Suspicion of Vengeance (30 page)

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"If we ever see him again, it might."

"Skinny. Long hair. Early thirties, I don't know."

"Any facial hair?"

"No. He had a ponytail. I remember that."

Jackie nodded. "Okay."

With a sudden release of air from her lungs, Vivian Baker shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. "He was there with Whit that day. When Amber's husband called, I mean. I don't know why he was there, but he was. No, wait. Whit came out to give him a bridle or something, for his horse, I suppose. That man was there, so Whit must have told him to go kill Amber. Don't you think so?"

Neither Jackie nor Gail responded to this.

Vivian was still trembling. "I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't come back here again, ever. Stay away from Whit McGrath. Don't try to accuse him of murder, because he'll destroy you and get away with it. He gets away with everything."

They leaned against the side of Jackie's truck for several minutes without speaking. A television was on somewhere. The apartment building was quiet, no one going in or out the gate.

"That was some story," Jackie said.

"I believe her."

"Yeah. Good old Whit." Jackie turned around and kicked her tire. She was wearing her cowboy boots. "Son of a bitch. Son of a
bitch."
Her braid swung on her back.

"Jackie."

She put her hands on her hips. "I'm okay."

"You don't have to get involved."

"I already am." She walked slowly back and forth. "What about Whit killing Amber because she wouldn't leave him alone? Do you believe that?"

"No, but Vivian does. I can't see Whit going that far. A threat, maybe, but murder? He would have just paid her off. Jackie, when did Rusty start wearing a beard?"

"A beard? A couple of years ago, I guess. Why?"

"Mrs. Chastain—Amber's neighbor—saw a clean-shaven man in the yard."

Jackie hooked her thumbs in her back pockets. "But she might have seen Lacey Mayfield, too. You said she could've gotten all the details confused?"

"Maybe she didn't." Night had fallen. Gail stared at the lighted windows in the apartment building. "Rusty was there at the sales office when Gary Dodson called. That's interesting."

"Because Whit could send him right over to Amber's house?"

"Yes, that, but what if Whit didn't send him? What if Rusty had his own reason to want Amber dead? I wonder who he sold his property to? I mean the land he inherited from his father."

The thought registered on Jackie's face. "I bet he sold it to Whit's company. I don't know for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me."

"Me either. Is he—or was he in 1989—part of that corporation, JWM? If so, he'd have something to lose if Amber opened her mouth about the forgery—assuming it is a forgery. I'll check state corporate records, but they might not name all the principals. See what you can find out, okay?"

"Sure. You still want me to track down the Mendozas?"

"Definitely. If they signed the deed, there go all our theories about who killed Amber Dodson."

"Tell Hector to call me."

"He'll do it tonight." Gail reached into her purse for her car keys. "I just had this wild thought that we're finally getting somewhere."

"Hey, Gail? If you want to leave the crime scene photos with me, I can take a look at them."

"Would you? I don't have much time, and you're better at it than I am."

"It's a good idea," Jackie said, "not to speculate too much until you're sure of the evidence."

Gail unlocked her trunk. The photographs were packed into a banker's box. She hadn't looked inside but assumed that some of them were hideously graphic. Jackie asked for copies of all the police reports too, and Gail promised to fax them.

The cousins embraced tightly before Gail got into her car. Jackie told her to be careful. A few minutes later, heading south on the interstate, Gail found herself glancing into her rearview mirror, looking for the high, bright headlights of a black pickup truck.

CHAPTER 19

Tuesday night, March 20

Jackie carried the box of crime scene photographs toward her apartment over the garage. She had one foot on the stairs when she heard the sound of water hitting foliage in the side yard. The light from the house revealed a ghostly spray and a shapeless old bathrobe. She set the box on the bottom step and walked over. Her grandfather was standing under the oak tree with a garden hose. "Hey, Diddy."

"Evening, officer." He slowly moved his arm back and forth. Drips ran down his forearm into his sleeve. "What's the news?"

"Not much. It's a little late to be out here watering, isn't it?"

"Ain't rained in two weeks. The grass is all dry."

She checked to see if he had his shoes on. He did: a pair of moccasins with sheepskin linings. "Is Dad in his study?"

"I believe he's on the porch."

"Diddy, back in 1988, was there a family that lived out west of the turnpike named Mendoza?" Jackie had noticed that her grandfather's memory of the past was often as sharp as her own recollection of what had happened only weeks ago. "The land would be in River Pines now. Their first names were Ignacio and Celestina."

"I don't know nobody called Mendoza."

"Back in 1988 you don't?"

"Was they pickers?"

"I don't think so. They owned ten acres."

"Don't come to mind. Why do you want to know?"

"It's a case I'm working on. It's kind of important. If you think of anything, tell me, okay?"

"Ten-four. I hope we don't get another dry summer. Remember all them fires last year?"

Jackie took the hose from him and tightened the nozzle so it wouldn't drip. "Don't stay out too long." She kissed his cheek and went in search of her father. At night he liked to sit on the porch and smoke. Her mother had never allowed it in the house, and he had never broken the habit of going outside to light his pipe, turn on a lamp, and read.

The porch wrapped around to the back of the house, which faced the river. Her boot heels sounded on the wood floor, and when she turned the corner, Garlan was already looking up from his issue of
The Sheriff's Star.

She sat in the next chair. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, honey."

"I was with Gail just now. She gave me the crime scene photos in the Dodson case to look at. I'm going to help her out. I believe her client is innocent."

Garlan tossed his magazine onto the ottoman next to his sock feet. "I thought you were staying out of this."

"It's hard to standby and see a man get executed for something he didn't do. If you'd like, I can tell you the facts."

"I believe I have a pretty good grasp of the facts, since the case was directly under my supervision. That doesn't matter to you, that it's my case?"

"Yes, sir, it does. That's why I'm telling you straight-out."

He lifted his brows. "Thank you for being so up-front."

"Clark has an alibi, Dad."

"According to who? An ex-drug addict with a felony record? Did you talk to this woman yourself?"

"No. Gail did."

"Gail did. Good lord."

Jackie hadn't thought this would be easy, but her words weren't coming out anywhere near the way she'd expected them to. "I believe Ron Kemp thought he was right, but he leaned on the witness too hard. He scared her off, and it contributed to the conviction of an innocent man."

"You're real sure of yourself, aren't you?" Her father seemed halfway between amusement and disbelief "You're not doing this on Stuart PD time, I hope."

"No, sir. My own time."

"You could get some flak from your fellow officers."

"I don't intend to run around talking about it."

"You think they won't find out?"

"Well, I guess they'll have to think what they want to. That's their problem."

"No. It's your problem. They're going to ask, Whose side is she on? Ours or the bad guy's? They'll say you're soft. As a woman, you've already got that battle to fight. But that doesn't bother you, does it?"

She said, "I'm sorry if it reflects on you."

"I don't give a damn about that. I care what happens to you, Jackie, even if you don't. Believe what you want about Kenny Ray Clark, but you can't be an effective officer if you're perceived as trying to undermine a solid conviction."

Jackie stood up. "I wanted to let you know, that's all. I didn't want to argue about it."

"Hold on. Did you tell Gail Connor what you and I discussed in my study last week?"

It so surprised Jackie that this would occur to him that she laughed. "No, Dad."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes, sir, I am." She felt the blood in her face. "I've never lied to you."

He continued to look at her.

She said, "If you don't trust me, maybe I should move
out.
"

Her father picked up his magazine. "This is your home. Do as you please. You're making your own decisions now." Smoke drifted up from the ashtray. He took his pipe off its holder and stuck it between his teeth.

The branches of the oak trees shifted in a sudden puff of wind, and light seemed to dance through the leaves. The moon was out, glinting on the water. Jackie thought about her mother. Curling up in a chair with her drink.
Isn't the river beautiful with the moon dancing on it like that? Come over here, baby, and sit with me.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning, Dad."

"Goodnight."

Coming across the side yard, Jackie had her head down, and she didn't notice someone sitting on the garage stairs. When the figure shifted, she jumped back, gasping.

"Diddy! You scared me. What are you doing here? I thought you went to bed."

"You was asking about Mendoza. It came to me." The fabric of his pajamas had become thin and soft. He rested his veiny hands on his knees.

"They was a migrant family, a husband and wife, her old daddy, and a teenage boy. They stayed in a little house out at Charlie Beck's grove, and picked his fruit. Charlie got cancer real bad and found Jesus on his way out, and he gave them the property. I went to see him in his last days. He told me about it."

"Rusty's dad? When was this?"

"Oh, let's see. Charlie died around Thanksgiving, 1987. I took him some turkey and dressing, but he couldn't eat it."

"Where are the Mendozas now?"

"Never heard nothing else about 'em."

Moving his plaid robe out of the way, Jackie scooted in beside him on the step. "The Mendozas lived on the property that Charlie Beck owned."

"Yep. He gave them some of it, where the house was. He was going to give the rest of it to the church, but he died before he could get around to it, so it went to Rusty."

"Who did Rusty sell it to? Whit McGrath's company?"

"Sure did, soon as the probate went through. He got four thousand dollars an acre. I remember when land out that way was going for two or three hunnerd." Diddy pulled on his ear. "I told Rusty he could get the groves back in shape, but he said he didn't want to be a farmer, might as well sell it."

"Do you know if he was ever part of the JWM Corporation?"

"What's that?"

Jackie reminded him. '"They developed River Pines. Whit McGrath is the general partner."

"Is that up near Vero Beach?"

"It's out west of the interstate, Diddy."

"That's right." Diddy laughed. "I can't see Rusty in no corporation. He don't wear a suit and tie too good. I borrowed him one to wear to his pa's funeral. He didn't even want to go. He and Charlie hadn't talked to each other for years. Poor Charlie. He was a good old guy."

As Diddy talked on about Charlie Beck, facts began to settle in Jackie's mind, creating connections. Rusty Beck and the Mendozas. The Mendozas and Whit McGrath. A forged deed. Amber Dodson's murder.

"Hey, Diddy, do you remember what kind of truck Rusty was driving in 1989?"

He stared blankly down the driveway for a minute, then nodded. "Sure. It was a 1988 Ford One-fifty. Brand-new, loaded. Before that, he always drove used trucks, but this one he bought right off the lot. He has that big black one now, bought it new too. A waste of money, if you ask me."

"What color was his other one?"

"Blue."

"What shade of blue? Light? Dark?"

"Kind of a midnight blue. A real nice paint job. Rusty bought it after he got the money off his daddy's land. He didn't have two dimes to rub together before that."

"Did Rusty get into any accidents in that truck?"

"Let me think." Diddy's wrinkled eyes squeezed shut. "He had to get the front bumper replaced. I believe he said somebody ran a red light, and they dented the bumper. Kind of picky of him to get a new one, but he loved that truck."

"Anything else? Maybe fender damage?"

"A lady in a van backed into him at the Wal-Mart and nicked him in the right rear fender. I was there with him. It wasn't too bad. After that, he sold the truck and bought himself another one, a red Dodge, straight off the lot."

Jackie asked, "When did he get rid of the blue truck?" "Oh, I don't know exactly. You want me to ask him for you?"

"No. In fact, don't mention we talked about any of this, okay? Promise?"

"Ten-four."

"Thanks, Diddy." She helped him up by an elbow and kissed his cheek. "Go to bed."

He patted her shoulder. "You're a good girl, Jackie."

Her apartment was a single large room and a bath over a wood-frame, two car garage. A screen set off the sleeping area and a tiny kitchen took up one corner, but the rest of the space was open.

Jackie picked up the coffee table and set it upside down on the sofa, then pushed her lounge chair out of the way. Her boots sailed toward the bed—thud, thud. She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her jeans, getting comfortable.

Her plan was to lay the photographs out on the carpet in a way roughly corresponding to the Dodson house. It took her a while to open all the envelopes and figure out which group of photos went where. The exterior shots had all been taken at night. Front yard. Street. Rear of house, view of woods. West side of house. Bedroom windows. Old air conditioners through the walls. Driveway and carport. Kitchen door.