STATE OF ANGER: A Virgil Jones Mystery Series (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

“I was raised Catholic, but I let
it slip. Same with Rhonda. Does that mean anything?”

Virgil didn’t answer and instead
looked at Ron with an ‘anything else?’ look on his face. Miles shook his head.

“She’s really gone?” Rhodes said,
his voice suddenly small, like a child.

“Tom, look,” Ron said. “Why don’t
you go on home. You’ve got a tough few days ahead of you. Gather your family
around you and let them help you. You don’t want to be here right now. When
they move her body, it’s, well…it’s just something you don’t want to see.”

“Where are they going to take
her?”

“They’ll take her to the hospital,
Tom,” Virgil said. “There will be an autopsy and after that they’ll send her to
the funeral home of your choice. But Detective Miles is right. Go home. Let us
do our job. We’ll figure this thing out.”

“All she wanted to do was help
people. Why would someone do this?”

And Virgil thought,
how do you
answer a question like that?

__________

Virgil followed Ron into the
coffee shop and was introduced to the waiter who served Rhonda just before she
was shot.

“How about we sit down for a few
minutes? I’ve got a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered just about
every cop in the city, so far,” he said.

“Well, not everyone,” Virgil said.
“It looks like you were the last one to speak with her before she died. I just
want to ask you a few things. Sometimes witnesses know something they don’t
even think they know, and it can be something little that might not mean
anything to you but can make all the difference in the world to us. Have a
seat.” Virgil pointed him to a table in the corner. No other patrons were in
the cafe. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.

After the three of them were
seated, the waiter started right in without prompting. “You know what’s weird?”
he said. “I don’t really feel anything. I mean, I’ve known Rhonda for a long
time. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t really know her at all. What I mean
is, I’ve been serving her for a long time. We’d talk, you know? Nothing
substantial, not really. Just the casual ‘how you doing’ kind of chitchat
bullshit that customers and waiters have. Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone get
shot before. Aren’t I supposed to feel something? I feel like I should be
upset. I mean more upset than I am. Is something wrong with me? Am I in shock
or something? Is this what shock feels like?” He sat with his elbows on the
table, the heels of his hands pressed into his forehead. His fingers worked
their way into his hairline and pulled his hair back taut. It gave him a
haunted, almost effeminate appearance. “You may very well be in shock,” Ron
said. “Do you feel like you require medical attention?”

He let go of his hair and
forehead. “No, no, I’m fucking good. Besides, I don’t have any insurance.”

“Just take us through it, from the
time she walked in the door until you saw her get hit. Take your time. Don’t
leave anything out,” Virgil said.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I
mean, there just isn’t anything to say. She came in, same time as she always
did, sat at the same table she always sits at, unless someone else is sitting
there, except they weren’t, so she did.” He pointed to the table in the opposite
corner of the cafe. “That table right there.”

“All right, that’s good,” Virgil
said. “Go on.”

“Well, like I said, there just
isn’t anything to say, really. She sat down, spread out her paperwork and
started doing whatever it is she did with it. The paperwork, I mean. I asked
her if she wanted her usual. She said yes, so I brought her a cup of our house
blend and a muffin. The muffin was on me. It wasn’t part of her usual. I just
wanted to give her a fucking muffin, you know? We made nice for a few minutes
and I got back to work. Before she left I asked her if she wanted anything
else. She says ‘no I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow though.’ I said something
like ‘you bet’ or whatever and then she walked out and I just happened to
glance up from behind the counter and I saw her flying backward through the
air. She hung there for a second, hell not even that long I guess, because you
know how everything seems like it’s going in slow-mo? Well, anyway she hung
there for a second in the shape of a big C, you know with her arms and legs
flying forward and her body going backwards. Anyways, that’s what it looked
like to me. A big C. It’s kind of ironic if you think about it, because that’s
what she always called cancer. The big C. Just like that series they’ve got on
Showtime. It’s called The Big C. Anyways...”

“And you didn’t hear any gunfire?”
Virgil said.

The waiter shook his head. “Nope.
Hell, it looked like she got hit by a huge gust of wind or something. It was
unreal. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.”

“What about a car backfiring? Did
you hear anything like that? Some kind of noise that may have been a gunshot
but in the moment it just didn’t register?”

The waiter thought about it, but shook
his head. “Huh uh.”

“What did you do next?”

“What do you mean?”

Virgil tried not to let his
impatience show. “I mean, what was the very next thing you did. Did you call
911?”

“No.”

“Did you run outside to help the
victim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess, I…well, what I mean is,
I just sort of froze. Besides, we’re not supposed to leave the cash drawer
unattended.”

“I see,” Virgil said, even though
he didn’t. “How much money was in the drawer?”

“I don’t keep an exact
accounting.”

“If you had to guess,” the
impatience in Virgil’s voice now obvious.

“Well if I had to guess, there
might be, I don’t know, seventy or eighty bucks in there or something like
that.”

Virgil leaned across the table.
“So a woman, a Hospice nurse, comes into your coffee shop damn near every day
of the week, sits at the same table, orders the same thing, then one day leaves
and gets shot to death right in front of your eyes and the only thing you could
think to do was guard the seventy or eighty bucks in the cash drawer?”

“Hey, man, come on. That’s a
little harsh. I didn’t shoot her.”

“No, I guess you didn’t, but you
sure didn’t do much to help her after she was shot.”

“Look, guys, I’m sorry about
Rhonda. I really am. She seemed nice. She did good work. She was a consistent
tipper. But that’s all I know. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. Maybe I
panicked, or froze or whatthefuckever. But I didn’t do anything wrong. There
were about ten other people in here who were already dialing 911 and I know
about as much emergency first aid as a Cocker Spaniel. Besides, even from behind
the counter you could tell she was dead before she hit the pavement. You could
just see it. So, what, I’m supposed to lose my job over something I couldn’t do
anything about?” He stood up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey,
you guys ever ask yourselves why no one ever wants to talk to the cops?”

13

__________

V
irgil’s
house was on one of the last remaining gravel roads in the county just off of
highway 37 south of 465, the loop that circles Indy. He owned ten acres of
land, the back third wooded with a pond between the edge of the woods and the
house. The suburban sprawl was creeping closer year by year, but the long drive
at the front and the woods at the back assured his privacy.

He tossed his mail on the table
next to the door, checked the answering machine—no messages—and
turned the shower on to steam the bathroom. Thirty minutes later he was back in
the truck and headed downtown to the bar.

The bar Virgil and his dad owned was
popular and drew a consistent crowd. He turned into the back, parked his truck
at the far end of the lot and walked in through the back kitchen area. The aroma
of burgers and chicken halves sizzling over an open broiler reminded him that
he’d not yet had anything to eat throughout the entire day.

Robert, their Jamaican cook, saw him
walk in. He flipped a burger on a bun then brushed the surface with homemade
jerk sauce, tossed on a slice of red onion and handed it to Virgil, a skeptical
look on his face. “Dat shrimp, mon, it be comin’ by later tomorrow.”

“Was supposed to be today,” Virgil
said.

“Yeah, mon. But the truck already
left. So tomorrow. Hope it good. Day say day raise it in a swimmin’ pool or
some ting like dat. But it your money, no?” Virgil took the plate, clapped him
on the back and walked into the darkened atmosphere of the bar area.

The patron area of the bar was
long and narrow with high-back mahogany booths along one wall and the bar
itself along the opposite wall with an aisle-way between the two sides. A large
mirror ran the entire length behind the bar and gave the illusion of extra space
and small stained-glass light fixtures hung low over the booths. The effect was
an intimate atmosphere that often conflicted with the mood of the customers. A
blue neon sign displayed above the bar mirror advertised ‘Warm Beer & Lousy
Food.’ A small elevated stage at the back between the kitchen entrance and the
restrooms provided just enough room for the Reggae house band that played from
midweek through the weekend. The lunch hour during the week was usually busy
with downtown suits, and the weekend nights had been standing room only since
opening day over three years ago.

Virgil knew the city of
Indianapolis offered hundreds of small bars where you could eat and drink your
fill, but to his knowledge their little bar was the only one that offered the
true taste and atmosphere of a small island nation that held a place in his
heart for most of his adult life.

Three years ago during one of his visits
to Jamaica, while driving through the Hanover Parish, Virgil experienced one of
those rare moments that can change your life for the better if you are not too
preoccupied to notice and let it happen. One of the tires of the rental car he
was driving picked up a nail and he pulled to a stop in front of a ramshackle, multi-colored
hut fashioned from scrap metal and drift wood at the edge of a town called
Lucea which sat at the half way point between the resort towns of Montego Bay
and Negril. A handsome and well-dressed bald man approached him and asked if he
could help, his voice carrying across the gravel lot with the musical lilt of
his native land. “What you do, you?” he said. “Dat tire no good now, mon. Come
inside. Have a drink and someting to eat. We fix you right up.” He held out his
balled hand and Virgil bumped fists with him and when they did, the Jamaican
man said, “Respect, mon, respect.”

Virgil shrugged, said ‘respect’
back to him and before he knew it three and a half hours had sailed by, he was
full from too much Jerk chicken, a little drunk from too many Red Stripes, but
his tire was fixed and he had made two new friends.

But the story didn’t end there. The
owner of the establishment, the man who came out to greet Virgil was named
Delroy. He served the drinks and befriended his customers while his partner,
Robert, handled the cooking, and apparently, tire changing. During the course
of their conversation Virgil learned they both longed to live in the United
States. He listened politely to their stories, gave them his business card and
got back in his rental. Three weeks later after cutting through the red tape,
Delroy helped Virgil and his father set up the bar and Robert took over the
kitchen. They both fly back to Jamaica twice a year for a week at a time to
visit with their family and friends, and every time they do Virgil would find
himself a little panicked at the thought of ever losing them.

He took a stool at the mid-point
of the bar and sat down with his burger and watched his father at the far end
laughing with an attractive, middle-aged female customer. A row of clean beer
mugs lined the drip trough on the tended side of the bar and when Delroy saw
Virgil he turned one over, set it under the tap and pulled him a Red Stripe
draft. Virgil’s father, Mason, walked down to greet him as well.

“Hey Pops. How’s it going?”

“Going just fine, son. Just fine.”
He glanced back down the bar at the woman who was watching him in the mirror. “How’s
the governor’s main man?”

Virgil sipped his beer and watched
as Mason pulled two shot glasses from under the bar and filled each with an
ounce of over-proof rum. “I’m squeakin’ by,” Virgil said, his eyes drifting to
the woman in the mirror. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Carol, you know, from over
at County Dispatch. She’s going to help wait tables around here, mostly on the
weekends. She answered the ad. Starts tomorrow.”

Virgil felt a kernel of anger pop
inside his chest. He fought to contain it, but there was a bite in in his tone.
“Known her long?” He regretted the words as soon he said them, but Mason didn’t
take the bait. Instead, he thought for a moment as he wiped the bar. “You’re a
grown man, son.”

“Point being?”

“Point being,” Mason said, “I was
a grown man before you were ever born. I live my life, my way. Might not be
your way, and that’s all right. But it’s mine.”

Virgil looked at himself in the
mirror and when he did, he saw his father’s face in his own. Found himself
wondering about who he saw staring back. He’d always been comfortable with himself,
but at forty-one years old it was getting harder and harder not to noticed the
strands of gray at the temples or the lines in his face around his green eyes
growing more prevalent with the passage of time. A faint scar that ran the
length of his jaw line on the left side of his face, a result of a boyhood
injury. It wasn’t nearly as noticeable as he sometimes thought it was, but it
flashed with white whenever he smiled. He’d been told on more than one occasion
that his smile was a little scary. He looked at his father. “I just miss her,
that’s all.”

“You think I don’t?” he replied, a
little bite of his own now. “One year, today. Not a day goes by, hell, not a
minute goes by, I don’t think of her.” He was quiet for a moment, and when he
spoke again, his voice was softer. “I can remember walking in the park with
her. We’d see an old couple, not old like me, hell, I’m only sixty-eight, but I
mean old, eighties, nineties even, holding hands. Your mom, she’d smile and say
‘see that, Mason? That’ll be us some day.’ Well, that day isn’t ever going to
come for me, Virgil. Not ever. That part of my life is over now. I don’t know
what you’d have me do, but I know what your mother would want. She’d have me
honor the time we did have together by getting up and getting on with my life. So
that’s what I’m doing.”

He picked up the shot glasses and
held one out for his son. They had toasted Virgil’s mother once a month for the
last eleven months. “She’s gone Virgil, but she’s not forgotten. Not for a
minute. I love her and I always will. But I’m done toasting the past. So here’s
to you and me, son, and whatever waits down the line.” Mason drained his shot
glass and set it down hard on the bar then walked away, leaving Virgil there
alone, staring at himself in the mirror.

A few minutes later he got up and
put his rum behind the bar then moved down next to Carol. We watched each other
in the mirror for a few seconds, and then Virgil turned on his stool and said,
“I’m Mason’s son, Virgil. Everyone calls me Jonesy. You must be Carol.” He
smiled when he said it though he really didn’t intend to.

__________

As the night went on Virgil worked
the bar with his father but neither one of them had much to say to the other
about their shared loss. They had a decent crowd and the band brought the house
down with their original and covered Reggae. With two hours to go until closing,
Mason took off his apron and walked over to Virgil and ruffled the hair on top
of his head like he was still a little boy. “See you tomorrow, Son.”

Virgil watched him and Carol as
they walked out the door, then took his shot glass of Rum from the drip tray
where he’d left it earlier in the evening, held it up for a second and then
drank it down. “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

Delroy walked over, patted him
twice on the chest then put his arm around Virgil’s shoulder and said, “Your
father…he loves you, no?” He then went back to work, singing along with the
band, his voice carrying across the bar.

__________

Half an hour later Miles, Donatti,
and Rosencrantz walked in and took a table in the back. Virgil drew two
pitchers of Red Stripe, placed them on a tray with four frosted mugs and joined
them at the table. “What have we got so far? Ron?”

Ron took a long pull of beer, let
a small belch escape the corner of his mouth, and said “to put it as
professionally as possible, we ain’t got dick.”

They all sat with that for a
moment. “He’s right,” Donatti said. “We got nothing on the canvass from this
morning out at Dugan’s. The houses are all too isolated, and hell, Jonesy, you
know that crowd. They’re good people and all, but when you’ve got that kind of
jack, unless you’re at one of those fancy social functions, everyone keeps to
themselves. And besides, it was just early enough that most of the husbands
were gone, the wives weren’t up and the help hadn’t arrived. All in all, I’d
say that whoever did this had it pretty well planned out.”

“What about the print off of the
shell casing?”

“Didn’t get a hit. Who ever it
was, they’ve never been printed.”

“So,” Miles said. “I stand by my
original statement. We ain’t got shit.”

“You said ‘dick’ the first time,”
Rosencrantz said.

Miles looked out over the top of
his glasses. “I’m pretty sure I said ‘shit.’

“No, no,” Donatti said. “He’s
right, you said ‘dick.’ I heard it.”

“Yep,” Rosie said. “I think you’ve
got dick on the brain. Is there something you’d like to talk about?” He wiggled
his eyebrows at Miles.

Put four cops around a pitcher of
beer, Virgil thought, and this is what you get. “Maybe we could stick to what’s
important here? Rosie, do you have anything at all?”

“Yeah, your sign’s wrong. The
food’s good. And the beer is ice cold too.”

“Tell me again why I hired you.”

“My superior investigative
skills.”

Virgil stood from the table. “Work
it out, guys. We need leads and I want a plan of action by tomorrow morning
before the governor and the press start breathing down our necks.”

As he walked away he heard Rosie
tell Miles again that he was positive he’d said ‘dick.’

__________

Twenty minutes later Virgil was
ready to pack it in for the night. He told Delroy he hoped to see him tomorrow,
but wasn’t.

‘Dat irie, mon. Every ting come in
its own time, no?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Your father, he worries about
you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, mon. Of course dat’s right.
He wants you here, run the bar wid ‘im. Safer for you here, you know what I
mean?”

“He’s never said anything like
that to me, Delroy.”

Delroy laughed. “Yeah mon, you two
a couple of talkers, you are.”

“I don’t get it,” Virgil said.

“Hey, what do I know? Probably not
my bidness anyway, mon.” He nodded over Virgil’s shoulder toward the front
entrance of the bar. “Dat probably not my bidness either, but here come your
woman.”

Virgil turned and looked around
just as Sandy slid onto a stool next to him. She wore a loose blue halter dress
that hung almost to the middle of her thighs and a pair of platform sandals.

“Delroy,” Sandy said, her hand
over her heart, “that voice of yours melts me every time I hear it.” Then to
Virgil: “Buy a girl a drink?”

__________

Virgil leaned over the bar and
drew two Red Stripes from the tap, and touched eyes with Sandy in the bar
mirror. He set the mugs down and took a seat next her. “You don’t look too
worse for wear. How you holding up?”

Instead of answering, Sandy took
three long drinks from her mug and set the half-empty glass back down on the
bar. Then she turned her head and saw the rest of the investigative team at the
table in back. She looked back at Virgil, picked up his mug and started toward
the back.

“Hey, where are you going?”

She stopped and turned back.
“Gonna see what’s shaking back there. I love working for you, Jonesy. Have I
told you that yet? But I’m either in or I’m out, you know what I mean?”

Virgil thought her eyes were made
of liquid blue. “Sandy, it’s not that.”

“It’s not what?”

“Well, it’s not…uh, well, hell, I
don’t know. I guess I just sort of thought—”