White Hot (30 page)

“Unless he produces an alibi.”

“He doesn’t have one,” Scott said.

“He hasn’t
produced
one,” Beck said, correcting him. “That doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist.”

While Scott was mulling that over, Red asked, “Where’s the motive, Wayne? You’ve failed to establish a reason for Chris to kill Danny.”

It was on the tip of Sayre’s tongue to blurt out Chris’s motive. She wanted to, if for no other reason than to pull the slats out from under Beck Merchant.

But she couldn’t say anything without betraying Jessica DeBlance’s confidence. If it ever reached a point where justice hinged on that, she would have to reveal what she knew about the engagement. But if she could avoid it, she would.

“I still think we’ve got enough for another round of questioning at the very least,” Scott argued.

Red sighed. “Bad as I hate to say it, Beck, Wayne’s right. Any other suspect, we’d bring in and see what he had to say about this allegation. We can’t exempt Chris just because of who he is.”

Beck thought it over for a moment, then said, “We’ve got a powder keg at the foundry. God only knows what kind of chain reaction it would set off if you picked up Chris in a patrol car. I don’t see what purpose it would serve, and in fact, it could cause a panic.”

“Then I’m making you responsible for getting him in here voluntarily,” Red said.

“Once he hears about this, he’ll welcome the chance to respond.”

“It’s still mandatory that he come in today,” the sheriff said.

“I’ll have him here after lunch.”

“Okay then.”

Wayne Scott didn’t look too happy with the arrangement, but he didn’t have any choice but to accept it. “Are you afraid, ma’am?”

Sayre looked up at him. “Afraid?”

“Watkins threatened to kill you.”

“He had an opportunity to kill me. He didn’t.”

“Just to be on the safe side, I’ll post a squad car outside your motel room.”

“No, Red. Please don’t.”

“If Huff finds out about this, you can bet—”

“And I’m sure you’ll tell him,” she said. “But I don’t want watch-dogs outside my door. I won’t have them, so don’t bother sending them.”

“Well…be careful,” he said lamely.

“I will.” She stood up. “Is that all?”

“For the time being.”

She nodded a good-bye to Red and Deputy Scott but ignored Beck completely. She exited the building and had almost reached the red convertible when she heard him call her name. She kept walking. He caught up with her as she was unlocking the car door.

When he laid his hand on her shoulder, she rounded on him. Before she had a chance to speak, he said, “I know you’re mad.”

“
Mad
doesn’t come close.”

“And I know why. But listen to me, Sayre. Take Red up on his offer of protection.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “You believe my story? You didn’t think my encounter with Watkins was a fabrication?”

“Of course I believed you.”

“You just enjoy making me look like an idiot and discrediting me in front of other people. In fact, it seems to have become your favorite pastime.”

“I’m Chris’s counsel.”

“So you’ve made clear.”

She opened the car door and got in, but he prevented her from closing the door. Leaning in close, he spoke quickly and angrily. “Chris has placed his trust in me to act on his behalf. I couldn’t betray that trust any more than you could betray the trust of Danny’s fiancée.

“You had a perfect opportunity to venture a motive for murder, Sayre. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Because you had given that woman your word not to say anything. Now, why should the rules of confidentiality apply only to you?”

Technically, he was right. It would have been a breach of professional ethics if he had failed to argue on his client’s behalf. But his being right didn’t prevent her from being mad as hell.

“Let go of the door.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere I damn well please.” She tugged hard on the door, but to no avail.

“Listen to me, Sayre. Forget that you’re angry at me and focus on Watkins. You must pay attention to his threats. He’s not that bright, but that only makes him more dangerous. Maybe he didn’t intend to hurt you this morning, but now that you’ve delivered his message to Red, you’ve served your purpose. Maybe he’ll come back and make an example of you. Watkins hates the Hoyles. You’re a Hoyle, Sayre, like it or not, and…” His eyes moved over her. “You’re conspicuous.”

“Good. Then I’ll be easy to spot on the picket line.”

For the second time that day, Beck wheeled his pickup into a parking slot in front of the sheriff’s office, pulling in next to Chris’s Porsche. They had agreed to meet there after Chris went home to have lunch with Huff.

He left the windows of his truck down when he got out, although that wouldn’t help much to prevent the cab from becoming suffocating during the time he was inside. There was no relief from the stifling heat. Even the air-conditioned sheriff’s office felt dank and close.

“Hoyle’s in the last room on the right,” he was informed by the deputy manning the desk, Pat something.

“Thanks.”

Beck knocked once, then opened the door to the room, which was barely large enough to accommodate a table and two formed fiberglass chairs. Chris was seated in one of them. “Hi.”

“Hi. Have you seen Red?” Beck asked.

“No. Only that Neanderthal at the desk. He showed me in here. Told me Red and Scott were still at lunch and to make myself at home.”

Beck instantly sensed a change in his friend’s demeanor. Notably absent was Chris’s sarcastic derision, which was part of his character. Beck sat down across from him. “Want to tell me what’s the matter?”

Chris smiled but not with humor. “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

Beck’s heart did a flip-flop.

Chris’s wry grin widened. “No, I’m not about to confess. At least not to murdering my brother.”

“Then what?”

Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the table and massaged his forehead with the fingers of both hands. “I’m scared. There. That’s my big confession, Beck. This room feels an awful lot like a jail cell, and it scares me shitless.”

The tightness in Beck’s chest relaxed. “That’s to be expected. That’s what interrogation rooms are designed to do, Chris. To rattle you. Make you begin to doubt your own innocence.

“When I worked in the DA’s office, I spent a lot of time in rooms like this with real badasses. Gangbangers, rapists, killers, thieves. But no matter what their rap sheet looked like, you got them in an interrogation room, and left them long enough, and they started wanting their mamas.”

Chris reacted with a smile, but it was short-lived. “I’m beginning to fear they might just pin this thing on me.”

“All they’ve got is conjecture and circumstantial evidence. Nothing hard. I doubt a DA would even present what they’ve got to a grand jury. Especially not in this parish.”

“Yeah, but all this circumstantial evidence is stacking up. What’s the legal term I’m searching for?”

“Preponderance?”

“Right. A preponderance of evidence is sometimes enough. Slap Watkins and his Bible story,” he said scornfully. “It’s probably the only one he knows. Hell, even nonbelievers like me have heard of Cain and Abel. Danny was a murder victim. He was my brother. Suddenly that adds up to my being the one who killed him.”

He got up and made a slow circle around the small table. “Why would my own sister buy into the lunacy of a crazed career criminal, and then share it with this hotshot deputy who’s looking for anything to use against me?”

Beck didn’t tell him about the secret engagement that only he and Sayre were aware of, or about Danny’s telephone calls to her. Either might have been extremely relevant. But in the likelihood that they were totally irrelevant points, he would keep them to himself.

“Sayre wasn’t exactly jumping up and down with glee the last time I saw her, Chris.” Thoughtfully, he added, “God knows what that sleazy bastard said and did to her that she didn’t tell us.”

“I know she must’ve been frightened, but why didn’t she report the theft of her earrings and leave it at that? Why give any credence at all to Watkins’s red herring?”

Beck frowned. “I can’t explain anything Sayre does.”

Chris stopped and looked down at him. “So it’s true then?”

“You heard?”

“Somebody called the house while we were having lunch and told Huff. He went ballistic. She’s really on the picket line?”

“Leading the parade.”

Chris returned to his chair and looked at Beck expectantly.

“She showed up about eleven-thirty with burgers from Dairy Queen and ice chests of cold drinks,” he told Chris. “As soon as she saw to it that everyone was fed, she picked up a sign and started marching with them. She was still there just now when I came through the gate.”

Chris hung his head, shaking it in disbelief. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a member of Huff’s family would stand against the others. Of course some believe that I shot my brother in the mouth with a shotgun.” Back to massaging his forehead, he said, “Who would think I could do that?”

“That’s just it, Chris. They’ve yet to establish a motive. Unless you’re holding something back.”

His head came up. “Like what?”

“Have you told me everything about your argument with Danny?”

“About a hundred times.”

“Was Danny keeping any secrets from us?”

“Secrets?”

“I just thought maybe there was something he had shared with you that the rest of us didn’t know about.”

“No. Nothing.”

Beck peered into Chris’s eyes, searching for even a flicker of a giveaway, but Chris’s gaze was steady and guileless. “Just a thought. Never mind. What about Lila?”

“I went to her house yesterday when I knew George was out. She wouldn’t even open the door.”

“A hostile alibi. Terrific.” Beck got up and moved to the window. There were iron bars across it, he noticed. He looked out at a sky that was so hot all the blue had been leached from it. The only thing whiter than the sky was the drifting smoke from the foundry. “I won’t bullshit you, Chris. We’ve got to come up with some kind of solid defense.”

“I did not kill my brother.”

Beck turned around. “Something in addition to your denial.”

Chris looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, “Beck, this is one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. I’m firing you.”

He laughed shortly. “Firing me?”

“This is no reflection on your ability or legal acumen. They’re not at issue. You’ve wrangled Hoyle Enterprises out of scrapes that could have cost us plenty, and not just financially. Huff and I need you on the job there, running interference for us with the federal agencies and now, thanks to Nielson, our own employees.” He smiled crookedly. “And I need a criminal lawyer.”

Beck returned to the table and sat down. “Actually, I’m relieved.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Chris, criminal law isn’t my field. I was the first to suggest that you retain a criminal lawyer. I wanted to insist on it, but I was afraid you’d think I was bailing out on you. I wasn’t sure how Huff would react, either.”

“He won’t like it. He wrote the book on keeping things in the family, but I’m hoping you’ll help me persuade him that it’s the right decision.”

“I’ll talk to him. Who’d you get?”

Chris told him, but Beck wasn’t familiar with the name. “He’s from Baton Rouge and comes highly recommended.”

“Good luck with him.”

“You swear you’re not angry?”

“I swear. So where is this legal whiz? You need him here now.”

“That’s the thing. He’s not free until Monday. What should we do about this interrogation?”

“I’ll see if Red will postpone it until your new lawyer arrives.”

“Do you think they’ll put me in jail over the weekend?”

“If it’s even suggested, I’ll raise a hue and cry. This is flimsy bullshit anyway. I think Red only wanted to question you to pacify his deputy. He doesn’t believe in Bible stories any more than you do.”

They shook hands, but when Beck tried to withdraw his, Chris gripped it tighter. “I don’t want to take the fall for something I didn’t do, Beck. And I did not kill Danny.”

Beck returned the pressure to Chris’s hand. “I believe you.”

W
hen Sayre got back to her motel room that night, she opened the door with the key belonging to the new lock, which had been swapped for the one Slap Watkins had picked.

She stood at the threshold and surveyed the room. All traces of his stench had been eliminated. Not trusting the motel housekeeper to clean as thoroughly as she wanted, she had donned rubber gloves and given the room a sanitizing cleaning herself before she left for the foundry. She had insisted that the motel manager bring in another chair to replace the one in which Watkins had sat. The bedspread had also been changed.

Satisfied that all remnants of him were gone, she locked herself in, making certain also to secure the chain. Wearily she moved to the dresser and looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was scorched from sun exposure, while at the same time so sweaty that her clothes stuck to it. She eased off her sneakers and inspected a crop of painful, angry-looking blisters that detracted from her Beige Marilyn pedicure.

She was almost too tired to eat the grilled cheese sandwich she’d picked up at the diner, but she was also ravenously hungry. After the first bite, she devoured the rest of it.

She stayed a long time in the shower, her second of the day. She had scoured herself that morning, trying to rid herself even of the memory of Watkins’s touch.

Now she let the spray pound the achiness from her muscles. When she stepped from the tub, she felt almost human again. Too tired to bother with a blow dryer, she rubbed her hair with a towel and let it go at that. Her only nod toward a beauty regimen was to apply moisturizer to her sunburned nose. The spot on her cheek had scrabbed over. In a day or two it would be unnoticeable.

She put on a pair of panties and the short cotton nightie she had bought to replace the one she’d slept in last night. It had gone out with the trash that morning. She would never have worn it again no matter how many times it was washed.

She told herself to forget the incident. Nothing terrible had happened. She was vesting that imbecile with way too much influence over her.

Even so, as she pulled back the bedcovers, she decided to leave the bathroom light on, on the outside chance that she would wake up in total darkness again and have to relive those horrifying moments when she had discovered him in the room.

Her thoughts were interrupted by knocking on her door. “Sayre? Open up.”

It was Beck. He had tapped lightly so not to frighten her, but his voice was stern.

“What do you want, Beck?”

“I want you to open the door.”

She unlocked it and opened it only as far as the brass chain would allow, looking at him through the crack. “I’m not dressed.”

“Let me in.”

“Why?”

His fractious mood was apparent in his expression. He didn’t even deign to answer, just stared at her. She relented, mostly because she didn’t want their conversation to have spectators. The bowling leagues must have been at the lanes, because The Lodge’s parking lot was full and she had neighbors in the next room.

She unlatched the chain, and he came in, closing the door soundly behind him. His eyes dropped immediately to the hem of the short nightgown and her bare legs and feet. She crossed her arms over her middle, and the self-protective gesture caused him to look away.

“In light of what happened this morning…Put some clothes on if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”

“You won’t be here that long. What do you want?”

“Clark Daly is in the hospital.”

“What?”

“He’s in the emergency room.”

Her hand went to her throat. “Another accident at the plant?”

“Hardly. He was beaten.”

“Beaten?”

“To a pulp. His condition is serious. Whether or not it’s critical remains to be seen. He’s got visible injuries. Loose teeth, a split lip, black eyes, torn eyelid, a gash on his scalp. Beyond that, he may have a skull fracture. Broken ribs, they’re nearly certain. Possible internal bleeding. He’s being X-rayed and such to determine all that.”

Covering her mouth, she released a slow breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Wh…who?”

“Names haven’t been named, but yours has been circulated as the person responsible.” His eyes speared into hers.

She swallowed the gorge that filled her throat. “What happened?”

“I was staying at the plant tonight. In case any real trouble broke out, I wanted to be there.”

Soon after the graveyard shift had reported for work, he’d sensed that something was amiss. “You work there long enough, you begin to pick up vibes,” he said. “You feel it when something isn’t right. I went down to the floor and started asking what was wrong. No one wanted to talk to me. Particularly in the climate we’ve got there now.”

“You’re Huff’s main man.”

His jaw clenched with anger, but he didn’t address the remark. “Finally I wormed it out of a guy that Clark hadn’t reported for work. One of his friends called his wife, who freaked out. She said he’d left in plenty of time to get there. This alarmed his buddies, who wanted to leave right then to look for him. I ordered them to stay on the job, but I picked a couple of them and we went looking for him. We spotted his car on the side of the road no more than two blocks from his house. Clark was lying facedown in the ditch, unconscious. He’s in a bad way.”

Sayre stood up and stumbled toward the bureau. “I’m going.” She took a pair of jeans from a drawer, only to have Beck snatch them out of her hand and toss them aside. “Mrs. Daly wouldn’t like that, Sayre.”

“I don’t care what—”

“Listen!” He took her by the shoulders. “When Luce Daly got to the hospital, she saw me and bared her claws. She let me know in no uncertain terms that I was persona non grata and yelled at me to keep away from her husband.

“I would have expected that from her if Clark had been hurt on the job. Like Alicia Paulik. But I was shocked, considering that I was the one who had found him and rushed him to the ER.

“It soon came out, however, that he wasn’t the victim of a random mugging. Nothing like that. Clark had the crap beat out of him because you recruited him to finger Huff’s spies and start rousing the men to strike.”

He was breathing hard, barely keeping his voice at a moderate volume, and holding on to his temper by a thread. As though realizing how tightly he was gripping her shoulders, he released her suddenly. He turned away, ran his fingers through his hair, then came back around. “Tell me that Mrs. Daly was wrong, Sayre. Tell me that this isn’t true.”

She raised her chin defiantly. “You’re the one who called this a war.”

“It’s not
your
war. Why are you fighting it?”

“Because somebody has to. Because what has been standard operating procedure in that foundry is wrong. Somebody has to set things right.”

“Do you honestly think that your participation is going to help matters? Do you think it’s beneficial to anybody that you’re marching in that picket line?”

“I think it might be.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

“I’m making a statement to the employees.”

“You don’t even speak their language,” he shouted. “That was demonstrated to you the other day when you came to the plant. Carrying a picket sign does not put you in league with people who could eat for a month on what you pay for a pair of shoes.

“Your heart may be in the right place, Sayre, but your thinking is skewed. You haven’t won the trust of the workers and their families. Not yet. Until you do, you’re incendiary. Thanks to you, Clark Daly nearly got his brains knocked out tonight, and you’re goddamn lucky it wasn’t you we found in a ditch.”

Stung by his accusation, but more so by its merit, she turned away from him, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her blame. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause more trouble for Clark.”

“Then you should’ve stayed away from him. And that’s the message I was sent to deliver.”

She raised her head and looked at him in the mirror above the dresser. “From whom?”

“Luce Daly. Pretty smart lady. She nailed it. She predicted that you’d want to make a mad dash to the hospital, rush to Clark’s bedside. Well, sorry. His wife doesn’t want you anywhere near him. She told me about your visits with him and sent me to tell you to go back where you came from and to leave her husband alone.”

“She’s thinking like a jealous wife. I have no romantic designs on Clark. I was only trying to help him.”

“Big help you were. His wife said you were like a sickness he had caught a long time ago and could never shake.”

From Luce Daly’s perspective, she probably did represent a sickness with which Clark had been afflicted for a long time. It was an unflattering analogy, and hurtful. She wanted to defend herself, but pride prevented her.

Instead she put Beck on the defensive. “Do you know who did it?”

“I could guess.”

“But you won’t have them arrested, will you? Because they’re Huff’s bullies. And you’re their ringleader.”

“A word of advice, Sayre, which I’m sure you’ll ignore. Stay off the picket line. When word gets out about Clark, tempers are going to flare. There’s bound to be a showdown of some sort, and you could get caught in the crossfire.” He glanced toward the door. “At least you’re using the chain now.”

“After this morning, I’ll never neglect to.”

He came toward her slowly. “Did he hurt you, Sayre?”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told us. But I also know you left things out. Did he touch you?”

She shook her head, but to her chagrin, tears filled her eyes. “Not much.”

“What does that mean?”

“He…he said some vulgar things, but he didn’t act on them.”

He reached for her, but she staved him off with a stiff arm and a shake of her head. “I’m fine. You should go now.”

“All right,” he said with a terse nod. “I only came to tell you about Daly and to convey his wife’s wishes that you stay away from him. But I’m going to leave you with this question, Sayre. Why are you getting involved in all this?”

“I gave you my reasons last night.”

“Because your conscience is bothering you for not taking Danny’s calls. The ambiguities surrounding Iverson. To improve working conditions at the foundry. I know what you
said.
”

“Well then?” she asked tightly.

“Are those the real reasons? I don’t think so. There’s only one reason behind every decision you make and everything you do.” He pulled open the door and stepped out. Turning back, he said, “Huff.”

“Sayre! Are you by yourself? Good Lord, girl, what business do you have driving around alone this time of night?”

“I hope I didn’t disturb you, Selma.”

She motioned Sayre into the house. “What if that white trash Watkins boy is stalking you?”

“I imagine he’s halfway across Texas by now on his way to Mexico. Is Chris at home?”

“He left after dinner and hasn’t come back. You want me to try and call him?”

“Actually I came to see Huff. Is he still up?”

“He’s in his room, but I’ve heard him moving around up there, so I don’t think he’s asleep yet.”

“How is he feeling? Does he seem to have recovered?”

“I can’t tell if he’s any different from before the heart attack. I make sure he takes his blood pressure medicine. With all that’s gone on since Danny’s parting, it’s a wonder to me he hasn’t blown a blood vessel clean out his neck.”

Sayre patted her hand. “You’ve always taken good care of us, Selma, and I for one am grateful. Go back to your room. I’ll let myself out after I’ve seen him.”

The housekeeper’s slippers slapped lightly against the hardwood floor as she retreated down the central hallway toward her apartment on the far side of the kitchen.

Taking Beck’s parting words to heart, Sayre had dressed quickly and driven fast to get here. But now she was second-guessing her spontaneous decision to come. She wished she had asked Selma to summon Huff from his bedroom. This was no longer her house, her home. To be here in the middle of the night, creeping up the staircase, made her feel like an intruder.

The silence was unsettling. The staircase was so dark she could barely see the landing at the top. She hadn’t been on those stairs in ten years. The last time, she’d been coming down them, carrying a suitcase, leaving for what she had thought would be forever. She had been apprehensive about her immediate future but resolved to face it.

She was no less apprehensive or resolute now as she set her foot firmly on the first tread. The going was easier after that. At the landing, she paused to gaze at the portrait of her mother and felt a familiar tug of homesickness. But was it for this individual who smiled down at her from the canvas, or did she miss the idea of a mother, someone to go to for comfort, advice, and unconditional love?

The upstairs hallway was illuminated by two night-lights plugged into wall outlets on the baseboard. Her footfalls were muffled by the carpet runner that had been one of Laurel’s prized possessions. It had been an heirloom from her maternal great-grandmother’s plantation house.

The door to Danny’s room was closed. She hesitated but moved past without opening the door, feeling that going inside would be a violation similar to walking on his grave. It was still too fresh to disturb.

The door to Chris’s room was standing ajar. According to Selma, he had moved back home, into his old room, after Mary Beth had taken up residence in Mexico. “We outfitted it a bit different than when he lived here before he got married.”

Sayre peered into the room and, in spite of herself, recognized the good taste with which it had been decorated. The pieces were of good quality, but not ostentatious. The color scheme was neutral. It was masculine and uncluttered, much the way she would have decorated the quarters of a recently single male.

Light was showing beneath Huff’s bedroom door. Before she could talk herself out of it, she rapped the door twice. It was opened instantly, creating a vacuum in which they stared at each other.

He removed a smoldering cigarette from his mouth and looked at her speculatively. “I was expecting either Chris or Beck.”