Between Black and White (9 page)

13

George Curtis watched McMurtrie leave from behind the blinds and followed the Explorer with his eyes until it stopped out in front of Ms. Butler’s Bed and Breakfast.
That’s convenient,
he thought, remembering something his late brother-in-law had always said.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

George packed up his briefcase and locked the office. Then he walked two doors down to his house and opened the door. His cat, a black-and-white-striped feline named Matilda, came running toward him, but he paid her no mind, lost in thought over his encounter with Bo Haynes’s lawyer.

McMurtrie bothered him. When he had learned earlier in the day that McMurtrie would be Bo’s lawyer, George had done some digging, and he hadn’t liked what he’d found. It had been McMurtrie, a former law professor, who had spearheaded the big trial win in Henshaw, Alabama over Jack Willistone, whose trucks had routinely carried loads for many of Andy’s businesses in Giles County. Over the years George had come to know Jack pretty well. George knew that anyone who got the jump on Jack Willistone had to be pretty tough.

George’s encounter a few minutes ago with McMurtrie had done nothing to ease his concerns. The lawyer had already gotten some of the history. Knew Andy was an interloper. A scalawag who had come in and saved the day. And McMurtrie’s question to George had contained some challenge.

Did George resent Andy for saving the farm?

George lit a cigar and sat down in the den, turning on the television set. As an old episode of
Friends
came on, he scanned the dark house. He rarely kept lights on inside, as they gave him a headache, but the glow from the tube allowed him to see the familiar surroundings. The painting of Count Pulaski above the mantle of the fireplace to his left. The old rocker to his right that his mother had rocked him and Maggie in as kids. And beyond the television, the short hallway leading to the home’s two bedrooms, one of which was his, while the other was the “guest” room.

At the thought of the guest room, George subconsciously smiled. He could count the “guests” that had stayed in that room over the past thirty years on one hand. There had, however, been one frequent guest.

Matilda crawled into his lap, and he stroked her behind the ears, his thoughts returning to McMurtrie. And the history . . .

Of course he had resented Andy. Hated the son of a bitch. But not because of the farm. George had never loved the property like Maggie. Sure, he had enjoyed hunting dove in the fall and had always been a good shot, but the lure of the land held nothing for him. He would rather have moved when their father hit hard times. Had even talked with Maggie about it.
Let’s take what we can get for the farm and move the family to Nashville. Or even Atlanta. Anywhere . . .

George sighed, and hearing the sound, Matilda purred. George had never wanted to save the farm. He had only wanted . . .

His cell phone chirped in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts with the indication that he had a new text message. He pulled the phone out and clicked open the message.

Coming over in a few.

George rose from the couch and slowly walked to his bedroom. He opened the closet door and retrieved his gun case from the shelf below, where his suits hung. He brought the case over to his bed and flipped the latches.

Inside there were only three guns.

A .30-30 deer rifle. A .38-caliber pistol. And, of course, a twelve-gauge shotgun. Dove season was just around the corner, but George wasn’t thinking about doves. He removed the twelve-gauge and aimed it at the mirror across the room, seeing Andy in his mind. Handsome, cocksure, luckier-than-smart Andy. He flipped the safety off the gun and squinted, looking down the barrel. He tensed when he saw someone else’s reflection in the mirror.

“Never know when one of those is going to come in handy,” the familiar voice said.

George smiled at the other face staring back at him in the mirror.

His guest had arrived.

14

As the sun set over the Strip in Tuscaloosa, Rick Drake and Powell Conrad sat in wrought-iron chairs on the outside patio of Buffalo Phil’s, devouring a plate of wings and splitting a pitcher of Bud Light. “Jack Willistone is serving a three-year sentence at the state pen in Springville for blackmail and witness tampering,” Powell said, dipping a wing into a plastic container of ranch sauce and taking a bite. “Eligible for parole in eighteen months for good behavior.”

“What about the bastard that tried to kill Dawn?”

“James Robert Wheeler,” Powell said. “Goes by the name of JimBone. He left his El Camino behind after his failed attempt to murder Dawn, and we took some prints off the steering wheel. After a couple of weeks we got a match in the army database.”

Rick raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, sir, James Robert Wheeler was in the US Army from 1992 to 2000. His specialty was explosives. In 2000 he quit, and there is really no official record of him since. It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth. But remember Mule Morris?”

“How could I forget?” Rick asked, feeling goose bumps break out on his arm. Mule Morris, a key witness in the Willist
one case, had died two months prior to trial when he lost control of his truck on Highway 25 in Faunsdale. The official cause of the accident had been brake failure, but Mule’s cousin Doolittle had swore up and down that Mule kept his truck in mint condition. “What about him?”

“There wasn’t much of Mule’s truck left after the accident, but the forensics team in Faunsdale did find a few stray fingerprints on the wreckage.”

“No way,” Rick said, anticipating where Powell was going. “Wheeler?”

“Bingo,” Powell said. “Doo was right all along. Wheeler messed with the brakes on that car. We ran the artist sketch by several folks at Ca-John’s, and a waitress remembers seeing a man who meets his description sitting in the restaurant that night. In fact, she remembers that he was sitting alone very close to where Mule was talking to a young man and an attractive young lady.”

“Jesus,” Rick said. He and Dawn had met with Mule at Ca-John’s just a few hours before his wreck. He hadn’t remembered seeing any strange people at the tables nearby, but he was so focused on Mule he probably hadn’t paid any attention. “So he killed Mule?”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” Powell said. “And we know he tried to kill Dawn.”

“You think he’s still alive?”

“They never pulled him from the Black Warrior, so we have to assume so. From Bo’s investigation in the Willistone case, we knew Wheeler had spent some time at that strip joint outside of Pulaski, so we contacted the sheriff of Giles County, Ennis Petrie, and put out an APB on him. Now every county sheriff’s office in Alabama and Tennessee has him on their ‘Most Wanted’ list.” Powell shrugged. “So far nothing has turned up.”

“How did you hear he goes by JimBone?”

Powell smiled. “That came from Jack Willistone. After we got the prints back from the army, me and Wade went over to Springville and paid Jack a visit. Jack said Wheeler goes by JimBone and sometimes he shortens it to Bone.” Powell shook his head and drained the rest of his beer. “Unfortunately, that’s all we got. Jack said JimBone was an acquaintance and nothing further.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Hell no!” Powell said, waving his hands up in the air, both of which were stained with wing sauce. In his lifetime Rick had met few people louder or more gregarious than Ambrose Powell Conrad. He had also met few who were smarter or better in a courtroom. “We just can’t find a link,” Powell continued. He wolfed down another wing and pointed at Rick. “But we will. It is a top priority of the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and the DA to haul his ass in. We’ve been monitoring Jack Willistone’s visitor’s log, but so far we haven’t seen anything suspicious.”

“Do you know if Andy Walton ever visited him?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Powell said. “But I’ll check after the verdict comes back in Arrington.” Powell had just finished up the two-week murder trial of a middle school teacher named Foster Arrington, who was accused of abducting, raping, and murdering one of his students. The trial had concluded earlier today, and all that was left was the reading of the verdict. The judge had dismissed the jury for the day, so Powell had readily accepted Rick’s offer of wings and beer.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Even if Walton’s not on the visitor’s log, it’s probably time to make a visit to Springville. With Willistone in jail, JimBone needs someone else to bankroll him.”

Powell put a buffalo wing in his mouth, and his sauce-stained lips curved into a shit-eating grin. Rick knew that grin well. “You’ve got a plan?” he asked, incapable of stopping his own smile.

Powell raised his eyebrows, and his grin widened. “Don’t you think Jack Willistone is getting tired of prison food?”

“A deal,” Rick said, nodding along with Powell. “You really think Jack Willistone might deal?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Powell said, wiping wing sauce off his mouth, but the grin remained. “But when I get through with Arrington . . . I think it’s worth a road trip to the state pen.”

15

When Tom arrived at Bo’s office at 7:00 a.m. the next morning, he had a surprise waiting for him. Leaning against the front stoop and dressed in a rumpled coat and tie was none other than Ray Ray Pickalew.

“Figured you’d get an early start,” Ray Ray said, curling his lips up into his patented Joker face.

“I take it you’re in?” Tom asked, smiling at his old teammate.

“I’m in,” Ray Ray said.

“What made you change your mind?”

Ray Ray shrugged. “Oh, I guess I . . . just had to pray on it.”

“I didn’t realize you were the praying type, Ray Ray.”

“Oh, I talk to God all the time,” Ray Ray said. “He just don’t listen.”

Tom laughed and started to unlock the door, but Ray Ray put his hand up to stop him. “So, I’ve got some information that I think you’ll find helpful.” He sighed and wiped sweat from his forehead. “But first I need some breakfast.”

Now that he was closer to him, Tom smelled the strong odor of whiskey. “Are you hungover?”

“No,” Ray Ray said, beginning to walk across the street. “I’m still drunk.”

A minute later they were sitting at a back table at the Bluebird Café, a favorite local breakfast spoon caddy-corner from Bo’s office and just two blocks from the courthouse square. The smells of bacon grease, coffee, and pancakes fueled the air, and Tom breathed them all in as he sipped from a mug of black coffee.

“The body was moved,” Ray Ray said after the waitress had taken their orders.

“What?” Tom asked, feeling his pulse quicken.

“From the Sundowners Club, a little strip joint on the edge of town that Andy liked to visit. He was shot in the parking lot at the Sundowners with a twelve-gauge, and then his body was moved a quarter mile down 64 to Walton Farm. There is a dirt road entrance there that goes right past a small clearing.” Ray Ray paused and sipped his coffee. “This is the place where Bo’s daddy was lynched by the Klan in 1966. The area is surrounded by trees, and the killer hung Andy from the same tree limb where Bo’s father was hanged.”

“How can someone get in the farm? There’s got to be security, right? A gate or something?” Tom fired off the questions, but something else that Ray Ray had said had begun to nag at the back of his mind. The name of the strip club . . .

Ray Ray nodded. “Yeah, there’s a gate and also a surveillance camera.”

Tom felt his heart beat even harder at the mention of a camera.

“Cops found the camera lens smashed in,” Ray Ray continued, shaking his head. “The last thing on the tape is Bo’s ugly mug swinging a baseball bat at it.”

Tom covered his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly,” Ray Ray said.

Tom turned the information over in his mind, remembering what Bo had said during their meeting at the jail. “Bo said he visited the clearing every year on the anniversary of his father’s death.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Ray Ray said as the waitress set their food down on the table.

When she was gone, Tom grabbed a piece of bacon and pointed it at Ray Ray. “But how could he get in if there was a gate and camera?”

Ray Ray shrugged. “That I don’t know. I suspect he may have had some help from his cousin.”

“Who?”

“Bo’s cousin, Booker T., leases a lot of farmland in Giles and Lawrence Counties, including the Waltons’ property. If Bo wanted to get on Walton Farm without being seen, I bet Booker T. helped him.” He leaned back in his seat as the waitress refilled his coffee cup. Once she was gone, Ray Ray grimaced. “And I bet the General has been on him like stink on shit ever since Bo was arrested.”

“If the body was moved from the strip club, it had to be taken by car, right?” Tom asked.

“Probably,” Ray Ray said, shrugging. “But Bo is a very strong man. It’s conceivable he could have carried Andy a quarter of a mile.”

“But to hang him and burn him?”

“He could’ve set the gas and rope down at the clearing and gone back for Andy. The video of him breaking the camera lens was around eleven thirty. My source says Andy didn’t even leave the Sundowners until closing time, which is around one in the morning. So Bo was definitely at the clearing before the shooting.” Ray Ray put a healthy helping of eggs in his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “I figure he probably got the code to the gate from Booker T., and after breaking the camera at eleven thirty drove through a couple hours later with Andy’s body in the car.”

“You mean you think that is the prosecution’s theory?” Tom asked.

“Of course.”

“OK . . . so why would he have gone to the clearing earlier?”

“To scout out the area and to break the surveillance camera.”

Tom paused to eat some of his pancake, which was delicious, but stopped after several bites. He had lost his appetite. Ray Ray’s breakdown of how the prosecution would view the evidence made sense.

And he knew it would also make sense to a jury.

Despite the bad vibes he was feeling, Tom smiled at his friend. “How might I ask did you find out all of this so quickly?”

The Joker grin was back. “The sheriff’s department is a volatile place, Tommy boy,” Ray Ray said, wolfing down the rest of his plate. “A lot of divorces. I got a pretty good settlement for one of the deputies a few years back, and he owed me one.”

Tom shook his head and smiled. This was why he had wanted Ray Ray Pickalew on the team. “Good work, partner.”

“There is a lot of work left to do,” Ray Ray said, his grin gone. “We obviously need to meet with Booker T. and find out everything he knows.”

Tom nodded. “Did your source mention that Bo was at Kathy’s Tavern earlier in the night?”

Ray Ray chuckled. “Yep. My guy said Bo told Andy he was going to give him an ‘eye for an eye’ in front of several eyewitnesses. Do you have the names?”

Tom rattled them off, and Ray Ray said they should split up the interviews. “I’ve known Clete forever. Let me take him. Why don’t you go down to Kathy’s and talk with Cassie? Ms. Maggie is probably off-limits for now and—”

“I’ve already interviewed George Curtis.” Tom paused. “By the way, you were right. He is a bit odd.”

“He’s as queer as a football bat, if you ask me,” Ray Ray said. “But he’s too goddamn proud to come out of the closet. I think his problem is that he’s lived a lie his whole life.”

Tom rubbed his chin, pondering that idea.
Could be,
he thought. But it didn’t feel right to him.

“We also need to get over to that strip joint and interview any of the employees who came into contact with Andy Walton on the night of the murder,” Tom said, and Ray Ray grinned again.

“That sounds like a job for Ray Ray. I’m already acquainted with the talent there.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Tom said, but the thought that had nagged him earlier was back. “What is the name of that place again?”

“The Sundowners Club. It’s a dive on the outskirts of Pulaski on Highway 64. It’s owned by a sorry son of a bitch named Larry Tucker, who I went to high school with back in the day. Been around since the early ’80s or so. I’m pretty sure Andy Walton bankrolled Larry’s operation. Andy and some other guy . . .” Ray Ray snapped his fingers. “Oh, who was that asshole? Made a fortune in long-haul trucking. Big SOB from your neck of the woods, Tom. You would know him if I said the name. Jack . . .” He snapped his fingers again. “Oh, shit, what’s his last name? Jack . . .”

“Willistone,” Tom finished Ray Ray’s sentence, his blood going cold. “Jack Willistone.”