyes glazed behind thick glasses.

“Laney sends her regrets she couldn’t be here. She asked me to tell you.”

A shadow passed over a face already bruised by grief. “I-I heard about that poor girl. How is she?”

Ross wondered how Dee might have heard, since the
names of sexual-assault victims were withheld from the press. But in a town the size of Dogwood, there were far more efficient avenues of information, the kind that neither privacy laws nor common decency could muzzle.

“She’s resting comfortably,” he answered, though there was nothing either comfortable or restful about Laney’s state of mind. Sore, tearful, and unable to be left alone, she was “incarcerated,” as she put it, at Trudy’s house, where she’d been by turns depressed, furious, terrified, and resentful. Ross didn’t envy Trudy the task of dealing with her, especially with two toddlers in the house.

“My Caleb adored Laney. Does she…does she know who the sorry son of a…” Dee cut a look down at the children. Obviously bored by the adults’ conversation, the boy was practicing more ninja kicks, while the girls, keeping a safe distance, scuffed their feet and plucked the petals off a floral arrangement Ross had sent in his cousin’s name. “Did she tell who did it?”

Ross shook his head. “Not yet.” And probably not ever, since the toxicology report on her blood sample had indeed indicated the presence of scopolamine.

Not that that explained all the questions Laney couldn’t answer. Or
would
not.

“Do you think…” Dee whispered. “Do you think he was the same one that…you know?” She jerked her chin toward her son’s flower-covered casket.

“That’s a question for the sheriff, I think,” Ross said.

“That woman don’t tell me anything. All I know’s the cause of death’s still ‘undetermined.’ As if anybody with good sense could believe my boy would…would’ve…” Face reddening, Dee dabbed at her eyes with a fistful of wadded tissue. “Not with these three to look after. No, sir, he would never do it. He swore it to me, after the first two…”

The corpulent, dark-suited funeral director appeared as if by magic and offered her fresh Kleenex, then discreetly col
lected her trash. Considering the man’s size—Ross placed him at around three-fifty—he moved quietly, with a practiced dignity that did his family’s reputation proud.

But subtle as it was, Ross used the interruption and the arrival of several men he thought might be musicians to politely extricate himself. As he turned to leave, he spotted the older of the LeJeune girls dipping her head, her face flushing and her gaze cutting toward the back of the room.

Ross looked to see Justine standing beside the exit, her gaze sharp as she studied the family and remaining mourners. Though she wore a black suit rather than her uniform, the expression on her face left no doubt she was here in her official capacity.

She nodded, acknowledging his approach, and for a moment he feared she wouldn’t speak to him in public.

Instead, she shared a strained smile. “I’ve seen all I need to. Want to get some air?”

He felt an absurd rush of gratitude, and he wondered if she’d thought about the things he’d told her in the wake of their lovemaking. If she was making a first effort to step into the light.

He followed her into the lobby area. “Caleb’s little girl…she looked upset to see you.”

Justine gave a tight-lipped nod and whispered, “Outside.”

They walked out beneath a portico, with its classic colonnades gleaming white in the bright sunshine. The chill of two nights earlier had dissipated, giving way to a sparkling autumn afternoon with temperatures in the low seventies. Surrounding the funeral home, pines and a towering magnolia tree stood motionless, their greenery soaking in the sun.

“Her grandma brought her to my office yesterday, told me I had every right to throw her in the lockup; she wouldn’t stand in my way. Poor kid was scared spitless. Thought for sure she’d end up in juvie.”

Ross shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Dee finally got the littler ones to tell her that Tara, the oldest, was responsible for that sudden headache I came down with last Monday. The deputies investigating suspected they knew something, but those kids clammed up something fierce.”

“You’re kidding. A
little girl
hit you? She…she could’ve killed you.”

“I expect she meant to at that moment. She’s one seriously angry kid. As far as she knows, law enforcement has brought nothing but misery to her family. And that day, I’m pretty sure she hung back and listened to me tell her grandmother about her father.”

“My God.” Ross had seen some tough stories come out of Tanager Trail, but because of the child’s age, this one seemed particularly wrenching. “So what are you going to do with her? Obviously she’s not in custody.”

Justine shook her head. “That kid needs counseling, not juvie, and she needs her family if she’s going to get things turned around. I’m getting her—all of ’em—hooked up with some free sessions, and Dee’s signed an agreement to take them to avoid getting Children’s Protective Services involved.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t be as understanding.” Ross, however, wasn’t surprised by her compassion, not after seeing the way she dealt with Noah.

“Kids…” She shrugged. “Who doesn’t have a soft spot? Fortunately, mine isn’t my skull, and I have half-decent health insurance.”

From the magnolia tree, a bird trilled, drawing their attention.

“Gorgeous day,” Ross said, noticing how the light exposed dark circles beneath Justine’s eyes. Probably working around the clock, he thought.

“Wasted on a freaking funeral. I hate the things.”

He nodded. “Once a person’s buried a spouse, these services’re like a knife jabbed in an old wound.”

She grimaced but said nothing, reminding him that her loss was still less than a year old. In time, she might be ready to move past it. But for the moment, he shouldn’t blame her for not wanting to expose herself again to such pain. Five years after Anne’s death, he was only beginning to believe that any relationship might be worth the risk.

No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t believe it of just
any
relationship. But for a real relationship, with Justine, he’d put his heart on the line, despite her baggage.

“Roger’s funeral’s Monday,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure his wife won’t let me anywhere near it.”

“His wife blames you?” Ross guessed.

Justine nodded. “And she’s telling anyone who’ll listen. Which included the DA, who came to collect my gun so he could have it independently tested for ballistics. To which I could only say, ‘What gun, Herb? It
just so happens
that somebody jumped me and stole it night before last.’”

Ross winced. “Are you in trouble, Justine?”

To his surprise, she smiled and waved away the question. “Always. But don’t worry. I’m wading through it, same as ever. How is Laney?”

“She won’t see anyone, and she’s giving her sister Trudy hell.”

“Understandable,” Justine said. “If Laney
weren’t
upset, I’d be suspicious.”

Ross frowned down at Justine. “
Are
you? After everything that’s happened? And what’s going on with the investigation?”

She blew out a long exhalation. “Let’s just say we’re progressing, interviewing registered sex offenders in the area, trying to get a bead on whether any of them have been hanging
out at Hammett’s or the Tin Roof or showing a special interest in your cousin.”

“What about Fleming?” Ross asked. “He called in sick last night. And I heard you took him down to the station Thursday night, or Friday morning, I guess it would be.”

“Who told you that?”

“It was all around the hospital.” Ross decided to keep Debbie Brown’s name out of it. Debbie Brown, who was still watching him intently. Watching and waiting for the chance to suggest herself as a healthier alternative to Justine, he imagined.

Justine pressed her lips together, and for a moment, Ross thought she would explain what was going on. Instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry; I really can’t go into detail. All I can tell you is that we’re casting our net widely, so please don’t stop by Kenneth’s house and deck him.”

“I’m not going to hit Kenneth.” Ross flashed on an image of himself popping the Pillsbury Doughboy in the stomach. “But if he does turn out to be involved, I’d have no trouble dragging his flabby white ass to jail.”

Ross imagined a weakling like Fleming would quickly gain an all-new perspective on rape, once he was sent to the state prison.

“I’ll need to talk to Laney again,” Justine said. “Can you speak to her about it? Ever since our interview at the hospital before her release, she’s been putting me off.”

“She says she’s already told you everything she can remember.”

Justine’s expression went opaque. Ross was guessing she was thinking of his cousin’s claim that she had no memory of speaking by phone to Roger Savoy, nor of seeing him the night of his death. If Laney was to be believed, she remembered nothing after climbing into her car, a car that remained missing, to leave her mother’s house the afternoon she’d vanished.

Not even Ross was sure he bought that. “I want to be there when you two talk,” he said, then fudged the truth by adding, “Laney wants me there, too.”

Justine said only, “Your cousin Trudy’s not helping one bit, either, making Laney’s excuses and asking why we have to put her through this when she can’t recall. The thing is, the answer’s probably somewhere in the stuff Laney
can
remember, if we can only tease it out and recognize it.”

“Like your Book of Questions, right?”

Justine nodded. “You keep studying it hard enough and you get to jot some verifiable data in your Book of Known Facts. You mess up, though, make faulty assumptions or buy into someone’s deceit, it ends up working out bass-ackwards.”

“I’ll speak to Laney. Trudy, too,” he promised. “And I’ll bring Laney to your office tomorrow—oh, but tomorrow’s Sunday. Will you be on duty?”

“Just call my cell and let me know when and where you’d like to meet, and I’ll be there. And thanks, Ross.” Her gaze connected with his, lingered. He might have imagined that it softened.

“How are you, Justine?” he asked, though he really meant,
How
are we?

From the look of her, she understood the unspoken question. “I don’t know, Ross. But I did get one piece of good news. The Texas Rangers have closed their corruption investigation. Hard as they worked it, they couldn’t nail down where the money came from and didn’t have sufficient evidence of intent to go for an indictment.”

“So
was
there? Intent, I mean,” he asked quietly, hating to pry but needing to know…and praying that this time, Justine would give an honest answer. An answer he could live with.

She shook her head, her expression pained. “If they’d been looking for evidence of idiocy, they could’ve found plenty. In
those first months after Lou died, I barely knew what was going on around me. I certainly didn’t have the mental where-withal to think about the ethical and legal implications of using the unexpected money that showed up in Lou’s account.”

Ross felt a weight lift. “That’s not idiocy, Justine. That’s grief. I made some piss-poor decisions of my own in that first year. Did a few things I’m not proud of.”