White Hot (20 page)

“Screw him,” Huff said to Chris. “And don’t change the subject. I want to know what’s going on. Who’s gonna be the one to tell me?”

Chris took a seat on the vacant sofa. “Wayne Scott is making a nuisance of himself again.”

“What now?”

“He’s still probing,” Beck said. “And all his probes are in Chris’s direction.”

Huff drew on his cigarette, wondering where the likes of this pain in the ass detective had been when his daddy was murdered in cold blood. Nobody had asked a single question about how he came to have his head cracked open wide enough for part of his brain to ooze out. Huff wasn’t even sure if his daddy had been buried, or if his corpse had been turned over to the university medical school to be mutilated by a group of bungling students.

He had been taken to the jail to spend the night because they didn’t know what else to do with him. Mr. J. D. Humphrey had told the lawman on the ride into town that his wife would have a hissy fit if he took Huff home with him. “He’s probably got head lice. She’d never let me hear the end of it if our kids turned up with nits.”

That night, while he lay crying on the cot in the jail cell, he heard the lawman tell another lawman, who’d been put in charge of keeping an eye on him, that it had been Mrs. Humphrey, J. D.’s wife, who’d taken the cigar box of money, which a search of the shack had failed to produce.

“There was a big sale on textiles at the dry goods store. She was low on cash, so she stopped by the salvage yard and helped herself without bothering to tell J.D.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” the other man had said.

They’d had a good laugh over the misunderstanding.

The following morning, Huff had been given a biscuit and sausage patty sandwich for breakfast, then the lawman ordered him to sit and wait and not to give anybody any sass.

Which was what he did until the arrival of a skinny man wearing a seersucker suit and wire-rimmed spectacles. He told Huff he’d come to take him to an orphanage. As they drove away from the jail, he said, “I’m not gonna have any trouble out of you, am I, boy?”

He’d had no idea of the hell about to be rained down on him and the institution he oversaw. He would live to rue the day that he’d picked up young Huff Hoyle from the jailhouse.

For the next five years Huff had lived—more like existed—in a home for orphaned children run by people who preached Jesus’ love but who would beat the living daylights out of you with a leather strop if you looked at them crosswise, which Huff Hoyle often did.

When he was thirteen, he escaped. He left with only one regret—that the bastard in the seersucker suit didn’t know it was Huff who’d killed him. He should have woken him up and given him a chance to put on his spectacles before covering his face with the pillow.

He’d made no such mistake with Mr. J. D. Humphrey. He made sure his daddy’s murderer saw him and heard the name he whispered close to his ear before he smothered him in his own bed while his fat wife snored peacefully in the twin bed not three feet away.

The lawman saved him the trouble of having to kill him. Huff asked around town until he heard about him coming between two niggers who were arguing over a hunting dog. One of them had a knife, which wound up buried to the hilt in the lawman’s gut. It was said he died screaming.

Since the night his daddy died, he’d maintained a low opinion of men who wore a badge, and that contempt showed now. “What has Deputy Scott got his drawers in a wad about this time?”

Beck told him about the interrogation that had taken place the night before. Now and then Chris would interrupt with a droll denial or an acerbic quip about the deputy.

When Beck finished, Huff said, “Chris, your explanation of the phone call should’ve squelched Scott’s excitement. Especially since I did ask you to stay after Danny about that church. But Scott is dogged and he’s ambitious, and that’s worrisome. Sounds to me like he’s not going to give up and drop this nonsense.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Huff,” Beck said.

“I don’t understand what’s going on with Red,” Chris complained. “Both times I’ve been called in, he hands the reins over to Scott. I’ve had to sit there and take crap from that yokel without a peep from Red. Is he holding out for more money? If so, let’s give him a few bills and be done with this. Either that, or let’s get proactive and do the police work ourselves.”

“Police work?” Huff looked from Chris to Beck. “What’s he talking about?”

“Chris thinks that someone killed Danny and deliberately made it appear that he had.”

“Somebody is framing me, Huff.”

Huff shifted in his recliner to find a more comfortable spot. “Framing you, huh? What do you think of that theory, Beck?”

“It’s feasible. You’ve made some powerful enemies over the years. I suppose if someone wanted to get you where it really hurts, they’d go after one of your children. It would be a double coup to have another child blamed for it.”

“Any ideas who this individual might be?”

“Slap Watkins,” Chris declared.

Huff looked at him for several moments, then a laugh rumbled up from deep inside his chest. “Slap Watkins? He hasn’t got sense enough to kill a june bug and get away with it.”

“Hear me out, Huff. He is bad news.”

“Of course he is. All those Watkinses are degenerates. But I’ve never known them to be killers.”

“They’re fighters. They’re violent. After three years in Angola, Slap could have graduated to homicide.” Chris scooted forward, balancing on the edge of the sofa cushion. “As soon as he was released from prison—mad at the world, I’m sure—he applied for a job at the foundry. Danny didn’t hire him. Slap knew as well as anyone that we hire a lot of parolees because they work cheap. Danny, who was rich, who represented everything that Slap hates and blames for his misfortunes, turned him down. Couple that with the fight we had with him three years ago, and I think it adds up to a good motive for murder for revenge.”

Beck picked it up from there. “Watkins may have been watching Danny, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Sunday afternoon, he followed Danny out to the fishing camp.” Summarizing, he spread his hands. “That’s the hypothesis.”

“Slap is just stupid enough to have forgotten the bait when he staged a scene to make it look like Danny had gone there to actually fish,” Chris added. “Nor would he know about Danny’s aversion to fishing.”

Huff got out of his recliner and made a turn around the room, enjoying the sight of his possessions, savoring the burning tobacco taste on his tongue. Finally he said, “Sounds neat and tidy, all right, but it’s all speculation. You’ve got nothing to back up this hunch.”

“We’ve got Slap himself,” Chris said. “He’s become extremely smug. Why else would he approach Sayre in the diner? He would never have made a move on her before. And he insulted the whole family the other night. Beck heard him.”

Huff looked at Beck, who nodded. “He did. Other people heard him, too.”

“What’s Red’s take on it?”

“I’ve only mentioned it to him once,” Beck said.

“He didn’t seize on it,” Chris said, clearly annoyed with the sheriff’s seeming indifference. “Don’t you agree that he should question Watkins?”

“At the very least.” Huff moved to an end table and knocked an ash off his cigarette into an ashtray. “Leave Red to me.”

Before more could be said, Selma tapped lightly on the door, then opened it. “A package just arrived, Mr. Hoyle.”

He motioned for her to give the Federal Express envelope to Beck. “Whatever it is, do you mind dealing with it?”

“Of course not.”

Beck took the envelope from Selma and ripped it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside. Huff watched Beck’s eyes as he scanned it quickly, then began again at the top and reread it, taking more time. When he finished, he cursed beneath his breath. Huff intercepted the worried glance he shot Chris.

“Bad news?” Huff asked. “Come on, come on, let’s hear it.”

Beck hesitated, which fueled Huff’s temper.

“Goddammit!” he shouted. “Am I or am I not still in charge of this outfit?”

“I’m sorry, Huff,” Beck said quietly. “Of course you are.”

“Then stop fucking around and tell me what’s in the letter.”

“It’s from Charles Nielson. He heard about Billy Paulik’s accident.”

Huff put his cigarette in his mouth and rocked back on his heels. “And?”

Beck sighed. “And then some.”

Chris wasn’t happy to see George Robson lurking around his office when he returned to it following a turbulent lunch with Huff, through which he had bitched about everything from Charles Nielson to Selma’s menu.

“Can I have a minute, Chris?” George asked.

Chris could think of no plausible excuse to refuse the request, so he motioned him into his private office.

Physically, George had little to recommend him. His personality didn’t particularly attract friends, either. His anxious attempts to please only made him annoying. He was an overgrown nerd who tried to fit in, and who might have even deluded himself into believing he had, without realizing that he never would.

It was his self-delusion that made him perfect for the position he held.

Chris found it amusing that George could be so blissfully unaware that he was being made a cuckold by the man who asked him to take a seat and offered him something to drink.

“No thanks.”

“Then what can I do for you, George?”

“It’s about that conveyor. I had someone here this morning to replace the belt.”

“All right, so what’s the problem?”

“He, uh…that is the technician, recommended that it remain out of commission until it undergoes a complete overhaul.”

Chris leaned back in his chair and frowned. “Huff won’t like hearing that.”

“No, I don’t suppose he will.”

“So what’s your recommendation?” Chris looked at him mildly.

George licked his lips. “Well, safety is my first concern.”

“Naturally.”

“And that machine has already cost one man his arm.”

Enjoying the way George squirmed under his steady gaze, Chris didn’t comment.

“But…but in my opinion,” he stammered, “an overhaul would be unnecessary. I think she’s ready to start back up.”

Chris smiled at him. “I defer to your expertise on matters of safety, George. So does Huff. You know that. If you say it’s been repaired to your satisfaction and is now safe to operate, then we feel confident to do so. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” He got up to leave and was almost to the door when he stopped and turned back. “Actually there is something else. Lila.”

Chris, who’d begun sorting through the message slips on his desk, stopped and looked up. What the hell was this about? Had the dumb bitch confessed to their affair, accidentally given them away, what? “Lila?” he said pleasantly.

George swallowed hard. “She mentioned to me not long ago that we ought to have you over for dinner one night. And Huff, too, of course. Would you like that?”

Relaxing, Chris replied, “Gee, I don’t know. Is she a good cook?”

George gave a nervous laugh and patted his belly. “Speaks for itself.” Then he ran his tongue over his lips again. “I had to fend for myself last night, though. She was out.”

“Oh?” Chris returned his attention to the stack of pink message slips.

“She had to go see about a sick friend.”

“Nothing serious I hope.”

“I don’t think so. But it was late when she got in.”

Chris raised his head again and looked at Lila’s husband. “A wife like Lila, you’d be crazy not to worry about her safety and well-being, George. Don’t make us wait too long for that dinner at your house, okay?”

George nodded, hesitated as though uncertain how to conclude the meeting, then turned and hustled out.

“Jesus,” Chris muttered. Was it any wonder Lila screwed like there was no tomorrow?

“My husband died last year.” As Mrs. Loretta Foster announced her husband’s passing to Sayre, she crossed herself. “God rest his soul.”

“I’m sorry. Had he been ill?”

“Not a day in his life. He just dropped dead right here in the kitchen while he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Pulmonary embolism. The doctor told me he was dead before he hit the floor.”

“Sudden deaths come as such a shock.”

Mrs. Foster’s overpermed gray hair moved as a unit when she bobbed her head in agreement. “It’s good for the one who checks out. No fuss or muss,” she said, snapping her fingers. “But it’s hard on the ones left behind. Anyhow, it’s only me and my boy now.”

She gestured toward her son, who was sitting on the floor watching cartoons on a big-screen TV that took up most of the space in the diminutive living room of the small frame house. He was absorbed in the antics of Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Mrs. Foster had placed a bag of Chee-tos and a glass of orange juice on a tray in front of him, admonishing him to be careful and not to spill on the carpet. He appeared not to have heard her and seemed completely unaware of Sayre, who was seated with his mother at the kitchen table, where they were sipping glasses of sweetened iced tea.

The “boy” was well into his forties.

“I guess you noticed that he’s not quite right,” Mrs. Foster said in a whisper that Sayre could barely hear above the manic sound track of the cartoon. “Born that way. Wasn’t anything I did while I was carrying him. That’s just the way he came out.”