Out Of Time (22 page)

I found my link to Roy Taylor and his unit buddies when I poked into Judge Tillman’s drug-case transcripts further. Curiously, they occurred after Roy had died and involved his former partners as witnesses or arresting officers. Most of the cases had never gone all the way through to trial, and many involved only the preliminary motions. These cases had most often been plea-bargained down to lesser charges. In many instances, it seemed to me that the defendants had gotten a real deal. How anyone caught with a kilo of cocaine and processing paraphernalia can walk away with a misdemeanor charge of simple possession is beyond me. With standards like that, you’d have to be a Columbian drug lord in order to actually do time. I wanted to know why.

I then searched for cases involving any judge and Roy Taylor’s partners. There was plenty to find. If I hadn’t personally faced a cocaine-possession charge in my youth—and been forced to learn the nuances of federal and state charges it entailed—I might have missed the subtleties of what the transcripts were telling me. But I never forgot a hard lesson once I’d learned it, and, by the end of the afternoon, I thought I had the answer: someone was dirty. Evidence had disappeared, witnesses recanted and memories grew foggy on the stand. Whatever the cause, prosecutors had found themselves with evaporating cases and been forced to accept plea bargains that let the bad guys off the hook. Had all four of the team been dirty, I wondered. Most cases had occurred after Roy’s death. So if Roy was dirty, he wasn’t the only one. Were all of the other three officers dirty? Or only some of them? Did the entire Durham Police Department stink worse than a cow pond in summer?

No wonder Judge Tillman had said he needed more proof before he could go public. So did I.

I thought of calling Bill Butler for help. That was when I remembered where I had heard the name Steven Hill before: at Peyton Tillman’s funeral. He’d been the handsome green-eyed stranger with the clothing-optional stare. No wonder Bill had tried to keep us apart. And how lovely for Bill to have concealed Hill’s real status. It was definitely time to give him a call with my special thanks.

At first the administrative officer who answered the phone refused to put me through. But when I promised to rip her neck off and breathe fire down her throat if she didn’t do what I asked, she had an unexpected change of heart. Sometimes, people just need an incentive.

Koloes
“Nice, Casey,” Bill said. “First you blow me off and then you threaten some poor girl two years out of school.”

“Save it,” I said. “Number one, I was in the hospital on Friday night, having been put there by the person you insist I’m imagining is following me around town. Thanks for the cards and flowers, by the way. It was so nice to return home to find your supportive phone call.”

There was silence. “I didn’t know,” he said.

“Anne Morrow knew,” I pointed out.

There was another silence. “Detective Morrow is playing her cards on the Tillman case close to her chest,” he said. “If there was no reason to tell me, she wouldn’t have.”

“But you did know that Steven Hill had been one of Roy Taylor’s partners, didn’t you?” I asked. “And you kept that information from me even after I begged you to find me someone who had known him so we could talk?”

“Tillman’s funeral wasn’t the time or place for you to go interrogating Taylor’s old partners,” Bill said. “The world does not revolve around you and your cases, though I know that comes as a shock. Steven Hill and Tillman served together in Vietnam. He was there to show respect, not answer your questions.”

“What is really going on here?” I demanded. “Are you and Hill butt buddies or something?” Okay, it was rude, but I’d left my better judgment behind on that dark road when I got banged around by an anonymous truck. Besides, he could have showed some concern for my poor, battered body. A little sympathy would do, if outright concern was too much of an emotional gamble for his delicate male ego.

“Everything is about sex with you, isn’t it?” Bill shot back. “Your mind is in the gutter.”

“At least I have a mind,” I retorted. “And use it on occasion. Excuse me if I offended you. But tell me this: why are you protecting Steven Hill from having to answer a few simple questions from me?”

The silence that followed this remark made me nervous, I admit. When Bill finally spoke, his tone told me that our friendship would never be the same. “Because Roy Taylor was a dirty cop,” he said. “And I’d like to spare his family from knowing it. Okay? They already lost a son. Soon, they’ll have to take the rap from all the bleeding-heart liberals for Gail Honeycutt being put to death. I think that’s enough for one family to go through. Don’t you?”

“Who says Roy Taylor was a dirty cop? Steven Hill?”

“Who else would know the truth?” Bill countered. “That’s his jo KThafacb.”

What an idiot. Cops will stick together until one of them draws a gun on the other, and even then they’ll think twice before returning fire. And they say women are overly loyal. At least we can recognize two faces on one body when we see it.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Hill is the dirty one?” I asked. “And please don’t tell me that you’re good friends and you’d know it if he was.”

“We’re not particularly good friends,” Bill said stiffly. “I met him at a conference. But if he’s a dirty cop, I’ll eat my badge. He’s helping to lead some initiative to reduce corruption, for chrissakes. He’s as far from the street and temptation as you can get. Plus, the guy has been decorated more times than the windows at Macy’s.”

Oh, those colorful ex-New Yorkers.

“Bill, use your head,” I pleaded. “When did Hill call you up to renew your casual acquaintance? It was after I took the case, wasn’t it? He’s using you to get information on me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bill said. “He didn’t even know that I knew you until Tillman’s funeral.”

“Everyone knows that you know me,” I informed him. “And most people think you’re—” I stopped. I didn’t want to open that particular door for fear it would be slammed shut in my face. “Never mind,” I said. “But people are well aware that we know each other. Take my word for it.”

“I think you’re giving yourself too much credit,” he said. “Steven Hill never even heard of you until I introduced you to him.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “And I want to talk to him. Immediately. If you stand in my way, I’ll start talking a lot louder, only I’ll be talking to all the wrong people. I’ll go right over your head and right over his head. It won’t look good for you, I promise you.”

He didn’t waste any more time arguing. “I’ll ask him,” he said. “You’re a hard woman, Casey.”

“Hey,” I told him. “Sometimes a hard woman is good to find.”

Arguing with Bill Butler was thirsty work. I needed a drink. A real one. The kind that doesn’t require a paper umbrella. I called Jack at work to see if he was interested in some company.

“It’s quiet as hell,” he told me. “You’re welcome to hang out. But I’ve got news you might want to follow up on. The owner of that cop bar is expecting you. His name is Johnny. He says he’ll tell you what little he knows. Plus I heard something about the Dur Kabospaham cops, but it happened a few years ago.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“The usual when you’re talking about drugs. Busts where money and product disappeared. Dealers saying they had a lot more cash on them when they were arrested than was ever reported. Evidence disappearing and finding its way back onto the street. That kind of thing.”

“Any names keep popping up?” I asked.

“Nope. It was all pretty vague, but the guys I know seem to think the rumors were true. They say it’s stopped, probably because of heat from internal affairs. With all that publicity, they can’t afford to screw around anymore.”

I believed him. Jack’s sources are impeccable. The guys that Jack knows are the drug dealers who never get arrested, the ones who sell socially acceptable drugs to white people instead of crack at the street level. I didn’t know their names and I didn’t want to. But I believed Jack when he said he believed them.

“Thanks,” I said. “And if you’ll forgive me, I’ll take that drink at the Lone Wolf instead.”

“No problem,” he said. “Just watch that Johnny. He waters the good stuff.”

He didn’t water mine. The owner of the Lone Wolf served me a Tanqueray over ice that was stiff enough to put starch in a dead man’s drawers. He was less eager to serve up information. I sipped my drink and waited while he refreshed a few old regulars who were methodically drinking themselves into a stupor at the other end of the bar. Johnny was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, with a rectangular head and massive limbs. All he needed was a few studs sticking out of his neck, and he’d be ready for Halloween. He must have been terrifying as a street cop. He was still pretty scary as a bartender.

“Okay,” he finally said once he ran out of other customers and was forced to acknowledge my presence again. “I told Jack I’d help out if I could, so give me the lowdown and I’ll see what I can do.” His voice was deep and rumbling, like a storm rolling in on the horizon.

“You remember the night Roy Taylor was killed?” I asked.

“Who doesn’t? Tourists came in here for months afterward. Pain in the ass. It’s not like he was the first person to get killed after drinking here. Cops, guns and alcohol. What do you expect?”

I didn’t ask for details. If the Lone Wolf hadn’t been a cop bar in the first place, it would have been shut down a long time ago.

“What can you tell me about that night?” I asked.

He sucked idly on a toothpick, treating me to a glimpse of massive yellow teeth. I’d seen a more attractive smile on a mule.

“Not much,” he said. “Roy was drunker than shit and his old lady was even worse. It was crowded, and she was a royal pain in the butt when it came to getting her fat ass out the door. Roy had to drag her and she knocked two regulars off their stools at one end of the bar, then fell over a table near the front, breaking a couple of beer bottles and some glasses. Roy said he’d settle up later, but never got the chance. I just let it slide.”

How magnanimous of him. Sparing Roy Taylor’s estate a whopping $15 bill for damages. “That’s it?” I asked.

He shrugged again. “They were drunk. They fought. They left. End of story. Told the police the same thing.”

“Someone bought Gail Taylor a drink that night. Any idea who?”

“You’re joking, right?” he asked, the toothpick bobbing up and down. “How the hell should I know? It was a lot more crowded than now.”

Considering that I was the only customer besides the dusty retirees at the far end of the bar, this was easy to believe.

“What about George Washington Carter?” I asked.

“What about him? He invented peanut butter. Big effing deal. The stuff gives me gas.”

“Carter,” I enunciated slowly. “Not Carver.” With social skills like his, he should be working with people in comas. “He’s a Durham police officer who disappeared a couple of months ago. He was here with Roy Taylor the night he died. You know him?”

He looked sullen and eyed the regulars for distraction. But they were too busy watching wrestling on the tube to order another drink.

“Did you know him?” I prompted.

“Yeah, I knew him,” he finally said. “One of those black guys who thinks he’s white. Hung out here all the time with Roy.”

Translation: while the problem may have been that George Carter was the world’s lousiest tipper, it was more likely that Lurch here was not happy that a man of color had been drinking at his bar, even one who was a Durham police officer and good friends with his paler brethren.

Kht=ing at

“Any idea why he disappeared?” I asked.

Lurch shrugged. “Heard he was eating tube steak out San Francisco way.”

Charming. “That’s hard to believe,” I said. “He had a pregnant wife.”

Lurch shrugged again. “So his wife slept with someone. Doesn’t mean it was him.”

Geeze, I was starting to hate the guy and he hadn’t even watered down my drink. “When’s the last time you saw George Carter?” I asked.

“Night before he disappeared,” he admitted. “Came in with a guy named Pete Bunn. A real jerk. They had a couple of pops, then took off.”

“This bar is sort of a dead end for cops, isn’t it?” I asked. “Your customers have a habit of meeting untimely ends or disappearing.”

“Look lady, I don’t know exactly what that crack meant, but I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for one night, okay?”

I agreed. I gave him my card and elicited a meaningless promise to give me a call if any regulars could contribute more.

I left needing a drink just as badly as I had when I arrived.

The next day, I had a choice: while I waited for Bill to come through with an appointment with Steven Hill, I could either question George Washington Carter’s abandoned wife or I could track down Pete Bunn. I let the weather decide for me. It was warm and sunny, and I was in need of vitamin D. My poor country bones were weary of concrete. I needed a trip to Chatham County.

By ten o’clock in the morning, I had left the new subdivisions of outer Chapel Hill behind. Pine forest surrounded Highway 15-501 on both sides, broken only by stretches of farmland growing green beneath the warm spring sun. Pete Bunn, the retired Durham police officer who had worked with Roy Taylor, lived close to Pittsboro, a small country town that had recently been adopted by hordes of potters, artists and sculptors, much to the dismay of the locals. Bunn’s land was marked only by a mailbox with a post-office box number and, predictably, I missed the turnoff. I doubled back, using the driveway of the horse farm next door as a turnaround. No one stirred when Bobby D.‘s big car lurched toward the stables.