Tin God (5 page)

Cage gulped the glass of lemonade his mother offered. Unlike his older sister, Cage had dark hair. Tall and muscular, with keen brown eyes and a perpetually stern expression, he made an imposing deputy.

“Long day. Drunk driving accident early this morning. No fatalities but a lot of paperwork.” He tapped his uniform pocket, eyes focused on his lemonade.

“What you got in there?” Nick asked.

Cage dipped his hand in the pocket and then paused with a nervous eye on his mother. “You okay if we talk about Rebecca Newton, Ma?”

Lorelei’s knuckles turned white as she crushed a dishtowel. “I thought I would be, but I can’t.” She dropped the towel onto the counter and left the kitchen.

Oren watched her leave. His ruddy complexion had paled, his excess chin sagging. “She’d met Rebecca a couple of times but could hardly stand to be near her. Said she looked too much like Lana.”

“I saw her picture in the paper,” Nick said. “Thought it
was
Lana for a second.”

“Yeah.” Cage’s voice was strained. Oren looked out the window. Moisture glistened in his eyes.

“No coincidences.” Nick exhaled.

“Not in this case,” Cage said.

“Superficial wounds?”

Cage nodded. “Knife slashes in damn near the same spots: chest; above and below the breasts; forearms, probably defensive; upper thighs; one on the left cheek.”

“Lana’s was on the right.” Nick’s lips were numb from mashing them together. He ran his tongue along the tender skin and tried to breathe.

“Almost two inches in length,” Cage said. “Rebecca’s were, too.” He took a long swallow of lemonade, ice rattling in his empty glass . “What do you think, Dad?”

Oren gripped the table and used the heavy oak to propel himself to his feet. His gut had grown so large Nick wondered how the man’s scrawny legs supported him. “I think the bastard that took our Lana from us is right here at home. He’s been hanging around all this time while the Jackson police chased their dicks in a circle.” Oren shoved his chair out of the way and duck-walked out of the room.

“He’s right.”

Cage rubbed his temples, wrinkles creasing his brow. “I know.”

Nick had to stand. He moved around the kitchen on rubbery legs. “He knew them, Cage. Knew both of them.”

“Probably.”

“Who’s the investigator on the Newton case?”

“Jack Charles, a veteran cop. Good cop. Decent guy.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. Adams’s County Sheriff works with Roselea P.D. a lot. Dealt with him several times.”

“Talk to him yet?”

“No,” Cage said. “You’re coming with me, and you’re bringing that letter. You got it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You should have taken it to the Jackson police.”

“Why?” Nick said. “They haven’t been able to do shit for four years.”

Footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, and Lorelei appeared. Her eyes were puffy and red, her perfect make-up smudged. “No more talk of unpleasant things tonight. I want to make a good meal for Nick and get caught up on his life.”

“Not much to get caught up on, but I’m always ready for a home-cooked meal.” Nick smiled, even though his gaze lingered on Cage. The younger man nodded in understanding. Tomorrow, their investigation would begin.

The lunch rush had left a mess. Mrs. Danders had brought her young twins, and the two spawns of Satan had a French fry flinging contest. Mushy fries and half-dried ketchup were now streaked across the back window.

“Unbelievable.” Jaymee crawled into the old booth, sprayed window cleaner, and started scrubbing. “We’d have never gotten away with something like this as kids. We would have been dragged outside and had our butts whipped.”

Tourists armed with maps of Roselea’s historic district traipsed past the picture window. At this hour, most of them would tour antebellum homes all afternoon to escape the heat. Too bad the quality of the town’s residents didn’t match the majestic homes.

An enormous glob of ketchup held fast to the window. Jaymee fisted the cloth and rubbed as hard as she could.

The door dinged opened. Over her shoulder, she called, “Sorry, we’re closed until four.”

“Not here to eat.”

Jaymee’s hand stilled. Sickness rolled through her stomach. She didn’t want to see him.

“You hear me, girl?”

“Paul, please.”

The second voice had Jaymee spinning on her heels. “Reverend Gereau. I suppose I have you to thank for Paul’s visit?”

“Don’t disrespect me,” Paul said. “I won’t have it.”

“Oh, right.
Dad
.” The title almost made her laugh. Dad was a term of endearment, an affectionate term used for a man who protected his kids and loved them unconditionally. Paul Ballard didn’t deserve the honor of being called Dad.

“I’d like to speak with you.”

Jaymee turned away from the men and sprayed more cleaning solution on the red goop sticking to the table. “And Reverend Gereau is just tagging along?”

“Here to keep the peace.”

“Lovely.”

“Put that rag down and look at me,” Paul said.

Disgust rose within her. After all this time, he still thought he could boss her around. Clutching the rag, she turned to face her father. His steel-gray eyes glared back at her with disdain. New wrinkles had popped up around his surly mouth since Jaymee last saw him, and his potbelly was rapidly approaching the spare tire stage. Maybe he should use some of his precious prayer time asking God to slow down the aging process.

“Why are you here?”

“You came to work in a police car. What kind of trouble are you in now?” Paul brushed the booth off and then sat down, being careful not to let his pressed, gray dress shirt touch the edge of the table.

“I’m sure she’s not in trouble,” Gereau said. “Right, Jaymee?” His kind tone made her want to shove the dirty rag down his throat. How dare he speak to her as though he cared?

“It’s something to do with the Newton woman,” Paul said. “You do more than find her body, girl?”

Jaymee went back to scrubbing the table. Her fingernails dug into the Formica. “Detective Charles had more questions for me. He offered a ride, I took it.”

“You like taking rides, don’t you?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“Day you found the body, you got picked up by the town whore.”

Jaymee laughed. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Your name’s being tossed around with a whore’s and a dead woman’s. You’ve already embarrassed us enough. Now our family name’s being desecrated by your lifestyle.”

“And what lifestyle would that be?” Jaymee whipped around to face him. His crooked mouth warped into a sneer, and she felt the familiar stab in her heart. Why did he hate her so much? She couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t look at her with scorn.

“Living out there with the damned city trash. I’m sure you’re in the same line of work as your friend. After all, once you’ve allowed your body to be used, what’s the difference? Might as well make some money off it, right?”

“That’s enough, Paul,” Gereau said. “You wanted to know why she came to work in the police car. You got your answers. Let’s leave before this escalates further.”

She’d heard this all before. The repetitiveness should have dulled the pain, but the words sliced through the layers of armor Jaymee had built around her heart. Her lips shook as her eyes began to fill. Then she saw the corner of her father’s lips perk up. Bastard. He was enjoying this. She chewed back the sob and responded with as much venom as she could muster.

“I don’t prostitute. Not that you care.”

“I don’t. I gave up on you a long time ago. But I won’t allow you to drag my family back into the mud. You almost gave me a heart attack back then. Trying to kill me now?”

“All I did was tell the church what a hypocrite you are. But one day, Dad,” Jaymee emphasized the word with thick sarcasm, “the truth will come out. Life has a way of making things right. Don’t you agree, Reverend Gereau?”

Gereau took a step back as though Jaymee pushed him. Deep creases lined his forehead as he searched her face, presumably looking for some sort of forgiveness. She didn’t have any left.

“Life does have a way of working out the way it’s supposed to,” Gereau finally said. “I only hope one day you’ll see that, Jaymee.”

“Right.” She rolled her shoulders back. “I’m sorry if my friend’s murder is making your life difficult,
Dad
, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And frankly, your feelings are the least of my concerns.”

“Friend? Rebecca Newton was a bitch, but she was a high-class broad. She wasn’t friends with someone like you.”

“Paul–”

Anger overcame Jaymee’s misery, and she cut off Gereau’s admonishment. “You call yourself a religious person? Rebecca Newton was murdered in her home, and you’re standing here calling her a bitch?”

Paul’s cheeks puffed out, red spots flushing his skin. “Don’t talk to me like that, girl.”

“You can’t hurt me anymore, Paul. What are you going to do, slap me in the middle of the diner?”

“That’s what you need–a good beating to put you back in place. Maybe that’s what happened to your friend. She probably ran her mouth too much, just like you.”

A tremor shot up Jaymee’s spine and down her arms. The bottle of cleaner dropped from her shaking hands and hit the floor with a sharp pop. She’d forgotten.

“You argued with Rebecca.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After the city planning meeting last week.” Jaymee tried not to gag over the ball of nerves growing in her throat. “She stood up to you about the new zoning issue. You pulled her aside after the meeting.”

And threatened her, Jaymee remembered. He’d warned Rebecca that a servant of God knew to smite his enemies and eat the spoils. She’d laughed about it when she told Jaymee during her last cleaning session, chalking it up to a religious zealot running amuck. Jaymee had apologized for her father. She should have done more, should have warned her friend.

“You remember your place,” Paul warned. “Don’t be distracting the police with stories.”

“It’s not a story. Rebecca told me herself.”

“So? You think you’ll be believed over me, specially after what you did at church?”

“That was a long time ago.”

His thin lips curved, his eyes narrowing into snake-like slits. That evil smile chilled her to the bone.

“Don’t matter. People won’t forget an episode like that.”

Jaymee squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip. God, how she hated Paul Ballard.

“Your name better not come up again.”

Her eyes snapped open. She stared her father down refusing to let him intimidate her as he’d done when she was a child. “I found her body. I’m sure it will. Guess the Righteous will have to understand that.”

“This has gone on long enough.” Gereau moved toward the door. “Paul, didn’t you say you had to pick up Eli?”

The hatred on Paul’s face faltered at his grandson’s name. Her brother’s three-year-old, Paul’s pride and joy. Jaymee had seen the two of them playing in the park or walking down Main Street to the ice cream shop. The only time Paul didn’t seem like a monster was in Eli’s presence.

“He’s at daycare,” Paul said. “I don’t want him waiting for me. He gets scared, thinks we’ve forgotten him.”

“Then you’d better leave,” Jaymee said. She didn’t want sweet Eli suffering for her.

“You’ll not embarrass us any further.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the police know I haven’t associated with you in years.”

“See that you do.” Paul strode out of the diner. Gereau hesitated, face pinched into an unreadable expression. Jaymee wondered if the guilt was finally getting to him.

“Be careful,” Gereau said. “Your father–”

“I’m well aware of what he’s capable of. My eyes are wide open now, Reverend.”

“If you ever need to talk–”

“Goodbye.”

Gereau left without another word. As soon as he was out of sight, she sank into the booth and finally allowed the tears to escape. Paul was a selfish bastard and always would be. Her father’s threats were nothing new–he ruled with an iron fist and always had. The only way Sonia Ballard survived his tyranny was to be a model Christian housewife and buy into her husband’s misogyny. Even that failed sometimes.

Another wave of pain crashed over Jaymee. Her mother had been battered and broken by Paul long before Jaymee came into the world, and no amount of encouragement from her daughter ever compelled Sonia to leave. She’d been brainwashed into believing she was living the life she deserved. It hurt to watch, hurt to even think about, and after Paul threw Jaymee out of the house, she stayed away from Sonia. Her absence made life easier for both her and her mother.

And yet the truth kept Jaymee anchored to Roselea and to her father’s insults and petty cruelty. Four years ago, justice was within her grasp. But that hope had been snuffed out with Lana’s murder. Jaymee had spent the next four years saving, hoping, and praying. Suffering.

Lana. Now Rebecca.

She pulled herself out of the booth and went back to work on the dirty table. Damned if she’d let her father get away with hurting Rebecca. She’d call Cage and tell him everything she knew as soon as her shift was over.

“Bourbon.” Cage handed Nick a shot of the amber liquid. He tipped it back quickly, enjoying the smooth burn in his throat.

“Good stuff.”

Beside Nick, Cage relaxed in the patio chair staring up at the dusky sky. Supper finished, the two of them had snuck out to the deck. Conversation inside had been strained. Lorelai’s worried face and teary eyes were inescapable, and Oren was mostly silent, huffing for seconds and thirds. Nick was grateful to escape into the heat.

“Dad’s.” Cage raised his glass. “He only buys the expensive booze.”

The cicadas still filled the humid night air with their annoying song. A spicebush swallowtail, Mississippi’s beautiful black and ivory state butterfly, flittered around the verbena and honeysuckle climbing up the white fence. Tiki torches flamed at the deck’s corners, but they were little help. Mississippi mosquitoes were nearly as tough as cockroaches.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Nick wished he had another shot of Bourbon.

“Take the note to Charles, tell him our theory.”

“We don’t have much.”

“Nope.”

“He’s not going to take it seriously.”

“Probably not.”

Nick twisted to face Cage. He tapped his fingers on the chair. “We need more proof before we go to Charles.”

“Like what?”

“Royce Newton’s a big-shot family attorney, right? He and Rebecca moved down here about five years ago?”

“Yeah.” Cage tapped his fingers on his forehead, eyes closed, mouth puckered. “They spent two years restoring Evaline. He’s about twenty years older than Rebecca. Kept to himself, but Rebecca was pretty well known in town. People liked her.”

Nick sat his glass on the table. “Lana was a social worker for family court. She could have easily dealt with Royce on a case.”

“Could have.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Hold on,” Cage said. “Royce is a natural suspect in his wife’s murder. But Lana’s? You’ve got no proof.”

“That’s why I need to talk to him, find out if he knew her. Before we go to the police.”

Cage’s mouth twisted into a grimace as he drained the last of the bourbon from his glass. “And if Royce did kill Lana, he’s not volunteering any information. You know that.”

“Cage, I’ve spent the last several years dealing with liars. I’ve infiltrated a drug ring, spent weeks earning their trust and getting close to their top guy. Getting information out of people is what I do best.”

“It’s all you do.” Rigid and glaring into the darkness, Cage drummed his knuckles on the arm of the chair, a sharp staccato that grew louder with each rap. The humid night air dripped with tension.

“You’re busy.” Cage’s tone boiled with the kind of contempt a man has just before jumping headfirst into a fight. “You’re busy. Always have been, even when Lana was alive.”

Nick swallowed the retort brewing on his lips. No point in fighting with Cage. They needed to work together. “I can get more out of Newton than the cops can.”

Cage’s fist came down on the plastic chair, the crack reverberating through the night. The sparrows gorging on the bird feeder took off, and even the cicadas paused as though sensing the climate shift. Cage shot to his feet, heavy boots thudding against the wooden deck.

“She was your wife, Goddammit. Did you ever stop working long enough to miss her? Or did you jump onto the next big story?”

So they were going to do this now. He sighed and then faced the inevitable. Best get it out of the way. “Work is the only thing keeping me sane.”

“Bullshit. You were always about the job. You don’t think Lana told me that?” Cage had worked up to it, angry eyes gleaming against the now dark night sky. Spittle bubbled in the corners of his mouth. “She’d call at least once a week, upset because you were out late on a story, had missed something special, didn’t call. Just didn’t show up. She was miserable. You know that, Nick? My sister was miserable when she died!”

Nick stood too. Guilt and self-loathing lashed against his chest. “I wasn’t the only one working too much. Lana put everything into her cases. She’d come home in tears because of some kid being taken away from his family or a mother was losing her baby thanks to a drug habit. Every day, it was something. She made herself miserable.”

“She cared. That was her biggest fault,” Cage said. “She cared about everyone, even lost causes.”

“I may have been a lousy husband, but I did love her. I still do, and I miss her every damned day.”

“You should have
been
there.” Cage’s voice cracked. He picked up his empty shot glass, tipped it back and sucked hard, hoping for a last drop. “That night, you didn’t show up.”

“You think I’ve forgotten that?” The pain took over, shooting down Nick’s spine and into his toes. His whole body went limp. He sagged against the round table, hand splayed on the glass for support.

Of course he should have been there, and not just that night, but every night before that. So consumed with being number one, addicted to the adrenaline rush that came with the big story, he’d taken his wife for granted. He told himself she knew about his ambitions when they got married. She knew he had a chip on his shoulder, that he wanted to prove himself to the small town that expected him to come back and be a grunt worker just like his parents and brothers. He’d known he was a shitty husband. Maybe that’s why he’d accused her of having an affair. God knows she wasn’t getting any attention from him.

The night she was murdered, he and Lana were supposed to have dinner together at Bon Ami’s, one of Jackson’s best restaurants. A make-up dinner for the fight they’d had earlier in the morning. Nick forgot–left her there alone while he chased a story. The host said she’d left in tears. She’d driven herself, but her car was found abandoned on the street. Lana had never made it to her vehicle. Had she met up with someone? An old friend? The lover Nick was afraid she had?

No one had any information. For three days, she’d just vanished. Until a hiker discovered her strangled and mutilated body in Lafleur’s Bluff State Park, just outside of Jackson.

“If you’d showed up, it wouldn’t have happened.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought a thousand times, but hearing Cage’s words broke Nick. He slid down into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

“And my sister–my best friend–would still be here.”

The vice grip he wore every day tightened, and for a moment he wondered if a clean breath would ever come–if he’d be able to see clearly again. His fingers dug into his forehead, sweaty palms against his cheeks. He pulled in short, shallow breaths, willing off the shame threatening to incapacitate him.

Focus on the details, not the person
.
Rebecca Newton. Tie her to Lana, tie Royce to them both.

“You’re right,” he choked out, hot tears stinging his eyes. “I failed my wife. The only thing I can do now is try to find her killer.” The humming between his ears dimmed and speech became easier. “And the best way for me to do that is to talk to Royce Newton, find out if he’s even a real suspect. Do what I do best.”

He finally bolstered the nerve to look up. The younger man stared back, anger and compassion battling for dominance. A lock of his dark hair clung to his forehead. His lips were open, teeth bared. Nick could tell Cage wanted to say something, probably wanted to hit him, bust his nose, do something to alleviate the storm of rage and sorrow that no doubt brewed inside him. He’d idolized his older sister, and she had doted on him. Cage had every right to hate Nick.

The cicadas had stopped. The night air still sizzled with their angry words, and the mosquitoes arrived in droves. Nick swatted one off his arm.

Cage opened his mouth to speak. His phone rang, its shrill tone shattering the heavy silence.

“Yeah?” Cage’s fingers turned white from his grip. “Wait, say what?” His hand relaxed, right arm going across his body to support the left, phone cradled between his shoulder. “You’re at home?” He glanced back at Nick. “Right now?”

Nick licked his rough lips. His fingers twitched.

“All right, all right,” Cage said. “No, I won’t. I promise. Give me fifteen minutes.”

He hung up the phone, tapping it against his chin. Finally, he turned to Nick. “I’m going to regret this, but you want to go for a ride?”

They said goodbye to Lorelai and Oren, promised to keep them in the loop, and headed out to Cage’s cruiser. The night was still sticky, but the heady scent of magnolias and warm summer air made it almost bearable.

Nick settled into the passenger seat. “So where are we going?”

He still couldn’t believe he’d missed it. “Jaymee Ballard found Rebecca?”

“Yeah.” Cage drove through the quiet Roselea streets toward the west end of town. “She worked for her part time. Showed up to clean, found Rebecca dead.”

“Damn.”

“She’s pretty shaken up.” Cage made a right, veering away from downtown and into the thick hickory trees. The cemetery was this way. Lana’s final resting place.

“I remember her,” Nick said. “She was Lana’s maid of honor. Came to stay with her for a while the winter before we got married. Always got the sense something bad had happened to her.”

Cage’s eyes never left the road, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “That was a bad time for Jaymee. Don’t bring it up.”

Nick’s instincts flared. Cage had a soft spot for Jaymee. Maybe more than that. “No problem. So she’s got information? Why’d she call you?”

“We’re…old friends.” Nick caught the uneasiness in Cage’s words.

“I see.
Good
old friends, no doubt.”

Cage’s mouth twitched. “Something like that.”

They drove onto a gravel road, and the throng of hickory trees thickened, live oaks adding to the canopy. With no streetlights to guide the way, the road was ominous. Nick couldn’t see the cemetery through the trees, but he knew Lana was there. They emerged into a circular clearing dimly lit with a couple of security lights, and about fifteen or twenty dilapidated mobile homes stretched out before them. Cage drove toward the end of the lot, finally parking in front of an old trailer. Instead of a porch light, a simmering bug zapper lit up the entrance.

Cage stepped out of the cruiser, pushed his wavy, dark brown hair off his forehead, and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. He chewed on his lower lip, gazing at the sorry-looking trailer with compassion. Despite his darker complexion, he looked so much like Lana at that moment, Nick had to turn away.

“This is where she lives?” Nick forced himself to speak.

“Home sweet home.” Cage led the way through the sparse grass. Dingy white on top and ugly, disco-gold on the bottom, Jaymee’s trailer looked like it had been sitting in the lot since the seventies. Two cracked concrete steps led to the front door, and wilted petunias clung to life in their wooden box beneath the window.

“Let me do the talking,” Cage said. “She’s not going to be thrilled with a stranger showing up.”

“I’m not exactly a stranger.” Nick stood at the base of the steps while Cage knocked on the cracked door.

“Trust me. She’ll be pissed.”

The door swung open, and a throaty female voice cut through the sweltering air. “Hey. Thanks for coming out here tonight.” Small arms slipped around Cage’s shoulders. Her bare fingernails were clipped short, her hands devoid of any jewelry. Her skin looked dry.

The sound of her voice dredged a memory from Nick’s subconscious. Four years ago, in a darkened funeral home, Jaymee, dressed in black, standing before Lana’s white casket. She traced the pink silk lining, and then her hand came to rest on Lana’s stiff, clasped ones. “I’ll never forget what you did for me. And I promise I’ll keep going forward. For you, Lana Kay. For you.”

Jaymee had turned to face him. Nick remembered the depths of pain in her hazel eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He hadn’t seen her again.

Now, standing on Jaymee’s cracked front steps, he forced down the sorrow as Cage removed the woman’s arms, squeezing her hands affectionately. “Listen, I’ve brought someone with me.”

Jaymee pulled her hands away and pushed Cage aside. She was petite–nearly a head shorter than Cage’s six-foot frame–but her stature seemed larger than life as she honed in on Nick. He had only a second to appreciate her features: heart-shaped face; a slim, delicate nose; and round, wide eyes that flashed with the ferocity of a tiger.

“Nick?” The anger in her gaze had faded into raw pain.

Nick stepped forward, extending his hand. “Hi. Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

She shook his hand once with a tight, trembling grip. “I remember.” She turned back to Cage, her mouth pressed together so tightly the words were barely audible. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s he doing here? I told you not to bring anyone.”

“You told me not to bring Detective Charles. I didn’t.”

“Cute.” She glanced back at Nick. “No offense, but I remember you’re a reporter. I don’t need to be quoted in tomorrow’s paper.”

“None taken. And I’m not here for a story. At least not one I’m writing about.”

She chewed on her fingernail. Nick suddenly remembered Jaymee was in his wedding pictures. The bridesmaids’ dresses were some shade of purple. Lilac. That’s what Lana called it.

“Let me explain,” Cage said. “Nick’s here because we think Rebecca Newton’s murder may be connected to Lana’s.”

Jaymee stared at him. She blinked once, slowly, and then swallowed as though she were forcing too much food down her throat. “Come in.”

###

Nick Samuels. Jaymee couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds without the pain eating her from the inside out. It had been the same way at the funeral. Jaymee hadn’t wanted her past to affect Lana’s family, and she’d made Lana promise to never tell Nick about Sarah.

Now he was here, looking as though he’d aged at least ten years since the funeral. Tall and rugged, he was less muscular than Jaymee remembered. Not gaunt, but lean–almost wiry. Shadows under his blue eyes. Gray in his ash-blond hair and deep worry lines in his brow. Broad shouldered and still better looking than most of the men around Roselea. God, she was an asshole, admiring the widower of her dead best friend.