Thicker Than Water (12 page)

Louis sat in the Mustang a long time, Monday's newspaper folded on his lap. He had not wanted to come out here to J.C. Landscaping again. The place had a sadness about it that drained him. But the questions couldn't wait.

He wanted to know about why Cade had asked about Bob Ahnert. He wanted to know more about Kitty and what Cade told Spencer Duvall during the trial. And he wanted to know about the Haitian man.

He got out of the car. It was almost December, but the temperature was still in the mid-eighties, the air sticky and thick. He looked at the lopsided trailer, sitting in the brush, baking under the mid-day sun.

As he started to the door, Ronnie came around the back of the trailer, carrying a small tree, its roots wrapped in burlap. It looked dead.

Ronnie stopped and put the tree down. He ran his forearm across his forehead and smiled nervously.

“Hey, Mr. Kincaid.”

Louis took off his sunglasses. “Is your father here, Ronnie?”

“Yeah, inside.” Ronnie nodded to the trailer but made no move toward it. Louis suspected he was embarrassed to have him inside.

Finally, Ronnie wiped his hands on his jeans and led Louis to the trailer. The door stuck and Ronnie had to jerk on it to get it open.

“Come on in,” Ronnie said.

The trailer was dark, sunlight kept out by tinfoil duct-taped to the windows. The paneling on the walls was a faded brown, warped from the humidity and streaked with some kind of dried liquid. The place smelled of dirty clothes, dog food and something fried. A chugging wall unit a/c was not making a dent in the heat.

The kitchen was just an alcove off the living room, dimly lit by a flickering fixture over the sink. The appliances were the same vintage as the trailer, Louis suspected, old avocado things with chipped corners and missing dials.

Ronnie's son, Eric, was sitting at the small table in the kitchen, finishing a sandwich. His dark eyes settled on Louis's face and for an instant, Louis saw Jack Cade in him again. Eric's face had the pink smoothness of a boy, but his eyes the dead glaze of someone who had already given up.

Benjamin Outlaw's face came to Louis's mind, with its bright curiosity and hope.

“Dad?” Ronnie called. “Louis Kincaid is here to see you.”

Jack Cade came down the narrow hallway, zipping his pants. His well-muscled arms were exposed by the white T-shirt he wore. His hair was ragged and he had two or three days growth on his jaw.

“You just come around without calling?” Cade asked, reaching for a beer can on the counter. “You threw me out of your place for that.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Cade took a long swallow of the Budweiser, then belched. “I'm listening.”

Louis glanced at Eric. “Outside,” Louis said to Cade.

“What? You don't like my home?”

“It's private.”

Cade looked at Eric. “Up, kid.”

Eric hesitated just a moment too long and Cade gave him a light cuff to the head. “I said, move.”

Eric got up, glaring at Cade, then moved over to the couch.

Cade pulled a fresh can of Budweiser from the refrigerator and sank into a chair at the small table. He waved at the other chair and Louis reluctantly sat down, moving Eric's plate to the side. He laid the newspaper on the table, pushing it toward Cade.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” he asked.

Cade glanced at the newspaper. He took a drink of beer and set the can down, rubbing it with his calloused fingers.

“Next question.”

“I didn't hear an answer to my first one.”

Ronnie had come in from the back and was standing near the sink. Louis knew he could see the headline from where he stood.

Cade sniffed, running his arm under his nose. “Hate this fucking weather. Can't breathe.”

“Answer me, Cade.”

Cade shrugged. “If I tell you I did or didn't, what does that change?”

“It would make me feel a helluva lot better.”

Cade leaned forward, his fingers gripping the can so tight, it cracked. “You're
working
for me. You don't have to feel better. I do.”

Louis sat back, his chest tight. Man, he should've trashed this case right from the start.

“You're thinking about walking out on me now, ain't you?”

“I think about it every day, Cade.”

Cade smiled. “But you can't now, because of her, right?”

Louis's first thought was that he wasn't sure who Cade meant—Kitty Jagger or Susan Outlaw?

“Who?” he asked.

“The bitch lawyer.”

Louis wanted to punch him.

Ronnie jumped forward. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Kincaid?”

Louis forced himself to look at Ronnie. He knew Ronnie was in his late thirties, but he looked pretty young right now. And embarrassed.

Louis shook his head, pissed. Sweat was trickling down his back and he could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. It was like a frickin' oven in here.

Forget it, Kincaid. He's just trying to rattle you. Ask him what you came to ask and get out of here.

“Tell me why you asked about Bob Ahnert?”

“I told you to leave that shit alone.”

“And I told you it's the heart of your case. And unless you tell me right now that you killed Kitty Jagger, then I'm keeping at it. Now answer me.”

Louis looked up at Ronnie. His face was like stone. Cade's was glistening with sweat.

Cade wet his lips. “Ahnert came to see me one day. It was just after the trial started. He wasn't supposed to talk to me without fucking Duvall there. But he did anyway.”

“What did Ahnert want?”

“He asked me what chemicals I worked with. And he wanted to know if I knew where Atterberry might have gone to.”

“Your alibi witness?”

“Yeah.”

Louis hesitated. Why was Ahnert still asking questions after the trial had already started?

“What did you tell Duvall?”

“I told him I didn't know where the hell Atterberry was. I only knew him because he hung out at the same bar as me. He worked seasonal, stayed in motels. Anyway, we ran out of cash and Atterberry said he had some beer back at his motel. So he drove us over there and that's where we stayed.”

“Watching TV?”

“Watching
Star Trek,”
Cade said, taking a drink.

“What did Spencer Duvall tell you about Atterberry?”

“That they couldn't locate him,” he said bitterly.

“Did you know where he was?”

Cade shook his head. “I didn't know then, but I learned later. Atterberry moved on to Texas, to the next job. He wouldn't have been hard to find.”

“What about the chemicals? Did Bob Ahnert tell you why he wanted to know?”

Cade crushed the empty beer can and tossed it across the kitchen to the overflowing trash can. It rolled to the floor and Ronnie picked it up.

“Nope. I gave him a list. He never got back to me and I never heard about no chemicals brought up in the trial.”

“When did you agree to the plea bargain?”

Cade got up and jerked open the fridge. Ronnie moved out of his way, looking at Louis apologetically.

“A couple weeks into the trial,” Cade said.

There was only one question left, the one Louis had wanted to ask Cade from day one.

“Why did you take the plea bargain?”

Cade hesitated, standing in the center of the kitchen, his fingers on the beer pop-top. “Twenty years or the chair.”

Cade looked over at Ronnie, who immediately averted his eyes. “Blood is thicker than water, man,” Cade said.

Ronnie went over to Eric, who had been watching the exchange intently.

“Come on, we got work to do,” Ronnie said. Eric got up and they left.

Louis ran his hand across his face, wiping away the perspiration. The air was thick with the smells of the trailer. He stood, picking up the newspaper. “I have to go.”

Cade looked up at him. “Leave that girl's case alone or I'll fire you.”

“You fire me and I'll tell the sheriff's office about that little confrontation you had with the Haitian. Mobley ought to like that, don't you think?”

“Don't fuck with me, Kincaid.”

Louis turned and walked out, jerking the door shut behind him. He stopped to pull in a deep breath of fresh air and saw Ronnie and Eric near his car.

Eric was looking at the Mustang, running a hand lightly over the fender. He looked up as Louis approached, his dark eyes almost hidden by the hair falling over his forehead.

“Eric likes your car,” Ronnie said.

Louis looked down at Eric. For the first time, Louis thought he saw some life in the kid's eyes.

“This a sixty-six?” Eric asked.

“Sixty-five. I've had it since high school.”

“This is a classic. Is it worth a lot?”

“Only to me, probably.” Louis got in the car.

Eric walked around the car, peering in the windows. Ronnie leaned in the car's open window.

“He didn't mean none of that stuff he said in there,” Ronnie said. “Not about Miss Outlaw or that Jamaican guy. Dad's just . . . angry.”

“Angry and stupid,” Louis said. “I'm trying to help him.”

Ronnie lowered his voice. “He's scared. He's scared they're going to get him for this Duvall thing. He's scared of going back to prison.”

Louis wanted to tell Ronnie what he was thinking. That Ronnie didn't know his father, that the man who had left when Ronnie was fifteen was dead and a different man had come back. A man who was capable of things a son couldn't imagine.

Louis started the car.

“Is he?” Eric said suddenly.

Ronnie turned to look at his son. “What?”

“Is he going back to prison?” Eric asked.

Ronnie turned to his son. “Well, Mr. Kincaid is going to do everything he can—”

“Is he?” Eric repeated.

Ronnie looked at Louis. But Louis was looking at Eric's eyes. There was no sadness in them, no fear that his grandfather might be going to prison. Just something that hadn't been there before—cold, hard hope.

It was four
A.M.
and he was looking for something that wasn't there.

The entire Jagger case file was spread on his bed, floor and dresser, the contents divided into statements, evidence logs, photos and interviews. He had found a statement Ahnert had taken from Horace Atterberry that backed up what Cade had said: He and Atterberry were watching
Star Trek
in a motel room. Louis set it aside.

Odd. That was almost the same alibi Cade offered for the night Spencer Duvall was shot, that he was home watching
Star Trek, the Next Generation.
Same show, twenty years apart. Was this what Ahnert was talking about?

It couldn't be that simple.

Hell, maybe Atterberry was still alive. He would try to locate him tomorrow, despite the fact that Susan expected him to follow up on Candace's lover.

He continued to read, staring at the typed words and gruesome photographs until they were blurry. He could find nothing else.

Thunder rolled overhead and as rain began to patter the roof, Issy ran in from the living room and jumped on the bed. Her fur was wet. She had probably gotten outside through the torn porch screen. He had to get the thing fixed or one day he'd come home and find her flattened on the road.

She rubbed up against him and he nudged her away.

She came back, and again he set her aside. She moved to the end of the bed and stared at him. He took off his glasses and stared back. It occurred to him that in the nearly two years he had owned the cat, he had never felt anything but obligation toward it.

Is that your kitty?

Louis reached for her, but she scampered off, disappearing into the bathroom.

He went back to reading. Another report. Another piece of evidence. All of it seemed in order, everything a prosecutor would need to convict a murdering rapist.

Interviews with Willard Jagger, the owner of Hamburger Heaven, Jack Cade's customers. He even found Ahnert's statement from Joyce Crutchfield, but it said only what Ray had already told him, that Kitty had no boyfriends and pretty much led a quiet life, going to school, working and taking care of her father.

Damn it, what was missing?

Talk to Kitty.

Louis looked around the room for the autopsy report and saw it lying on the floor near the dresser. There was water dripping from the ceiling right over the top of it.

He snatched it up and shook the water free. He moved back to the bed, crawled up against the pillows and reached for his glasses.

At the lung analysis he stopped.

Potassium monopersulfate. He had tripped on it the first time he read the report but had forgotten about it. Ahnert said to look for something that was missing, so this couldn't be it. What else had Ahnert said?
Something is there that shouldn't be.
Was this it?

He looked at his watch. It was almost dawn. He couldn't call Vince Carissimi, the ME, for a couple hours yet.

He crawled off the bed and went to the closet. He had not fully unpacked, even after a year, but he knew he had a dictionary somewhere. He rifled through a box of books. College texts, old notebooks, a yellowed police manual from Ann Arbor and his high school yearbook. Nothing.

Well, his generic dictionary probably wouldn't have the sulfate thing in it anyway. He looked at the phone, hesitated, then walked to it. He dialed Susan's number.

It rang once and he was surprised she picked up so quickly, but she was probably used to getting late-night calls.

“Hello . . .” She sounded drugged.

“Susan, I need you to look up something for me.”

“Huh?”

“This is Louis. That big dictionary on your dining room table—”

“I . . . what time is it?”

“It's almost morning,” Louis said.

“The hell it is. Wait a minute . . .”

He heard her sheets rustle, then she came back to the phone.

“Tell me first what you said to Mobley.”

“I didn't say anything to him.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

There was a pause. He could hear her breathing.

“Susan, I swear.”

“Okay, what do you need a dictionary for?”

“There was something in Kitty Jagger's lungs that wasn't explained. Look it up for me.”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh. “Kincaid, I thought you were going to find Candace's girlfriend.”

“Come on, Susan. Please.”

“Hold on.”

The phone went down with a clank in his ear. A minute later, she was back.

“Spell it.”

Louis read off the letters.

He could hear pages turning. “Okay. Here it is. All I see here is potassium sulfate . . . no mono-thing.”

“Okay, what is potassium sulfate?”

“You're not going to like this, Kincaid.”

“What is it?”

“ ‘Potassium sulfate: A white crystalline compound used especially in fertilizer'.”

Louis closed his eyes. Who more likely to use fertilizer than a damn landscaper?

“Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe she got it from the dumpsite.”

“It was in her
lungs,
Susan. Dead people don't inhale anything.”

Susan was silent for a moment. “Maybe she wasn't dead when she was dumped.”

“No blood at the dumpsite. She bled and died somewhere else.”

Susan sighed tiredly. “Sorry, Kincaid.”

“Not your fault.” He tossed the autopsy report to the bed. “Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. I know what it's like.”

He stared at the puddle of water near the dresser. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Don't worry about it. I think better on five hours sleep.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“I'm not understanding, I'm just groggy. I still think you're chasing ghosts. Get some sleep, Kincaid. You've got to go lezzie hunting tomorrow.”

“Right.” He hung up.

He started to gather up the files, then stopped, looking again at the autopsy report.

There's something missing that should be there.
Damn, what was he looking for?

Louis took the report back to the bed. Issy was curled up on the pillow, giving herself a bath. He started to move her aside, then stopped. He eased himself in next to her.

A bird had started up somewhere outside his window. The light was graying up. He put on his glasses and started reading again.