Blackman's Coffin (16 page)

“I didn’t know we had a state arboretum,” I said.

“Over four hundred acres. At one time, it had been within Pisgah National Forest, but now it’s part of the state’s university system. Guess who first envisioned it?”

I named the only plant guy I knew. “Frederick Law Olmsted?”

“Give the man a prize. But the arboretum wasn’t created until nearly a hundred years after he proposed it.” She braked at a stop sign. “And there’s the Bent Creek put-in.”

Almost directly across the intersecting two-lane highway lay a wide strip of dark sand beside the river. Kayakers were coming off the water and loading their boats onto roof racks and trailers. Nakayla crossed over and parked along the shoulder, leaving room for the exiting vehicles to pass.

“Want to take a look?”

I was halfway out of the car before she finished the question. Together we walked to the water’s edge. Above the sounds of the kayakers and car engines rose the calls of frogs and katydids. Lightning bugs flickered along the opposite shore. Before us ran the wide river, inky black now that no light penetrated its surface.

I bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. The grains were coarse and dark. Those on Tikima’s tires and carpet had been lighter. How much different would this sand look once it dried?

Upstream, a pair of headlights flew across the river. The Blue Ridge Parkway continued on, spanning the French Broad, oblivious to what might have happened beneath its stone arch.

***

Nakayla let me off at the front door of the Kenilworth. She offered to come up and fix me a late supper, but I wanted only a shower and bed. I itched from the sawdust and my stump ached from the exertion of the day’s activities. She promised to pick me up at nine the next morning so we could visit the Gold for the Taking mine and the Woolworth Walk in downtown Asheville.

Once in the apartment, I stripped out of my clothes and dropped them into the washer/dryer combo off the kitchen. I removed my leg, hand-washed the liner and socks, and then hit the shower. Washing took twice as long since I had to steady myself with one hand at all times. I thought about the showers Tikima must have taken, her prosthetic arm probably left outside the door where my artificial leg now lay. I felt her presence around me.

The phone rang as I sat on the edge of the bed, drying my hair. Probably Nakayla or Peters. She’d given the detective the number.

I picked up the receiver from the nightstand. “Blackman.”

“Nathan Armitage here.” His voice was clipped and strictly business.

“Hi, Nathan.”

“So you didn’t go to Birmingham.”

“No. I’m staying in town a few days.”

“Yeah. Well, thanks for the heads up.”

The files. Peters had interviewed Armitage about his client files and told him they were found in Tikima’s apartment. Now Armitage was pissed at me.

“Look. Your files were at the scene of a break-in. Tikima’s sister and I turned them in to the police. Peters told me not to say anything to anyone. You know how cops are with evidence.”

“I’m not concerned about the cops. I’m concerned that you seem to be snooping into my clients’ affairs. Luther Rawlings called me and said Nakayla and some hotdog were pumping him for information—a day after you did your civic duty and gave the police my files.”

His accusatory tone punched all my wrong buttons. “Maybe I’m just speaking up for Tikima again when you won’t. Do your own god-damned investigation.” I hung up. If Tikima hadn’t confided in Mr. B. C. Cure, then neither would I.

Although it was only a little after nine, I felt exhausted. As I crawled between the sheets, I patted the well-worn Bible Tikima kept on her nightstand. I’m not one for praying, but I told Tikima if she could put in a good word with the Big Guy, we could use a little help.

The ringing of the phone woke me. Tikima’s digital clock read 10:14 p.m. I reached over the Bible and picked up the receiver.

“Blackman,” I mumbled.

“Sam.” Nakayla’s voice was tight with excitement. “A man just called. He wouldn’t give his name but he said if I wanted to know what happened to my sister I should meet him tonight.”

“Where?”

“Riverside Cemetery. It’s north of town near the Montford historic district.”

The directions meant nothing to me. “Nakayla, that sounds like a setup. Why wouldn’t he give his name?”

“He said he didn’t know who to trust. That the police are covering up things and he has proof. He said he’d heard I’d hired a private detective and to bring him.”

The skin on my neck was crawling. “I don’t like it.”

“Riverside’s not that isolated. There are houses close by.”

“And the river?”

“The French Broad.”

The damn French Broad. Everything kept coming back to the French Broad.

“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine,” Nakayla said. “I just wanted you to know about it.”

“You’re not going there alone.”

“Sam, this might be our only break. I’m not going to lose him.”

I ran my fingers through my hair trying to jumpstart my brain. “Is he going to be at the entrance to the cemetery?”

“No.” She hesitated. “He said to meet him at Thomas Wolfe’s grave.”

“Wolfe’s buried there?”

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath. “All right. Pick me up. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

I could tell she was on the verge of tears. “Do you have a gun?” I asked.

“A little twenty-five automatic.”

“Bring it.”

Chapter Fifteen

“When we get there, I want you to stay in the car.” I gave Nakayla the order as she turned onto a side street of dimly lit houses.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I know you’re not. You’re my runner. If this goes down bad, you get the hell out of here and call the cops. Pre-punch 911 so you can hit send and then floor the accelerator.”

We came to a gate with a sign saying the cemetery closed at eight. A wrought-iron fence made going around impossible. We would have to leave the car, a development I didn’t like.

“What do we do now?” Nakayla asked. “This is the only entrance.”

“You stay with the car. I’d better go in on foot. Kill the lights.”

She cut the beams. A half-moon cast a pale blue glow making shadows and objects nearly indistinguishable from one another.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You’ve got to walk a ways.”

“Yes. Are there any signs to Wolfe’s grave?”

“No, but a few yards in, the road splits into three lanes. There’s a rose marble marker that reads Riverside Cemetery. Take the middle fork, and then when the road forks again, the Wolfe family plot is on the right. If you come to a sign for William Sydney Porter, you’ve gone too far.”

The name sounded familiar. “Who’s he?”

“The author O. Henry.”

Great, I thought. The writer famous for his surprise endings. “Have you got the gun?”

She reached in her purse and pulled out a black pistol. “There are seven in the clip.” She handed it to me butt first.

“No. You keep it. Someone may frisk me. All I want is the flashlight.”

“In the glove box.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “For God’s sake be careful.”

“Careful’s my middle name.”

Actually my middle name was Clemens, as in Samuel Clemens, but we were dealing with enough writers for one night. I got out of the car quickly, minimizing the time the interior light flashed on. Nakayla rolled down the window so she could hear better. The air hummed with the noise of crickets.

“One more thing,” I said. “If anybody drives up, you leave. It might be your mystery caller. Then come back in ten minutes. He should be in the cemetery by then. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, you go for help. Promise?”

“Promise.” The word was barely a whisper.

“And turn the car around.”

The flashlight felt hefty in my hand and was the black cylindrical style favored by the police. I kept it turned off, preferring to have my eyes adjust to the darkness. I climbed over the fence, my prosthetic leg turning what should have been child’s play into a Herculean effort.

The old phrase “whistling past the graveyard” came to mind. However, the urge to relieve my built-up tension wasn’t as strong as the urge to remain silent. I didn’t want to come parading into a rendezvous with the equivalent of a target on my chest.

The road split and I took the middle lane. I descended a gradual slope, stepping off the pavement onto the grass where my footsteps would be muted. Rounding a curve, I saw the outline of an automobile pulled onto the shoulder. The shape of the car suggested a larger American vehicle, possibly a Crown Vic. I thought about Detective Peters and felt apprehensive that the police officer might be playing some double game.

The interior of the car was lost in shadow. If someone had seen my approach, he made no effort to reveal himself. I neared the trunk and saw extra radio antennae. The Crown Vic had to be a law enforcement vehicle. Was an officer planning to blow the whistle on a police cover-up?

“Hey,” I said softly. “I’m here.”

The only answer was the distant hoot of an owl. I eased toward the driver’s door until I could make out the shape of someone behind the wheel.

“You all right in there?” I clicked on the flashlight. The narrow halogen beam pierced the side window and illuminated sandy brown hair matted with clumps of blood and torn flesh. I jumped back, repulsed by the grisly sight. Detective Peters’ head was tilted forward on his chest, the side of his face coated with more blood that had congealed into a macabre mask.

I yanked open the door, hoping against the horror of the scene that Peters might still be alive. He toppled out of the seat. I stooped to catch him but the soaked fabric of his shirt slipped through my fingers, painting my clothes with blood as he fell.

Metal hit metal and I saw a pistol bounce off the car’s threshold and hit the ground. Then the window of the open door exploded above my head. Dropping to grab Peters had saved my life.

The boom of a gunshot echoed through the hills. This wasn’t the pop of a twenty-five caliber or the sharp crack of a rifle. Someone fired a forty-five or 357 Magnum.

I fell flat on the grass, rolling out of the pool of light cast by the car’s interior. A second shot rang out. Peters’ body twitched. The muzzle flash had come from about thirty yards away in direct line with the side of the Crown Vic. I dared not turn and run. My leg would slow me down and God only knew how many gravestones waited to trip me or how many men were after me. But I couldn’t let my assailants move in for the kill.

I saw the pistol lying next to Peters. I’d be exposed for less than a second. I lunged forward, grabbed the gun, and scrambled away, half running, half crawling up a slope to the nearest monument. I crunched behind the stone slab, feeling the cool surface against my back.

The shooter fired again and the gravestone vibrated. Even a forty-five slug couldn’t penetrate eight inches of granite. From the feel of the pistol, I knew I held a nine millimeter Glock. Not the stopping power of a forty-five, but enough to do serious damage. I lay flat on my stomach, gripping the gun in both hands. I had no idea if the clip was loaded or a cartridge was in the chamber.

I slithered around the edge of the headstone where I could see the car. A third shot fired; this time the muzzle flash was closer to me. I squeezed the trigger and the pistol kicked in my hand. The bullet might have been my last, but at least my enemy knew I was armed.

A blur of motion appeared, running low and zigzagging away. In the moonlight, the shape was more shadow than substance, but I fired two more rounds to encourage his retreat. I hoped Nakayla had bolted at the first sound of gunfire. I didn’t want her car blocking my attacker’s escape.

An engine started. Headlights swept across a far knoll of gravestones as the killer sped into the night in a completely different direction. So much for Nakayla’s one entrance. From the distance came the wail of sirens. The police were on the way. They would find one of their own had fallen. “Officer down,” would spread over the radio and through the ranks like wildfire.

Suddenly my predicament became all too clear. The police would find me, Sam Blackman, beside the body of their comrade, smeared in his blood and holding a pistol that could be the murder weapon, now conveniently bearing my fingerprints.

For all my troubles, I was better off than Peters. I went back to the car, laid the gun on the seat, and then sat on the ground beside the dead detective. “Talk to me,” I said. “Talk to me.”

“Sam?”

I looked up. Nakayla stepped into the light, her small pistol clutched in both hands and her face wild with fear. But not the fear that should have sent her driving away and following my orders. This fear brought her out of the car and into a crossfire of bullets. Fear for me.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes. It’s Peters. I found him in the car.”

“It wasn’t Peters on the phone. I’m sure I’d have recognized his voice.”

“No. Peters was probably dead already. Someone used him as bait.”

“Bait?”

“To lure us here.” I picked up the flashlight from where I’d dropped it and got to my feet. I played the beam around the interior of the car. “See the blood’s smeared on the floor of the backseat. And it’s dried enough to be several hours old. I don’t think Peters was killed here. The cemetery would have still been open.”

“What do we do now?”

The sirens swelled and flashing blue lights winked through the trees.

I reached in the car and turned on the headlights. “Lay your pistol on the seat.”

She stepped around Peters’ body and set the gun beside the Glock. I grabbed her hand, intertwining my fingers with hers. Too late I realized Peters’ blood now contaminated her skin. She didn’t draw back but squeezed tighter.

“You shouldn’t have taken such a chance,” I said, and led her into the full intensity of the headlights.

“You’re one to talk.”

Two police cruisers raced through the cemetery. I let go of Nakayla’s hand and then turned my palms to the approaching vehicles. Nakayla did the same.

“I’m one to talk all right, but I’ll be damned if I know how I’m going to talk our way out of this mess.”

The police cars slammed on brakes and swerved into a parallel angle that added their high beams to the Crown Vic’s. All I could see was a blinding wall of light.

“We’re unarmed,” I shouted. “Detective Peters has been murdered.”

The silhouette of a uniformed officer moved against the light. A second one followed. Both had arms extended bearing weapons. They moved slowly, like choreographed shadow puppets growing larger with each step. More sirens filled the air.

The second man bent over Peters. “He’s been shot in the head.” His voice quavered and I wondered if he’d ever seen a dead body before.

“There are two guns on the driver’s seat,” I said, forcing myself to speak calmly. “I used the Glock to shoot at the killer.”

“Who was that?” the first officer asked. He turned to look in the car and the overhead interior light revealed a young man with dark hair, no older than his mid-twenties.

“Don’t touch them,” cautioned the policeman kneeling beside Peters. He stood and stepped forward, not trusting his partner to follow his order.

“I couldn’t see who was shooting,” I said. “I returned fire as he came at me. You can see where he shot out the side window.”

The second officer studied the shattered glass. I blinked my eyes to clear my vision. The faces of the two patrolmen were identical. Twins in blue uniforms.

“What do we do?” twin number one whispered to his clone.

“You put me, Sam Blackman, in one car and my friend, Nakayla Robertson, in the other so we can’t collaborate on a story. Then you get a tech crew and crime lab down here to scour the scene for evidence.”

The Bobbsey twins looked at each other and shook their heads in unison.

“Keep your gun on them,” the second man said. “I’ll track down Uncle Newly.” He walked back to a patrol car.

“Who’s Uncle Newly?” I asked.

“Roy Peters’ partner. Boy, is he going to be pissed.”

***

While most people were in church at eleven o’clock Sunday morning, I was in jail. Not actually in a cell. I sat in an interrogation room nursing a cup of scorched coffee, but I was definitely in police custody. Nakayla’s whereabouts were unknown. I assumed she was undergoing similar treatment.

The only small victory I’d enjoyed the previous night was when the officer who radioed Uncle Newly came back to say Nakayla and I were to be put in separate cars and kept clear of any other police until Uncle Newly arrived. The twins, who I now knew were Al and Ted Newland, had given me a look of respect. Somehow I’d known what Uncle Newly was going to say before the words were uttered.

Uncle Newly turned out to be Detective Curt “Newly” Newland. He’d arrived at the crime scene within twenty minutes, wearing a disheveled suit and shirt and his uncombed curly gray hair springing in all directions like tufts of crabgrass. And he was pissed.

I deduced that from his first words: “If I find out you had anything do to with Roy’s death, I’ll ream you so many new assholes you’ll look like Swiss cheese.”

I’d understood his anger and I’d told him so. Although I’d barely known Peters, the discovery of his body had left me numb. Peters and I’d had a rocky start, but mutual respect had forged a connection. There was no doubt in my mind that Peters meant to pursue Tikima’s killer with all the resources he could muster.

The door to the interrogation room opened. Al and Ted entered followed by their uncle. It was nice to see a thriving family business these days.

“So, Mr. Blackman,” Newland said. “Anything about your story you’d like to add or change?”

“Yes.”

His tired face perked up.

“I’d like to be able to tell you who shot Peters and who killed Tikima Robertson. We’re on the same side here.”

He slid into a chair across the table. “Are we?”

I was losing patience. “Look, I’ve been fingerprinted so you could match me to the gun, had a paraffin test to prove I fired it, and let you enter my apartment without requiring a search warrant so you could get copies of the journal and the Armitage files I admitted making.” I’d also asked them to bring me clean clothes since the blood-stained ones had been taken for evidence. “The only thing I’m not going to do is make a false confession while Peters’ murderer gets away. Check the damn case file and the original journal and Armitage folders I gave Peters. They back up everything I’ve told you.”

“There is no case file.”

“What?” I looked from Newland to Al and Ted leaning against the wall. Their identical faces bore identical blank expressions.

“And we found no journal or Armitage folders in either his desk or logged into the evidence room.” He paused. “You say Thomas Wolfe wrote this journal?”

I nodded. “Nakayla and I told Peters the handwriting matched samples of Wolfe’s.” I wondered why Peters hadn’t shared any of this with Newland. Then I remembered Peters had said his partner was on vacation.

“Thomas Wolfe,” Newland repeated.

“And we discussed how it would be hard to know what might be fact or fiction.”

“And then you found Roy’s body near Thomas Wolfe’s grave.”

“That’s why it was a set up. Whoever called knew that Nakayla and I couldn’t resist that connection.”

“Or Roy couldn’t resist the connection if you said you wanted to meet him there.”

“Peters wasn’t killed there. I know it and you know it.”

Newland smiled. “Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman. You must have been pretty good when you were in the service.”