Moon Underfoot (22 page)

“What? Really?”

“Yep—here’s the deal. They suspect that there was one more key player on the other team that night—this piece of shit named Ethan Daniels. His buddies call him Moon Pie or Moon. He’s an opportunistic criminal entrepreneur. He’s into anything that can make him money. He disappeared after the events of that night and stayed gone awhile. Everybody thinks he was next in line to be the top drug-running dog in northeast Mississippi after
Johnny Lee and Reese checked out early and that he’s back and has taken over most of their activities, only he’s taken it up a notch.”

“Why don’t they just arrest him?”

“It ain’t that easy.”

“Why not?”

“First, they haven’t been able to catch him in the act, and second, they really want who’s supplyin’ him. The bigger fish. So they’ve been lettin’ ol’ Moon Pie have some rope to see where he’ll take ’em. They suspect he’s being supplied drugs by this Asian dude from the coast. He’s the big fish. That’s who they really wanna take down.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better about my family’s safety,” Jake said, punching a log on the fire with the poker.

“Trash like Moon Pie live for revenge. They live in the moment and don’t even think about tomorrow or consequences. If he was gonna avenge his buddies’ deaths, he’da done it already. Trust me, I know about these things.”

Jake stared at the fire and tried to work it all through his mind. After a moment, he asked, “Isn’t revenge more satisfying when it’s unexpected?”

“That’s not how these redneck criminals think. They’re programmed different. They are all about payback—an eye for an eye…and if that’s what he’s after, he woulda already done it.”

Jake turned to face R.C. “Then tell me, why are the police watchin’ my family?”

R.C. put a fresh dip in his bottom lip and thought for a long moment. Then he said, “Well, ’cause they got a different mind-set, if you will. They’re givin’ ol’ Moon Pie more credit than I do. They think that since he slipped away from us, he’s smarter than the average dope dealer. They may be right. Also, I do know that, since y’all are kinda celebrities, and since Moon Pie’s got lots of patience—he’s a hell of a poacher, after all—that it’s worth it to them to make sure y’all are safe. Also, I think that they really
wanna catch him doing something worth federal time. It’s like killin’ two birds with one shot—protectin’ y’all and keepin’ an eye on Moon Pie at the same time. At any rate, law enforcement from West Point, Columbus, and even Tupelo—both city and county—are watchin’ and waitin’. Some of those drive-bys and odd vehicles you’ve noticed are probably unmarked cops, just checkin’ on y’all.”

Jake shook his head.

“They didn’t want you to know and have you worried all the time.”

Jake let out a nervous laugh. “So where were they when this Peeping Tom scared the crap outta Morgan and Katy, and what about my camp house burnin’ down?”

“I can’t explain that. All I do know is that whenever Moon Pie goes missing, somebody’s checkin’ in on y’all. As far as the camp, I was a deputy along that river for years, and at least one old camp house catches fire every year for no reason. It just happens.”

“Well, my insurance company claims it was arson. They aren’t gonna pay for it.”

“I hadn’t heard that. If you’ll give me the adjuster’s name and number, I’ll call to see if I can find out anything. Maybe I can help.”

“So are the police watchin’ this guy right now?”

“Maybe not every minute. Twenty-four-seven surveillance costs too much…but they are keeping an eye on him for sure.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

R.C. flipped back several pages in his notebook. “His mom lives in Tupelo. He has a trailer over by the Columbus Air Force Base, and they believe that he has a houseboat docked at the Columbus Marina. It’s not registered in his name, though. He’s actually pretty clever. At any rate, he runs a business on the old side of Columbus called the Gold Mine. He buys and sells gold. That’s his front. He’s also a suspected poacher.”

Jake stood. “R.C., that’s too damn close. I can’t believe nobody ever told me that he lives just twenty minutes down the road! This is unbelievable! What should I do?”

“Nothing. From what I’ve seen around here and what you’ve told me, you’re doin’ all you can to protect your family, and I promise you’re being watched. Just let the pros do their job.”

“Man oh man. If that guy was actually runnin’ with those rednecks, he’s bad news too. They were pure evil.”

“I agree…but the police think Moon Pie can lead them to a dude that’s even worse. They’ll get ’em both. I’ve gotta ask you somethin’. You got anything to eat?”

Jake exhaled. “Yeah, sure. Whatcha hungry for?”

“You got any sardines and crackers?”

“Uh, no sardines. We probably have some crackers, though.”

“Crunchy peanut butter and white bread?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll just make a sandwich,” R.C. said, following Jake into the kitchen.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll take a Tab.”

Jake took a hard look at him to gauge his seriousness. “We don’t have Tab. How about a Diet Coke?”

“That’ll work. What about a banana?”

This exchange reminded Jake that R.C. marched to a different beat and was totally clueless that he was different from most folks. As Jake searched for the peanut butter, he said, “Tell me how you got into the private-detective business.”

“Remember the BP oil spill?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I got hired by BP to provide security for their executives when they were on the coast. They also paid me real well to hang out with the locals to find out what regular folks were thinkin’ and doin’. But to be honest, I really miss law enforcement.”

“You seemed like a natural cop—like you really enjoyed your work,” Jake said with a twinge of envy.

“Yeah, I really do miss it,” R.C. replied, almost in a whisper.

Jake looked at him. “R.C., what do you think I oughta do?”

“Nothin’. Don’t do anything.” R.C. smeared peanut butter on white bread.

“That’s gonna be real hard, knowin’ that he’s so close.”

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s the best thing. Let the law handle it. They want him as badly as you do.”

R.C. took a long, hard look straight into Jake’s eyes, stressing his point. Then quickly, as if he had just remembered something important, he clapped his hands and said, “Man, I almost forgot. I’ve got four tickets to the Rascal Flatts concert tonight. My girlfriends can’t go. Long story. You want ’em?”

“Are you kiddin’? Absolutely! Whoa, wait a sec. Did you say
girlfriends
?”

“Like I said, it’s a long story.”

S
AM WANTED TO
eat out most nights but couldn’t afford it. As a new lawyer, she hadn’t generated much income, and each month when her bills came, she was reminded of just how sorry her ex-husband was. She still couldn’t believe he had cheated on her and yet she had ended up with nothing. But she appreciated that being broke and happy with cereal for supper was infinitely better than married and miserable with fine dining.

She giggled at the memory of the six bottles of skunk scent she had strategically hidden in the attic of her former home. Little glass time bombs. That winter, they would freeze and break. Eventually the scent would thaw and begin stinking to high heaven. It was her only act of retaliation, and it gave her great pleasure.

Sam and Tom the cat were celebrating her liberation by painting the foyer of her childhood home. The red-and-green-stained-glass transom above the front door was well over 140 years old. Frequently she would touch the hole in the doorframe where a bullet intended for her grandfather had lodged and was preserved. He had been a respected doctor in the community, but during the strife of the 1960s, he had treated an injured Negro
teenager who had been beaten while walking home after a civil-rights rally. The young man was the son of their much-loved maid. Sam’s grandfather was carrying the boy up the porch steps when a car drove by, and someone fired several shots. Fortunately, no one was injured.

As she painted, she began to worry about Walter Severson. She had a gut feeling that the Kroger security team was going to have him arrested soon. They had been building a case, and she sensed where it was heading. Anticipating their next move, she began planning hers. It was a high-stakes chess match and her first time to sit at the game table.

T
AM’S DRIVER PULLED
up to the side of the BancorpSouth Arena in Tupelo and then lowered his window to ask a guy wearing a staff jacket where to park for the meet and greet. He glanced at the black Mercedes and pointed to the convoy of buses and eighteen-wheelers parked inside a ten-foot fence. “It’s usually back there. You gotta go around to the gate. There will be somebody to give you directions.”

As soon as they pulled up to the back gate, a man dressed in a heavy coat and holding a clipboard put up a hand to stop them.

Alexa rolled down her window and waved the printed e-mail invitation at the man, who appeared predisposed not to talk. She yelled, “We’re here to meet the band!”

The man took Alexa’s letter, looked at her, and then bent down to look inside. He stood and read the invite. A chill ran down his spine when he realized from the local police’s briefing that this was the man destined for the sting. He kept his composure and did not look directly at Tam.

“Okay, here’s what ya gotta do. The party’s been moved to that hotel right over there. The Hilton Garden Inn. That’s it right there. The band will be along in a few minutes. Hope y’all have fun.”

“Why did they move it?” Tam asked, always suspicious.

The man acted as if he didn’t hear the question.

The driver knew Tam would want an answer and didn’t pull away.

“I asked you, why did they move to the hotel? Is that normal?”

The man bent back down and said the first thing that came to mind: “The heat went out backstage is all I know. Apparently it’s as cold in there as it is out here. Your lady there would freeze to death.” He leered at her in her skimpy clothing.

Tam looked at him and then at the big building for a few seconds. Finally satisfied, he directed the driver, “Just go.” Alexa clapped her hands and squealed in delight.

The man flipped a page back on his clipboard, found the number he was looking for, and immediately dialed it on his cell phone.

“Your bad guy is on the way,” he said with relief.

“You identified him?”

“Yes. They just left the back gate, headed to the hotel. Good luck. He’s a mean-looking dude.”

“Thanks,” the voice replied appreciatively yet sarcastically.

The lead drug-force officer went to the sound system and turned down the volume. “The hay’s on its way to the barn, people. Look alive!” he said and immediately turned the music back up. He winked at the guy controlling the music. Instinctively, he felt his weapon, and it comforted him. Several men wearing staff jackets acted busy just outside the conference room, and two officers carried trays of hors d’oeuvres around to appear as if they were setting up for the party. Everything and every person appeared legit.

The black Mercedes pulled under the portico at the Hilton Garden Inn. Alexa and Tam were arguing. Tam didn’t want to go in. It was a gut feeling, but he didn’t tell her that. Alexa refused to go in by herself, and they locked horns. The driver had heard it
all before. He sat quietly, glancing around and assessing the situation for potential threats. It was what he was paid to do.

Alexa was growing increasingly aggravated and began to question if her fiancé was paranoid or just incapable of enjoying the simple pleasures in life. She knew he earned a living illegally, and she very much enjoyed the fruits; however, she also wanted a taste of normalcy and pledged to drag him along kicking and screaming if she had to.
What’s the good in havin’ money and power if I can’t make my friends jealous?
she thought.

“Go in. I’ll be there in a minute. I have some business to deal with,” he said.

“There’s only one invitation,” she said, making a case for both of them to walk in together.