Out Of Time (2 page)

“But it wasn’t?” I guessed. Their lawyer should have known better.

The woman shook her head. “After the state Supreme Court turned down her automatic appeal, we got Gail a new lawyer. She filed an appeal with the federal Court of Appeals in Richmond. They turned her down, too. Now she’s filed a second appeal with them, but I haven’t got much hope.”

“None of us have,” Nanny Honeycutt interrupted. “We think her only chance is a stay by the governor. I read up on it. He can do whatever he wants. They say his power is ‘absolute.’ If we can come up with enough evidence to show that maybe someone else might have done it, then he might put the date on hold while we convince the police to find out more. It’s our only chance.”

In that case, Gail Honeycutt didn’t have much of a chance at all, whether I helped her or not. The current governor of North Carolina had recently been elected for the third time, in part thanks to an anticrime platform. A few years ago, he’d even convened a special session of the legislature—at the cost of hundreds of thousands of public dollars—just to come up with new ways to punish criminals. He had really gotten the creative juices of our local politicians going. One state senator had gone on record as saying that N.C. ought to bring back public hangings in the courthouse yard, then suggested we invite all thes svite al citizens of our fine state to witness these executions. He didn’t specify whether refreshments were to be served or not. But few people had contradicted him.

“We need you to find enough evidence to convince the governor,” the younger of the two women said. “We don’t know where else to turn. Please, the whole family knows she’s innocent. You’ve got to help her.” She tried to say more, but broke down in tears. A dozen arms reached out to pat her, and little clucks of sympathy ran through the crowd. She had to be Gail’s mother.

I grit my teeth against tears. I hate it when anyone over the age of two years old cries. If you’re old enough to be toilet trained, by god, you’re old enough to keep a stiff upper lip. Especially if the crying makes someone like me feel guilty. “Haven’t you got any men in your family?” I asked. “What do they think?”

Nanny Honeycutt snorted. “They’re too busy watching football or plowing their fields to take a stand. Don’t look for the smarts in the Honeycutt family on the male side, honey. What you see here in this room is what you get.”

“It’s a touchy situation,” another younger woman explained. “Most men in the family think that Gail isn’t worth the trouble.”

“Not worth the trouble?” I asked. That was a hell of a way to put it.

The woman shrugged. “She’s had a knack for getting in trouble her whole life. They think this is just the end of a long road for her.”

“How can you be so sure she’s innocent?” I asked.

“Honeycutt women are not stupid,” the old lady said proudly. “Gail is not stupid enough to shoot her husband in her own home and then lay there with the gun in her hand. She couldn’t even hold a gun properly. I know. I tried to teach her myself. You can’t tell me she could fire off six shots and hit him with four of them. No way on god’s green earth.”

I sighed. Intelligence has nothing to do with committing a crime, only with getting caught for it. What the hell could I do to help at this late date anyway? I’d have to go back and dig up a crime that was eight years old, then convince the governor to give her a break, and who knew if I’d find anything that would help? On the other hand, a nagging inner voice reminded me, you once spent eighteen months in a Florida prison paying for something you didn’t do because no one believed in you. Great, I thought, even my own conscience was turning against me. “Is there any new evidence?” I asked. “Or should I call up Johnnie Cochran and ask him to help me invent some?”

“Her sister thinks there is and she’s a prosecuting attorney.”

“Gail’s sister is a prosecuting attorney?” 4”> attornI asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Nanny Honeycutt said briskly, annoyed I hadn’t learned her family tree by osmosis. “Here in Wake County. Brenda’s the one who suggested hiring you in the first place.”

I was silent as I paused to think it over.

“We don’t have anyone else,” the old woman reminded me grudgingly. I noticed for the first time that her fists were clenched and her mouth had grown tight along the edges, sending wrinkles fanning out across a grim face. “Please, I’m asking you from my heart. She is my granddaughter and I love her no matter what people say she did.”

Oh god, that did it. I had been raised by my grandfather and I knew how heartfelt those words could be. If I turned my back on this proud old woman, I’d feel lower than a centipede’s instep. And I’d never be able to look my grandpa in the face again.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me look into it. I’ll let you know in a day or two.”

“You better make it a day and not two,” the old lady warned. “We’ve only got a month now. One month.”

“I know, I know.” I involuntarily looked up at the clock. “You really know how to put pressure on a person.”

A few minutes after the women left, a huge shadow loomed in my doorway. I spun around, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. Bobby D. had actually moved from his chair and walked a good fifteen feet to my office. Hallelujah, he has risen.

My astonishment showed. “Got a new filling on the right side,” he observed.

I nodded. “Heard there was a cute new dentist in Chapel Hill. They were right, but he’s no fun. Doesn’t believe in laughing gas.”

“What did those women want? Are they all gone now?” Bobby asked, running a hammy finger around his collar to loosen it. “They sure know how to make a man nervous.”

“They want me to look into the Roy Taylor murder,” I said. “They say the wife didn’t do it. She’s kin.”

“Gail Honeycutt?” Bobby D. shook his head. “That’s a real shit storm, Casey. Don’t do it. She killed a cop and we need the cops on our side. Capiche?”

“I haven’t said yes for sure,” I told him. “I’m going to visit her in prison and talk to her first.”

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“It’s your funeral,” he warned.

Yeah, my funeral and his fee.

He ambled back to his desk, satisfied that the country ladies were gone. He eased into his chair with a grunt. I had no doubt he’d stay right there for the next five hours, at least, gathering his strength to haul his big butt up again. “I been thinking about getting me a computer like yours,” he confessed suddenly. “So I can go into them chat rooms I keep hearing about and get me some computer dates.”

Oh, lordy. It was time to save the women of America a lot of unpleasant surprises. “Bobby, you’re a master technician when it comes to love, but you might lose something in the translation. Besides, you can’t even type. Stick to working your magic in the flesh. Trust me.”

He brightened. “That’s true. Why mess with perfection?”

“Why indeed.” I kept my face as solemn as possible.

“So what’s the word on the bar gig?” Bobby asked, dollar signs dancing in front of his eyes.

“Got him. It’s the head bartender, I regret to say. Double dipping. Experienced at it, too, if my eyes are telling me the truth.”

Bobby sighed. “Client ain’t gonna be happy. Good bartenders are hard to find.”

“Yeah, well, this one was bleeding him dry.” I sketched in the details of the scam while Bobby took down a few notes on the ancient notepad he kept near his telephone.

“I’d better phone him tonight,” Bobby decided. “Before the perp moves out the bottles and clears the tape.” His smile reappeared. “This could get us a lot more work.”

“Get me a lot more work,” I corrected him. “It could get you a lot more money.”

“Synergy!” he said happily.

“What?” I stared at him warily.

“You and me, baby—we’re synergistic!”

“Don’t go corporate on me, Bobby. Whatever you do, don’t go corporate.”

I fled to the privacy of my office and put the next half hour to good use re-applying my makeup, changing dresses twice and inspecting my inspeca dozen minute flaws in my compact mirror. Damn. I still didn’t look like Cindy Crawford. Maybe I should ask for a refund on my new eye shadow. Good thing I didn’t have a real date with Bill Butler. I’d have spontaneously combusted from tension and missed the whole thing.

I looked pretty good when I was done, if I do say so myself. I was unlikely to scare anyone under the age of sixty- five. I had exchanged my cat-eye glasses for contact lenses, swapped my high-tops for sluttish high heels, refreshed my eyeliner, toned down my semi-punk look in honor of my police officer dining companion and fluffed up my blond- going-black hairdo. I admit I have a rather in-your-face fashion sense that favors thrift-shop clothes and unorthodox color combinations. But I’m a big girl and it’s hard to hide it, so I don’t bother. I wear tight dresses when I’m in the mood and, if someone has a problem with that, they’re welcome to Indian-wrestle the point.

I was in the mood for a tight dress that night. Bobby whistled when I sashayed past. “Wee doggies, baby,” he said, shaking his toupeed head in admiration. “I can see the wrinkles on your wrinkles in that dress. What is it? Spray-painted on?”

“You really know how to flatter a girl,” I told him, letting the door slam shut behind me.

Bill was waiting at the bar of a massive downtown nightspot. Two enterprising young men had gutted a tobacco warehouse and converted it into a huge restaurant that included a nifty bar area that certainly did not look as if it were situated in Raleigh, North Carolina. Handmade stools from funky pieces of wood. Blue halogen lighting. Copper- topped bar. Very New York City, only a whole lot cleaner and a whole lot cheaper.

“Christ, Casey—you got a license to wear that thing?” Bill asked, checking me out from neckline to hemline.

I was pleased. Best to get his attention early on. “This old body?” I said. “I’ve been wearing it for the past thirty-six years.”

“Then it’s time you let someone else try it on for size,” he suggested.

“One size fits all,” I said. “And, believe me, it has.”

I slid onto a stool next to him and noticed his appalled expression. “I’m kidding, Bill,” I assured him. He didn’t look too convinced.

“Pretty quiet,” I said, glancing around.

“Basketball play-offs,” he explained. “Everyone’s home glued to their tubes. What is it with this state? I don’t get the big deal about basketball.”

“It’s simple,” I explained. “We can’t root tobacco faoot tobor hog farmers on to victory, and basketball is the thing we do next best.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said, signaling the bartender to bring us a round. He didn’t bother to ask me what I was drinking, he just ordered the same brand of beer he was having. That’s Bill for you.

“Aren’t you afraid we’ll run into someone we know?” I asked, searching the few occupied tables for familiar faces. No one I recognized, either from in person or from glossy eight by tens. Just a couple tables of wealthy-looking senior citizens squinting at the trendy hand-printed menu. North Raleighites out for a funky night on the town at the funky new restaurant. I hoped their pacemakers could take it.

“Starting trouble early, aren’t you?” Bill asked. “Can’t even be nice to me for five minutes?”

“I can’t take the pressure,” I admitted. And it was true. It was one thing to hop gaily from bed to bed with a string of younger boyfriends, all of them all too willing to let me love ‘em and leave ‘em. It was another to get involved with a man who wanted to steer the ship once in a while, and Bill Butler definitely qualified for captain. He was a detective with the Raleigh Police Department and considered a newcomer to the area, having arrived from Long Island a mere four years ago. He was currently working with the Sex Crimes Unit, which had done nothing for his potential libido in my book. In fact, he’d seemed to be downright uninterested lately, which hurt me deeply. I had recently rejected him and, instead of retreating, by all laws of men and women, he should have been leading the charge in the battle of the sexes by now. What fun is war if the other side doesn’t even notice we’re fighting?

“Casey,” he explained, clinking his beer bottle with mine in salute. “You have to learn to play the game. You can’t just say things like you’re under pressure when you’re dating. It doesn’t work that way—”

“We’re not dating,” I interrupted firmly. “I told you. No dates. I don’t date. Either you’re in it with me or you’re not. I’m not going to spend my evenings shopping for another human being.”

“Okay, okay.” He backed off quickly. “I forgot, this is a non-date. Is there any chance we could have a little non-sex at the end of it?”

“Watch it. Buster,” I warned him. “I’ve had a long day.”

“I’d do all the work,” he offered.

“Damn straight you would,” I replied. An involuntary sigh escaped from me. It really had been a long day, and the thought of surrendering to Bill’s long fingers had its appeal.

“So, how did it go?” he asked. “You sound tired. I thought you were on a bar job. How hard coulorHow harld that be?”

It took me a moment to answer because I made the mistake of glancing at him and it was always hard to think when you had Bill Butler in your line of vision. He hadn’t been raised around here and it showed. This was not a body bred on biscuits and bacon grease. He was tall and lean, with a full head of hair that was rapidly turning a well-earned gray. His hands were big and it was impossible to watch them spread gracefully over the copper bar without thinking of them spread elsewhere. A long black mustache that pushed the limits of departmental regulations crept down either side of his mouth. He had a great mouth on him, when he could keep it shut. It was thin and almost always curled into a smile no matter how tough he tried to look. But his eyes were his most deadly weapons. They were deep brown and he had those long lashes that it’s really unfair to waste on straight guys. His eyes always looked as if he were about to strip some underage girl of her virginal white in a Mexican bordello somewhere. There was no doubt about it—the man made my pitter go pat and my patter go pit.