Chill Factor (10 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Show that trust. Fall into the arms of The People.”

“You want me to lean backward, sir? Until I fall?”

“Trust in The People, Wynn Cronin.”

Philip swiveled to face the first man in the opposite row, then reached out and grasped his hands. All down the line, the other men followed suit, until the two rows were joined down the center.

The moment stretched, Philip recalling the ache of uncertainty, the dread of losing face. The drop to the hardwood floor was only a few feet, but backward, head first, it could easily break a man’s neck. Finally, the boy began to lean away from the stage.

“Let go,” the Colonel instructed softly. “Trust in The People.”

“Trust,” someone echoed, and the others joined in. “Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust …”

The boy’s body twitched with hesitancy.

“Trust, trust, trust …”

He leaned, teetered—

“Trust, trust, trust …”

—and fell across the first four pairs of arms.

“Trust in The People!”
They swung the boy up, tossing him along the line until he reached its end.
“Trust in The People!”

They lowered him gently to his feet and removed the blindfold. Then one by one, twenty-nine men hugged him.

A rush of emotion dampened Philip’s eyes. He enfolded the boy, recalling his own glorious moment, the moment he no longer felt alone in the world. When he became one with The People, he’d finally belonged.

The room settled down; chairs were pulled back into rough crescents facing the stage. Philip dimmed the lights.

“The mission,” the Colonel said, and all the sound in the room flew into his voice. “Uphold and defend.”

He pressed a button on the lectern. A twelve-foot screen descended behind him, a video already queued up, filling the wall with images of the police execution of Edna Pine.

“The crime in our streets today is exceeded only by the crime among our protectors. In our government. In our courts. In our back alleys. Between criminals and members of our own law enforcement teams.” The Colonel’s voice thundered over the grisly images moving silently across the screen. “Corruption is spreading faster than the worst virus. It’s more insidious than unsavory sex. Who can we count on to stop this horror? Certainly not this man.”

The film cut to a head-and-shoulders shot of Avery Banning, Houston’s new Mayor. “Or this one.” Another cut, and Edward Wanamaker, Houston’s Chief of Police, stood beside Mayor Banning. Both men were laughing.

“These elected leaders are no solution, they are the problem. If not for their weak, indecisive command, women would be safe on our streets. If not for their mishandling of city business, our senior citizens would not be so desperate as to turn to theft. If not for their inept investigation, the
ringleader
of this so-called Granny Bandit Gang would be found and brought to task.

“The time has come,” the Colonel said quietly. “Who can we count on?” Then he stood silent.

After a moment, Philip rose and, from his position in the back of the room, saluted his idol.

“We, The People,” he said.

Beside Philip, Nelson pushed to his feet. “We The People,” he boomed.

“We The People.” Chairs scraped and feet stamped to attention.

“We The People.” The words rolled like a mounting wave around the room.

“We The People. We The People. We The People …”

Restless after her talk with Parker, Dixie took Mud out for a walk in the direction of the Pine residence. Past an acre of pecan trees, a hedge of holly shrubs, and a forty-year-old wisteria, they reached her neighbor’s driveway. The house sat nearer the road than her own, and no gate blocked the entrance.

The porch light was on, as well as a light in the living room, another toward the rear of the house. Bill had installed timers back in the eighties, when electronic security became popular. But the police car in the driveway suggested a search in progress—not for the money Edna stole and wouldn’t have had time to drop here, but for other evidence.

The house, built of pink brick and light gray vinyl siding, trimmed with charcoal-gray shutters and roof, boasted a wide sun porch across the entire front. Dixie noted the gabled windows marking the upstairs bedroom that had been Marty’s. Like the Flannigan house, this one had once been a single story with a large attic. Bill and Barney had pooled their woodworking skills and turned their attics into extra rooms. Amy had already claimed the upstairs bedroom before Dixie arrived.

The porch drew her forward, and stepping up onto it, Dixie recalled the day only a few years past when Bill replaced the worn screens and added jalousie windows. Funny how some things lay in the back of your mind, gathering dust.

A chair swing hung from the rafters—not the same one Dixie’d sat in as a girl, but its twin, slatted back and arms, solid seat, all painted creamy white and softened with daisy-print cushions. Battleship gray coated the wood floor. Pots of coleus and red geraniums perched along the window seats. Ivy cascaded down the wall.
Had Edna watered the plants before taking off for her bank heist?

Dixie peeked in a window. No cops in the living room; they must be searching the back of the house. She sat down in the porch swing. Mud, far too large to snuggle beside her, investigated every flowerpot and spiderweb before curling up at her feet. Dixie pushed gently against the porch floor. To the creak of the swing chain, the music of the wind through dogwood and oak, and the occasional croak of a frog on the Brazos River, she allowed fond memories to invade her mind. When she finally rose to return home, she’d more or less decided that whatever had led Aunt Edna to her bizarre demise should remain the woman’s secret. What right had Dixie to dig around in her friend’s final decisions?

At home, Dixie’s answering machine showed five new messages. She punched the
PLAY
button and listened as she kicked out of her shoes.

Click. Beep!
“Dixie, you have to help me. I can’t battle this thing alone, and I can’t let Mother go to her grave labeled a ‘Granny Bandit.’ Call me … uhhh, this is Marty.” He left a number with a Dallas area code.

Dixie jotted it down on the back of a grocery receipt, hit
PLAY
again, and unbuttoned her camp shirt.

Click. Beep!
“Dixie, the police say I can’t get into my own mother’s house. Is that crazy? How am I supposed to clear this up? Call me.” Marty left the same number and an additional number, which she added to her note.

Click. Beep!
“Where are you? You can’t abandon me like this. I just listened to a voice mail from Ralph Drake, Mother’s lawyer. There’s something screwy with her will. Drake says he’s contacting other heirs. What other heirs? Do you know anything about this? Call me. Please?”

Dixie stared at the machine as she slipped out of her shorts. What could she tell him? Nothing. The small amount of
information Ralph had given her was disclosed in confidence. Being in the middle of a dispute between Marty Pine and Belle’s firm would be like walking barefoot through a patch of prickly pears. Reluctantly, she punched
PLAY
again, glad she hadn’t been at home this past hour to catch Marty’s anxiety firsthand.

Click. Beep!
“Okay, I convinced the police that we
must
get into Mother’s house to settle her affairs—hell, I don’t even remember the name of that funeral home we used for Dad—but the cops won’t be finished with their search and pilferage until tomorrow evening. Will you meet me there, love? For what we once meant to each other?” After a brief silence, Marty’s voice came back, less frantic and more anguished. “What if it were
your
mother, Dixie? What if it were Kathleen?”

Dixie grimaced and turned away from the machine.
For what we once meant to each other?

She poured a tall glass of ice water, carried it into the living room, and slumped in a chair. Mud roused from his napping spot. Deciding she needed a head to scratch, he padded over, gave her hand a thorough licking, then settled beside the chair, his wide mug resting on her bare leg.

“Thanks, guy.” Idly, she ran her fingers over the short silky fur covering his ear. Her gaze fell on a photograph of Kathleen Flannigan. Taken the year before she died, it showed the fine-boned face—with its narrow nose and strong jaw—surrounded by a fringe of white hair as fine and glossy as spun glass.
What if it were
your
mother?

Beneath the photograph stood a row of albums—thirteen, in all—occupying the bottom shelf of Kathleen’s bookcase. She’d faithfully recorded the Flannigan family history in the pages of those albums, each photograph positioned with corner mounts and captioned in a neat, flowing script. Dixie gave Mud’s ears a final scratch and lifted book number seven. Nudging Mud’s head off her leg, she opened the heavy album.

Along with snapshots and school photos, Kathleen had included favorite birthday cards, special report cards, pressed flowers from her daughters’ prom nights. Dixie flipped to a page featuring a grainy color snapshot of herself in a white chiffon dress and Marty in a white dinner jacket. Twelfth grade. Rhinestone straps sparkled at Dixie’s shoulders, an
innovative but disastrous modification she’d made after learning that several of her friends had ordered the same dress. The straps looked terrific, one skinny string of rhinestones attached to each side of the sculptured neckline in front, crossing the shoulder, then widening into three strands as it connected to the chiffon again, low in the back. Sexy. Even sexier as the rhinestones began snapping apart. Before the evening was out, a string of safety pins held the straps together, and Marty’s grin had stretched ear to ear.

Beneath the photograph, Kathleen had penned,
My precious daughter Dixie & my best friend’s son, Marty Pine. Could there be a more delightful match?

The year that she and Marty dated had certainly been fun. Even then he’d been interested in the visual arts and had dragged Dixie to gallery openings all over greater Houston. Surprisingly, the scuzziest places offered free wine and usually didn’t discriminate against underage art enthusiasts.

My best friend’s son.
Kathleen and Edna, best friends. None better, looking back at all the good times the two families enjoyed together.

A pair of Kathleen’s many cross-stitched samplers hung over the window. In green and yellow threads the first suggested: “One of the Most Beautiful Truths of This Life Is that No Man Can Sincerely Help Another Without Helping Himself.”

Is that true, Mom? What if Edna robbed that bank to help Marty? Makes no sense—she had money to give him, but perhaps not enough. And Marty’s not the same young man I dated in high school. What if he only wants my help to find and cover up any connection between him and the missing bank loot? You know I can’t turn my back on incriminating evidence, but he’s self-centered enough to think I’d do it. What I don’t know won’t hurt him. And if I did uncover a lead to that third woman, how would that help Edna?

Over the window, a matching green and yellow sampler balanced Kathleen’s sappy sentimentality with: “Truth Is Real Enough to Hang Your Hat On.”

In Dixie’s experience, truth often brought sorrow and rarely guaranteed justice. Hadn’t she quit law because of such dilemmas?

She closed the album, picked up the phone, and tapped in Parker’s number, pausing before the last digit. What if he was entertaining a … friend? Did she really want to know? With a sigh, she hit the final digit. He
had
offered to help.

His answering “hello” sounded husky with sleep … or something.

“Hey, I’m meeting Marty, Edna’s son,” she said brightly, “to go through her records and things. And what you said about her boyfriend might be important.”

“I’ve been reconsidering—guess I could’ve jumped to conclusions about their relationship.”

“Based on what?”

“When I walked over one day, a man was leaving. Edna answered my knock, obviously thinking he’d returned—and her expression was … well, elated, maybe? Like a woman … enthralled, I guess, is the only word to describe it. But that could’ve been one-sided. I only had a brief look at her visitor. Maybe he was just a salesman.”

“First impressions are intuitive. If you’re right, Edna may have a snapshot of him.” She asked Parker to repeat his description of the man leaving Edna’s house.

“He looked like money,” Parker replied. “If he came into the showroom, I’d take him straight to the luxury models.”

He agreed to check out any snapshots they found of an unknown man fitting that description. Then she called the Dallas number Marty had left. Getting his answering service, she agreed to meet the next evening at Edna’s. When she noticed her message light still blinking, Dixie realized she’d never listened to the fifth call that came in during the short time she was walking with Mud—probably another from Marty.

Click. Beep!
“Dixie, my dear, Len Bacon here. I don’t want to alarm you …”

Shit.
Why did people utter those six little words? How could you hear them without being alarmed?

“… but I’ve taken the liberty of checking further into your account problem. Call me tomorrow. The sooner the better, I’m afraid.”

The sooner the better. But the bank wouldn’t open until nine.

Shit.

Wednesday, 9:00
A.M
.

“Dixie, Dixie, Dixie.” Len Bacon sighed. “I pray that we have nipped this problem before it escalated into a real horror. Do you recall disposing of any old checkbooks that might contain unused personalized deposit slips?”

“I don’t think so. My CPA uses them in figuring my taxes.”

On the other side of Len’s glass wall, a glazier took measurements. The wall hadn’t shattered from the gunshot. Safety glass, probably. Dixie’d been so focused on Edna at the time that she hadn’t noticed the bullet hole, or the two fracture lines working their way north and west.

“And when your CPA returns them to you, what happens?”

“I file the records in a box and store the box on a shelf in the garage.” Among a mountain of similar boxes, a layer of dust, and several hundred dead bugs. “Why, Len?”