Sting (4 page)

“You said more than three words to him. What else did you two talk about?”

“Mostly about how I wish he would go away and leave me the hell alone.”

“You didn't set up a meeting with him?”

“How many times do I have to say it?”

“Till I believe you.”

“I didn't set up a meeting with him.”

Suddenly, he reached around her, planted his right hand on her bottom, and jerked her forward and up against him. Before she could react to that, he worked his left hand into the right rear pocket of her jeans and removed something from it. As suddenly as he'd hauled her against him, he pushed her away. He looked at the scrap of paper he had fished from her pocket, cursed, then dangled it inches from her nose.

“Mickey asked me if that guy was up to something. I told him no, that he was a drunk who only wanted to get in your pants. But I knew better. I saw him slip you this. Now,” he said softly, but with menace, “rethink telling me that he was a stranger, Jordie. Because lying to me could be hazardous to your health.”

J
oe Wiley asked Deputy Morrow to point out to him the young man who had hit on Jordie Bennett, followed her from the bar, and discovered Mickey Bolden's body.

The detective nodded past the pool tables toward the far wall. Only a foot of space separated the ceiling from three blacked-out windows. Beneath them was a row of booths, only one of which was occupied. “We put him there all by his lonesome.”

Joe and Hick made their way over. Between two, lumpy red vinyl benches was a table scored with countless names and initials, as well as sentiments of love and hate. Some looked recently carved, others like they'd been there for decades.

The agents slid into the booth opposite a man in his early twenties. He had long, stringy hair. Except for it and his threadbare goatee, he bore a striking resemblance to the gray skull on the front of his faded black t-shirt.

He glowered at Hick with a redneck's resentment toward a black man so obviously superior in every respect. He snorted contempt. “You the preacher, the groom, or the corpse?”

Hick, who was always smartly dressed, smiled pleasantly at the snide reference to his dark suit, white shirt, and necktie.

Joe asked, “What's your name?”

He slid his surly gaze toward Joe. “Who wants to know?”

Joe just looked at him for several seconds, then reached for his ID wallet, flipped it open, and extended it across the greasy tabletop.

The young man's reaction was immediate. “You gotta be fuckin' kidding. You're
feds
? I didn't do anything.”

“Doesn't look that way from where I and Agent Hickam are sitting. You harassed a woman—”

“I didn't harass—”

“You followed her out when she left, which amounts to stalking.”

“My friends dared—”

“A guy winds up with his brains on the ground, and you say you found him like that.” Joe let that dire description of his predicament resonate, then said, “If I were you? I'd lose the attitude and stop pissing me off.”

He squirmed, he swallowed, he picked at the red eye socket of the skull on his shirt, and finally he mumbled his name—Royce Sherman.

Hick tapped it into his iPad and started a search to see if Royce Sherman had a police record.

Joe asked, “You live around here, Royce?”

He named a nearby town, not Tobias.

“What brought you over here tonight?”

“Met up with some buddies to shoot pool, have a coupla drinks, hang out.”

“Did you know Jordan Bennett before tonight?”

“Never saw her before she walked in. Still don't know her.”

“But you recognized her name.”

“No. Didn't know it till he told me.” He motioned toward Morrow.

“Witnesses told Deputy Morrow that you came on to Ms. Bennett pretty strong. That true?”

“No.” Some of the attitude had edged back in. He sank deeper into his seat. “I went over and asked could I buy her a drink. That's it,” he declared, stabbing the top of the table with the tip of his index finger.

“Of all the women in the bar, you picked her to hit on. How come?”

He gave a short laugh. “Are you yanking my chain?”

Joe's expression didn't change. “Am I yanking his chain, Agent Hickam?”

“I don't believe you are, sir.”

Their somber tones collapsed the young man's leer. He shifted on the bench again. “If you saw her, you wouldn't have to ask how come. She's hot.”

“I have seen her. In fact, I and Agent Hickam have spent a lot of time with the lady.”

Royce Sherman's bloodshot eyes sawed back and forth between them. “Seriously?”

“In the line of duty.”

“Wha'd she do?”

“Are you familiar with a fugitive named Billy Panella?”

“A fugitive? Like, from justice?”

“Heard of him?”

“No.”

“Joshua Bennett?”

“Her kin?”

“Her brother.”

“Don't know him, neither.”

Joe didn't think he was bright enough to be lying that well. “According to witnesses, Ms. Bennett didn't welcome your attention and declined your offer of a drink.”

“Said she had a drink, thank you, and asked me to adios.”

“But you didn't adios. You persisted.”

“No law against making friendly conversation, is there? I…” Stalling, he shot a glance at Hick, who was watching him, waiting for an answer. “I…you know, I—”

“—persisted,” Joe repeated. “You harassed her.”

“I never laid a hand on her!”

“But you didn't take no for an answer.”

He slumped, sighed, looked at them sourly. “Okay, I offered again, and when she said no again, I told her she looked lonely to me. She said she wasn't, and, anyway, it was none of my business if she was lonely or not. And then I asked if she was expecting somebody else to join her.”

Joe leaned forward. “What did she say to that?”

“Nothin'.”

“She didn't answer?”

He shook his head. “Just turned a cold shoulder.”

“What did you derive from that?”

“Derive?”

“How'd you take that? Like maybe she
was
expecting someone?”

“I dunno.” He gave them a stupid grin. “I wasn't thinking too clear.”

Joe kept at it for a few more minutes, but it became apparent that the young man hadn't been thinking clearly at all, that he'd had more than a “coupla drinks” with his pals. He saw a pretty lady and was goaded into approaching her with nothing more in mind than the prospect of getting lucky.

“Witnesses overheard her tell you to go to hell.”

“Turns out she wasn't a friendly sort a'tall. Truth is, she was a snotty bitch. Who needs that? Actually, I'm glad she turned me down.”

Not believing that for a second, Joe looked at Hick, who snickered. He didn't believe it, either. Going back to the young man, Joe asked, “How long between when she stormed out and you followed?”

“My friends were giving me shit for being shut down, so five minutes, maybe.”

Hick, referring to notes Morrow had taken, whispered to Joe, “His friends said it was more like ten minutes.”

Joe asked, “How'd you know where her car was parked?”

“Didn't. I was just stumbling around out there in the dark, looking to see if I could catch up with her before she drove off.”

“Did you?”

His stringy hair flapped against his cheeks as he firmly shook his head. “Swear to God. Never saw her again. Didn't come upon anything except the…the…you know, the body.” He swallowed so thickly that Hick asked if he needed the vomit bucket again. “No. I'm okay.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Out there you mean? Hell no. Well, maybe the fender of the car. I think I propped my hand on it while I was bent over yakkin'.”

“You didn't notice any headlights, or a vehicle leaving the parking lot?” Hick asked.

Another head shake. “Too busy puking.”

Joe asked, “Had you noticed Mickey Bolden in the bar?”

“That the dead guy?” After a nod of confirmation, he said, “Yeah. Right before he left, he went over to the jukebox and was talking to the other guy.”

“What did the other guy look like?”

He raised his bony shoulders in a shrug. “Like a guy.”

“Young, old, short, tall, black, white?”

“White. On the tall side. Older than me. Younger than you.” Then he looked at Hick. “Maybe 'bout your age.”

“Any tattoos, distinguishing clothing, facial hair?”

“Couldn't tell you. I was eyeballing that gal's rack, not lookin' at some dude.”

Joe looked over at Hickam, who looked back, his wry expression saying,
Nowhere to take that
.

Joe noted the jukebox's proximity to the ell of the bar where he'd been told Jordie Bennett was sitting. He went back to the young man. “While standing there at the jukebox, did those two show any interest in Ms. Bennett?”

“Not that I saw. But, like I said, I wasn't paying them no mind, and I was pretty wasted.”

Morrow approached and asked if he could have a word with Hickam. He left the booth so they could confer in private.

Royce Sherman sat back against the vinyl, rubbed his eye sockets, and whined, “Can I go now?”

“You got somewhere else to be?” Joe asked.

“I'm gonna catch hell from my old lady for not coming home when I said I would.”

“You're married?”

“No, but you'd think so the way she stays on my ass. The first cop that questioned me took my phone, so I can't even call her.”

Hick slid back into the booth. “Mr. Sherman, you have a problem.”

He regarded Hick sullenly. “Whut?”

Rather than addressing him, Hick turned to Joe. “A witness says he saw Mr. Sherman placing something in Ms. Bennett's pocket.”

Joe leaned against the back of the booth, folded his arms over his middle, and fixed an accusing frown on the young man, who'd suddenly grown nervous.

“Oh. That. Yeah. See…” He ran his tongue over his lips. He cracked his knuckles. “I forgot about that.”

Joe said, “He must think we're stupid, Agent Hickam.”

“Guess so.”

“I swear!” he squeaked. “I forgot.”

“You told me you didn't know her.”

“I didn't. Don't!”

“That you hadn't laid a hand on her.”

“I didn't, except for…for that.”

“What did you pass her?”

“My digits.”

“Your what?”

“My phone number. B-before I went over to her, I tore off a piece of my cheeseburger wrapper and wrote my phone number on it. I poked it down into the pocket of her jeans.”

“What did she do?”

“Told me to get my hand off her ass. Not in those words, but I—”

“You have a gun?”

“Whut?”

“I'm not stuttering, Royce. Answer the question.”

It was clear that he contemplated lying, but then nodded with reluctance. “A deer rifle out in my truck, 'less it's been stole while I've been in here for so damn long.”

“Handgun?”

Again, he conducted a brief mental debate before saying under his breath, “Two.”

“Where are they?”

“One in my truck under the driver's seat. The other's home with my old lady. She keeps it on the nightstand when I'm out at night. You can call and ask her.”

“Oh, count on us doing that, Royce. It will take time to get a search warrant for your truck. However, you can waive the warrant.”

It took him a moment to process that, then from the front pocket of his dirty jeans, he produced a set of keys and slid them across to Joe. “Knock yourselves out. I got nothin' to hide.”

“Like your priors, you mean?” Hick said.

Royce swore under his breath, then copped an attitude and defended himself in a mutter. “Everybody shoplifts something in their lifetime.”

“You served thirty days for that. A hundred and twenty days for vandalizing a tire store.”

“The asshole fired me for no good reason.”

“I've heard enough.” Joe nudged Hick. Hick got out of the booth and Joe followed. But as Royce Sherman started to leave, Joe said, “You stay put. While we're checking out your firearms, you're going to sit here and try to remember everything else you've conveniently forgotten to tell us about your encounter with Jordie Bennett.”

They left him protesting and claiming that his rights were being violated. Joe didn't think he was a conspirator or anything close to one, but, as he rejoined Deputy Morrow, he handed him Royce Sherman's set of keys and filled him in.

“I have no reason to think we'll uncover the murder weapon, but in addition to the search of his truck, have someone confirm that one of his handguns is at home with his ‘old lady.' Also, make certain the officers questioning his friends ask about whatever it was that he slipped into Jordie Bennett's rear pocket.”

Morrow assured him that both issues would be handled and left to see to it.

“Okay,” Joe said to Hick, “next up, the bartender.”

The man behind the bar was a barrel-chested giant with a bushy black beard that blended into his hair, which he wore in a braided ponytail extending almost to his waist. He was dressed in an army-green wifebeater, which left his arms bare to show off their sleeves of elaborate tattoos.

If Joe owned a bar in the backwoods that served a rough-and-tumble clientele, he would want this guy in charge.

He offered him and Hick coffee, and they accepted. After declining cream and sugar, Joe began the interview by asking him if Jordie Bennett was a regular customer.

He laughed, flashing remarkably straight, white teeth. “No. Her showing up here tonight made history. She walked in, my jaw dropped. That's why I noticed the time. Ten p.m. on the dot.”

Joe and Hick looked at each other, thinking,
Like she was meeting someone
.

Joe went back to the bearded man. “She'd never been here, but you recognized her.”

“Soon as she cleared the door. She and her brother are the closest thing we have to celebrities in this town. People who didn't know them already sure as hell did after that Billy Panella mess. Y'all haven't treed him yet?”

“Working on it,” Joe said tightly.

“Find the money?”

Joe ignored that. “The shooting victim, had he ever been in here before last night?”

“Not that I recall, and I have a talent for remembering faces. Especially faces like his. Ugly son of a bitch.”

“Uglier now,” Hick murmured.

“Yeah,” the bartender said with a small sound of regret. “When the kid came running in here, yelling and puking, I went outside to see what was what.” His beard only partially concealed his grimace. “I'd seen the like in Iraq. Only good thing about going out that way is that you never know it. This poor bastard turned his back to the wrong guy, I guess. When they came in, I knew right off that both were carrying, but I never would've—”