Break No Bones (35 page)

"We're not trying to get in your face, Corey. This is information gathering. We just need to know if you ever noticed Marshal do or say anything weird."

"It's like I told that Nazi sheriff. Marshal was a psycho about two things. Keeping the place clean, and keeping out of his office."

"What was the purpose of the large room upstairs?"

Daniels shrugged. "Beats me. Never saw anyone in it but the cleaning guy."

"You never found that odd?"

"Look. I came in, I did my job, I left."

"Notice anything off about Marshal?"

"We've been over and over this shit. I wouldn't want to get naked with the guy, but Marshal was an OK boss, al right?"

"How about Helene Flynn?"

Daniels slouched back again. "Shit, I don't know. She was like this nun I'm talking about. Classy. Real nice to the patients. I tried feeling her out, you know, dropped a few lines, chick shut me down cold. I don't need to go begging for it, you know what I mean?"

"Did Helene get along with Marshal?"

Daniels's finger was working the tabletop, making a soft squeaking noise.

"Corey?"

Daniels shrugged. "I dunno. At first, yeah. Later, she seemed jumpy when the doc was around. I figured maybe he was hitting on her, too."

"Do you know why she left?"

"Marshal said she quit, hired Berry." Daniels was stil fingertipping the table. "Don't ask, don't tel. That's my motto."

"Did Marshal ever work late?"

"Sometimes he let Berry and me leave early."

A second passed. Daniels's finger froze.

"Fuckin' A, man. I see what you're saying." Daniels overnodded as he spoke. "Something's wrong there. The guy's a doctor. Locking up was Berry's job."

===OO=OOO=OO===

From the sheriff's department, we went to the hospital. Pete was in a private room on the med-surge floor. Ryan waited in the lobby while I went up.

The Latvian Savant was awake and cranky. His Jel-O was green. His nurse was deaf. His gown was too smal and his cheeks were catching cold. Though Pete's carping was annoying, annoyance was a relief. My heart felt light. He was healing. Katy had caled finaly and I'd been able to assure her of her father's imminent recovery.

Lily phoned Ryan late that afternoon. She was with friends in Montreal and wanted to see him. Ryan promised to be there by Friday. His vacation was over, he had to return to work on Monday. Leaving two days early meant he could spend the weekend with his daughter. He was grinning when he delivered the news. I hugged him. We held each other a very long time, each lost in thoughts of another. A nonsevered spouse. A newly realized child.

Ryan and I decided to splurge that night. My work in Charleston was done. Emma's unknowns were ID'd, and Marshal was looking at a lot of hard time. Maybe worse.

Pete was improving rapidly. Lily was reaching out. We dined on steak and lobster at 82 Queen.

Throughout dinner Ryan and I circled cautiously, stuck to neutral topics, restricted ourselves to present and past tense. He didn't ask about the future. I didn't offer reassurance. I couldn't. I was stil puzzled and confused by the strength of my reaction to Pete's proximity. To his near brush with death.

There was a lot of self-congratulation, much laughter, frequent clinking of glasses. At times I wanted to reach out and take Ryan's hand. I didn't. In the time since, I've often wondered why.

Ryan left after breakfast on Thursday. We kissed good-bye. I waved until his Jeep disappeared, then went back into Anne's house, empty again save for a dog and a cat. I was staying in Charleston until Pete could return to Charlotte. Beyond that, I had no plans.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Boyd and I spent Thursday afternoon with Emma. When she opened her front door, Boyd jumped up and nearly knocked her down. I felt like
I'd
taken a blow to the chest.

Al the sparkle was gone from Emma's face. Her skin was palid, and though the day was warm and moist, she wore a sweat suit and socks. I had to struggle to keep my smile pasted in place.

Gulet had already told Emma of Marshal's arrest. Sitting in porch rockers, we reviewed my conversations with the doctor and his nurse. Her reaction was immediate and uncompromising.

"Daniels running an international organ ring and framing his boss? Give me a break. You've seen the evidence. Marshal is a turd and he's guilty as hel."

"Yeah."

"What? You're not convinced?" Emma's skepticism ran planetary rings around Gulet's.

"Of course I am. But there are a couple things that bother me."

"For instance?"

"There wasn't a single personal item in Marshal's office. So why that one shel?"

"A milion reasons. He meant to take it home but forgot about it. One escaped from a container, roled out of sight in his desk drawer, and he never knew it was there."

"Helms was kiled in 2001. That shel was in Marshal's drawer al that time?"

"We're not talking conch shels, Tempe. The things are tiny."

"True."

Seeing a squirrel, Boyd shot to his feet. I put my hand on his head. He twirled the eyebrow hairs at me, but held.

I pressed my point. "But Marshal is smart. Why would he carry shels when burying a corpse?"

"Maybe the shel got wrapped up with Helms's body and Marshal didn't notice."

Boyd's head movement told me he was tracking the squirrel.

"Gulet said it himself," I said. "Marshal is fastidious. It just doesn't fit the guy's personality."

"Everyone slips up eventualy."

"Maybe."

I tapped Boyd's head and pointed to the floor. Reluctantly, he settled back down at my feet.

Emma got iced tea, then the two of us rocked in silence.

A man passed outside the fence, a woman with a stroler, two kids on bikes. Occasional chow whines suggested ongoing interest in Rocky.

"What do you think the final body count wil be?" I asked.

"Who knows?"

I remembered some of the names in my spreadsheet. Parker Ethridge. Harmon Poe. Daniel Snype. Jimmie Ray Teal. Matthew Summerfield. Lonnie Aikman.

"Can I ask you something, Emma?"

"Sure."

"Why didn't you tel me about Susie Ruth Aikman?"

"Who?" Emma sounded genuinely baffled.

"Lonnie Aikman's mother was discovered dead in her car last week. Wouldn't that be considered a suspicious death?"

"Where was she?"

"Highway 176, just northwest of Goose Creek."

"Berkeley County. That's not my jurisdiction. But I can find out about her."

Of course it wasn't. I felt like an idiot to have doubted my friend. Ask about the cruise ship incident Winborne had referenced in his article on Aikman? Forget it. None of my business.

By four thirty Emma was fading. We went inside, and I made spaghetti with sauce from her freezer. Boyd prowled the kitchen, getting in my way.

Watching Emma rearrange rather than eat her dinner, I remembered my cal to her sister. I told her that Sarah would be returning from Italy in the next few days, and promised to try her again. Emma insisted I let it go.

At six Boyd and I headed home. While I drove, the chow worked a loop in the rear, moving from window to window, periodicaly stopping to lick my right ear and cheek.

Boyd was in midcircuit when I turned into the drive at "Sea for Miles." Suddenly, he stopped, and a low growl rose from his throat.

My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror. An SUV was riding my bumper.

Fear rippled through me.

"Easy, boy." Reaching back, I finger-wrapped Boyd's colar.

Boyd tensed and gave a ful-out bark.

Eyes on the rearview, I hit a button on the armrest. The automatic locks clicked shut.

The SUV driver's door opened. I saw a logo.

Boyd barked again.

I let out my breath. "It's OK, tough guy."

It was. I recognized the figure barreling toward me.

For once, I could read the expression on Gulet's face.

The sheriff wasn't happy.

36

WORDLESSLY, GULLET HANDED ME A COPY OF TODAY'S
POST
and Courier.
I scanned the front page.

Winborne had struck again. Only this time the story wasn't buried with the local news. Cruikshank, Helms, the clinic raid, Marshal's arrest. The piece was accompanied by a photo of the Reverend Aubrey Herron, fist raised heavenward in his trademark gesture of petition. The story wrapped up with the usual titilating teases about possible leads, final body count, and danger to the public.

I felt momentary confusion, then my emotions distiled into a searing white anger.

"That slimy little worm!"

The sheriff watched me, face stony as one of the Battery statues. Sudden realization.

"You don't seriously believe
I
tipped Winborne?"

"You told me you know him." Gulet's face deepened into a glower.

"You told me he's harmless." I glowered back.

"I don't like my investigation hung out like some cheap episode of reality TV. Herron's livid, the media are sharpening their knives and forks, and our phones are clamoring like church bels on Sunday."

"Look in your own backyard."

"You suggesting there's a leak in my department?"

"I don't know what to suggest. The story on the Cruikshank ID sure as hel didn't come from me. Winborne's been looking into Cruikshank's disappearance for a couple of months." I roled the paper and thrust it at Gulet. "I never told him we had Cruikshank's body."

"Herron's got powerful friends."

"Of course he does. He's best buddies with God."

"With or without God he can make life helacious for a local elected official, including the county sheriff."

Boyd's muffled bark cut across our raised voices.

I crossed to my car and opened the door. Boyd shot out and ran from bush to bush, squirting and back-flinging dirt with his paws. Bounding back, he shoved his snout into Gulet's crotch.

I wanted to high-five the dog.

Gulet chucked Boyd's ears.

Boyd licked Gulet's hand.

Traitor,
I thought, turning my glare on the chow.

"Winborne had the vics and the arrest info, but nothing as to motive," I said.

"Agreed." Gulet roled the paper and tapped it against one palm. "If he'd known about Rodriguez or the organ theft he'd have printed that."

"How much could Winborne have gotten by scanning police frequencies?"

"Some." Gulet did a slow eye crawl of my face. "But not al this. The radio traffic wouldn't have told him we'd identified the forest hanger as Cruikshank. He got that some other way."

===OO=OOO=OO===

As it turned out, there was a modest upside to Winborne breaking the Cruikshank story.

Early Friday a cal came in to the sheriff's switchboard. Barry Lunaretti owned a King Street dive named Little Luna's. Reading Winborne's article, the name "Cruikshank"

triggered an itch in Lunaretti's head. Hours later the synapse fired. Searching his lost-and-found, Lunaretti came up with a jacket holding a walet belonging to Noble Cruikshank.

When Gulet caled I did a little synapsing of my own.

"Is Little Luna's ever caled the Double L?"

"Believe it is."

"That was the one bar Pinckney remembered. Cruikshank must have mistakenly grabbed Pinckney's jacket and left his own. Pinckney was undoubtedly drunk that night, hungover the next morning. He forgot about his outerwear and focused on his walet. Does Lunaretti remember when the jacket was left?"

"Says it's been a couple of months."

Beyond satisfying my curiosity and tying off a loose end, the information didn't seem particularly dramatic. We already believed Cruikshank had been alive until a couple of months ago.

Gulet also had a progress report on the phone record dumps at Marshal's house and the GMC clinic.

"Over the past three months, cals to and from Marshal's home involved the exotica of car repairs, haircuts, and dental appointments."

"Popular guy."

"Got a little problem at the clinic, however."

I didn't interrupt.

"It'l take a while to work through al the numbers, but one pattern is clear. As a rule no one phoned in or out after closing. Four thirty, five o'clock, the place went dark." I heard Gulet's breath on the mouthpiece. "One odd one, though. On March twenty-fourth at seven oh two P.M. a ninety-second cal was made to Noble Cruikshank's home."

"No! Marshal?"

"Cal was dialed from his office."

"So what's the problem?"

"On March twenty-fourth Marshal was at a muscular dystrophy fund-raiser in Summervile. Witnesses confirm his presence from six thirty until ten."

My fingers tightened on the handset as a dark suspicion began to emerge.

So who caled Cruikshank?

A murderer luring his victim to a rendezvous?

Wait. Think. Folow the chain. Where's it going? The cal. Cruikshank's death.

"Everything points to late March for Cruikshank's DOD," I said. "He never cashed Flynn's February check. Credit card action ended around that time. Winborne saw Cruikshank on March nineteenth. I'm thinking Cruikshank died before noticing he had the wrong jacket, otherwise he'd have retrieved his walet. He was probably kiled the same night he and Pinckney crossed paths at Little Luna's. Pinckney filed a police report. Can you pul it?"

"I'l get on it."

Gulet caled back in twenty minutes.

"Pinckney reported his walet stolen on March twenty-sixth. Said it was swiped the night before."

"Someone phones Cruikshank from the GMC clinic on March twenty-fourth. Cruikshank's probably dead on March twenty-fifth. That can't be coincidence."

"So who made the cal? An informant? The cleaning person?"

"What if Marshal is teling the truth? What if someone is framing him?"

"Daniels?" Gulet sounded like I'd said Milosevic had been nominated for a peace prize.

"I know it sounds nuts. A lot of signs point toward Marshal, and we folowed them, but some of what he's saying is true. The surgery, the noose, the victims being patients.

That's al circumstantial. Daniels worked at that clinic, too. What do we know about him?"