Darktown (30 page)

“Yes.”

“You know damn well that most of the white cops want you all to fail so the mayor can call this off.
That's
why Dunlow is trying to tag you and Smith for killing Poe.”

Boggs stiffened. “First, don't cuss in my father's house, please. Second, we did not kill Poe.”

“I don't think you did either, but Dunlow believes it, in his bones. Last I heard, he's having trouble getting Homicide to pursue this the way he wants it done. The majors don't want this to blow up in the press as some cop-on-cop civil war. But that's not going to stop Dunlow from spending every waking second trying to nail you for it.”

“So you're offering to keep him off our backs?”

The rain grew louder, the gutters talking to the downspouts.

“I don't think the devil himself could do that. But I am uniquely positioned to keep an eye on him. I can find out what kind of fake evidence and nonsense testimony he's going to wrangle up against you, like he tried on Bayle. I could pass that on to you, so you can find ways to protect yourself.”

“You got a cigarette?” Boggs asked.

Rake did. He lit two and handed one to Boggs.

“So I try to find out who killed Lily Ellsworth,” Boggs recapped, “and I pass what I find on to you, especially if it keeps pointing to Dunlow. And you keep tabs on Dunlow and give me advance warning before he does whatever it is he's fixing to do.”

“Yes. But I'll do more than that. Any records you need at the headquarters, any white folks you want questioned, I'll do it.”

Boggs raised an eyebrow. “Congressman Prescott?”

“Christ, within reason I mean.”

Boggs shut his eyes for a moment, and Rake realized it was for the blasphemy in a preacher's house. Goodness, it must be strange to tread so lightly all the time.

“How about his son?” Boggs asked. “Or his wife. Someone who can tell us what went on in there, if anything.”

“I'll think on it. But this only works if we keep this quiet. If Dunlow starts to think I'm spying on him, it all blows up. I'm taking a heck of a risk even telling you this.”

“You think I'm not?”

“Just do me one other favor first. Chandler Poe. What happened?”

Boggs paused, and Rake wondered if he'd misplayed everything by asking this, if he was now making it look like this whole conversation had just been a ruse to goad Boggs into confessing.

“I have no idea,” Boggs said.

“What about your partner?”

“What about him?”

“Well, you'll notice I came to talk to
you
and not him.”

“He might not be as polite and diplomatic as I can be, but he's a good cop.”

“A couple of bootleggers swear Smith beat Poe that night.”

Boggs stubbed out his cigarette, even though it appeared to have plenty left. “I can assure you, Smith did not do anything that I haven't seen Dunlow do on occasion. Is that good enough for you?”

“So you're saying, no knife?”

“No knife. And neither of us has been within a mile of the place they found his body.”

There was a lot of gray area in what Boggs was saying, but it made sense. “Okay. Still, I don't want Smith involved in this.”

“He's my partner. I trust him.”

“That doesn't mean that—”

“You hold up your end of the bargain and I'll hold up mine. But don't tell me how.”

Rake decided to let it go. He reached into his pocket and handed Boggs a slip of paper. “My number. We'd best not communicate when we're in uniform. You need to reach me, call.”

Rake stood and wished Boggs good luck. Then he shook hands with a Negro for the second time that day, and in his life.

25

MIDDAY. THE SUN
was not taking prisoners. Movement and sound were things of the past, even the birds hiding silent in shaded branches.

Dunlow drove slowly past the house of James Calvin, the Negro who had dared to invade the white community of Hanford Park. Bricks through the man's windows had not yet convinced him that he'd made a horrible mistake in building that house, but it was early in the summer still, the nights sure to become darker and more miserable.

He had barely parked his car in his driveway when the eldest of his two sons, Knox, was asking to take the car off his hands.
What the hell was it boys felt they needed the car for so much, anyways?
When Dunlow had been their age he'd managed fine on foot, on the bus, on the streetcar. He'd seen the city and got himself into a fair amount of trouble, even with his own father and police legend Arthur Dunlow keeping his eye on him. Yet his own sons seemed unable to function if they didn't have their hand on a gearshift.

“Why you need my car so badly?”

“Well, sir, I was hoping I could take Jenny-Beth to see the Crackers this afternoon.” Knox was seventeen and with a year of schooling to go. Buddy, two years his junior, was greasing the chain of his bike about ten feet away, pretending not to be listening. Buddy wasn't yet legal to drive, but Dunlow knew the boy had taken the wheel for his brother a number of times, and was doubtless hoping to tag along to the game.

“She a baseball fan, is she?”

“Trying to make her one,” Knox said.

“Her father allow her out like that without an adult around?”

“In the afternoon, sir.”

Dunlow told Buddy to stop playing with the bike and come over here.
The kid's hands weren't even greasy. As much as Knox's bullheadedness grated on Dunlow, it was his younger son's sneakiness that had him more concerned.

When both young men—and damned if that's not what they seemed now, both of them as tall as Dunlow and Knox so muscled up that the football coach claimed he had a chance to make it on the Dawgs squad if he kept his focus—were right up beside him, Dunlow leveled with them.

“This here is my car. I work. I earn the money. It's mine when I'm using it, and it's mine when I ain't using it. Knox, you can find another way to impress that gal. And Buddy, you quit hiding in the shadows like a little girl and say what you want next time.”

He walked past them toward the house. They knew better than to complain.

Then he stopped and turned. “And I thought I told you to do something about that nigger down the street. I don't expect to have to ask more than once.”

Dunlow hadn't been any older than they were back when he'd helped his father clear the neighborhood the last time things had looked this dicey. Back in the twenties. Like now, a postwar housing crunch had caused some of the local coloreds to move into parts of town they'd previously avoided. He'd been but a boy when the houses of a number of coloreds had burned down. His father had taken him along, even let him toss some gasoline on a porch, then watch from the safety of the car as the men—cops and firemen and other trusted sorts—dropped the matches.

Sadly, he couldn't take his sons along for something like that. There were just enough spoilsports and pantywaists that, if word spread that a policeman had done anything extralegal, his job could be threatened. It was insane. First the crackdown on the numbers runners a few years back, then the crackdown on some Kluxers courtesy of the state BI, and now the worst insult of all, blacks donning the same uniform Dunlow proudly wore, the same uniform his father had worn. He knew that he and men like Helton and Peterson could easily run this Negro out of the neighborhood, but he figured it would be better to get his sons
involved. Not only to keep his job safe but also because, if they were to be men, and if this was to be their neighborhood, they would damn well need to start defending it.

Inside, he saw that his wife was napping, thank goodness. He liked her at her quietest. He walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialed Peterson to find out why the hell Smith and Boggs were still wearing badges.

“Word is, McInnis is shielding them,” Peterson said. “Won't allow them to be questioned by detectives unless we can produce more evidence.”

“It'll happen. He can't protect them forever.”

“Well, the wheels of justice are turning a bit slowly right now.”

“Like you said, Bo, I'm about ready to stuff those badges so far down their throats we can cut their balls off with 'em. I'll give the Department one more chance to do it straight, but if they can't get their pencils out of their asses, then I'll take care of it myself. I ain't waiting around for the niggers to kill someone else.”

“Neither am I.”

“Once they realize they got away with it, you know what they'll move on to, don't you? They'll take out a
cop.
Probably been their plan all along.”

“They want a war, we'll give 'em a war.”

“This ain't no time for burning crosses and hanging bodies in front yards,” Dunlow said, looking out the window at his sons, who were literally kicking stones, hands in their pockets. “What we do has got to be done carefully, and quiet as quiet can be.”

“You're not the man I think of first when I hear that word.”

“Now there, Bo. You're forgetting a few things about me, boy.”

26

RAKE PULLED HIS
squad car over at a street corner in Druid Hills. Residential and forested, a tidy escape for people who made good money in the city. From downtown he'd taken Ponce, which turned windy and downright scenic in this stretch, poplars and red oaks overhead and the occasional trolley passing in its lane to his right. The houses on this block were larger than in Rake's part of town, the lots far more generous, the trees older and taller.

His heart was racing that he was even doing this, and he told himself to relax. He was lucky Dunlow was tied up with paperwork back at headquarters, but he needed to be fast.

He knocked on the door of a narrow bungalow that was sheltered by two white oaks.

The door was opened by a tall, slim, moon-faced man who was unable to disguise his shock at the sight of a police officer.

“Good evening, Mr. Prescott?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Officer Rakestraw. I was hoping I could ask you a couple of quick questions about someone who used to work for your family?”

Representative Prescott's son, Silas, looked Rake's age, not that that made them peers. His hair could have used a trim, the bangs falling across his forehead, probably the same haircut he'd had since prep school. He wore a dapper light blue sport coat even though he appeared home for the evening, a lone car in his driveway.

“Sure thing. Would you like to come in?”

Southern hospitality was a delightful weapon to wield against people who didn't want to talk to you, Rake had learned. He accepted the foolish invitation, his shined shoes tapping on the wood floor. Jump blues
on a record player livened up the otherwise bare parlor. The room had less furniture in it than it should have, and nothing decorating the walls.

“Nice place,” Rake said, as he knew it made people talk.

“Thank you. I just moved in a few weeks ago. Still need to decorate. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, this shouldn't take but a minute.” Rake sat in one easy chair and Prescott, after turning off the record, sat in the other one, as there were no other options.

He was William S. Prescott III but went by his middle name, Silas, Rake had learned. He'd worked for his father off and on and also owned a few restaurants downtown. From what Rake could gather, he was a professional rich kid and was trying to ride that into his thirties.

“I'm doing a quick follow-up about a girl who used to work for your mother.” Rake made a show of taking his notebook from a pocket. The congressman's son was barefoot and had just the cutest uncallused feet a grown man could have. “Lily Ellsworth.”

“Yes?” Legs crossed, Prescott's fingers were threaded upon his top knee. Rake was used to people being nervous in his presence, and this man certainly was.

“Unfortunately, Lily died a couple of weeks back.”

“Oh, that's terrible.”

“Did you know her?”

Prescott shook his head. “I mean, I probably saw her cleaning the house once or twice. And she probably served me dinner now and again. But I wouldn't say I
knew
her.”

“Of course. I'm just trying to reconstruct where she was over the last few months. I understand she was working for your mother for two or three months but was let go in late May?”

Prescott inhaled deeply, like he was trying hard to remember. Emphasis on
like.
It seemed an act, overly theatrical. “I suppose that's about right.”

“I know I could have asked your mother these questions, but it felt unseemly to bother her.”

“Yes, I appreciate that. I'll have to let her know about poor Lily.”

“Could you tell me why your mother let Lily go?”

“Goodness, if I had to tell you all the different maids and butlers
Mother has fired, you'd need a bigger notebook. The woman
is
demanding, as my father always says. I'm sure this girl laid a fork down at a slightly improper angle or something of that nature.”

Rake smiled along as if he could relate. “You mentioned you moved here recently. Did you used to live at your parents'?”

“Ah, well, I suppose in a way. I've had my own place in the city now and then and have moved back in with Mother to help her through on occasion. It can be lonely for her with my father in Washington for long stretches. So, yes, prior to me moving here I was living there.”

“So that would mean you were living there at the same time Lily worked there.”

Prescott seemed to realize he'd painted himself into a corner. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

“Is there anything you could tell me about her? Did she ever discuss having any problems, being in fear of anyone?”

Prescott uncrossed and recrossed his legs, the school ring on his finger catching the light.

“Again, we never really chatted. Mother is very strict about such things. I'm sure in some households there's more . . . blurring of the lines, you could say. But not in ours.”

“Of course.” A conveniently located clock on the dining room wall behind Prescott told Rake he'd been in there for five minutes. He was supposed to be somewhere else at this moment and would need to end this talk soon.

“Do you know the name Lionel Dunlow?”

Head shake, believably blank look.

“Brian Underhill?”

“No. Who are they?”

“You know, I'm honestly not sure. Just names we've heard kicked around when her name's come up. There's one last thing, Mr. Prescott, and then I'll be on my way. We have reason to understand Lily's family may have come into some money recently. They're a very poor family, but a few weeks after she started working at your mother's, they made a large purchase.” He was exaggerating what he could prove, to see what he might get in return. That morning he'd read the deeply alarming “report” on Otis Ellsworth's death that the Peacedale police had shared
with APD. “Some of their neighbors think Lily may have sent that money to her parents. So, naturally, our first thought was that she may have taken something from your family.”

Prescott nodded once and turned his head, gazing at a blank wall and a window covered by a green curtain. Whatever he was about to say was something he was carefully arranging in his head first. He took his time with it.

“I suppose I haven't been completely forthcoming with you, Officer . . . what was it again?”

“Rakestraw.” The brief anonymity of this visit seemed to be vanishing. There would be consequences. But he was finally learning something.

“Officer Rakestraw, Lily was indeed let go because she took something from my family. It was an unfortunate episode, and it's behind us now. We didn't see any reason to press charges so we simply let her go, chalking it up to an error in judgment on Mother's part for hiring her.”

“What was it she stole?”

“I don't want this in any report. I'd like you to put that pen away.”

Rake paused, surprised, but figured there was no harm giving this man a symbolic victory. He pocketed the pen.

“My family chose to handle this quietly. It wouldn't do to have us linked to some petty crime, especially one involving a Negro. Something like that can be construed however a political opponent would like to construe it, and we aren't in the business of handing ammunition to our enemies. We expect everything to be handled very discreetly, especially our dealings with the police. Frankly, I'm surprised they sent a young officer like yourself over about this.”

Prescott had quickly pivoted from a skittish, nervous man into someone with reserves of power who was insulted to have to call upon them for something so minor.

“So,” Rake asked, “you've already spoken with other members of the Department?”

“Of course. Not myself, but my father. He's close friends with several high-ranking members of the Department, as I'm sure you can imagine. Everything has been handled and all is in order. She was a girl who managed to conceal her criminal proclivities from my mother for a while, and then after we let her go she no doubt continued her errant
ways and fell in with more of that crowd. Perhaps she finally stole from people who are less understanding than my family, and they chose to settle matters in a more brutish manner.” He paused. “I suppose one could argue that their way was better than ours.”

Rake didn't care for that. “I would argue against that, myself. It's my job to arrest people who commit murders, not philosophize about them.”

“Of course.” Prescott rose to bid Rake farewell. As they walked to the door, he added, “You know, they're a very deceptive race. They can at times win your sympathy, and you try to do right by them. And then you find they've been stealing from you all along.”

Rake was surprised by the comment. He'd heard that Prescott was more of a moderate on the Negro question. It didn't sound like his son was.

“Did your father ever meet her, or was he in Washington the whole time she worked at the house?”

“Oh, he was in Washington. Mother did tell him about what happened. Told him what she stole, consulted him for advice, because of course
mine
is never good enough for her. But that was as involved as he was in any of this.”

They walked to the door, Rake noticing how the man had gone from tight-lipped to full of information. Either Rake had stumbled upon the truth, or he had allowed Prescott time to draw a false picture and revel in its freedoms.

They shook hands and Rake apologized for bothering him.

“It's no bother. We've been in politics a long time, and it's a messy business. There's always some matter or another that needs tidying up, especially when people try to take advantage of you. But we respect the importance of maintaining appearances, Officer Rakestraw. Not just for ourselves but for our city. I'm sure you do as well.”

Rake opened the door and walked through the wall of bugs that had been clinging to it, drawn to the overhead light's false promise.

After his shift, at home. Past two o'clock. Rake was dropping ice into a tall glass of water when the phone rang.
Who the hell at this hour?
He answered it on the second ring.

“Is this Officer Dennis Rakestraw?” The voice on the line spoke slowly and stilted, like he was foreign and reading from phonetically translated lines.

“It is. With whom am I speaking?”

“And would you be interested in learning why Brian Underhill was killed?”

Rake realized the speaker was trying to disguise his voice, clumsily so but effective all the same.

“I'd be interested in learning anything about any crime.”

“Then I suggest we meet in person. Tomorrow, three in the morning, Mozley Park.”

“Who's speaking?”

Silence. Rake asked twice more before hanging up.