Joe Dillard - 03 - Injustice for All (28 page)

“He didn’t say nothing about the boy facing no murder charge,” Holmes says, “and I didn’t want him coming back to the store and snooping around.”

“Why not?”

“You remember that twenty-five dollars I took out of his wallet to pay for the gas?”

“Yeah.”

“It didn’t exactly make it all the way to the cash register.”

49

The next night, I walk into the Chop House in Kings-port and look around. Her car is in the parking lot, but I don’t see her. I walk through the tables quickly. She isn’t there. When I get back to the lobby, I look into the bar. She’s sitting at a small table in a darkened area of the room. I walk in and sit down across from her. She smiles seductively.

“Damn, you look good in those jeans,” she says.

“Thanks. You look pretty hot yourself.”

She’s wearing a bloodred dress that matches her hair. The neckline dives so deeply that it reveals all but the bottom portion of her large breasts. She’s leaning forward on the table, which makes matters even worse. Or better, depending upon one’s point of view. She’s rubbed cream on her skin, and it shimmers in the candlelight. Her face looks as though it’s been made up by a professional. Her lips are full, her cheeks high, her jaw strong and angular.

Rita Jones, the receptionist at the DA’s office, is one of the sexiest women I’ve ever known. I’ve asked her to do me a favor—a huge favor—and she’s agreed, but with Rita, there’s always a price. Tonight, the price is dinner. She’ll do her best to seduce me, but both of us know it isn’t going to happen. She’s been trying to seduce me for fifteen years, since the very first time I met her. It’s become more of a joke these days than anything, but I’ve been around her long enough to know that if I drop my guard for a second, she’ll have me out of my clothes and into her bed before I’ve realized what’s happened.

“Did you tell your wife where you were going?” she says coyly.

“No. I value my marriage.”

“But isn’t that deceptive?”

“I’d rather think of it as prudent.”

“Are you going to get drunk with me?”

“Not likely.”

“Aren’t you at least going to have a drink?”

A waiter stops by the table and drops off two menus. I order a vodka martini, as much to quiet my nerves as anything else. I’m worried that someone will see me here with Rita and tell Caroline. I’m worried that someone from the office might walk in. I would have never picked this spot to meet, but she insisted.

“This is wonderful,” Rita says. “My favorite restaurant and my favorite man.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time. Were you able to do what I asked?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it?”

“Not until we’re finished.”

I spend an hour eating and talking with Rita. She regales me with stories of her many conquests and bemoans the fact that she can’t stand the man she’s dating now, a personal injury lawyer named Steve Willis. When I ask her why she’s with him, she gives me an answer that’s pure Rita: “He’s loaded, and he’s hung like a horse.”

She’s funny, down-to-earth, and beautiful, but as she starts on her fourth glass of wine, her eyes begin to glaze over and her speech becomes slurred. The change is sudden, and it isn’t attractive.

“So whaddaya gonna do with this stuff?” she asks.

“What stuff do you mean?” I’m wondering whether there’s a sexual connotation to what she’s saying. There usually is.

“This stuff I brought you.”

“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t tell you.”

“Well, I hope you nail his hide to the side of the barn with it. He’s a fucking pervert, you know.”

“No. I don’t know. And would you please keep your voice down?”

“Ooooohhh.” She giggles. “Ssshhhhhh!”

“Come on, Rita. Let’s get out of here.”

I pay the tab and manage to walk her out before anything too embarrassing happens. She begins to hiccup.

“You can’t drive,” I say.

“Sure I can.”

“No, you can’t. I’ll take you home. Can Steve bring you up here to pick up your car tomorrow?”

“The lazy bastard will probably pay somebody to pick it up,” she says. “He’s got more money than sense, you know.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“But he’s got a fantastic schlong. Oops, wait just a second, sweetie. I almost forgot.”

She stumbles across the parking lot toward her car, a sharp little Chrysler Crossfire convertible that I’m sure she’s earned. I hear a beep, and the trunk pops open. She reaches in and pulls out a brown paper bag, then makes her way back toward me. I help her into my truck and pull out of the parking lot.

“I sealed every—” A hiccup catches Rita’s breath.

“I sealed everything in plastic Baggies and labeled it, just like you asked me to.”

“Thanks.”

I take the bag from her hand and put it in the glove compartment. She slides across the seat, cuddles up next to me, and puts her head on my shoulder.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she says. She hiccups again, and within thirty seconds, she’s fast asleep.

50

Bates is waiting for me at six the next morning at the Waffle House near Boones Creek. It’s still dark outside as I carry the paper bag into the restaurant and set it down on the table in front of him.

“How’d you do it?” Bates says as he opens the bag and peers inside.

“I took advantage of an old friend.”

“Everything’s labeled?”

“Just like the doctor ordered. How’d it go with Ramirez?”

“It was an excellent adventure, Brother Dillard, a truly excellent adventure. I got to ride in a helicopter and carry an assault rifle. Reminded me of the old days. And I gotta tell you, I have a whole new respect for them federal boys. They know what they’re doing.”

“So Ramirez was there?”

“He was there, all right. Got himself shot right off the bat.”

“Shot? Is he dead?”

“Nah, he ain’t dead, but I guaran- damn-tee you he wishes he was. I’ve never seen an interrogation quite like the one ol’ Rider did yesterday. I don’t think you would have approved.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Let’s just say Ramirez’s constitutional rights weren’t given a whole lot of consideration. We hit ’em right at dawn. Come screaming in there like something out of
Apocalypse Now.
Rider heads straight for Ramirez, but Ramirez is stupid enough to point a gun at him, so Rider blows a chunk out of his leg with this sawed-off scattergun he’s carrying. We get things settled down, and one of the guys patches up Ramirez’s leg, but he doesn’t give him anything for pain. They load six Mexicans and a bunch of agents up in a Huey, and then everybody climbs into one of the Black Hawks and takes off. The only ones left on the ground are the pilot who’s flying our chopper, me, Rider, another agent, named Lucas, and Ramirez. They’ve already got Ramirez cuffed, but they drag him over to this little tree, sit him up against it, and recuff his hands around the tree trunk. Then they put another set of cuffs around his ankles and go to work on him. Rider starts asking him questions, and if he didn’t like the answer, Lucas would stomp on Ramirez’s wound. I swear, Dillard, they had me believing they were gonna kill that ol’ boy right then and there. Ramirez must have believed it, too, because he sure did start talking.”

“What did he say about Hannah?”

“Stinnett comes to him at the jail about a week before she was killed and tells him he needs a job done. Stinnett says someone in the DA’s office, a very wealthy man with some serious political connections, has gotten this girl pregnant, and now she’s blackmailing him. He tells Ramirez that if he’ll see to it that this girl is taken care of, the murder charge against him will be dismissed. So Ramirez puts Stinnett in touch with this other Mexican who works for Ramirez, a man named Arturo Gutierrez. Gutierrez gets the word out and hooks up with the biker, and Hannah winds up dead.”

“Who was it? Who paid the money?”

“He said Stinnett didn’t tell him—just that it was somebody from the DA’s office. And, believe me, if he’d known, he’d have told.”

“So you can ask Stinnett.”

“That’s a bit of a problem.”

“Why?”

“Stinnett’s dead. Ramirez shot him in the face.”

“He admitted that?”

“Damn straight. Rider and Lucas had his mind right.”

I think about the day Ramirez tried to get me to dismiss the murder charge against him. If he already had some kind of deal in place with Stinnett’s connection at the office, why would he try to strong-arm me? Then I remember the way Stinnett looked after we went outside. Ramirez had surprised him, maybe tried to double-cross him. I ask Bates about it.

“My guess is he didn’t trust Stinnett,” Bates says, “so he tried to get you to let him out by telling you he knew where she was and who wanted her killed. He was lying.”

“And then Mooney lets him out a week after he fires me.”

“Exactly. But we don’t know whether Mooney paid for the contract, whether he did somebody a favor or maybe got paid for letting Ramirez out, or whether he really thought the case wasn’t strong enough.”

“The case was strong enough, Leon.”

“What we’ve got in this bag here will go a long way toward giving us some answers. The pathologist was able to get a DNA sample from the embryo. I was worried that Hannah might have been too far along in the decomposition… .”

He chokes up briefly, which surprises me. But then I realize Bates actually witnessed the inhuman way Hannah was discarded. He’s poured his soul into this case, and he and his informant climbed down into the abandoned mine shaft and carried her battered and rotting body back up to the light. It’s become personal.

He coughs a couple of times, then continues. “If one of the samples in this bag matches the baby, somebody’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. So what do you have for me?”

“A couple of coffee cups from the trash can in Mooney’s office, and a soft drink can from Tanner’s desk. I hope Tanner didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“He may not have. Even if it turns out he’s the father, Hannah could have been trying to blackmail his daddy.”

“Hannah wouldn’t have blackmailed anybody. There’s no way.”

“You’re sure about that. You knew her so well that you can say that without any doubt.”

“I’m sure.”

Bates drains his coffee, stands, and picks up the bag off the table.

“We’ll see, Brother Dillard. I’ll let you know what the lab boys say as soon as I can.”

51

An hour later I’m back at home, sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning Caroline’s wound. She’d barely spoken to me after my clandestine dinner with Rita, and she hasn’t said a word to me this morning.

“Something wrong?” I ask as I begin to swab.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“No, Joe. Everything’s just peachy. I love lying here while you dig around inside this horrific piece of trash that used to be my breast. I love the smell, especially. Don’t you? It’s so sexy.”

“It isn’t bad, baby. I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t mind it? That’s nice, Joe. I’m so glad
you
don’t mind it.”

Her tone is heavy with sarcasm, which is definitely a bad sign, because Caroline rarely resorts to sarcasm. I continue to work on the wound quietly, wondering whether she’s going to tell me what’s on her mind or whether she’ll need prodding. I don’t have to wait long.

“Where were you last night?” she asks.

There are things I don’t tell her occasionally, but I’ve never been able to lie to her. I opt for a compromise.

“I had dinner with a friend.”

“Which friend?”

“An old friend. What difference does it make?”

“And what about the other night? Just like last night. I came home and you were gone. All the note said was, ‘Back in a while.’ ”

“I went to see somebody. What’s wrong with you?”

“And this morning? You left early, but you didn’t go to the gym.”

“I had a cup of coffee with Bates.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t work for the district attorney anymore, so why would you have coffee with the sheriff?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have anything else to do.”

“Stop it!”

She’s upset now. She turns on her side to face me and pushes my hand away from her breast. She grabs me by the wrist and squeezes.

“Why can’t you give me a straight answer? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, Caroline.”

“Stop lying to me!”

“I’m not lying.”

“Are you having an affair?”

I nearly fall off the edge of the bed. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Caroline and I have been married for more than twenty years, and being unfaithful to her has never entered my mind.

“Have you gone crazy? Of course I’m not having an affair.”

“Then where were you last night?”

“I told you. I had dinner with a friend.”

“Which friend, damn it. Which friend?”

I lower my eyes. I have to tell her.

“Rita Jones.”

She throws her legs over the side of the bed and stomps off toward the bathroom. “I knew it! I knew it!”

I get up slowly and follow her. Explaining dinner with Rita to her means I’m going to have to explain a lot more. I don’t really know why I haven’t told her about Hannah. I suppose it’s because I just didn’t want to upset her. She’s been dealing with cancer for such a long time now that I’ve probably become overly protective of her. But I should know better. She knows me so well.

The bathroom door is locked. I can hear her sobbing inside.

“Caroline, it isn’t what you think.”

“Stay away from me! I hate you!”

“Open the door and let me explain.”

“Explain what? How you’re fucking another woman?”

“Hannah’s dead, Caroline. I’ve been trying to help Bates find out who killed her. Rita helped us out, that’s all. We needed DNA samples from a couple of people in the office, and I called her and asked her if she’d collect some things for me. I met her last night and picked them up. That’s all it was. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now. Please open the door.”

The crying stops, and a few seconds later I hear her feet shuffling across the tile on the other side of the door.