A Dirty Shame (8 page)

Jack’s headlights flashed on a small neat square of a house with white siding and blue shutters. The porch was miniscule, and the only thing that made it at all interesting was the yellow crime scene tape across the door. The driveway was loose gravel and there wasn’t a garage or portico to park a car under.

“It’s quiet out here,” I said as we got out of the car. “No neighbors peeping over fences.”

“Yeah. The killers would have come in broad daylight, since they had to catch him before he left for his trip. We knocked on doors all along this road, but no one remembers seeing an unusual car at that time of day. Most people weren’t at home for various reasons, but everyone had nice things to say about Reverend Oglesby. They talked about how he’d help out neighbors by doing yard work or running errands if someone was struggling. He’d run this road and loop around the three miles every morning at six o’clock, seven days a week. One of the ladies down the street said you could set your clock by him.”

We walked up to the porch and Jack opened the deadbolt that had been placed on the door to keep the curious out. The house smelled musty from emptiness as we stepped inside, and Jack flipped on the lights. A fine sheen of black powder from the fingerprint dust coated everything, but underneath was the smell of lemons and clean. It was a small space—a postage stamp sized living room and a kitchen with worn laminate floors and yellow-flecked Formica countertops. A short hallway led to two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were spare, and a few bills sat on the little table in the entryway, addressed, stamped and ready to be mailed.

“No signs of a struggle,” I said. “Not even a little one.”

“Yeah, which leads me to believe that only one person was here to administer the drug. There just aren’t enough fingerprints belonging to other people. We got a hit off of one set from his cleaning lady. She’d spent some time in jail a few years ago, but she said the Reverend wanted to give her a chance to make an honest wage. I believed her, but we’ll run a deeper check on her just to cross our t’s. No women are going to be involved in this. This is a good ole’ boys club. Women are as much of a minority to them as anyone.”

“I can’t see him opening the door and inviting in a group of men without some hesitation,” I said.

“No, but I could see him opening the door for one man. Especially if it was someone familiar. By all accounts, Oglesby was devoted to the church and his job of helping people. He wouldn’t have thought twice about getting a late start or his trip being ruined.”

Jack walked around the small space of the kitchen, painting the scene as I stood there quietly and let him think. It always amazed me that he wanted the slower pace of this job, because he was just so damned good at it.

“Oglesby was a friendly guy. He’d want to put his guest at ease.” Jack gestured to the two white coffee mugs. “The killer would want to get it done quickly though. The others were waiting on him, and there was always the chance a neighbor could come by. And the longer the perp waited, the more likely Oglesby would feel something was off. You can feel that kind of buzz in the air. So when Oglesby turned away to grab a couple of mugs and pour the coffee, he was given a quick injection to the back shoulder. He’s down before he can feel the sting.”

“There’s no way Oglesby could be moved by one man,” I said.

“No, that’s when the others showed up.” Jack walked to the back of the house and I followed. “They would have pulled the truck back here,” he said. “The treads match the ones we found at the dump site. They were gloved and they came up the hall to the kitchen to grab the body and take him out back. We found soil in the carpet in the hallway. They didn’t leave everything as tidy as they thought. I’ve got that blood sample taken from the ground. I’ll send it off to the lab in Richmond to see if it matches Oglesby. If it doesn’t, it could belong to one of our killers.”

I nodded as I followed him out the back door and down the three wooden stairs that led to an unfenced pack yard with patchy grass and plenty of shade trees. Jack turned on his flashlight and the beam settled on the ground not ten feet from the door. The tire tracks weren’t deep—just an impression surrounded by dozens of footprints in the dry dirt—but they were visible.

Jack stood with his hand on his hip with his jacket pushed back over his weapon so it didn’t get in the way. He shook his head and said, “All they’d have to do is throw a tarp over him until they reached the place they tortured and killed him. A three-man job. Two in the cab of the pickup and then the one who delivered the injection drove his own car. The whole thing wouldn’t take fifteen or twenty minutes from start to finish.”

“Something else about the drug they used on him,” I said. “Diprivan is only used during surgery by anesthesiologists. It can’t be acquired over the counter, and I’ve never heard of it being sold black market. There’s no demand for it.”

“So I’m looking for a doctor?” Jack asked.

“I’d say it’s a good possibility one of the killers has access to a hospital.”

“That’ll be fun,” he said. “Doctors are usually assholes. No offense.”

“Can’t argue with the truth.”

“We’ll hit the hospitals tomorrow. I can’t fit much more into one day. Let’s pack it in for the night.”

We headed around the side of the house and Jack relocked the front door with the deadbolt and made sure the crime scene tape was secure.

“You left all the stuff for S’mores at the funeral home,” I said once we were back in the car. “Don’t think you’re getting out of that one, my friend. I demand S’mores.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I dropped those specific ingredients off at my place before I came out to drag you away from the rats.”

I buckled my seatbelt and adjusted the heater as Jack did a u-turn on the graveled drive and headed towards his place. “Pretty damned sure of yourself,” I said.

“What can I say, babe? When you’re good, you’re good.”

The next morning, I had a sugar hangover that would’ve done any teenaged boy proud. My teeth felt gritty, and little men were dancing across my skull. I couldn’t narrow down the reason for the headache—there were many possibilities. One of which could have been the wine I’d used to chase down the S’mores.

I’d taken the upstairs guest bedroom that looked out over the trees and all the way down to the water line. Mostly because I thought it would be nice have something to look at as I waited for night to pass. I messed up the covers a little so Jack wouldn’t worry, but I’d sat most of the night in the overstuffed chair next to the windows. I’d dozed off and on like normal, but real sleep was a thing of the past. It didn’t help that I could hear Jack tossing and turning in the room next to mine.

As soon as the sky started to lighten, I headed into the shower and tried to do some damage control with makeup so the dark circles under my eyes wouldn’t be so prominent and people would stop commenting on them. My face was pale and my cheeks gaunt, and if I stared too hard I could still see the bruises the exact size of fingerprints around my neck. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I
was
too thin. I traced the outline of my ribs, almost as if it were someone else’s body instead of mine.

I put the thought out of my mind and hopped in the shower under the hot spray, hoping when I got out and stared at myself again I’d look a little more like a human instead of a day old corpse.

When I padded out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick white towel, the duffle bag I’d left in the back of the Suburban was sitting on the bed.

“Oh, shit.” I’d completely forgotten about the boxes I’d brought home with me. They weren’t safe for public consumption, much less Jack’s law-abiding eyes. I needed to get to them fast and get rid of them like I’d planned before I’d gotten distracted by murder and S’mores.

I dressed hurriedly in jeans and a soft, button-down grey shirt the same color as my eyes. Thick socks and my worn boots came next. I shoved all my belongings in the closet to tidy up, ran my fingers through my hair, and called myself presentable enough. The smell of coffee greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, and I headed to the kitchen to get that first rush of artificial energy.

“You’re up early,” Jack said, cracking eggs into a hot pan on the stove. He turned and gave me a once over from head to toe while I went to the cabinet to get the coffee mug I always used. It was an oversized black mug with a white chalk outline of a body and yellow crime scene tape.

“I don’t know if
up
is the correct term,” I said. My voice was always at its worst first thing in the morning, and it was hard to live with such an
in your face
reminder of something I’d just as soon forget.

I shuffled to the coffee pot and poured the hot, black liquid all the way to the rim. I didn’t blow on it or let it cool. I just drank it down and waited for the life to come back into my body.

Jack brought plates to the table and we both sat cozily in the little nook, our knees touching companionably. My stomach growled loudly at the sight of eggs, sausage and toast. My arteries might hate me later, but the rest of me was grateful he’d decided to forgo his usual oatmeal. He never even put sugar on it. I shivered at the thought and took another drink.

“Have you thought about going to talk to someone?” Jack asked, blindsiding me while my mouth was full.

“About what?” I evaded.

The look he gave me was patient, but also a bit frustrated. I just kept shoving food into my mouth and hoping I could escape soon. I needed to get to those boxes. Then I remembered I didn’t have my car with me, and I was at Jack’s mercy for the time being.

“You’re not sleeping well at night,” he pushed on. “Don’t you think you need to see a doctor? Or talk to a counselor about what happened to you?”

“Sleeping pills won’t make the nightmares go away, Jack, and I don’t need some quack to tell me I need to open up about my feelings. I know perfectly well what my feelings are. I have more goddamned feelings than I know what to do with.”

Jack got up and brought the coffee pot over to refill my cup, and he just left it on the table between us as he sat back down. “Do you want to talk about Brody?”

“No.” My voice cracked as I spoke, and I had to stop and clear my throat. To remind myself to breathe and take it slowly. “I don’t need to talk about Brody. I just need time to settle back into the way things are around here, without everyone reminding me all the damned time that people are dead because of me.”

“Who’s told you that?”

“They don’t have to say it to my face, I see it in their eyes. It doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head.

“It does matter.” Jack reached out and grabbed my hand before I could get up from the table and escape back upstairs. “You won’t believe anyone until you’re ready, but I’ll say it anyway. What Jeremy Mooney did was no more your fault than it was anyone else’s. And you’re not the reason Brody is dead. Fate catches up with all of us sooner or later. He was here at this time and this place for a reason. None of that was in your control.” His grip loosened and his thumb rubbed gently across the inside of my wrist. “But you feel guilty because you lived. And you feel guilty because you didn’t love him as much as you felt you should have. And he died anyway.”

I pulled my hand away and stood up, my breath coming faster as I tried to get control of the emotions festering inside of me. There was guilt, yes. But there was a whole lot of anger. And it was best I kept it leashed for all our sakes.

“I need to grab my stuff,” I said, heading toward the stairs. “I need to go into the funeral home today. When you talk to Reverend Thomas again, let him know the body is ready for release.”

I didn’t have to turn around and look at Jack to feel his disappointment.

***

“I guess this is my welcome home gift,” I said, twenty minutes later as Jack and I stood next to my Suburban. “So much for no one blaming me.”

“Quite honestly, I don’t think this has anything to do with what happened before. This is because of what’s happening right now.”

All four tires were slashed and a few very creative slurs for the female anatomy were spray-painted in lime green along the sides and across the hood. Fortunately, they hadn’t bothered to break the windows or tried to steal the boxes that were becoming more and more burdensome with every passing second. There were five of them in all, no bigger than a foot deep and wide, and I’d sealed the contents with so much packing tape it would take a machete to hack through it all.

“I don’t suppose I could get you to help me take those boxes down to the lab?”

Jack raised his brow in curiosity because I was a fanatic about keeping it uncluttered down there. It was a sterile space with nothing but tools of the trade. It was also the safest place I knew to keep incriminating documents. No ordinary thief could break past those locks.

“You know,” Jack said. “Someday it might be nice if you told me what the hell was going on. How am I supposed to help you if you’re always keeping me in the dark?”

“The dark isn’t so bad,” I told him. “The dark can keep you safe.”

“Fine,” he nodded. “Let’s move boxes.”

Jack’s anger was always slow to build, but once it reached a certain point, an explosion was inevitable. The tension had only grown between us since our earlier conversation, and I was wishing I could start the morning with a do-over. What I was
really
wishing was that I could stay in bed and pull the covers over my head for the next few hours.

Jack’s movements were controlled and his mouth pressed into a tight line as we transferred the contents of the Suburban down to the basement. I stayed silent and watched him stew, knowing I was the reason for most of his frustration. I just waited him out patiently and watched as he kicked the back tire of the Suburban.

“This is my fault,” he finally said. “You don’t need to deal with something like this so soon after coming back. The killers knew we’d start looking for them as soon as we found out what the symbol branded into Reverend Oglesby was. Cocky bastards. And it doesn’t get much plainer than this that you can’t trust anyone.”

“No more than I ever did,” I said, touching my finger to the paint. “It’s still tacky.”

“I’ll call the tow truck and have them take it in. I want you to keep the doors locked today. Stay inside until I come back for you, and make people use the buzzer.”

“I—”

“Don’t argue with me, Jaye. I’m not in the mood.”

My own anger was perilously close to the surface. I wasn’t going to argue, but I wouldn’t promise either. I had responsibilities to the dead man inside the house, and at some point I needed some personal time as well. I hadn’t expected to jump back into the fray quite so soon, and my nerves were begging to frazzle.

“I’ll have a patrolman do a drive-by every half hour. This group lives by their own rules, and we don’t know how many are involved or who. I’ve got an appointment to talk to the sheriff over in Westmoreland this morning, but I should be back by noon unless I run into complications.”

“I don’t mean to discredit your deductive reasoning,” I said between clenched teeth, “But this incident very well might have been done by someone who just doesn’t want me to come back home. I’m not the only one who blames me for what happened in December. It’s easier to point the finger in my direction than anyone else. It’s in the blood, you know.”

“If anyone wants you out of this town, they’re going to have to go through me first,” Jack said. “And we all have bad blood somewhere in the line. It all comes down to choices—right and wrong—and you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Jack squeezed my shoulder once and then took out his cell phone to call George Murphy for a tow truck while I let myself in the side door. Jack had already checked the inside to make sure nothing had been tampered with, but I kept my gun close by just in case.

I put on another pot of coffee and jumped as Jack came in.

“George will be here in twenty. I’ve got to take off.”

“Okay then,” I said to the door after it closed behind him. “Still pissed.”

I bolted the door and then went to check my messages. There was one from Floyd Parker at the Gazette, wanting an interview about Reverend Oglesby’s death.
Fat chance of that happening, asshole.
And there were three other similar messages from reporters in King George Proper, Nottingham and Newcastle. They were all vultures, and I’d as soon as shoot any reporter rather than give them the time of day. Reporters had
not
been kind to me in the past. Especially Floyd.

And then blessings upon all blessings, there was a lone message from Deborah Perry, the daughter of Mrs. Perry. The same Mrs. Perry who’d been on Reverend Oglesby’s list of patients on his hospital rounds and had passed away the day before. I almost wept with gratitude when I heard she wanted Graves Funeral Home to take care of the body. She’d heard I was back in town just in time to make the decision. The only problem was I didn’t have a vehicle to retrieve the body from the hospital.

I called Deborah back and told her we’d retrieve the body sometime that afternoon, and that she could come in at the same time and handle all the paperwork. Mrs. Perry’s death was going to save me for a few weeks, as morbid as that sounded. She was also going to pay for the damage done to my Suburban.

I heard the tow truck in the driveway, the scrape of the bed being lowered and the rattle of chains. George Murphy stood at the switch, his white t-shirt and jeans already stained with fresh grease. His dark hair was pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck and his icy blue eyes were covered with Ray-Bans. He worked with a graceful competence despite his size. And his temperament. George was a bastard by most people’s standards, but he was a damned good mechanic. Not to mention he owned the only shop in Bloody Mary, so public relations weren’t really a worry for him.

I gnawed at my lip in indecision. Jack would be back by noon, and I’d be perfectly safe in a public business in the middle of the day. I grabbed my purse and keys and locked up the delivery door, ignoring his order. Part of it was just stubbornness because he’d used his Lord of the Manor voice to issue the order. The second part was because if I didn’t go with George and wait on one of his men to do the work, I’d be lucky to see the Suburban sometime in the next week.

“Morning, George,” I said, slipping on my sunglasses. “Can I catch a ride with you?”

In all honesty, George Murphy scared the hell out of me. He was a big man with a quick temper and fast fists. He’d been a murder suspect when his wife had turned up dead, but it didn’t look like his attitude had improved any with the declaration of his innocence.

“No room,” he said tersely and hit the lever so the Suburban was lifted to the back of the truck.

I looked at the empty passenger seat and decided I’d have to play hardball. George could sense weakness a mile away, and I had a body to pick up that afternoon. I
needed
my vehicle.

“I’ll just ride along up front then,” I said, opening the truck door before he could say anything else. “And don’t worry. I’m sure I can find plenty of things to keep me occupied while someone is working on the Suburban. Jack said he’d be by before noon, so it’d be best if it was finished by then.”