Wake the Devil (25 page)

A
charcoal gray Mercedes with incongruous chrome wheels pulled up to the Central City Park and stopped behind Beth’s unmarked cruiser. A large black man weighing close to three hundred pounds exited the backseat. He spotted Beth standing by the fountain and began walking toward her but stopped and looked up at the park’s only statue, a bronze sculpture of a woman with arms above her head. She was holding a strange looking bird by its legs. The bird’s wings were fully extended, suggesting it was about to take flight. Frowning, Ramone stared at the sculpture. Beth joined him.

“Why that woman holding a goose?” Ramone asked.

“That’s not a goose,” Beth said.

“It’s not?”

“It’s a phoenix. A bird from mythology.”

“Mythology?”

“That’s right.”

“Them Greek stories?”

“Originally.”

Ramone frowned and looked back at the bird. “Mythology mean it don’t exist, right?”

“I suppose so,” Beth said.

“Then how they know what it look like if it don’t exist?” Ramone asked.

Beth shrugged. “I guess the sculptor used his imagination.”

“Yeah?”

“When the phoenix dies, its body burns up, then it rises from its own ashes.”

Ramone looked at Beth not understanding.

“The phoenix is Atlanta’s symbol,” she explained.

“A bird?”

“A city rising from ruin after the Civil War. General Sherman burnt Atlanta to the ground and we came back again.”

Ramone turned back to the bronze work and commented, “Musta cost a lot.”

“All the drug dealers in town chipped in,” Beth said.

“For real?”

“No, I made that up.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “You pretty funny. You lookin’ for Squeaky, right?”

“Leonard Walpole.”

“One and the same. I haven’t seen him in a few days. He come into a little money and got himself some new clothes and a computer. Looked like the man’s doin’ okay now.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Cross the street from the Clairmont.”

“That hotel on Ponce de Leon?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You just ran into him?”

Ramone avoided answering her question directly, but suggested his meeting with Lenny might have involved a business transaction. She decided not to press for details and asked if Walpole was staying at the Clairmont.

“Could be. I don’t run credit checks on my clients. It’s pretty much a cash business.”

“You do a lot of business with him?”

“Lenny been a steady customer over the years. It’s a shame, ’cause he come from a good family up in Dunwoody. At one time, he was gonna be a lawyer.”

The surprise must have shown on Beth’s face.

Ramone shrugged. “Shit happens.”

“That’s what you call it?”

“I try not to make moral judgments.”

Beth’s eyes met his. Ramone’s ghetto-speak had dropped away with the last statement, leading her to conclude he might not be as clueless as he appeared. She asked if Walpole was alone.

“Appeared to be. He . . .”

Ramone held the rest of his comment as a passing police cruiser slowed and flicked its siren once, indicating they wanted the driver to move his car.

“We appear to be impeding traffic,” Ramone said.

“Half the fun of being a cop,” Beth said. She showed her badge and motioned for the cops to move on.

“Lenny mentioned something about getting into a methadone clinic. Tell you the truth, I might lose a customer, but I wouldn’t mind seeing that. Hope this helps.”

“It does,” Beth said. “Have a nice day.”

They separated and started for their respective vehicles. Beth had nearly reached hers when Ramone asked, “Think I should lose some weight?”

Beth smiled. “You’re perfect as is.”

“That’s what I think.”

*

Beth had never been in the Clairmont Hotel and would have been just as happy to have kept it that way. As soon as she entered the lobby, she became conscious of an odor that fell somewhere between sour and stale. She approached the desk clerk and asked which room Leonard Walpole was in.

“Number 635. Your partner already went up.”

“My partner? How long ago was that?”

“Maybe two minutes,” the clerk said, pointing to the elevator.

Her first thought was that he was referring to Jack or Dan Pappas. Jack had a habit of developing strategy on the fly. But if he was operating on his own again without telling her, they were in for a fight. She had no way of knowing at the moment. Nor could she call. If one of them had tracked Leonard Walpole down, the last thing they needed was a cellphone going off at the wrong time.

She took the elevator up to the seventh floor, then used the stairs to come back down and nearly collided with Special Agent Todd
Milner. He was as startled to see her as she was to see him. Milner put a finger to his lips and pointed to the stairwell.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he whispered.

“Likewise.”

“I was just about to call for backup. Walpole’s inside. At least I think he is.”

Beth nodded. “How’d you figure out he’s here?”

Milner explained that he’d spoken with the ATF agent who initially picked up Walpole and Shackelford and was curious to see where they’d go after being released. Once Walpole checked out of the Salvation Army shelter, he followed him. His supervisor decided it was a dry hole and told him to drop the surveillance. “I think there’s more to this guy,” Milner said.

“We can discuss that later,” Beth said. “How do you want to handle it?”

“There’s two of us. I say we brace him.”

“Let’s go.”

They moved into the hallway and went to opposite sides of the door. Inside the room, music was playing. Milner’s knock was loud enough to wake the dead. The music stopped. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Walpole. We need to speak with you.”

A moment later, a nervous Leonard Walpole cracked the door open and peeked out. Beth and Milner showed him their badges.

Milner asked, “Are you alone, sir?”

“Ye . . . yes.”

“Would you mind if we come in for a moment? We have a few follow-up questions.”

“But I already spoke with you people. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Of course not. We won’t take up much of your time,” Milner said.

“Are you arresting me?”

“No, sir. Not at the moment,” Milner said, leaving open the possibility that might change. “We just have a couple of questions.”

“I know my rights,” Lenny said.

“Sure you do,” Beth said. “And we know ours. We can talk here or you can take a ride with us. We’re hoping you’ll cooperate, that is if you have nothing to hide.”

“I don’t,” Lenny said, opening the door. “See? No one’s here but me.”

Milner took that as an invitation and stepped past him. Beth followed him in. The little man tried to act indignant but couldn’t pull it off. “What is it you want?”

“Just to talk,” Milner told him. “You like this place better than the shelter?”

“It’s all right.”

“Yeah, looks great. Probably costs a penny or two staying here.”

“Some.”

“So where’d you come into all the newfound wealth, Mr. Walpole?” Milner asked. “You told the ATF agents you were unemployed.”

“I do odd jobs here and there.”

“Odd jobs?”

“Yes, sir.”

Beth was content to let Milner go on. He was doing a good job. Leonard Walpole probably weighed no more than 145 pounds and was barely five foot seven. For all the bravado he was trying to display, he was unable to meet their eyes for more than a second or two. After listening to him for several minutes, she was ready to conclude the ATF had been right. The guy’s brain was fried. Oddly, despite the room being cool, Lenny had broken out in a sweat. He kept glancing at the foot locker at the front of his bed.

Probably where he keeps his stash.

She said, “Mr. Walpole, let me cut to the chase. We’re not here to hassle you and we don’t care about whatever’s in there. We also don’t care about the money you have or how you got it. But we are interested in the man who gave it to you.”

“I earned it,” Lenny said. “Really, I did. And I found a wallet with some cash in it.”

Milner commented, “Of course, and it didn’t occur to you to return it to its owner, right?”

“I guess not.”

“In other words, you threw the wallet away and kept the money.”

Lenny looked down at his feet and said nothing.

“Finders keepers, huh?” Milner said, trying to prompt him in responding.

Still no answer.

“Let’s say we believe you. There’s no crime in finding money. The thing is, if you received it from who I think you did, we’re dealing with a whole ’nother problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Conspiracy, harboring a fugitive, accessory to murder, to name a few.”

“Murder! I haven’t hurt anybody. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Milner looked disgusted with the answer and turned to Beth.

The unspoken message was clear. He wanted her to take over.

“Lenny,” Beth said, sitting on the bed next to him. “You seem like a good person and I believe you. But you need to level with us. I’m going to show you a picture and I want you to tell me if you’ve seen this man before. If you tell the truth, I promise nothing bad will happen to you.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Lenny said. “This is good cop, bad cop.”

“It’s more like good cop, truthful cop.”

Beth took the photo of Thom Courtney out of her purse and showed it to Lenny. By rights, she should have used a line-up, but she wasn’t hoping for that kind of identification. She already knew who was behind the killings.

The reaction was immediate. Lenny’s eyes widened and he leaned forward, his jaw dropping.

“You know this man, don’t you?”

“I, I . . .”

She and Milner exchanged glances.

“What’s his name, Lenny?”

“Rick.”

“Rick what?” Milner asked.

“He told me once, but I don’t remember. I just call him Rick. He’s my friend.”

“Man, you picked one helluva friend,” Milner said.

“He’s the one who asked you to fly the model airplane, wasn’t he?” Beth said.

Lenny was becoming agitated, wringing his hands and rocking back and forth on the bed. “It was for the movie. The stunts.”

“What movie?” Milner said. “What are you talking about?”

“‘
Drone Attack!
’ Rick’s company is shooting it here. I’m one of the technical advisors. You’ve got it all wrong. Rick is a good person. He’d never hurt anyone.”

Beth exhaled and looked out the window. Across the street was a triple-X-rated video rental store. Next to that was a liquor shop. She hated what they were doing to him.
How the hell do people get into situations like this?

For the next twenty minutes, they talked to Lenny and explained who Thom Courtney was and why they were after him. Adamant, he shook his head and refused to accept it. Not surprising, because the fantasy Courtney had spun of promised wealth and helping him find a way out of the gutter to a normal life was like throwing a life preserver to a drowning man. There was an old saying that went, “A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.” It applied here. Lenny Walpole simply could not believe the man he thought was his friend and savior was anything other than noble and kind. There had to be some mistake.

“Lenny,” Beth said. “When the ATF agents were questioning you, there was another man present. He was flying one of the drones for the stunts. Do you remember him?”

“Sure, we spoke a little. He didn’t do anything wrong either.”

Beth thought for a moment. He was in denial, but then a lot of people were and they weren’t going to get anywhere unless reality grabbed him by the neck and shook him. It wouldn’t be fun, but she had an idea.

“Come with me,” she said.

A
tlanta’s City Morgue always creeped Beth out. The smell of antiseptic and bleach reminded her of visits to the doctor that generally ended with her getting a shot. On top of that, they kept the temperature so cold her hands went numb after fifteen minutes. Milner knew exactly what she had in mind and nodded his approval as they drove there. Lenny hadn’t said a word. He simply stared out the window. Tears streamed down his face. Seeing his crestfallen expression only made her feel worse. Having a dream snatched away from you was a tough thing to take. She didn’t like herself much at the moment.

Peter Shackleford’s body had not undergone an autopsy yet. The cause of death listed in the report was fairly obvious. A technician led them to the refrigerated locker, opened the door to one of the units, and slid Peter Shackleford out. The slash across his throat was like some hideous smile. His skin was colorless and his mouth was open, revealing the pain he must have felt as his life spilled away. The two days he spent in a dumpster hadn’t helped. Lenny took one look at him and began to hyperventilate. A second later, he threw up.

The technician looked at the floor, then said to Beth, “Thank you. This makes my day.”

Outside in the hallway Milner sat Lenny down on a bench and Beth went to get him a soft drink. The little man appeared as miserable as she had ever seen someone look.

Beth knelt in front of him. “I’m sorry, Lenny. I know that wasn’t easy. The man we’re after isn’t shooting a movie. He’s a murderer,
plain and simple. We really need your help because he’s going to kill again.”

“More importantly,” Todd Milner said, “you’ve seen his face, so there’s a good chance you’ll be next on his agenda. Let us help you, man. When was the last time you saw him?”

“We had dinner last night.”

“Where?”

“Olympus.”

Milner looked to Beth to see if she knew the restaurant.

She informed him, “It’s a Greek diner on Roswell Road.”

“I was going to get myself clean,” Lenny said.

Beth and Milner exchanged glances. The agent shook his head and turned away. Jack had explained sociopaths to her. Whether they operated on a small scale, stealing money from their parents or shoplifting or hurting defenseless animals, or on a larger scale like the Sandman, who killed without regard to the consequences or cost, narcissism lay at the core. Their checkbooks were always balanced, but with the currency of others. All the explanations about how hard his youth was and how devastating the loss of his parents were interesting, but in the end, it was Thomas Courtney’s actions that defined him. He was the embodiment of everything vile and wrong with a tiny segment of society the rest of them could do without.