The Jury Master (29 page)

Sloane had waited until the end of the day, just before closing, when it was less likely there would be anyone else in the shop. He walked in the front door to the jingle of hanging bells. Thirty minutes later the bells rang again and the J&B proprietor locked the door behind Sloane. He left without his Rolex, and lighter in the wallet. In a brown bag he carried an unregistered Colt Defender .45, an adaptation of the Colt Commander used in Vietnam, three clips, two boxes of Remington Golden Saber brass-jacketed hollow-points, and a Beltster holster, which the man had given him without asking.

Sitting inside his car, Sloane loaded the clips, slapped one in the handle, and examined the stainless steel and rubber stock, feeling the gun’s weight and balance. It fit well in the palm of his hand. Before picking up the Ruger in the hospital elevator, he hadn’t held a gun since the day he left the marines, and had sworn he never would again.

He switched his braided-leather belt for the holster, which had an extra-thick piece of leather sewn at the right hip to secure the gun tight against the body, then drove through a fast-food hamburger joint with a pay phone in the parking lot. He got change in quarters and plunked a handful into the slot. Tina answered her cell phone on the third ring.

“It’s me. Don’t use my name.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Are you doing okay?”

“We’re fine. Listen, you need to be careful.”

“I am.”

“That’s not what I mean. Dr. Knight called me. She said someone from the FBI came to her office asking to speak about you, but she declined. Over the weekend someone broke into her office. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what anyone could have possibly wanted until she noticed it missing.”

“Noticed what missing?”

“Her yellow legal pad, the one with the notes she took of our conversation about you; the description I gave her about your nightmare. She said she checked with hospital security and they’ve determined that a man came to the counter to deliver a Federal Express package. It was the same man who came to the hospital and said he was with the FBI.”

“How does she know that?”

“Because they described him to her and she said he wasn’t easy to forget.”

“Did she describe him to you?”

“Yes. She said he was African-American. Very tall and very big.”

53

T
OM MOLIA CLENCHED
half a pastrami sandwich between his teeth as he slipped into his sport coat and checked his watch: 10:00. Jon Blair was punctual. Molia hurried down the hall toward the building entrance, saw J. Rayburn Franklin turn the corner from the opposite direction with an “I’m looking for you” glare, and made a quick detour for the bathroom, slipping the sandwich into his coat pocket as he did.

“Don’t even think about it,” Franklin’s voice boomed, bringing Molia to an abrupt stop.

Molia pulled his hand back from the door. Story of his life. So close . . . He turned to Franklin. “Think about what, Chief?”

“Think about ducking into the bathroom to avoid me, that’s what. Because right about now I wouldn’t think twice about following you into the stall.”

Molia put a hand on his stomach. “I wouldn’t do that, Chief. I’m not well.”

“You don’t return phone calls?” Franklin’s breath was sour from the morning coffee.

“Were you trying to get ahold of me? Sorry, I haven’t been at my desk. You know me and my stomach. I’ve been . . .” He motioned to the bathroom with his thumb. “I must have caught a flu bug from one of the kids.” He coughed, causing Franklin to take a step back. “Though it could also be the Italian sausage coming back on me from last night. I shouldn’t have had the second one. Still, I wouldn’t get too close. That ain’t pretty, either.”

Molia pushed on the bathroom door, but Franklin stretched an arm across the doorway. “Then I suggest we cut the pastrami. Where’s the note?”

Molia gave him a blank stare. “Note? What note?”

“Don’t ‘what note?’ me, Mole. The note Clay gave you yesterday.”

Molia rubbed a hand across his chin as if checking the closeness of his shave. “Clay gave me a note yesterday?”

Franklin smiled. “The guy who called about the Branick investigation. Ring any bells?”

“Oh, that note.”

“Yeah, that note. Clay said you offered to personally deliver it to me. Now, why would you agree to do that?”

“Baldy’s back was killing him—”

“And you decided to be a Good Samaritan because you and Clay are so close.”

“Right.” Molia stepped toward the door, but Franklin again stretched his arm across the entrance. They were close enough that Molia could see flecks of dust on Franklin’s glasses. “Rayburn, you’re really beginning to mess with the laws of nature here.”

“I’d like to know what my senior detective has been doing to occupy his time.”

“Working—and using the bathroom a lot.”

“Working on what?”

“You know, Ray, various files. I’m busier than—”

“A rabbit in heat, I know. What files?”

“What files? Well, let me see. That house burglar, for one. Got some real good leads I’ve been following up.”

“What house burglar?”

“You know, the house burglar, the guy that’s been burglarizing houses.”

Franklin smiled. “I know what a house burglar is, Mole. What I want to know is who he is.”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Franklin looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Then I can expect a report soon?”

“Before memories fade and fact becomes fiction,” Molia said, repeating a Franklin mantra.

Franklin lowered his arm. They stood staring at each other, neither believing the other, both unwilling to call bullshit. Franklin held out his hand. “The note?”

Molia pulled out the crumpled message slip from his pocket, now smeared with mustard from the pastrami sandwich. “I got distracted yesterday—phone calls and files, you know.”

Franklin took the note by an edge, regarding the mustard with disgust. He looked up and studied Molia for another moment. “I’d like to go over some of those files you’re working on.”

Molia looked at his watch. “No problem. How about this afternoon?”

“How about now?”

“Can’t now, Ray.” Molia motioned to the bathroom door.

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Could be a while, Ray. You know me. I can get through a whole sports page.”

“I don’t mind.”

Molia checked his watch again. He was screwed. “Sure, come on, I have the files right on my desk.” He turned and started for his office. When he didn’t hear Franklin’s shoes on the linoleum he turned around.

Franklin remained anchored in the hall. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Forgetting something?”

Franklin motioned to the door with his thumb.

“Right. There you go getting me distracted again, Ray—threw off my rhythm.” Molia walked back down the hallway and pushed open the bathroom door, Franklin watching him. “Files are on my desk; I’ll just be a minute.”

S
LOANE SAT IN
a blue plastic seat bolted to the floor in the lobby of the Charles Town Police Department, flipping anxiously through a two-month-old copy of
Newsweek
and watching the clock on the wall. Detective Tom Molia had not hesitated at Sloane’s request to meet. Unfortunately the detective wasn’t as punctual as he was interested, and Sloane was now out of time. He was told the trip to D.C. was an hour and a half. He’d be cutting it close. He stood to leave. The metal door to his right swung open, and an athletic, slightly overweight man bulled into the room, fumbling in the pockets of a rumpled sport coat, the top button on his shirt unbuttoned, his tie loosened several inches. He extended his hand, mumbling a greeting through a sandwich clenched between his teeth. When Sloane reached to shake hands the man pulled his hand back and took the sandwich from his mouth.

“Sorry about that. Early lunch. You Jon Blair?”

“Yes, you’re—”

Molia reached to take Sloane’s hand, hesitated, stuffed the sandwich in his coat pocket, and shook Sloane’s hand while ushering him out the door.

“Real sorry to keep you waiting. I got tied up with something.”

They stepped into bright sunlight.

“Detective, I’m afraid we’ll have to do this another time. I have another appointment. I won’t have time for coffee.”

Molia kept a hand on Sloane’s back, walking him across the lot. “I’m sorry about that, Jon. Tell you what, where’s your appointment?”

“It’s in D.C.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“To Washington? Isn’t that a bit out of your way?”

The detective dismissed it. “Least I can do. Hate like hell for you to be late on my account.” He kept the hand on Sloane’s back.

“That’s very kind of you—”

“Not a problem. I have some things I’ve been meaning to take care of anyway. I’ll be killing two birds with one stone. Plus I can guarantee you won’t be late, and I can park wherever I want. Job perk. You ever try to park in D.C., Jon? It’s a bitch. We can talk on the way.”

They reached an emerald-green unmarked Chevrolet. Tom Molia pulled open the passenger door and Sloane ducked to get in but felt the detective grab him by the shoulder, abruptly stopping him just before a blast of air hot as an oven shot out of the car.

“You got to let her air out a bit this time of year, Jon. You’ll fry your tail off. Where you from?”

“Boston.”

“Hot there, too, I saw on the news. All up and down the East Coast you can fry an egg on the sidewalk.”

“Yes, it is,” Sloane replied, feeling as though he’d failed a test. “Guess I’m just anxious to get going.”

“We got time.” The detective bent down and picked up old newspapers and food wrappers from the floorboard, discarding them in the backseat. “Sorry about the mess.” He reached into his coat, pulled out the half-eaten pastrami sandwich, and stuck it back into his mouth, then continued to search his pockets.

Sloane pointed to the car keys. “They’re in your hand.”

Molia took the sandwich from his mouth. “Wife says these will be the death of me, but my cholesterol is as low now as when I was twenty.” He shrugged. “Go figure.” He held up the keys in front of Sloane, like a kid showing off a foul ball he’d just caught at a baseball game. “Okay, let’s get going. Don’t want you to be late.”

T
HE DRIVE TO
Washington was scenic but hot. The detective estimated the temperature outside the car at “screaming past ninety and knocking on a hundred,” which was also an accurate description of how fast he drove. The Chevy did not have air-conditioning. With the windows down it was like being behind the prop blast of an airplane engine.

“It’s not the heat that gets you; it’s the humidity!” Molia shouted above the hum of the wind. “Can you explain that expression to me, Jon?”

Sloane smiled and shrugged.

“I never understood it till I moved to the East Coast. The heat I can handle, but feeling like I just got caught in the garden sprinklers gets old. Weighs you down. Then again, if it weren’t for the summers I’d probably be ten pounds heavier. My wife no longer bothers listening to me. She says I keep the old Chevy here instead of getting something with air-conditioning just so I have something about West Virginia to bitch about.” He smiled at the thought. “She’s right, too.”

“Where are you from, Detective?”

“Oakland, California,” he said with noticeable pride. “And call me Mole. Everyone does.”

“Okay.”

He glanced over at Sloane. “Great name for a detective, huh?”

Up until that moment Sloane hadn’t considered it. “Yes, it is.”

“Maybe it’s one of those predestined things, you know, like weathermen named Storm or Cloud. I don’t know, but I’m third-generation cop. Got to be something to it.”

“What brought you to West Virginia?”

“What else? A woman. Never thought I’d leave Northern California, but I fell in love with a West Virginia girl and she made living here a package deal.” He shrugged. “What was I going to do? I loved her. It’s a long way from home, and I get homesick once in a while, but it’s a safe and beautiful place to raise a family. People sleep behind screen doors in my neighborhood. Still, you can take the boy out of Oakland, but . . . You ever been?”

“Oakland? No. Been to San Francisco, though.”

“Night and day. San Francisco is wine and cheese; Oakland is beer and bratwurst. It stays with you like dirt under your nails. It’s as much a part of me as the old Chevy.” He ran a hand across the dash as if feeling the coat of a fine racehorse. “My dad bought it used and gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday because he said it was a reliable car. Right, too. Never let me down. We drove out to Virginia together and went back when my dad got sick—can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

“You drove? Why didn’t you fly?”

Molia shook his head. “I got this thing about heights—don’t like ’em. The thought of being thirty thousand feet in the air gives me the willies. Got on a plane once, was going to conquer my fears and all that crap. I decided conquering your fears was overrated—never even made it to my seat.”

“You’ve never flown?”

“Nope, and can’t imagine a good enough reason to say I ever will.” He knocked on the dash. “Chevy gets me where I need to go. Damn near thought I killed the engine the last trip, but I keep putting oil and gas in and she keeps running.” He looked at the odometer. “Three hundred and twenty-eight thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven miles and counting.”

The detective changed subjects the way he changed lanes: without pause. He had two children, a boy and a girl, joined the army like his father, and became a police officer when discharged. “Were you in the military, Jon?”

Sloane chose what he knew. “Marines.”

“What do you do now?”

Sloane continued with the familiar. “I’m an attorney.”

“Got a sister who’s one of you.”

“How long have you been a cop?” Sloane wanted to change the subject.

“Ten years on the street, eight years as a detective. Perfect job for me, except when I get cases like this one.”

Sloane had been waiting for an opening; some crack that told him the detective wanted to talk about Joe Branick and the investigation, which, of course, he did. Molia wasn’t driving Sloane to Washington, D.C., for the company. He was looking for information. Sloane probed, but not too forcefully. “Yeah? Why’s that?”