Out of the Blues (6 page)

A
bout mid-April, around four in the afternoon, on a sunny day, maybe a Sunday, not every year, just most years, the spring wind might gentle, warm and easy. For an instant the forsythia would still have a few bright yellow blooms left, while the bright pink, white, fuchsia, and pastel azaleas would begin to unfold from their tight buds, and the wisteria vines would be growing heavy with new leaves and lavender and purple blooms. Orange-throated jonquils and buttercups, bright tulips, flourishing phlox, and the trees, the pinks of the apple, sweet peach, weeping cherry, and purple redbud and the whites of the dogwood and Bradford pear, all would coalesce in a grand symphony of color and fragrance. Then the breeze might increase and blow the petals apart, upward, out, and the air would fill with soft, whirling beauty while the old hardwood trees stood stately dressed in their simple, new light green foliage, spreading their limbs over the deepening green of the hills, all against a perfect robin's-egg-blue sky, all a glory of an Atlanta spring day.

But as Salt drove through the main gate of Westview Cemetery, she left most of those busy, pollinating, renewing goings-on, left them all over the rest of the city's avenues, parks, and yards. Westview was nearly bereft of trees, and the flowers there were mostly plastic. Here and there could be seen a lone magnolia or an old oak shading the graves over on a hill, such as were left. The place had long ago been leveled and shorn of greenery. That shearing had begun when cannons blasted earth and men apart in the Civil War battle of Ezra Church, the site on which the vast cemetery now existed.

Other than a solitary figure that appeared and disappeared as she drove up and down the dips and peaks of the drive around the perimeter, Salt was the only visitor. As she grew closer, the lone figure became recognizable, first as a woman and then, as her crown of braids became more distinct, as the woman Salt knew as Sister Connelly. The old woman stood at the foot of a grave facing the headstone. She didn't move an inch and only lifted her head as Salt parked beside the row, got out, and walked over. “Oh, my Lord. Ain't white folks done enough to black folks so's you ain't got to keep on torturing me?” Sister was the folk historian of The Homes, her age indeterminate but her memory sharp. She lived across the street from last year's murder and knew all the players and their stories.

“How would I have even known you were here? I got promoted to detective and assigned a cold case. The young man's grave is somewhere . . .” Salt walked the pea-gravel path between the rows. “Why are you here?”

“At my age most of my friends and family are either already here or we escorting them here.” She was looking at each gravestone as she followed Salt along the next row. “You feel that?”

Salt thought she heard faint drums but now wasn't sure. It could
have been some nearby construction blasts. There was a slight trembling in the ground about every thirty seconds or so.

“This who you investigating? I hearda this child.” Sister stopped and stood beside Salt. “A hellhound on his tail, a black dog.”

Standing about two and a half feet tall, a dog, shiny and black, snout raised in what could be a snarl or just sniffing the air, marked the grave of Michael Anderson, born April 3, 1950, died November 17, 2005.

“Is that what the dog means, a hellhound from the blues?”

“Black dogs can means lots of things, hellhound or just black dogs. They lead folks to heaven or hell; dogs sit at crossroads. This whole city got a black dog sittin' right in its middle.”

“Sister, sometimes I only half understand what you tell me.” Salt knelt beside the funerary canine, felt all around his haunches, and slid her hand along the smooth place between his ears.

“I only half understand what I tell is why.”

Salt stood. “You know more than you think you know, is that it?”

“That's right.”

“It's always what Pepper and I tell each other. Kept us from getting killed, helped us talk about things we didn't have an understanding of or the words to explain.”

“So you detecting killings now? Murder?”

“I was assigned to the Homicide Unit.”

“How come you ain't workin' on that one all in the papers and on TV, that rich family? I'da thought they'd have all the detectives on that one. What it bein' white folks on the north side.”

Salt stood. “I guess they think I don't know enough to help much.”

“That's how it goes all right. They put the little know-nothing detective working a dead junkie, bluesman. Same ol' same ol'. Even dead the rich folks get better attention.”

Salt rubbed the scar running through her scalp.

“That still bothering you? Where you got shot?”

Salt lowered her hand. “Not really. It's just a habit.”

“You get dreams?”

“Everybody has dreams.”

“You know what I mean.”

G
od, these frogs are loud,” Wills said to the dog lying serenely beside the glider. The dog, waiting for the woman, his snout between outstretched paws, moved his eyes in acknowledgment of the man's voice. To the dog the man was a small deity whose words held only a little more significance than the other lively sounds of the night—tree frogs, her car still a ways off on the highway, the sheep in the nearby paddock rustling against each other in sleep, one of the small wood beams in the big house settling, and a night bird.

There were fast, smoke-like clouds flying across a high half-moon. The black dog, barely visible, picked up his ears before the headlights could be seen coming up the long drive. The man and dog rose and walked toward her parking spot under the pecan tree. She switched off the engine. Both wedged themselves into the space of the opened car door. The dog was on her first, licking the air, his front legs across her lap.

“My turn.” Wills, only a few inches taller than she and built like a high school football coach, muscular without definition or
working at it, reached in, extending his hand to lift her from the driver's seat.

“You guys!” She smiled, moved the dog's paws, accepted his outstretched hand, and stood.

“Tired?”

“Not too bad.” She handed him the keys and he went to the trunk for her gear bag.

“I'm anxious to hear how it went, first days as a new detective. I remember how eager and proud I was. Everybody was talking about your first day, the child murderer, Hamm's case, your collar, the chief at the scene. It's already turning into quite the story.”

She ruffled Wonder's fur as they walked to the house and up the steps where moths and their silhouettes flew around the back-porch light.

Salt changed into soft jeans and with grateful bare feet joined Wills back outside. The glider made a melodic creak as they sipped a single glass of whiskey between them.

“Who did you get partnered with? I've been out on this case so much I've barely even talked to Gardner, much less anybody else on the squad.”

“Huff didn't seem very happy with having me foisted on him.”

One of the sheep asserted herself with her own distinctive
“Bleeek.”

“Huff, don't call him Sarge, will come 'round. You earned the assignment. And speaking of calling or not calling names—I have to watch myself. I can't be calling you ‘Honey' in front of anyone. The less they suspect, the less attention we'll get.” The rules for employees stated that neither spouses nor domestic partners could work on the same shift in the same unit. Although she and Wills weren't married and didn't live together, and it was a “Don't ask, don't tell” policy, supervisors and commanders were reluctant to have to consider romantic attachments in managing their people.

“So who did Huff put you with?”

The night bird called again, some deep-throated animal sounded, and the tree frogs made a chorus.

“Uh-oh, I know that tone of voice,” Wills said when she didn't answer.

“Maybe there's a good reason lovers shouldn't work together. This might be harder than we thought.” Salt turned and put her back against the glider armrest, knees bent, her feet tucked under Wills' thigh.

“Come on, tell me. My blood pressure is going up. Who is he partnering you with?”

“No one.”

“What do you mean ‘no one'? Somebody has to show you protocols. You've handled the first responder duties on lots of bodies, but you have to have someone tell you how to put together a murder book, prepare for court, all kinds of documents, go help find witnesses, perps. And since I'm already doggin' you out, what were you doing without a Handie-Talkie in a fight with a monster?”

“I'm not putting together any new cases. He gave me a cold case: Mike Anderson. I had just barely walked in the door when the call came on the child.” She let out a long breath. “God, Wills, don't you be raggin' on me already.”

He turned to the night, looking away; he clamped his mouth tight and squinted up and out. After a minute he reached and drew her close, massaging the back of her neck. “I'm beginning to wonder about your karma—this ‘being alone' business.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

—

W
ILLS
TRACED
his finger down her back from her scalp to her tailbone as they lay on the bed facing the open window, the lace
curtain flaring slightly at the bottom from an unusually warm April morning breeze. “Don't move, okay?”

She heard his bare feet land, heavy steps on the creaking wood floor. Then he was back on the rumpled bed, at her back, encircling her head, and lowering a chain and pendant around her neck. “Saint Michael,” he said.

He was the patron saint of cops, in gold and about an inch in height with his sword raised, on a chain the length of which settled it right at her heart. She turned it between her fingers.

“In honor of your promotion and to match your new gold shield. And, if you're superstitious or religious, for your protection. I know you don't wear jewelry, but he can hide there or not. Say something. Do you like it?”

“Wills, I'm—I love it.” She clasped Michael in her palm. “Even with all you've had going on with the case and all, you took time to get this?”

“I got the heavier chain so even with your action-hero ways it'll likely stay with you. Besides, as a detective I was hoping you'd be able to leave some of that kick-ass stuff behind.”

She shrugged, holding the pendant.

“Seriously, it's just a little less than a year since you were shot in the head.” He tapped at the tip of the scar at her scalp line with his knuckles. “You went off on your own after that, shut out everybody. So it really scares me that Huff didn't give you a partner. You're already too much of an I-can-do-it-by-myself person.”

Salt, nude, except now for the gold chain and pendant, lifted herself into Wills' lap. “We'll figure it out, Wills. For now, thank you, thank you, for this gift.” She leaned him into the pillows with her kiss.

—

M
ASSIVE
OLD
OAK
and spreading pecan trees shaded Wills' street in the historic Grant Park community. There were only one or
two surviving antebellums in the neighborhood—most were turn-of-the-twentieth-century or '20s and '30s bungalows, like the one Wills recently purchased. Living in town had made his life easier in that he was only ten minutes from the office and could make short stops while he was on the job to let the dogs out to the backyard or for quick walks to the park a block away.

The Rotties' low barks greeted them as they climbed the steps to the gate in a beautifully weathered fence that separated his place from the street and the houses on either side. Inside the entranceway the big brown-and-black lunky bitches swung their entire bodies in greeting, the foyer becoming a jumble of bumping dogs. Pansy and Violet snuffled Wonder, then Salt and their master. Wills squatted to get licked and handle their ruffs. Wills' girls loved them some Wonder, who was smart and affectionate but wanted to run the show. The Rotties happily let him.

There was plenty of room for the graceful Rotties. Wills had stored most of his furniture while he had been renovating. A big kitchen ran the width of the entire back of the house, walls down to the studs and raw boards, but it was fully functional, and he'd set a beautiful, rough-hewn parson's table in its center, where he quickly went to assembling sandwiches and fruit.

Salt let the dogs out in the backyard, then wandered through the rooms, noting a little progress here and there. While maybe not systematic, Wills was meticulous with his craftsmanship—a thoroughly stripped mantel, smooth as skin, fireplace tiles cleaned to their original shine and stacked ready to be mortared back around reconstructed hearths. “I can see how you love this house,” she said, returning to the kitchen. “It's going to be beautiful.”

“It may take a lifetime at this rate.” Wills poured lemonade with lemon slices into tall glasses.

“When will you be able to take your weekends, both days, again?”

“I don't know. I've got no suspects. The husband, even though I haven't been able to interview him 'cause he's ‘under a doctor's care,' according to his lawyer,” Wills sighed, “and has an alibi. Even the wife's family confirms he had the fishing trip to Florida planned for weeks.”

“Any reason to suspect the marriage was shaky?”

“No. And even if it was, I don't see him, from what I've learned so far, killing his daughters.” Wills put the sandwiches and a big ceramic bowl of mixed fruit on the table. “Come on—let's leave all that for a bit.”

After eating, they took the dogs for a walk under the trees that lined the neighborhood. They shared the sidewalks with couples pushing strollers, tyke cycles, and baby carriages. On one corner sat an old brick church, its steeple reaching far above the rooftops. Beside the steep steps was a sign advertising the online contact at AirJesus.net. Music jumped from the open doors, a gospel band accompaning a rollicking choir as the congregation flowed out to the sidewalks.

With the music following them down the street, Wills stopped and pointed down a weedy access between two houses. “See down that alley? I worked a murder back there five years ago.”

“The neighborhood has changed, huh?”

“Some.” He squinted down the shaded lane. “I drive through almost any neighborhood now and I come upon someplace that's been tied with yellow ribbon.”

The afternoon began to heat as they headed through the park and up the wide path of the hill to one of the last remnants of the Civil War and the Battle of Atlanta. “Last time I was up here I was chasing perps.” She laughed. “Pepper caught them both at the same time on the other side of the park. 'Course we never heard the end of his crowing. Anyway, I'd gone to this side of the park, in case they got this far. When I heard Pepper on the radio saying he had them, I started back
to the car. I happened to look down and there was this little basket right in the center of some newly turned dirt. In it were two white feathers and about six or so yellow rose heads. It was sitting on a flat slate stone with four dimes, heads up. I thought it was an animal grave or a voodoo shrine, who knows. Right here beside this tree.” She looked at the ground, turning over brown leaves with the toe of her shoe. “Nothing left now.”

Only an old historical society stand-alone brass marker on a post testified to the significance of the hill that had been Fort Walker. It was the highest land elevation in the city. Downtown buildings in the distance appeared over the tops of the trees.

“Voodoo. Slaves brought it first from Africa to Haiti and then here.” Wills climbed and stood on top of the berm, looking out over the park to the city skyline.

Salt strode up beside him. “A lot of soldiers died here. My father's great-grandfather fought this battle. The family said he was never right afterward.”

Wills reached over and smoothed back a damp curl from Salt's forehead. “Do you know the rest of the story about Saint Michael?” He lifted the gold chain and pendant from her shirt.

“Didn't he fight the devil or something?”

“Yep, and won. But what a lot of people and cops don't know is that he's also an angel of death. But in a good way. He's supposed to carry souls to heaven, where they're judged and also given a chance to redeem themselves.”

“Busy dude, fighting the devil, delivering souls. Speaking of busy, don't we still need to get to the market? You're back on tomorrow, right?”

“I'm afraid so.” He took her hand as they galloped down the hill, allowing gravity and momentum to pull them from the berm.

—

T
HEY
DROPPED
the dogs at Wills' place and drove to the market on the north side of the city to an area that was predominantly Asian and Latino, the main artery giving the area its name, Buford Highway, a Southern road, running now through an international community. It had begun as a path used by farmers north of the city to bring their produce to town. In the seventies, cheap housing along the corridor made the area attractive to new immigrants. Those roots took hold so well that when construction began for the '96 Olympics, the highway drew even more immigrants looking for work. Now marquees in several languages advertised the best food in the Southeast. And for shopping there was no better or fresher fish and produce to be had than from what people called the “Asian Farmer's Market.”

Inside the immense converted warehouse, Wills began his systematic shopping through the sections, organized according to ethnicity, and left Salt to her usual wandering. This time it was a display, five shelves, three feet in length, at the end of one of the aisles that caught her eye. Where there would normally be impulse-buy items attracting the attention of people passing in the main corridors, there were dozens of religious figurines for sale—seven- and fifteen-inch Shiva, Ganesha, Buddha, Jesus, and bodhisattvas. They were roughly made and poorly painted, flat white or black, with only slight dabs of color and gilt for the eyes and jewels.

Wills came by with a loaded cart. “What did you find?” He smiled.

“Assorted God,” she said, pointing to the label “ASSORTED GOD.”

—

“
T
HEY
WEREN
'
T
beautiful or even pretty. But they must be worth having for someone, maybe somebody scared, sentimental, or needing
luck or good karma? I imagined a woman standing there and choosing: ‘Let's see. I've gotten everything on my list: coriander, dragon fruit, noodles.' Then Shiva catches her eye.” Salt and Wills sat on the back porch with all the house and porch lights off. The clouds had disappeared and the moon gleamed off everything. Even Wonder's black fur sparkled in the moonlight.