Nailed (15 page)

Chapter 18

Deacon Meeker brought the four members of Jimmy Thunder’s household staff to the sunroom where Ron waited. The houseman and the cook were African American: the chauffeur and the personal secretary were Korean American. Ron wondered if Thunder was trying to make a statement. Was he trying to prove traditional antagonists could get along if you paid them all enough money?

The deacon didn’t issue any words of warning to the others about talking to Ron, at least not in his presence. Instead, he gave them a badass look — the kind of intimidating expression he might have learned in the yard at San Quentin. Ron stepped between him and his audience.

“Indigestion?” the chief asked the deacon neutrally. But he was giving the deacon
his
hard look, and Meeker was the one to turn away.

Ron turned to see if the others appreciated the fact that he would be there for them, if anyone tried muscling them. The houseman wore an amused little grin: he’d seen this kind of thing before. The cook looked like she had a brisket burning, she was so nervous. The chauffeur and the secretary were impassive.

Ron started with the houseman. He asked the others to seat themselves at a rectangular table where the chief could imagine the reverend taking breakfast on sunny mornings. He wondered if Isaac Cardwell had sat at the table with his father, and what they might have said. A bleak smile forced its way onto Ron’s face when he saw the Koreans sit on the opposite side of the table from the cook. Maybe even money couldn’t buy racial harmony.

Ron and the houseman sat in lounge chairs next to a small recirculating pond in the far corner of the room. At that distance, with the burbling of the water, they were out of earshot of the others.

“What’s your name?” Ron asked.

“Leroi.” The guy had another grin for Ron. The chief figured Leroi to be somewhere around his own age. The man wore a neat goatee that was flecked with gray. He looked quite natty in his work coat and slacks, as if they’d been custom tailored for him. And, working for Jimmy Thunder, maybe they had.

Ron smiled back. “You spell your name with a y or an i?”

“You’re sharp.” The houseman nodded in approval. “With an i. Leroi Grand is what my mama named me. Told me it means ‘The Great King.” How ‘bout that for a name?”

“Not bad.”

“‘Course I like yours, too.”

“You do?”

“Sure. A cop named Ketchum.” Leroi Grand chuckled. “How many times did you hear: ‘Did you catch’em, Ketchum?’”

“A few,” Ron admitted. “Mostly before I made rank. So, Great King, where’d you do your time?”

“Did three years at Joliet. Eighteen months at Pontiac.”

Ron knew of the two Illinois institutions. He asked, “Chicagoan?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What did you do?”

“Little ghetto capitalism, is all.”

“Not drugs, or you’d have been in a lot longer than that.”

“Never did like drugs. Never took ‘em, never sold ‘em. Drugs make everybody too crazy. No, all I did was buy and sell
things.
Used to be an open-air market in Chicago on Maxwell Street for ‘bout a hundred years worked like that. Vendors set up their displays right out on the sidewalk. Nobody asks where anybody got their merchandise. People come for the bargains. And the cops don’t bother anyone. Even with the police station at the end of the block. Was one dude had a table set up sellin’ blue Mars lights, like they come right off a police cruiser. Nobody says a word. Then urban renewal come through, and the market’s gone. I make the mistake of tryin’ to revive it at a new location. Bam, I’m busted for receivin’ stolen goods. All of sudden, people lost all respect for tradition.”

“Life’s hard,” Ron commiserated.

“Tell me. Anyway, this boy, just before I got sent away the second time, sold me just about a whole library of books, cheap. And, would you believe, I got hooked on reading. Never would pick up a book in school. Now, I got my nose in one every spare minute.”

“That’s wonderful. Where’d the books come from?”

“The boy said his grandma. In fact, everything I bought came from somebody’s grandma. I called my business ‘Grandma’s Market.’”

“I bet that boy was lying,” Ron said.

“Sad truth was,” Leroi Grand lamented, “he killed a man whose house he was robbin’. Only reason he stole the books, they had fancy bindings that caught his eye. Which was the only reason I bought them, too. And the only reason I started reading them. When the police busted me, they told me the books were rare first editions. The little library I bought for two hundred dollars was worth more than ten keys of coke. Opened my eyes wide, that information. Books could give you pleasure, make you smart, and be worth a
shitload
of money. I went straight after I got out. Found work where I’d get a room and meals so I could spend all my money reading and hunting up first editions.”

“The Chicago cops didn’t like you as an accomplice to the murder of the original book owner?”

“Sure, they did. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. And when I fingered the boy who sold me the books, I got my eighteen months for receivin’ stolen property.”

Ron nodded.

He asked, “Did you see Isaac Cardwell when he was here?”

“‘Course I did. I’m the one who keeps this place runnin’.”

“How did he get along with his father?”

Leroi Grand rubbed his chin. “It was hard on both of ’em at first. All that time apart, a boy’s gonna want to know why his daddy run out on him. And there ain’t never a good enough answer for doin’ that.”

“Did they argue about it?” Ron asked.

“No. Isaac Cardwell … all I can say about him is, we all had ministers like him, you cops wouldn’t have near as much work. I knock on the door to his room one night, and when I don’t get an answer, I go in. He’s down on his knees prayin’ so hard he didn’t even hear me. When’s the last time you saw a grown man prayin’ on his knees all by himself?”

“I don’t think I ever have,” Ron answered. “Jimmy Thunder doesn’t do it, does he?”

The houseman shrugged. “I don’t know. His door, I don’t open unless the man say, ‘Come on in.’”

“So there were no hard feelings at all between Cardwell and Thunder, despite the reverend abandoning his son?”

“Was this one time,” Leroi said.

“What happened?” Ron asked.

“The reverend had another visitor at the house part of the time his boy was here. Isaac, he didn’t like his daddy associatin’ with this gentleman.”

“Why not?”

“That, I honestly can’t say. Some folks you just naturally give a little more breathin’ room than others. This particular gentleman, I respected his privacy real good.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Didi DuPree.” Leroi spelled it for him.

“And was there something about him that warned you away?”

Leroi Grand smiled ruefully. “The way you made me for an ex con?”

“Yeah.”

“I made Mr. DuPree the same way. Only I bet he was in for somethin’ a lot worse than I was.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“You look at the man yourself sometime and tell me what you know.”

Ron had one last question for the man. “How come you’re talking to me so freely?”

“Well, first off I learned to stop hating cops, and most everyone else, quite a while ago. Funny how a man’s attitude changes once he starts makin’ an honest dollar. Second, I promised myself I ain’t never goin’ back to prison — not even for a job as good as this one. And I know, a fella with my record, I don’t cooperate, what you cops gonna think? That I’m in the middle of things, that’s what.” Leroi Grand shook his head. “No, sir, I ain’t goin’ back in. You wouldn’t believe how
bad
prison libraries are.”

Ron couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told him he’d learned to stop hating, and never when the subject was cops.

“You’re okay, Leroi. You let me know if anyone around here gives you any grief. I’ll get the mayor to find you a job.”

The houseman left with another of his trademark grins.

The two Koreans had their routines down pat.

The personal secretary answered every question with the same response: “I’m sorry. I regret I can’t help you with that.”

The chauffeur simply answered every question, “No.” From the blank look on the man’s face, Ron wasn’t sure that the driver even understood English. But the chief highly doubted Jimmy Thunder had picked up a working knowledge of Korean anywhere in his travels. Not even enough to give his driver directions.

So just to see if he could get any kind of rise out of the little man with the rigid jaw, Ron asked jokingly, “Does your employer know you once worked for the Korean CIA?”

“No.” Then there was a reptilian flicker behind the man’s previously opaque brown eyes as he wondered if his standard denial was a sufficient answer. “I did not,” he added tersely, and stomped from the room.

Ron was tempted to call him back, but by this time the cook was squirming in her chair like a small child waiting to use the bathroom. Which was just how Ron wanted her.

“What’s your name?” Ron asked, when he had her seated next to him.

“Marvella McRay.”

“Are you nervous about something, Marvella?”

“Today is my last day.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m leavin’ this place,” the woman elaborated.

“Why?”

“Why?” the woman echoed in disbelief. “You’re the chief of police, and you don’t know?”

“I don’t know why you’re leaving your job.”

“Because that fine young man who was stayin’ here got himself murdered so terrible bad. It’s a sin against Jesus killin’ someone that way — mockin’ our sweet Lord like that. And then you ain’t heard his grandmother callin’ down the wrath of God on this town? I ain’t stayin’ here, no sir!”

“What are you going to do?” Ron asked.

“My boy’s comin’ from Reno to get me any minute now. I’ll find work someplace else. I was packin’ when Deacon Meeker said the police wanted to see me right away.”

The woman was genuinely terrified and Ron didn’t keep her long.

Just long enough for Marvella McCray to tell him that Reverend Thunder sent away his two lady friends while his son was in the house.

She gave Ron their names and told him where they were staying.

By the time Ron got back outside, the man on the riding mower was gone. The chief made a mental note to get the groundskeeper’s name and talk to him soon.

Chapter 19

Sitting at his desk in police headquarters, Ron read through the stack of hate mail Jimmy Thunder had given him. Attached to each letter was a photocopy of the envelope in which it had arrived. None of the envelope copies had a return address on it. The chief started his reading with the locally postmarked sewage:

“You call yourself a man of God?! Niggers ain’t God’s creatures! The goddamn devil made niggers, singed ’em up in the fires of Hell good and black, and set ’em loose in the world to torment white folks. That’s the way I read my Bible, mister!”

“Reverend Thunder, huh? Hah! You sound more like a dry fart to me. Your allways up there yappin’ on television, tellin’ coons how to act right. What do you think they are, white? Even your average city-nigger knows better’n that. They’ll take up against there own kind, if they try to act white. All niggers want is there wellfare checks, there crank cocain, and to be left alone in there getto jungles to shoot one another from cars. You know it and I do two.”

“First we had the Jews, and they were Christ-killers. Now we got niggers like you, and you’re Christ-stealers. You think we’re going to let you get away with that? Your kind might mug us on dark streets and take all our money. But you’ll never steal
our
God. You think I’m wrong? Just look around. See how many nigger churches are burning. Your turn is coming.”

That was the first specific threat. Ron looked at the photocopy of the envelope. It was addressed to the P.O. box of Thunder’s ministry, not his home address. But there was a Goldstrike postmark on the envelope, and it wasn’t much of stretch to think a local could find out where Jimmy Thunder lived. It would be a better trick to get past Thunder’s gate and Deacon Meeker to burn down the reverend’s “church.” But why wouldn’t Thunder pass on such a threat to the police as a matter of course? Why wait until his son had been killed?

He’d have to talk to the reverend about that, and any other direct threat he found.

Ron was about to wade back into the postal cesspool when his phone rang. It was Leroi Grand. He wanted to know if the chief would like the name of the cleaning company he had come out to the house twice a week.

Ron said he would, and thanked Leroi for his cooperation.

Then he asked, “What’s the name of the guy who does the lawns?”

“Man does more than cut the grass,” Leroi said. “He’s the one responsible for the place lookin’ like Adam ‘n’ Eve might pop out from behind the next bush. His name’s Art Gilbert.”

“He have his own company?” Ron asked.

“Yeah.” Leroi gave him the name.

“What kind of guy is he?”

“Quiet. But he’s all right. Pretty much keeps to his work. Guess that’s what an artist is like.”

Having seen the landscaping at Jimmy Thunder’s estate, Ron wouldn’t argue that Gilbert was indeed an artist. “Thanks again, Leroi. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

Before he got back to the hate mail, Ron decided to stretch his legs and he buttonholed Sergeant Stanley.

“Run a name for me, Sarge. Query the state and NCIC data bases.”

“Sure. What’s the name?”

“Didi DuPree.” Ron spelled it for him. “Let’s see if there are any arrest warrants out for Mr. DuPree. Take a look at his criminal history. If he’s done any serious time, see what you can find out about that. And if there are mug-shots available, I’ll want those, too.”

The sergeant nodded and did a quick first scan through the impressive database between his ears. “Don’t know him, personally. If I find out Mr. DuPree is not your model citizen, you want me to take any further action?”

“I want to know if he’s still in town. He was a guest at Jimmy Thunder’s estate at least part of the time Isaac Cardwell was there. But don’t start looking for him until I know what kind of sheet he has.”

The sergeant nodded and went to perform his task.

“Hey, Sarge,” Ron said, stopping him. “Add another name to that computer search: Deacon Meeker.”

The chief returned to his office and looked at the stack of hate mail waiting for him. It put him in a sour mood. He went to his windows and looked out at the lake.

He’d been surprised and appalled by the racist crap that had been locally mailed to Thunder. He hadn’t thought that kind of cretin could afford the rarefied precincts of Goldstrike. Sure, not everybody in town was rich, well educated and recently arrived. Somebody had to do oil changes, wait tables, ring up resort wear, and clean hotel rooms. But any resident who so desired could swim in the lake and ski the mountains just like all the millionaires. The town’s recreation programs saw to that. And to Ron’s certain knowledge, there were no desperate poor or career criminals living in town. The people of Goldstrike had always seemed a decent sort to him. So who was spewing their bile to Thunder? Living in a place of such surpassing beauty, what the hell did they have to complain about? What right did they have to hold a grudge against anybody?

Maybe they’d never had a chance to meet their DeWayne Michaels, he thought acidly. That notion was enough to bring the chief up short. If he hadn’t met DeWayne, might he be just as twisted as the haters who had bared their deformed souls to Jimmy Thunder?

Regardless of how his personal demons made him feel, he’d have to keep his ear close to the ground. If there were anything worse than having assholes in his jurisdiction, it would be letting them get organized. He wouldn’t stand for that.

Then there was the matter of Mr. Didi DuPree, the seriously bad ex con, according to Leroi Grand. Ron didn’t doubt the canny houseman’s appraisal was accurate. It wouldn’t do to have someone like DuPree on hand, sliding in and out of the shadows. Not at any time. But especially not now when Isaac Cardwell’s killer was still looking to have his nametag filled in. A prompt sit down with DuPree would be imperative.

Ron let out a deep sigh.

A voice said, “The burdens of high office getting to be too much for you? Let me know if I should make my pitch to the mayor.”

The chief turned to see that Oliver had entered his office.

“You keep telling me you’re not going to spend another winter here,” Ron said.

“My wife and son keep telling me they won’t live anywhere else.”

“We’ve all got our —” Ron stopped himself. “I was going to say crosses to bear. But in light of recent events I don’t think that’s a very happy metaphor.”

“Not hardly,” Oliver said, taking a seat.

Ron sat down behind his desk.

“Why don’t you tell me about your day, and I’ll tell you about mine?”

The two cops spent the next ten minutes sharing information, and they examined how some of the pieces of what they’d learned might fit together.

“The reverend has himself two girlfriends?” Oliver asked. “And they both live under his roof? That’s not exactly living the fine, upstanding lifestyle he preaches, is it?”

Jimmy Thunder’s ministry was predicated on the simple idea that if you followed the Ten Commandments, you were beyond reproof. If anyone hurled an epithet, racial or otherwise, at you while you lived a righteous life, they were only revealing their own flawed and sinful natures.

A moral, upright life was an invincible shield, the reverend preached. In time, even the wicked would tire of trying to attack it. Or they would be driven off by the multitudes of the godly. Whose numbers would surely increase if Jimmy Thunder’s show remained on TV.

“Yeah,” Ron responded. “And then there’s his friend and houseguest, Didi DuPree, and whatever sins he makes his life’s work. In the middle of all this, Isaac Cardwell arrives unexpectedly on Daddy’s doorstep, with a Brit sleaze merchant in tow.”

“You think the old lady’s got it right? Jimmy Thunder did his son?”

“He says he was playing cards with Texas Jack.”

“Gambling being another thing that surely wouldn’t help his image.”

“Besides which,” Ron added, “Thunder could have hired it done, and never had to leave the card table.”

A reflective look crossed the deputy chief’s face.

“Killing your own son. Man, you can’t get any colder than that.”

Ron knew Oliver was thinking about his own beloved child.

“It’s not like they really knew each other,” the chief said. “From what you told me, Mahalia Cardwell drove Thunder off before Isaac Cardwell was even born.”

“Yeah. And the good reverend never made an attempt to see his boy after that. So maybe he didn’t care that Isaac was his own flesh and blood. Maybe all he cared about was saving his own sweet scam, and hired the killing done like you said.”

Ron decided to play the devil’s advocate for a moment.

“I thought you liked a white guy with a red neck for the murder.”

“Maybe that’s who Thunder hired,” Oliver said.

“Or maybe he just had his boy nailed to that tree like that to throw us off.”

“Yeah, shit. It could be like that,” the deputy chief admitted.

“You think Isaac Cardwell was actually spying on his father for this Colin Ring scumbag?”

“Mrs. Cardwell paints a halo ‘round Isaac’s head. On the other hand, even Jesus had his moment of weakness. Maybe Reverend Cardwell was hitting back at Reverend Thunder for being such a miserable fucking excuse for a father.”

Oliver shook his head several times.

Then he asked, “We get any word on physical evidence from the crime scene?”

“Such as it is,” Ron answered. “Dr. Ryman estimates Isaac Cardwell’s time of death as approximately three A.M. Friday morning. He says the rain that was falling off and on that night undoubtedly affected the body’s temperature, but to what degree he can’t say. So three in the morning is his best guess. Benny Marx tells me those footprints come from a size nine-and-a-half E work boot, manufactured in South Korea and sold under various labels at department and discount stores around the country. The impressions indicate a man five nine to six feet, weighing between one fifty and two hundred pounds. Again, precision was made more difficult by the rain, by the fact that the killer was burdened by Isaac Cardwell’s weight on the way to the tree, and the fact that slippery footing likely caused him to alter the length of his normal stride on the way out.”

“No chance of getting anything of the killer’s to do a DNA test on?”

Ron shook his head. “No tissue was found under Isaac Cardwell’s fingernails. No strands of hair were found. No blood was found.”

Oliver Gosden’s jaw was tight with frustration. Then he sighed as loudly as Ron had moments earlier. “You know, I wouldn’t mind letting my family see their daddy part of this Sunday. That all right with you?”

“Sure, go ahead. Give my love to Lauren, and tell Danny his Uncle Ron says hello.”

Oliver snorted. “Uncle Ron, huh? You think that’s funny, don’t you?”

“A sense of humor is sanity’s life preserver,” Ron said with a grin.

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. You going home, too?”

The smile fell off the chief’s face.

“No. Not yet. I’ve got a lot of hate mail to read.”