The Branson Beauty (32 page)

He walked up and down for a bit. He was in no hurry, you see, to go into the kitchen and be subjected to Mrs. Pugo. But he did need that irritating woman to be able to say how disappointed he was to have been kicked out of the luncheon. He put on his best dejected look and went into the kitchen, and, well, that was when things got complicated.

That girl was sitting at the little table, crying and getting comforted by Mrs. Pugo. His exceptional actor's training was all that saved him from showing how shocked he was. And then, neither one of them would tell him why she was there. He calmed down, however, when it became apparent that she did not want to be seen and was not going to leave the kitchen. He began to relax.

He took a few more strolls on the walkway, making sure Tim saw him out and about—so that if anyone asked afterward, Tim would be able to say that he had seen the captain just minding his own business. On his last one, he made sure Tim was nowhere in sight and went up the stairs to the pilothouse. Albert was surprised to see him, but he explained that the luncheon group hadn't wanted to see his show. Then he got out his phone.

He'd also brought a portable speaker. That was in his other pocket. Albert asked what the hell he was doing as he dug them out. He ignored him, plugged the speaker into the phone, and hit play. At first, the guy just froze. Got white as a sheet, then started to sweat and shake. Roy grabbed Al's set of keys, stepped outside, and locked the door. He stood there for just a minute, until he didn't hear Al stumbling around anymore. Then he went back into the pilothouse and made sure Al was seated in his chair, then took the wheel and steered toward the boulders—slowly. It wouldn't do to alert anyone and have them come investigate before the actual crash. He set the proper course, then swiveled the captain's chair back around so it faced forward. The whole time, bombs were exploding, children were screaming, guns were firing. He waited until Albert stopped shaking and then checked his eyes. They were completely glazed over, and he didn't respond to any commands.

He shut off his phone and opened the door to the pilothouse, only to see the quickly retreating figure of that girl just reaching the bottom of the stairs. She had obviously heard the noises, and she might have seen him standing outside as well. He waited until she disappeared back into the kitchen, then left the pilothouse. He locked the door behind him with Albert's keys.

He descended quickly and managed to make it far enough down the walkway to where he could turn and pretend to be coming from the opposite direction as Tim came out with a tray, complaining that the door between the dining room and the kitchen was sticking shut. They commiserated about the sorry state of the boat and went into the kitchen together.

Five minutes later, the crash. Perfection. The screeching of the bottom hitting the rocks. The splintering of wood. The shuddering as it settled between boulders. It was exactly as he had hoped. Except for one thing. And she sat across the kitchen table from him.

When the crash was investigated, as it surely would be, he couldn't have someone saying they heard sounds of bombing coming from the pilothouse. That would cast doubt on the whole thing—that Al had gone nuts all by himself and was the only one responsible for the crash. And if she'd actually seen him up there, well, that was simply untenable.

His concern continued to grow as the initial shock from the crash gradually wore off, and they got all of the stuck-up locals moved up into the lounge. Tim needed help getting them drinks quickly, and that horrible Pugo woman couldn't carry a tray more than three feet, so he was forced into service.

He came back into the kitchen at one point to find that girl gone. He seized the moment and went to find her, ducking out before Pugo saw him. He put on his concerned face and waited until she came out of the ladies' room. Patted her on the hand. Steered her into the empty dining room. Said she would be more comfortable in there, with the blinds closed, of course, so that no one could see her.

He thought of the years and years he'd spent doing horrible community plays and dinner shows and the stupid boat job. And how he was finally, mercifully, beyond that. And he hit her from behind, with the edge of the heavy metal tray he was holding.

It didn't work. She swayed and stumbled as she turned around to look at him. So he strangled her. It took longer than he would have thought. Much harder work than he expected. She clawed at him, but he still had on the gloves that went with his captain's costume and his heavy coat. When he was done, he had to pick up the contents of her purse, which had scattered all over when she dropped it during the struggle.

He left the purse near her body, turned down the thermostat, and locked the door to the kitchen with Albert's keys. He let himself out the main door, still carrying his tray, and locked that, too. There was no one in the hallway as he walked back to the kitchen, where he calmly wiped off the tray and then took his coat and gloves off. He had gotten quite hot.

*   *   *

Roy sat quietly after he finished. His hands, which he had waved around to illustrate his story, sat clasped in front of him again.

“‘That girl' had a name, you know.” Hank slid the fifth photo out of the envelope and across the table. It was another full-length shot, this time of her sewn back together on the steel morgue table. Her limbs were slack, and the thick black suture thread appeared to stitch her limp form together like a rag doll.

The sixth was a close-up after she had won the state championship her senior year. Long brown hair high in a ponytail. Skin sparkling with sweat and youth and potential.

“Please…” Roy was barely able to get the word out.

Hank reached in for the last one and laid it gently in front of the row of photos, closest to Roy. The edges had curled a little with age, and the color had faded slightly, as if it had once hung in a sunny place. Her hair was a lighter brown, cut in a bob with bangs. A light band of freckles crossed her nose, and the corners of her blue eyes crinkled from the width of her smile. She was missing a front tooth. Along the bottom of the picture, in neat adult script, was written:

Amanda Grace, First Grade.

Hank left Roy sitting slack in his chair, his hands in his lap, the pictures staring up at him.

 

CHAPTER

30

Sheila handed Hank a cup of coffee without saying a word. The three of them stood in the little room and turned away from Stanton, still visible through the two-way mirror. Hank was heading for the door when Sam cleared his throat. Then he squared his shoulders and pulled out his notebook.

“What'd you do, Sammy?” Hank said slowly.

“I interviewed Tony. At the hospital. Before they started working on his jaw. He told me everything. I wrote it up, just to be sure I understood his mumbles, and I had him sign it.” He held up his notebook. “I know you said nobody was supposed to talk to him, but I figured if I got to him before he got all doped up, that would be better.…” He trailed off and stood there, looking determined and apprehensive at the same time.

“You have a signed confession?” Hank started to smile.

“Well, hot damn,” said Sheila. “Good going, kid.”

Tony had seen Mandy's purse partially covered by the long tablecloth in the boat's dining room just after Hank discovered her body. He'd grabbed it while Hank's back was turned and taken it into the kitchen, which was empty. It had obviously been rifled through before he had gotten to it. He quickly arranged everything neatly, just as he thought she would have wanted it. He noticed the wrapped gift, and a tube of new, unopened lipstick. And he noticed the gun, still zipped in the side pocket.

He took her packet of tissues, because he was crying uncontrollably at this point. He took the unopened lipstick, because he felt that she had bought it to wear for him. And he took her gun, because he would find whoever had done this to his beautiful Mandy, and he would make that person pay.

“He admitted that he was the one stalking her?” Hank asked.

“Oh, yeah. Although he doesn't see it like that. They were in love, they were going to be together, et cetera, et cetera,” Sam said.

So Tony just sulked around, Sam continued, until Mandy's funeral. Then Roy said something there that bugged him for a whole day until he figured it out.

“The lipstick,” Hank said.

“Yep,” Sam said. “Roy had said at the service that Mandy had been so pretty, with her dress and that red lipstick on. But she hadn't been wearing it. It had been unopened in the bottom of her purse, and then Tony had it under his pillow at home, so how could Roy have known about it?”

“So that was when Tony, our wannabe Sherlock, went after Roy, wasn't it?” said Sheila.

“Yep,” Sam said again.

The three of them left the room without a backward glance at Roy Stanton. Hank wanted to leave him there a while longer with only those pictures for company.

Sam went to type up his Tony notes. Sheila went to her desk to work on the job advertisement they would need to find a replacement for Duane. Hank stopped by the break room to top off his coffee—using his left arm, because his right one hurt like a sonofabitch—and took a minute to gaze out the window. It was starting to cloud over again. They'd probably have snow by morning. There'd be no boat plying the lake on its Sunday luncheon cruise, though. And there'd be no Mandy Bryson to come home for the weekend.

Hank turned away from the window and walked out of the room to see Gerald Tucker striding down the hallway. He looked as if he'd just finished his shift in the jail. He slowed when he saw Hank and started to smirk. Hank said nothing and moved to pass him.

“You're in for it now, boy,” Tucker said as they passed. “You think you run things. But you don't.”

Hank didn't stop. He didn't want to give GOB the satisfaction. As he continued on his way, he could hear Tucker's receding footsteps, and something else. The unmistakable sound, over and over, of a metal cigarette lighter flipping open and shut, open and shut.

*   *   *

He needed to call the Brysons. He needed to start the paperwork. He needed to—

He pushed forward. The door to his office swung open and bumped softly into the wall. The chair behind his desk swiveled around and creaked loudly as the man sitting in it settled himself.

“Hello, Hank.” He was long and lean and wore a bolo tie.

“Hello. Can I help you with something?”

“You really should oil this chair. Once a month, and it stays smooth as silk.”

“I'll keep that in mind. 'Course, you could have left that in your hand-off memo. If you'd cared to leave one.”

The man chuckled.

“Can I help you with something, Darrell?” Hank asked again.

“Well, son, it's me who's needing to be helping you. See, I realize now that I should have been offering you a … tutorial, say, before I left for the state senate. I am regretting that. But now I am here, and I think we should be having a bit of a talk. 'Bout the way things work. 'Round here.”

Hank planted his feet firmly on the thin, gray carpet and took a better grip on his coffee cup. He really would have preferred his chair, but it appeared that Darrell Gibbons had no intention of giving it up. He waited.

“I hear that you've been looking at my friend Edrick Fizzel's finances. His bank account, his campaign donations, things of that sort. Now, Edrick is a good friend to this office. He's taken care of us many a time. There's no reason to be starting to stir things up there. Do you get what I'm saying?”

Hank hadn't moved. And he wasn't moved, either.

“I get what you're saying. And I don't agree. Fizzel has been bought and paid for by Henry Gallagher, who hired his son at way more than market rates. That's not sticking to the spirit of campaign finance law. And he interfered with a homicide investigation on Gallagher's orders. That's illegal, too.”

Gibbons laughed. “Ain't no way you can prove that. Gallagher never orders anybody to do anything. So you might as well put away your suspicions 'bout the other stuff, too. It's only going to be causing yourself one great big headache.”

“I have no intention of stopping my investigation of Commissioner Fizzel.”

Gibbons sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

“Son, you aren't getting it. You got a chip in the game now. You got leverage. That's worth a hell of a lot more than some piss-ant public corruption conviction. That ain't going to get you anywhere. I'm not telling you to ignore this. I'm telling you to use it.”

Hank stood there, hoping his face was impassive. His mind was churning, however.

“Why do you care if I have a chip in the game?”

Gibbons leaned back in the chair again. “I have a soft spot for this office. Was sheriff here for twenty years. You wouldn't have this new jail if it weren't for me. I'd like to see it continuing to prosper, not getting bulldozed by people richer and smarter than you. I'd like to see you care for it properly.”

“To me, caring for it properly means upholding the law.”

Gibbons rolled his eyes. “You are an uptight one, ain't you? The law can be shades of gray. Very little is black and white down here.” He paused. “You like this job, don't you? You're good at it. Being in command suits you. You could be taking this department places. Make it what you think it should be.
If
you get elected when your appointment runs out.”

Hank decided he'd had enough of this conversation. He took a step toward his desk. Gibbons ignored him.

“My, ah, endorsement would be very valuable. Of course, I haven't decided yet who I might be backing in the next election. Could be a tough call.”

“Could be,” said Hank, taking another step forward.

“Well, I should be getting on my way.” Gibbons stood up and carefully smoothed down his bolo tie. He extended his hand.