Ashes and Bone (17 page)

Sweat dotted Ben’s pasty forehead. He licked his lips, shifted his feet, breathed hard. Finally, he reached for the picture of the Confederate bills taken from Jaymee’s email.

He shoved it against Cage’s chest. “Look harder.” He stepped around Cage again, and this time Cage allowed it. The door thumped shut behind him.

“He’s in this up to his eyeballs,” Gina said. “That’s the picture our tech said had something embedded into it. So what brought on the mafia talk?”

Cage related Penn’s information. “John Wilkes Booth, Gina. Wyatt Booth told me today he was a direct descendant. He acted like it hurt his political career, but he was clearly proud of it. He likes telling people. No way was Gilbert telling Penn that a coincidence.”

She blew out a hard breath. “All right, so we’ve got to look deeper into the Dixies being involved and into the former senator. But I’m telling you, going after Nick in the storm is a dumbass, unprofessional move.”

“Maybe it is,” Cage said. “Maybe they sent a rookie to do it. Booth’s just here to make sure it gets done right.”

“Like Ben,” Gina said. “I figured you’d get to that.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t feel like he’s gone after Nick. Ben’s scared. And I think he’s looking for a safe way out. That’s why he’s being so compliant.”

“I’ve got a contact at the Jackson FBI office. I’ll give him a call and see what he thinks of Penn’s information, see what else I can find out. Meanwhile, I’ve got a city council member interested in chatting. Red Thomas. You know him?”

Jim “Red” Thomas had been a member of the city council for nearly twenty years and was a major advocate of preserving Roselea’s history. Red lived in the heart of the town’s antebellum district, in a modest, colonial-style home. He’d be one of the die-hards to stay and let the town burn around him. Everyone knew Red.

“Sure. I’ll head over there and talk to him.”

“Good,” Gina said. “If we can’t get to Dylan right now, let’s see what the council thinks about his efforts to save the Semple land.”

R
ed was waiting
on his porch for Cage, sipping lemonade, and like most of the rest of the town watching the smoking horizon. He waved as Cage approached. “Good to see you. How’s your mama and daddy?”

“Just fine, thanks.” Cage took the seat next to him. “Just heard the fire’s dying down a bit. For the moment.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m not leaving. Born and raised here like most everyone else. Grandfather built this house, and I’ll be damned if I’ll walk away from her.” He took another sip of lemonade and then gestured to the pitcher sitting on the patio table, eyebrows raised in question. Cage shook his head. “But you’re not here to talk about an old man’s stubbornness. You want to know about the Semple zoning.”

“Red, why’d it even go through in the first place? You’ve been on the city council for twenty years. When the co-op was trying to save the Semple place, we’d heard there was little chance of the council zoning it commercial. And then all of a sudden, Norton came in and the zoning changed.” Cage shifted in his seat.

“And the mayor’s happy as a pig in shit about it, ain’t he?” Red’s southern drawl thickened, more pronounced when he was upset. His words came out fast and stunted. “How do you think the farm went into foreclosure so quickly? Those poor boys, the cousins who are the last descendants of Isaiah Semple, hadn’t been farming the land for a long time. They got their own lives, but they were trying to keep up the payments. They were sixty-seven days behind. I know that for a fact.”

“That’s all? A lot of places don’t go into foreclosure until they’re twice that or more.”

“Exactly. Day after news of the foreclosure broke, Mayor Asher sent an email to us council members, explaining why he thought the property needed to be zoned commercial.” Red’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “Boiled down to the money he felt could be brought in. He was so sure of it, and yet no company had ever expressed any interest in the land. It was never great for farming. And it’s not on any main road, not easily accessible from town. And being smack in between some of the bigger plantations don’t exactly make it a great spot to build. And yet the mayor pushed. Convinced the majority.” He stamped his foot.

“And then Norton showed up.” Cage could have slammed his head against the house. It was all so obvious now. Probably obvious then too, if he’d been paying attention. Where did Dylan fall into all of this? Surely he knew what his father was doing, at least had some idea of it. Cage understood not wanting to stand up to his father over the sexuality thing—that’s a personal rejection a person may never get over—but preserving Roselea history was Dylan’s life. Cage couldn’t match his standing by while the land was destroyed with what he knew of Dylan.

“Slipperier and quicker than a wet fart,” Red said.

“Mayor Asher had them lined up, along with Ben,” Cage said. No surprise Ben Moore started all of this. Cage might whip his ass yet.

An idea formed in Cage’s head. Ben Moore was the real estate broker who handled the sale of the land to Norton. He was also the person running a Civil-War replica scam that Nick was investigating, and he may have been involved with the Dixie Mafia. The Dixie Mafia was infiltrating the Delta Crossroads area, and their M.O. was a variety of legitimate businesses used as fronts.

Is that what Norton was? Nick wanted an interview from Stanley. Is this what he’d figured out? If Nick was investigating the mafia angle and Cage was right about Booth liking to brag about his ancestor, had Nick caught wind of the same idea? Had he mentioned that to Stanley? It would be just like his brother-in-law to be that brazen if he was sure.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Red said. “Margaret Asher is the majority stock holder of Roselea Financial. Her late uncle left it to her. She’s mostly a figurehead, leaves the decision making to the men. Old-fashioned girl and totally put in her place by her husband.”

“You think that’s how the land went into foreclosure so quickly?”

“If it smells like shit, usually is.”

“And you were the only holdout on the zoning?” Colorful as Red was, Cage doubted he held that much sway.

“Myself and Ted Pickett. But we was outvoted. I thought it was a done deal until the Ironwood story broke. Imagine, the Laurents and the Semples, with John James Laurent right in the middle of it. But I never thought it would matter, until Dylan came around with his idea.” Red grinned, clearly appreciative of Dylan’s efforts to sabotage his own father.

“So he really isn’t on his father’s side?” Then why had he stayed silent for so long? Why even allow his father to bring Norton in? Why not grow a pair and stand up right at the beginning?

“Of course not. They don’t like each other. Mayor can’t accept Dylan for who he is, and Dylan appreciates this land and our history more than most. He’s damned ashamed of what his father’s doing.” Red took another sip of lemonade and then licked his lips. “He spoke to me and Ted, told us his idea. We needed one more council member to agree, and Heather Cathrall at the historical foundation was it. She’d been on the fence anyway, and when she heard Dylan’s idea, she agreed to halt the zoning for as long as we can.”

“What exactly is Dylan looking for?” Cage asked. “All the structures are gone. I know the foundations for some of the buildings are there, but that’s not much.”

Red shrugged. “He’s trying to find Isaiah Semple’s grave is what he told us. Along with his grandson—the one Camille left behind when she was murdered at Ironwood.”

“Is that enough?”

“Isaiah Semple was the first black man to own land in Adam’s County, yet he wasn’t allowed to be buried in the Roselea cemetery because of his skin color, and they couldn’t afford it anyway.” Red grunted his disgust. “I’d say finding his grave would be a big interest to the National Historical Register, as well as the history department at Ole Miss. It’s worth a shot. And even if it don’t work, it keeps the mayor’s panties in a twist. That alone makes it worth it.”

Cage didn’t disagree with that. And Wyatt Booth would be fit to be tied if he found out Dylan’s plan, not to mention the mayor. “Have you been on the Semple land with Dylan? Done any prospecting yourself?”

“I have.” Red stuck his chin up. “Back-breaking work, but invigorating. Fact, Dylan and I were working when that damned derecho headed in.”

Cage’s ears perked up. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Dylan about his alibi. “Yeah? Did you make it back?”

“We barely made it to Ashland before the storm struck. Good thing I drive hard.”

Cage glanced at Red’s silver truck sitting in the driveway. No dents and no blue. “Y’all sit out the storm there, then?”

“With the mayor himself and his wife. Poor Margaret, stuck with that bastard. I don’t think they like each other at all, but she’s stayed by his side all these years. Suppose it’s the power. Guess I shouldn’t feel too sorry for her. Anyway, storm’s raging, Dylan’s all worked up about damage to the house, and the mayor more worried about insurance premiums.”

So Dylan hadn’t plowed into Nick’s car. At least Cage could check that off his list. Begrudgingly. Still, the mayor was deep into some kind of rot, and Dylan was still a question mark.

“When you guys were prospecting, ever notice any red dirt on the Semple land? Rust colored?”

“Nah. Plain old soil there, just thin. Rocky. Why?”

“Just wondering. What about Joseph Stanley? You get the feeling he and his boys at Norton are worried about the zoning?”

“He’s a pencil-necked shit eater with no appreciation of what’s important in life. Money only. And he’s not got enough balls to head that company. I’d say he was a mouthpiece, and he and the mayor don’t like each other.” Red drained his lemonade and sat the glass on the table.

Cage snorted. Stanley really did have a pencil neck. Next time he saw him, he’d hear Red’s voice in his head and play hell not laughing outright. “Ever met his boss, Wyatt Booth?”

“Nope, but I’ve heard of him. My daughter’s in D.C. She’s an architect. You know Norton’s based out of there, and construction’s a big part of their business. They’ve been building in the projects.” Red rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s all for show. Last year, big stink was raised about Norton using damp wood, which meant mold was growing in those houses. Few people got sick. All black. Swept under the rug. Rumor was the former senator got involved and kept everything quiet.” Red gave him a knowing look. “Amazing what money can do, ain’t it?”

Cage nodded. “He only served a single term, twenty years ago. And power’s a dime a dozen in Washington. Why would anyone do him any favors?”

Red shrugged. “I don’t know, but my daughter said the story was buried, and fast. Senator’s got a lot of money. Guess he knows how to make it talk. Also likes to brag he’s related to Wilkes Booth. Stupid circle to do that in if you ask me.”

Stupid mistakes do the smartest criminals in. Usually because they think they’re smarter or faster or tougher than everyone else. Ego gets big enough, the cracks start.
Wyatt Booth might have a few more Cage hadn’t found. Yet.

The wind picked up, a cool breeze rushing through the porch. Cage and Red both looked to the north. A glorious rain cloud was bearing down, and the sweet smell of distant rain gathered around them like a soothing blanket.

“Praise God,” said Red.

T
he clouds opened
up just as Cage made it back to the police station. Not a hard rain, but steady, big drops splattering and bursting on the pavement. Several people stood on the sidewalks, arms open to the sky, yelling and dancing.

“It’s raining,” he said to Gina. She’d just hung up the phone in her office.

“I know. My mother called in tears, she’s so happy.”

“Dani too.”

“How’s Jaymee doing?”

Cage headed for her coffee pot, stopping when he saw how thick the liquid looked.
Pass.
“Not great. She’s finally sleeping, but she’s been going crazy. She wants to go search herself, and Dani’s convinced her to hold off. But with the rain and the threat of the fire dying down, I don’t know how long that’ll last. Those two tend to get into trouble.”

“I’ve noticed. But they’d better heed the warning this time because if this is a Dixie Mafia job, we are dealing with some mean bastards.”

“You spoke to your FBI guy, then?” He dropped into the nearest chair. A yawn ripped from his mouth before he could stop it. Thirty minutes of sleep would do him so much good.

“He’s actually in white-collar crime. Those guys are usually pretty tight-lipped. I had to beg and plead for information and promise him a steak dinner next time I visit.”

“Hope that’s all you promised.”

Gina ignored his remark. “In the last five years, the Dixie Mafia’s been making a comeback in Mississippi and all along Appalachia. And like Penn told you, it’s not about family. This ain’t the Sopranos. This is about money, and whoever has the most owns the power.” Gina rustled through her notes. Paper and sticky notes overloaded her usually immaculate desk.

“The FBI thinks there are only three big bosses at most, and they’re tough to pin down because there’s no loyalty like southern loyalty. They operate with all sorts of businesses: antiques, flea markets, construction, garbage. They’re all legit, and all used to launder drug and illegal weapons money.” She took a sip of coffee and scowled. Then she took another.

“Cold. The Feds have managed to get a couple of underlings to talk, so they’ve got the basic mode of ops down. But they clam up when it comes to the bosses.” She leaned back in her creaky chair looking exhausted. She rubbed her eyes until the sensitive skin around them shone pink. “My guy believes that there’s one big dog and a couple of guards, and that’s it. Little competition at the top. He’s been trying to get at least one name, but the underlings won’t talk.”

“What about Gilbert?” Cage asked. “The inmate at Delta Correctional? Did you mention the John Wilkes Booth thing?”

“He’s spoken with the FBI. They’re trying to convince him to testify against the bosses. FBI believes Gilbert knows all the major players, and they set him up in a private facility to grease him.”