Out Of Time (14 page)

The day had turned even warmer. As the service dragged on, my eyelids began to droop. I thought I smelled honeysuckle creeping in under the raised window to my right. I’d have killed for a hammock. I heard a faint hiss of steam and suppressed a groan. The radiator was kicking to life, oblivious to the unexpected heat. I was about to disgrace myself by falling asleep and hitting my head on the pew in front of me when my seatmate elbowed me back to consciousness.

“Who’s that man staring at you?” she whispered. “He’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

I followed her gaze. She was glancing one row behind us toward the middle of a pew on the opposite side of the church. Bill Butler sat stiffly at attention among a group of off-duty officers. Detective Anne Morrow sat several people further down the row, looking elegant in a black pantsuit. Bill was oblivious to my presence. The man sitting next to him was not. I stared back into his very green eyes, their vibrant color apparent even at a distance. He was an incredibly good-looking man: tall, trim with wide shoulders, thick black hair that feathered back without looking fussy and well-proportioned features perfectly sculpted above a wide mouth. He looked away quickly, but not before a jolt of electricity crackled through the air between us.

“I don’t know who he is,” I whispered to my seatmate, though I knew he had to be a cop.

She shook her head. “Looks like trouble to me. Do yourself a favor and marry an ugly man. I’ve done it twice. They know how to treat a woman right.”

After that, I had no problem staying awake. Through the remainder of the service, I wondered who the man might be. I whispered a hurried good-bye to my seatmate once the last hymn was over. I was almost at the door when I caught the back of one of my black heels on the crutches of the one-legged man that were in the aisle. I tripped, groped to regain my balance, snagged the other heel on the edge of the aisle runner and landed with a plop in Captain Ahab’s lap. I’d never make it as a ballet dancer. Fortunately, the rest of the congregation was too busy collecting their belongings to pay any attention to my Keystone Kops routine.

“Sorry,” I muttered, struggling to hoist myself off his lap.

“Anytime, lady. Nice hat.” I looked down into a pair of cheerful blue eyes above a ragged white beard. “Sorry about tlororry abhe crutches,” he added. “I’m having a new leg made but it’s not fitting right yet so I’d just as soon go without.”

“Casey Jones,” I told him, introducing myself. “Can you move over?” He elbowed his seatmate and obliged. I slipped into the back pew next to the motley crew of assorted men. “Who are you guys anyway? How do you know Peyton?”

“Nam,” the man told me. “You’re looking at the Triangle Chapter of the Vietnam Veteran’s Association.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Peyton served two tours, didn’t he?”

“More than any of us had the balls to do,” the man added, then looked ashamed at his choice of language within such hallowed halls.

I stared down the row. “A lot of you turned out.”

“Peyton was a good guy,” the man explained. “He used to come to all the meetings. Never made a big deal out of it. Gave us a lot of money, too. He had more than the rest of us. Didn’t milk it for the publicity either.”

“No,” I agreed. “He kept it pretty quiet. I wonder why?”

The man thought about it. “Didn’t want to remember but couldn’t forget?” he suggested. The man next to him nodded his agreement.

I saw the crowd surging down the aisle: middle-aged politicians being pushed from behind by impatient senior citizens who, I suspected, were taking full opportunity of the chance to poke and prod at the fat cats before them. I didn’t blame them. I wouldn’t mind taking a cane to a couple of them myself.

“I think I’ll get out of the way,” I muttered, leaping up only to crash into the handsome man with the green eyes.

“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his calf and staring down the front of my dress.

“Should have known it would be you,” a voice interrupted. Bill Butler glared over the man’s shoulder, annoyed. “You’re holding up traffic, Casey.”

“Excuse me,” I spat back and flounced from the church, which wasn’t easy, given that I had to careen around a dozen shuffling old mourners to do so. I waited on the front steps with my retort, wondering what bug was up his ass.

Bill didn’t give me a chance to ask. “Detective Morrow wants to ask you a few questions,” he warned me.

“Is that why you invited me?” I asked, affronted by his cold demeanor. I knew we were in the middle of a personal cold war, but I didn’t think things had deteriorated to Arctic temperatures yet.

“Of course not.” He stared down at my legs and tried to smile. “I was hoping for a glimpse of your fishnets. Only you would wear them to a funeral.”

The man next to him laughed. I shot him a glare. The look didn’t faze him.

“Care to introduce us?” I demanded of Bill, uncomfortably aware that the stranger’s green eyes were boring into me.

Bill sighed, making it clear that the man was the very person he had not wanted me to meet. “Casey, this is Steven Hill. He’s with the Durham force.”

I opened my mouth but Bill wouldn’t let me get the words out.

“Forget it,” he said. “The answer is ‘no.’ And here comes Morrow.”

Detective Morrow, trim and tall in her tailored suit, was heading for me. She slid her sunglasses down over her face before I could read it. Smart lady.

“Casey,” she said quietly. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” I muttered, following her to one side of the wide stone steps. Hordes of ancient mourners shuffled past us, their faces vaguely disapproving.

“That was thoroughly depressing,” I said. “All those old people.”

“Agreed,” Detective Morrow replied. “We found some odd marks when we were fingerprinting the house. Know anything about them?”

I stared down at my feet, finding the open toes of my high heels suddenly fascinating. The way my tootsies were squished toward the middle of the triangular opening made my feet look like pig hooves.

Detective Morrow did not find my shoes quite as interesting. “Casey?” she repeated in a much firmer voice. “Know anything about those odd marks?”

“Weird like how?” I asked faintly.

“Clearly the house was searched,” the detective said. “Maybe Tillman was looking for something he lost, but I find that unlikely. His prints were all over, as would be expected. Ditto his girlfriend’s.”

“Fiancée’s,” I corrected her.

“There were also plenty of blank prints. Latex gloves. And then there were these weird smudges everywhere. Maybe you could help?”

“Weird smudges?” I said slowly. “Weird like someone was wearing mittens or something when they searched the house?”

“Mittens,” she said slowly. “In March?”

“Oven mittens,” I suggested with a shrug. “It’s just a thought.”

A small sigh escaped from her lips.

“Not looking much like suicide, is it?” I asked.

She ignored me. “Senator Hawthorne!” she called out, dumping me to hurry to the side of a distinguished man with silver hair. Geeze, but I was feeling as low on the food chain as intestinal bacteria. Maybe I ought to go back to throwing myself on the laps of one-legged war veterans.

“Miss Jones,” a cultivated voice called out. Across the stairs, old Mrs. Rollins was dodging other mourners and heading my way with her teacher’s mouth set in a grim line. Her hair was swept up beneath a narrow-brimmed hat, and she was dressed in a dark-brown suit from another era. Her glasses glittered in the sun.

The old Mrs. Rollins was back in full force. “Come with me, Miss Jones,” she ordered firmly. “There’s someone you should meet.”

It was impossible to do anything but meekly obey her. I followed her toward a waiting limousine. She opened the door and ordered me inside. “Get in,” she snapped, “before some newshound sticks his camera in her face.” She glared at a reporter hovering behind me, and the guy took a giant step back as if she was about to turn him into stone.

I slid inside quickly and found myself nose to nose with Peyton Tillman’s fiancée. We blinked at each other and stared.

“Casey Jones,” I said, extending my hand for a shake. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” It was a classic southern expression of condolence. Even white trash like me learned the words early.

Her grip was understandably uninspired. “Sylvia Bennett,” she said in a tired voice. “Peyton said he was meeting you the night he died.”

I nodded. The poor woman looked drained of life. She was the color of over-cooked fettuccine and half as lively.

“I was hoping you could tell me what some of his last words might have been,” she said.

I stared. “The police didn’t tell you?” I asked.

She stirred uncomfortably, and a whiff of perfume floated toward me. “Tell me what?” she asked in an even smaller voice.

“I’m the one who found him,” I explained. “He was dead when I got there.”

She closed her eyes and I waited while she composed herself. “He would never have killed himself,” she said flatly.

“I know,” I agreed.

She was silent for a moment. “We were going to be married this June.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said again, meaning it.

She stared out the tinted window. “I have something for you,” she whispered. “Mrs. Rollins says it’s the only way.”

“For me?” I asked, startled.

“I thought he was being paranoid,” she began. Her voice faltered and tears streamed down her cheeks. I waited while she retrieved a handkerchief tucked in one sleeve and cried quietly into it for a moment. “He started keeping these files at my house about a month ago. I want you to have them. Mrs. Rollins says you’re the only one we can trust, that I should give them to you.”

“Files on what?” I asked, perplexed.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. They’re numbered instead of labeled. It might be some kind of code. But if they had anything to do with Peyton dying, I want them out of my house by tonight.”

“I’ll come by later,” I promised. “Right after the graveside service.”

She nodded dully. “Fine. I’m not going anywhere.” She gave me her address, than lapsed back into silence. I took it as a sign that our conversation was over. I was going to tell her again how sorry I was, but I don’t think she remembered I was still there.

When I climbed back out into the spring sunshine, the crowd had thinned. Mrs. Rollins was waiting for me at the curb, shading her eyes against the glare. “Thank you,” I told her. “I won’t let you down.”

“Better not, young lady,” she warned.

I have been to enough graveside ceremonies—two, in particular—to last me a lifetime. I skipped Peyton Tillman’s. I wasn’t the only one. The funeral procession that passed me as I stood on the sidewalk had shrunk considerably. It was heavy on land boats driven by silver-haired gents and battered wrecks manned by Vietnam vets. Nary a limo except for the lead one. The fat cats had headed back to work. Just as well, I thought, let him be buried by those who had loved him the most.

Peyton Tillman had left me files. Maybe not intentionally, but I was going to get them. I should, of course, immediately turn them over to Detective Morrow. And I would—after I read them through. In the meantime, I would finish reading the court transcripts while I waited for Peyton’s fiancée to return home.

Ruby was busy ticketing a long black car with a low- numbered plate when I pulled up in front of my office. She gets a special kick out of nabbing politicos. It’s her way of striking a blow for the freedom of the common man.

“Casey,” she said, waving a greeting. “Got me a big fish this time. Look at that—a single-digit plate.”

I patted her on the back. “You go, girl,” I encouraged her.

“My sister Keisha is all ready to help you out,” she said. “But it has to be on her lunch hour and weekends on account of her day care is stretched pretty thin.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “But after what happened to Bobby, tell her to be careful if she’s here alone late at night.”

“What’s she supposed to do?” Ruby asked.

“Shove papers back in whatever file she thinks is best. And keep her mouth shut about what she finds.”

Ruby nodded. “You got the right woman. That girl don’t talk about no one’s business, not even her own.”

I retrieved a spare key for Ruby to give to her sister, then returned to the office with my stash of files from the trunk. I had a couple of other cases pending behind Gail Honeycutt’s, but all of them were incredibly boring and could wait: a farmer over by Fuquay wanted to know who kept joyriding his tractor at night; a woman in North Raleigh had gotten tired of her husband and wanted to divorce his ass—she was hoping I’d give her a good excuse in the form of some glossy eight by tens; and a neighborhood association in Cary had been whipped into a frenzy by rumors of a pet-napping ring heading its way. Did I care to stake out the subdivision’s precious pooches and keep them from ending up being hooked to giz=“wooked tmos in laboratories from here to Atlanta? Normally, I did care. But not this month. Everyone else would still be around at the end of March. But not Gail. Not unless I moved faster than I had been.

I reviewed my notes and made a list of everything that bothered me about the night Roy Taylor was killed. It was a short list. One thing bothered me the most: there had been a potential witness in the house that night. Gail’s child. Where was the child now?