Smoke & Mirrors (6 page)

16

THE HOUSE THAT ALPHONSE JEFFERSON HAD LISTED
as his address when he’d been arrested three months earlier had long since surrendered to the elements. Several of the paint-starved clapboards were missing and shocks of faded-pink fiberglass shot out from several open spaces like clown hair.

The yard was bare dirt except for scattered clumps of stiff rust-colored weeds, a dead washing machine, a child’s bicycle without wheels, a flattened shoe, and an emaciated and shivering pit bull whose head was much wider than his shoulders. The animal, standing in front of a wood-crate shelter with a floral plastic shower liner weighted down by brickbats on top of it, was anchored to a stake by a short section of swing-set chain. The dog growled as though he was saving his barks for more worthy customers than the two strangers he watched approach his master’s front door.

Brad stood and loudly rapped on the jamb. The interior door opened a few inches. The unmistakable sounds of a fist-flying talk show boomed from the living room.

“Yeah, what?” a scrappy voice rumbled from inside.

“Mrs. Jefferson, it’s Sheriff Barnett. I’m looking for Alphonse,” Brad said through an aluminum door whose fabric screening hung like a mainsail from a corner of it. A mangy cat shot out and flew around the corner of the house. The watchdog eyed the fleeing feline without comment.

“What you wants wif my grandbaby?” the old woman asked, her rheumy brown eyes floating in a cocoa lake of skin, her gaze moving between Brad and Winter like a drunk counting fish in an aquarium. “He ain’t been here for two, three days. You the sheriff, you say?” she asked, warily.

Brad opened his jacket to show her the badge on his shirt. “Yes, ma’am. Does Alphonse live here?” Brad asked her. “He used this address the last time he was arrested.”

“When he want to, he stay here. When he don’t, he don’t. What you wants him for?”

The old woman reached up to her outraged hair as if to check whether it was still there.

“Does your grandson have a rifle?” Brad asked.

“He a vetrin, so in the Army he might a’ did,” she said. “He didn’t brang one back from thur. It ain’t unlegal to have guns when you in the Army, is it?”

“No, ma’am, it isn’t. I was just wondering if he has a rifle
now.
”

“Not that I ever seen around here, he don’t.” She laughed. “If he had one, he sure would of pawnded it.”

“Can I come in and look at his room?” Brad asked.

“Not without no warrants you ain’t coming in my house. I knows my sivah rights.”

“I can get a warrant, Mrs. Jefferson.”

“Then why you standing there? Go on and get it.” And she slammed the outside door closed, causing the jamb to vibrate.

Winter waited until they were almost back to the cruiser to laugh. Once inside, Brad laughed as well.

“Mrs. Jefferson was downright inhospitable,” Brad said.

“Less than cooperative,” Winter said. “How soon can you get a warrant?”

“I didn’t figure she’d cooperate, so one of my deputies is at the courthouse getting it right now. Watch the front, and I’ll cover the back.”

Ten minutes later, a beefy young deputy climbed from his still-running cruiser and when Brad came around the house, he handed the sheriff a folded search warrant. Brad and Winter moved swiftly to the porch as the deputy went around to the back.

After Mrs. Jefferson opened the door, Brad handed her the warrant and led Winter inside while she stared down at the folded paper in her hand with no expression on her face.

“You people better not make no mess you don’t put straight. And you don’t take nothing neither. I know everything what all’s in here.”

How anyone had managed to pack so much into a small house without it collapsing was an engineering feat worthy of the ancient Romans. The TV set and two mismatched recliners filled a small nest to the right of the front door. A path of sorts existed between shoulder-high walls of newspapers, old books and magazines, which allowed limited access into the rest of the home-based storage facility.

“Reminds me of a prairie dog town,” Brad said in a whisper, referring to several house cats lounging like skeletal panthers on the canyon walls. The first room, which contained a bed, held enough items of clothing and accessories to start a Salvation Army dry-goods distribution center. There were also stacks of electronic appliances, most of which looked like they had been salvaged from the side of the road. A man in his sixties sat up from the bed and blinked at the two men staring into his space.

“Huh?” he asked.

“Sheriff’s department,” Brad said. “We’re executing a search warrant.”

He ran his hands over his hair in an attempt at collecting himself. “We ain’t hiding nothing,” he said in a tone that told Winter the man wasn’t at all sure that was the case.

“We’re looking for Alphonse’s room, Mr. Jefferson,” Brad said.

“Next room, but I don’t think he’s in there.”

“Where is he?”

“Sommer else probably.”

“Mr. Jefferson,” Brad said. “How can you live like this?”

“Axe her,” the man said sadly. “City makes her keep the yard up some. You think you can git ’em to come up in here and ’complish the same thang?”

“I expect I could call the fire chief and tell him this is a fire hazard and maybe he can make her clean some of this out,” Brad said.

“At be good, if you can.”

Alphonse Jefferson’s room was by far the least cluttered room in the house. They searched the room, but there was no gun of any kind to be found, only a few pictures of a man at different ages, a wallpapering of nudes torn from magazines, and a framed less-than-honorable discharge sheet from the U.S. Army.

The clothes hanging in the closet were neatly ordered, with each of the articles in its own dry-cleaning bag. The closet floor was covered with pairs of shoes in every imaginable style and color. Chains and other items of ornamental gold-plated jewelry had been laid out on the dresser as if for display.

“No rifles,” Winter said after he’d looked under the mattress.

“I doubt he would keep it here,” Brad said, moving out of the room toward the kitchen.

A sink hung on the wall in the kitchen beside a rusted refrigerator. Three mismatched chairs surrounded a table piled with food-encrusted dishes. A gas stove, its surface covered with stacked pots and pans, was positioned below partly closed cabinets. On the floor by the back door—beside an overflowing box piled with more dried bits of feline offal than litter—several bags of trash that had been chewed open by tiny teeth waited to be put on the curb.

Winter saw the bags shift slightly—a movement so subtle he almost missed it. Pulling out the Reeder .45, Winter nudged Brad.

“I’ve seen enough,” Brad said, taking out his Python.

Winter and Brad reached down and each took the corner of a trash bag. They jerked the bag up and aimed down at the man curled into a ball on the floor.

“Okay, Alphonse,” Brad said, “It’s time to take a ride. I want you to stand up slowly. I don’t want to shoot you, but if you do anything but get up slowly and come with us, I will.”

The young man dressed in a black jogging suit turned his head up slowly, peered at the handguns, and grinned.

17

“
I AIN’T DID NOTHIN’,” THE SURLY YOUNG MAN SAID
when Brad and Winter came into the interrogation room.

“I haven’t accused you of anything, Alphonse,” Brad said. The file folders under his arm caught Alphonse’s attention briefly.

“And you better not. I got my rights, and I know a lawyer. Gone sue you and make me a rich man.”

Alphonse Jefferson was taller than his grandmother. His almond-shaped eyes were an unnaturally light gray, and he had mocha skin with freckles running like a stream of rusty BBs across the bridge of his nose. His lips parted to reveal teeth that were large and even, each one capped with gold-plated snap-ons. His black velvet running suit had burgundy stripes up the pant legs and sleeves of the jacket, which was unzipped to show his hairless chest.

“You can say it. You know.” He plucked his lapels. “I look good in black.”

“How do you think you’ll look in prison dress whites?” Brad asked him.

“Me in prison?” Alphonse barked laughter at the ceiling. “Aw, man. That’s all you know? You ain’t charging me, then I’m on jus’ walk on out of here and get on back to the bid’ness of doing my bid’ness. You dig?”

Brad placed the file on the table in front of him. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Uh-uh. I’ll be talking to you through the Johnny Cocoh-ran legal firm. Case you missed it, it was him that got O.J. off.”

“Johnny’s dead. You sure you want to go that route?” Brad asked.

Alphonse placed his hands flat on the table. “I don’t gots to answer no questions. ’Bout what?”

“About Sherry Adams.”

Alphonse turned his attention from Brad and glared up at Winter, who stood arms crossed with his back against the concrete block wall, looking down at Alphonse.

“What about her?” he asked suspiciously.

“You’ve been harassing her, Alphonse.”

“Who told you that? Them fools are all a bunch of no-count lying player haters, ’cause I’m a smooth dude. What I said was, ‘If she had some of what I got, she would be ruint for everybody else.’ You dig?”

“I have your Army records,” Brad said, opening a folder and pointing to the faxed pages he’d received before the interview. “They kicked you out for possession of marijuana. At least that was the straw that broke the mule’s back. They obviously didn’t want you bringing down the average IQ of the armed forces.”

“Those fools got they heads up they asses. Always tellin’ a brother what to do. Racist haters.”

“It looks like you were deficient in every possible area. Your whole short career was a stack of inadequacy, petty criminality, and impulsive behavior. These records say you shot a rifle like a girl. Except all of the girls in the Army could shoot better than you.”

“I can shoot a fly off your lily-white butt from far as you can see.”

“And you stalk women who see you for the loser you are. Can’t let that go, can you?”

“Sherry Adams’s full a’ herself, prissy ass be-otch. I ain’t never laid a hand on her. Ain’t no crime wanting to change a girl’s mind. She just needs to come around and see what she’s missing.”

Brad opened the folder and tossed a picture of Sherry Adams’s ruined head onto the table so Alphonse could see it. He stared down at it and frowned, looking away. “What that is?”

“That
was
Sherry Adams.”

“Naw, it ain’t! You lying!”

Winter understood why Alphonse didn’t recognize her. The bullet had literally exploded her head, and the result looked like pizza topped with almost human features, torn and splattered on the bricks. Her black hair was reduced to tufts forming a border around the skin that remained.

“Somebody shot her, Alphonse. Maybe somebody that can shoot from as far away as you say you can. Where were you this morning between six and seven?”

“What?!” Alphonse looked down at the picture, lowered his head, and vomited into his lap.

Brad put the picture back into the folder and rolled his eyes at Winter.

Winter shook his head slowly.

“I ain’t do that!” Alphonse managed to yell, flecks of bile on his chin. “Lord is my witness, it wasn’t me did it. I was sleepin’ in my car up by Bugger’s place. I ain’t never capped nobody. I wouldn’t shoot that girl! I liked her.”

“I know, Alphonse,” Brad said, standing. “You wouldn’t know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of. Get out of my building before I lock you up for littering.”

Back in the office, Winter said, “Tell me about Leigh Gardner.”

“Leigh’s family’s been in the cotton-farming business here since the county was cleared from cypress swamps. Her grandfather and her father grew their land holdings into the three thousand acres you saw, probably another three in woodland, and some other scattered acreage she leases to other planters. Leigh is strictly a cotton and soybean farmer. She learned from her father, studied agriculture at Mississippi State and she knows her business. Her old man was a tough-as-nails businessman and an old-school planter. She runs the place the same way.”

“Husband?”

“Divorced. She married a jerk named Jacob Gardner whose law practice consisted of spending her money. She kicked him out five years ago. He went over to Oxford and set up a private practice, and got in trouble year after that for misappropriating his clients’ funds. Leigh paid back the stolen money to keep him out of jail for the kids’ sakes. He was disbarred anyway. He comes around periodically when he needs something and I’ve heard Leigh gives him an allowance so he doesn’t starve. He used to be able to charm the pants off a nun. Now, not so much.”

“I think you should investigate him,” Winter said.

“What for? The killer was a pro.”

“Doesn’t take a professional killer to hire one.”

“He wouldn’t have any reason to have Sherry killed.”

“Maybe Sherry wasn’t the target.”

“Who would be?” Brad asked.

“If anything happened to Leigh Gardner, who would benefit?” Winter asked.

“The kids. Leigh wouldn’t leave Jacob a ten-dollar bill.”

“Maybe not. But who do you suppose would be their guardian if Leigh Gardner was dead?”

Brad sat up. “The killer shot her babysitter. Leigh wasn’t even in the area. What are you thinking?”

“Maybe the killer didn’t know that.”

18

ALEXA KEEN OPENED HER APARTMENT DOOR AND
had to put down her bag of groceries to answer the telephone. It was rare that her phone rang unless it was someone from the Bureau.

“Yes?” she said.

“Alexa?” a familiar voice asked.

“Sean,” Alexa said. “Hello.”

“How are you, Lex?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

The silence lasted too long. She put down her shoulder bag, made heavy by the Glock. “Sean, is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where are the kids?” she asked.

“In the next room. We’re at the Peabody. We’ve been trying to decide on places to visit, but it’s really cold and the kids are ready to go home.”

“Winter told me you were going back to North Carolina.”

“Then you’ve talked to him today?”

“He told me about Faith Ann’s deer. I guess she’s excited.”

“And did he mention the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“The toothpick.”

“Yes, he told me about it,” Alexa said.

“The DNA results are on their way to the lab for a comparison. If it’s Styer’s, I’m not sure Winter is up to dealing with him. Lex, he’ll kill Winter without thinking.”

“Styer?” Alexa heard her voice crack. “Paulus Styer?”

“He didn’t tell you he’s comparing the DNA to the sample he has for Styer?”

“He left that part out,” Alexa said, apprehension and dread mushrooming inside her. Paulus Styer was one frightening son of a bitch, and she’d thought he was gone for good.

“Because he knew you’d go ballistic on him.”

Damned right I would have. Good Christ!
“Sean, you shouldn’t worry. Winter knows what he’s doing.” Alexa hoped she sounded convinced of her words.

“I’m sorry to pour this out on you. It’s just that there’s nobody else Winter will listen to. If I told Hank Trammel, you couldn’t stop the old buzzard from going there with a tank. And he can barely walk.”

“Sean, I’m gonna go down,” Alexa said suddenly. “I have some time off coming to me, and if Styer is involved, I want to be there.”

“That isn’t why I called. I just wanted to talk to somebody who knows Winter and understands the situation. I shouldn’t have called you. You don’t need to go there.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course you should have called me. I love that old dog too.”

“I know you do.” Sean’s voice sounded uncharacteristically faint.

“I’m not in the middle of anything at the moment, except writing a procedural manual nobody is going to read. I’ll just go down there for a couple of days and watch his back. I won’t tell him I know Styer may be involved. He can tell me that when I get there.”

“I should argue with you, but I won’t. Be careful. He’ll kill you, too.”

“No, Sean, he won’t.”

After some small talk, Alexa hung up. She dialed her travel agent’s number from memory and made a reservation for the next flight to Memphis.