Reach the Shining River (18 page)

“I’m going to take my billfold from my pocket,” Emmett said.

“No you ain’t.”

“Show you my ID. I’m Assistant County Prosecutor for Jackson County.”

“And I’m Babe Ruth.”

One of the other men took his hat off. “Let him get the ID, Clem.”

The gunman wavered. “OK, let’s see it,” he said. “Do it slow.”

Emmett took his billfold from his pocket and drew out his ID and held it up.

“Shine a light, Billy.” He peered at the card.

“I assume you have a permit for that weapon,” Emmett said.

“How do I know this ain’t forged.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Clem,” one of the men said. “Back off.”

The man spat on the ground and retreated.

“Come over here,” Emmett said to Wardell.

The boy stood behind Emmett.

“We ain’t up to cause no trouble,” the other man said. “If you’re a lawman, you know the kind of things goin’ on down here.”

“Well, you can leave us now,” Emmett said.

The men got into the truck and drove off. They watched its broken taillight disappear over the rise.

“You went easy on them,” Mickey said.

“I’m not taking any chances with a double-barrel Winchester. Besides, we got bigger fish to fry.”

“I got their tag number. I’ll run it through Motor Vehicles in the morning.”

Wardell was looking back towards the river and sucking his thumb.

31.

Emmett woke from a deep sleep to a steady ringing. He was alone in the bed. It was dark. The radium dials on the alarm clock said three-thirty. Monday. A work day.

He drifted back to sleep and dreamt he was in a jazz club. Across the room Fay was serving drinks and flirting with the customers. She smiled at him and it was somehow critical that he go over to her. But he couldn’t move. A saxophone wailed in his ear. Wailed and wailed.

The saxophone call turned into more ringing. It was the phone in the living room. As he descended the stairs, he remembered falling asleep without knowing where Fay was.

It was Mickey, talking garbage. He was drunk.

“Whoa, Mickey, whoa. Where are you?”

“Out ‘n’ ‘bout.”

“Have you been home?”

“Runners.”

“What?”

“The niggers. Runners for Timmons.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Numbers or booze. Then see something they’re not spose to.”

“Right.”

“So he has them… you know. Popped.”

Not what Emmett wanted to hear said over the phone.

“Mickey, go home and go to bed.”

“Been workin’, Emmo.”

“Good man. Get some sleep.”

“Lab. Registry. Other places.”

“Meet me at Treacey’s at eleven. Can you do that? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“We’ll nail that asshole, Emmo.”

“I know we will.”

“Know who I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Get the pictures and fuck him up good.”

“That’s enough, Mick. Get some shut-eye.”

He went through the house, turning lights on and off. Her car was not in the garage.

He sat in his leather chair in the living room, at an angle that gave him a view of the front door. He waited. The birds came to life. The windows slowly brightened. At five-thirty, the paper boy flashed by on his bike, followed by a thump on the porch. He made coffee and paged through the
Star
. At six he shaved and dressed and left for the office.

*

Mrs. Johnson spent an hour trying to get through to Roddy’s office at the capitol, only to find out that he was in Kansas City. Emmett left a message at the club.

He called home. No answer. He unlocked his desk drawer and took out a 1935 calendar. For the last month he’d been keeping track. A small red x in the corner meant that Fay had not been at the house when he returned from work. A blue tick marked calls Ophelia made to check his whereabouts. And a date circled in black meant she had been to a hotel. Four days circled so far, two Tuesdays and two Thursdays. Calls from Ophelia at noon on each of those mornings.

He had not asked Mickey about photographs. Hadn’t the guts.

Mrs. Johnson buzzed. “Mr. Hudson on the line.”

Roddy was gruff and direct. Emmett didn’t want to use the phone to update him, but Roddy insisted. He told him about the crime scene being on the north bank, the gathered evidence, his theory on the morgue delivery. His contact at the lab. Roddy said nothing until Emmett laid down his trump card. The cartridge case.

“Ah,” Roddy said. “What kind?”

“.38HV.”

“So it matches the slugs.”

“Well, if you remember, the slugs went missing. But the coroner had recorded the bullet type.”

A pause.

“Well then,” Roddy said slowly, “it
could
match the slugs.”

Emmett worked to stay a step ahead. “You’re saying we need a weapon.”

“Or similar shells you can tie to a suspect. Conclusively.”

“We have an edge,” Emmett said. “They’re distinctively marked.”

“All cases are,” Roddy sounded preoccupied. “It’s hard to believe that both the killers and the cops didn’t find it. That they didn’t make it their
business
to find it.”

Outside his office door Emmett heard voices raised.

“Whole thing happened in darkness. And the riverbank was a swamp. It was raining pitchforks that day.”

“So?”

“So the shell sank into the mud. And it wouldn’t have been easy to find the next day, either, especially if someone was in a hurry.”

“OK. But what we need now is proof.”

Roddy seemed to be waiting for Emmett to solve the case over the phone, there and then. The ruckus outside the door grew louder. A woman shouting. Was it Fay?

“The weapon.”

“Or other shells,” Roddy said. “Where does our man shoot? Think about that. Does he belong to a gun club?”

“I’ll find out.”

“You do that.”

The door flew open and Arlene Gray swept in. Her face was crumpled with anger. Mrs. Johnson following like a gundog.

He raised a hand and pointed at the receiver. Arlene folded her arms across her chest and glared.

“Something going on there?” Roddy asked.

“I have to go.”

“Well, you have your marching orders. Call me when you hear from the lab. I’m staying in town for the time being.”

Emmett hung up and came out from behind his desk. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s
wrong
?”

“I tried, Mr. Whelan.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Johnson.”

Emmett stared at Mrs. Johnson until she left the room.

“This is a county law office, Mrs. Gray.”

Her lips trembled. Her hair clips had loosened and stray coils fell across her eyes. “Is that right?”

“As it happened, you interrupted a conversation I was having with someone who can help you.”

“Had about all the help I ever need, thank you. Wardell told me about last night.”

“He did great, Mrs. Gray. He’s a smart kid.”

“I said, he
told
me
.”

“Why don’t you sit down. I’ll get some coffee.”

She didn’t move. “You promised he wouldn’t see anyone. Except your associate.”

“The guys at the car, is that who you’re talking about? Couple of farmers poking around.”

“
Farmers
? They threatened my boy. With a gun.”

“There was never any real threat. I don’t even think it was loaded.”

Her voice flew high. Her singer’s voice, frantic but controlled. “Cracker points a shotgun at my son and you don’t think to
mention
it?”

“I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“Lot worse things than being alarmed. You be colored in this town ten seconds, sir, and you know
that
.”

She raised her arm as if shielding her eyes from the sun and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. A stricken look fell across her face and she swayed.

Emmett helped her to a chair.

“My baby. My poor baby.”

“Mrs. Gray, it’s all right.”

She was crying. He gave her his handkerchief and touched her bare forearm. Her skin was soft. She wore a delicate perfume.

“It’s OK,” he whispered.

“Oh no, it isn’t, Mr. Whelan.”

Feelings stirred in him that were tangled and soulful and beyond shame. He touched her again, soothed her, and his heart thundered.

She wiped her eyes. “I’m taking him away from here. I have family in Columbia.”

“Isn’t he in school?”

“Oh, listen to the man. The boy’s in
danger
.”

She examined her shoes as if they were pinching her feet then stood up. She straightened her dress. He was aware of her stomach, her breasts, her hips.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “you’re right. It was wrong to come here like this.”

“No, no. Please stay. I can arrange protection for Wardell.”

Her eyes flashed but she calmed herself. “He’s best watched over by his kinfolk.”

“I just want to help.”

“Do you? Then leave him alone. And me.”

She left as quickly as she’d arrived. Outside his office, Mrs. Johnson shook her head and checked the hallway to see if anyone had overheard.

*

He walked down Baltimore Avenue in the late-September sunshine, past the Muehlebach Hotel, the legal and accounting firms, the shoe shops and haberdashers, the men in red aprons setting up their lunch wagons. Business back at full tilt after the droop of summer. The skies above broad and clear and deep blue.

Emmett was running chronologies in his head and doing his best not to think about his wife. Or Arlene Gray. The way her dress clung to her body. The plea for help in her eyes.

He reached Treacey’s café just after eleven. Mickey hadn’t arrived, so he sat at the counter and ordered an iced tea. A trolley car clanged past. Boys shouted headlines of the second editions. Hoover Dam Opened. Howard Hughes Breaks Speed Record.

Emmett took a small black notebook from his jacket pocket and reviewed a timeline he’d drawn, beginning with the murder on August 14, through to the riot three weeks later, and up to the present. On other pages he had written an expense sheet and a checklist of tasks for Mickey and himself, including labwork and follow-up on leads.

He could find a safe house for Arlene and Wardell. Or he could offer to drive the boy to Columbia.

The next time he looked at his watch it was eleven-thirty. It was not like Mickey to be late, even if hungover. And Emmett was impatient. He needed to know that the evidence was in the lab. Maybe Mickey got the hour wrong or was delayed at forensics. Or maybe he was still in bed. He waited another fifteen minutes and headed for the McDermott house, where Mickey had been living since being dropped from the force.

The family lived in the heart of West Bottoms, beside the cement factory and only a few blocks from Emmett’s parents’ house. A smart bungalow with a picket fence and a St. Brigid’s cross above the lintel. Fresh-painted yearly. As he opened the gate, the factory whistle wailed its lunchtime blast.

It took a while for Mickey’s mother to answer the door. She peered through the screen. “Emmett, is it you?”

“Hello, Mrs. Mac.”

She opened the screen door. “You’re here for herself, I suppose.”

“I’m looking for Mickey.”

“Come in, come in. She’ll be delighted.”

“She?”

“Your mother.”

Emmett followed her into the kitchen. His mom sat at the table. On the table was a teapot in its cosy, cups and saucers, cream buns.

He kissed his mom. “Nice surprise,” he said.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Mrs. Mac said.

She refilled the kettle and set it on the hob and lit the gas. Emmett’s mom gripped his arm. Her face was sallow, with dark bags under her eyes and patches of scaly red skin beneath her temples.

Something was wrong.

“Are you all right, Ma?”

“What sort of business are you up to with that son of mine?” Mrs. Mac said. “Claimed you had him on a job last night. Haven’t seen him since.”

“He’s not in bed?”

“Ah now, Emmett. He’s not
that
bad.”

“I was supposed to meet him at eleven. He doesn’t miss appointments.”

“Does he not? News to me.”

“He does his best.”

She waved a hand, as if clearing cobwebs from the air. “Ah, he’s had a hard time of it, there’s no denying. Losing his job, the bad knee, the drink.”

His mother’s silence was like an axe in the air. She still clutched his arm and stared at the quartet of pictures hanging above the stove: the Sacred Heart, Pope Pius XI, Mickey in his baseball and police uniforms.

The kettle hissed. The women exchanged a glance.

“You’ll need to excuse me for a moment,” Mrs. Mac said, and left the kitchen.

His mom rose from her seat and turned off the flame beneath the kettle.

“You’ll have a cup,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

She faced him squarely. “I’ve been staying here. With Nell.”

“Staying? You mean living here?”

She nodded.

“Is he that bad?”

She emptied the teapot, warmed it with water from the kettle, and spooned in the tea.

“Ma. What is it?”

“He was let go.”

“When?”

“Weeks now. He’d already been sacked when you saw him the last day. I kept waiting for him to tell you.”

“And he’s drinking.”

“More than ever.”

“Hard to imagine it could be more.”

She filled the teapot and set it on the table to draw. She sat and folded her hands on her lap.

“He hasn’t been… you know. To you.”

“He was never that way,” she said. “Not physically, anyhow. But he’s an awful tongue on him. And he’s night and day in the pub.”