The Affair (15 page)

I shuffled her to the bottom of the pack and looked at the second woman. She had died in November 1996. Four months ago. A note pasted to the bottom corner of the photograph told me so. The photograph was one of those rushed, semi-formal color portraits like you see from a college service at the start of the academic year, or from a hard-worked hack on a cruise ship. A murky canvas background, a stool, a couple of umbrella flashes, three, two, one,
pop
, thank you. The woman in the picture was black, probably in her middle twenties, and was every bit as spectacular as Janice May Chapman. Maybe even more so. She had flawless skin and the kind of smile that starts the AC running. She had the kind of eyes that start wars. Dark, liquid, radiant. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking right through it. Right at me. Like she was sitting across the table.

The third woman had died in June 1996. Nine months ago. She was also black. Also young. Also spectacular.
Truly
spectacular. She had been photographed outside, in a yard, in the shade, with late-afternoon light coming off a white clapboard wall and bathing her in its glow. She had a short natural hairstyle and a white blouse with three buttons undone. She had liquid eyes and a shy smile. She had magnificent cheekbones. I just stared. If some white-coated lab guy had fed an IBM supercomputer with all we had ever known about beauty, from Cleopatra to the present day, the circuits would have hummed for an hour and then printed this exact image.

I moved my mug and laid all three pictures side by side on the table.
They’ve all got something in common
, Neagley had said. They were all roughly the same age. Two or three years might have covered them all. But Chapman was white, and the other two were black. Chapman was at least economically comfortable, judging by her dress and her jewelry, and the first black woman looked less so, and the second looked close to marginal, in a rural way, judging by her clothes and her unadorned neck and ears, and by the yard she was sitting in.

Three lives, lived in close geographic proximity, but separated by vast gulfs. They may never have met or spoken. They may never have even laid eyes on each other. They had absolutely nothing in common.

Except that all three were amazingly beautiful.

Chapter

23

I repacked the file and tucked it in the back of my pants
under my shirt. I paid my bill and left a tip and walked out to the street. I figured I would walk up to the Sheriff’s Department. I figured it was time for some reconnaissance. Time for an initial foray. Time for an exploratory penetration. A toe in the water. Not a democracy, but it was a public building. And I had a legitimate reason to be there. I had lost property to return. I figured if Deveraux was out, I could leave the file with the desk clerk. And if Deveraux was in, I could play it by ear.

She was in.

Her old Caprice was in the lot, slotted neatly in the parking bay closest to the door. A privilege of rank, presumably. Office cultures all work the same way. I walked past it and hauled open a heavy glass door and found myself in a dowdy, beat-up lobby. Plastic tile on the floor, scarred paint on the walls, and an inquiry desk facing me, with an old guy behind it. He had no hair and a toothless, caved-in face, and he was wearing a suit vest with no coat, like an old-time newspaperman. As soon as he saw me he picked up a phone and hit a button and said, “He’s here.” He listened to a reply and then he pointed with the phone, using it like a baton, stretching its cord, and he said, “End of the corridor on the right. She’s expecting you.”

I walked the corridor and got a glimpse through a half-closed door of a stout woman at a telephone switchboard, and then I arrived at Deveraux’s billet. Her door was open. I knocked on it once as a courtesy and went in.

It was a plain square space in no better condition than the lobby. Same tile, same battered paint, same grime. It was full of stuff bought cheap at the end of the last geological era. Desk, chairs, file cabinets, all plain and municipal and well out of date. There were grip-and-grin pictures on the wall, of an old guy in uniform that I took to be Deveraux’s father, the previous incumbent. There was a stand-up hat rack with an old cardigan sweater on one of the pegs. It had hung there so long it looked crusted and rigid with age.

At first glance, not a wonderful room.

But it had Deveraux in it. I had pictures of three stunning women digging into my back, but she held her own with any of them. She was right up there. Maybe she even beat them all.
A very beautiful woman
, Neagley had said, and I was glad my subjectivity had been confirmed by someone else’s objectivity. She looked small in the desk chair, slender in the shoulders, lithe and relaxed. As usual, she was smiling.

She asked, “Did you ID the car for me?”

I didn’t answer that question, and her phone rang. She picked it up and listened for a moment, and then she said, “OK, but it’s still a felony assault. Keep it on the front burner, OK?” Then she put the phone down and said, “Pellegrino,” by way of explanation.

I said, “Busy day?”

“Two guys were beaten up this morning by someone they swear was a soldier from Kelham. But the army says the base is still closed. I don’t know what’s going on. The doctor is working overtime. Concussions, he says. But it’s my budget that’s going to be concussed.”

I said nothing.

Deveraux smiled again and said, “Anyway, first of all, tell me about your friend.”

“My friend?”

“I met her. Frances Neagley. I’m guessing she’s your sergeant. She was very army.”

“She was my sergeant once. Many years, on and off.”

“I’m wondering why she came.”

“Maybe I asked her to come.”

“No, in that case she’d have known where and when to meet you. It would have been prearranged. She wouldn’t have had to ask all over town.”

I nodded. “She came to warn me. Apparently I’m in a lose-lose situation. She called it a suicide mission.”

“She’s right,” Deveraux said. “She’s a smart woman. I liked her. She was good. She does this thing with her face. Like a special look, all collegial and confiding. I bet she’s a great interrogator. Did she give you the photographs?”

“You meant her to take them?”

“I hoped she would. I left them accessible, and ducked out for a minute.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated,” Deveraux said. “I wanted you to see them, alone and on your own time. Like a controlled experiment. No pressure from me, and especially no influence from me. No context. I wanted a completely unguarded first impression.”

“From me?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a democracy now?”

“Not yet. But any port in a storm, as they say.”

“OK,” I said.

“So what was it? Your first impression?”

“All three of them were amazingly beautiful.”

“Is that all they had in common?”

“I imagine so. Apart from all being women.”

Deveraux nodded.

“Good,” she said. “I agree. They were all amazingly beautiful. I’m very glad to have confirmation from an independent point of view. It was a hard thing for me to articulate, even to myself. And I’d certainly avoid saying it out loud. It would sound very weird, like some gay thing.”

“Is that an issue for you?”

“I live in Mississippi,” she said. “I was in the Marine Corps and I’m not married.”

“OK,” I said.

“And I’m not currently dating.”

“OK,” I said.

“I’m not gay,” she said.

“Understood.”

“But even so, for a woman cop to be seen obsessing over a female victim’s looks never goes down well.”

“Understood,” I said again. I leaned forward to let my back clear the chair, and I pulled the file out of my waistband. I laid it on the desk.

“Mission accomplished,” I said. “Nice moves, by the way. Not many people beat Neagley in a mind game.”

“Takes one to know one,” she said. She slid the file closer and ran her palm over it, left and right, and her hand came to rest at one end, and she kept it there. Maybe where it was warm from the small of my back.

She asked, “Did you ID the car?”

Chapter

24

She kept her palm pressed on the file folder, and looked
straight at me. Her question hung in the air between us.
Did you ID the car?
In my head I heard Garber’s emphatic squawk in my ear, on the phone in the diner:
Do not, repeat, do not give that number to local law enforcement
.

My commanding officer.

Orders are orders.

Deveraux said, “Did you?”

I said, “Yes.”

“And?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both. Classified information, as of five minutes after I called it in.”

She didn’t respond.

I said, “Well, what would you do in this situation?”

“Now?”

“Not now. Then. When you were in the Corps.”

“As a Marine I would have done exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

She nodded. She kept her hand on the file. She said, “I didn’t tell you the truth before. Not the whole truth, anyway. About my father’s house. It wasn’t always rented. He owned it, from when he was married. But when my mother got sick, they found out they didn’t have insurance. They were supposed to. It was supposed to come with the job. But the county guy who was responsible had run into trouble and had been stealing the premiums. Just a two-year hiatus, but that happened to be when my mother got sick. After that, it was a pre-existing condition. My father refinanced, things got worse, and he defaulted. The bank took the title, but they let him live there as a renter. I admired both parties. The bank did the right thing, as far as it could, and my daddy kept on serving his community, even though it had kicked him in the teeth. Honor and obligation are things I appreciate.”

“Semper Fi,” I said.

“You bet your ass. And you answered my question anyway, as I’m sure you intended. If the ID is classified, then it’s a Kelham car. That’s all I really need to know.”

“Only if there’s a connection,” I said. “Between the car and the homicide.”

“Unlikely to be a coincidence.”

I said, “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Me too. He was a nice man, and he deserved better.”

I said, “It was me who beat on those civilians.”

Deveraux said, “Really? How on earth did you get there?”

“I walked.”

“You can’t have. You didn’t have time, surely. It’s more than twelve miles. Almost past Kelham’s northern limit. Practically in Tennessee.”

“What happened there?”

“Two guys were out doing something. Maybe just taking a walk. They could see the woods around Kelham’s fence, but they weren’t particularly close to it. A guy came out of the woods, the two hikers got rousted, it turned bad, they got hit. They claim the guy that hit them was a soldier.”

“Was he in uniform?”

“No. But he had the look, and he had an M16 rifle.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“I know. It’s like they’re establishing a quarantine zone.”

“Why would they? They’ve already got about a million acres all to themselves.”

“I don’t know why. But what else are they doing? They’re chasing anyone that gets anywhere near the fence.”

I said nothing.

Deveraux said, “Wait. Who did
you
beat on?”

“Two guys in a pick-up truck. They harassed me last night, they harassed me again this morning. Once too often.”

“Description?”

“Dirt, grease, hair, and tattoos.”

“In an old black truck painted with a housepainter’s brush?”

“Yes.”

“Those are the McKinney cousins. In an ideal world they should be beat on at least once a week, regular as clockwork. So I thank you for your full and frank confession, but I propose to take no action at this time.”

“But?”

“Don’t do it again. And watch your back. I’m sure that right now they’re planning to get the whole family together and come looking for you.”

“There are more of them?”

“There are dozens of McKinneys. But don’t worry. Not yet, at least. It will take time for them to assemble. None of them has a phone. None of them knows how to use a phone.”

And at that point phones started ringing all throughout the building. And I heard urgent radio chatter from the dispatcher’s hutch, where the stout woman sat. Ten seconds later she appeared in the doorway, out of breath, holding both jambs to steady herself, and she said, “Pellegrino is calling in from near the Clancy place. Near the split oak. He says we got ourselves another homicide.”