Music of Ghosts (11 page)

“When do you want it for?” asked Whaley.

“Tomorrow morning, six a.m.”

“You don't want to go tonight?”

Cochran shook his head. “We all need some sleep, plus a few more warm bodies for the search. I'd rather go up there sharp tomorrow than half-assed tonight.”

“You're the boss,” said Whaley.

“That I am,” said Cochran, capping the blue marker he'd used on the whiteboard. “Thanks, gentlemen, for your thoughts. I'll see you back here at five a.m.”

Tuffy Clark leaned back in his chair. “You want me to go, or am I still on switchboard duty?”

“You stay on the board, Tuff. You're our official point man for Big Foot.”

Laughing, Tuffy got up and hobbled out the door behind the others. Cochran listened as they made their way down the hall.
Good men, all of them
, he thought.
Sharp detectives
. He only wished one of them could figure out who the hell killed Lisa Wilson.

Fourteen

Mary Crow sat on
her screened porch, not knowing whether to weep with relief or shriek with rage. No younger, prettier girl had stolen Jonathan's heart; Fred and Dulcy Moon simply wanted to take Lily away.

“Tell me why again,” she asked, still not understanding why two people in their late sixties would suddenly want to raise a nine-year-old child. “Why now?”

“I heard they sold a piece of land and got some money,” said Jonathan. “Enough to file this lawsuit.”

“Wait a minute.” She frowned. “Let me see that complaint.”

He handed her the papers. She turned on the porch light, reading the thing line by line. Suddenly, she started to laugh. “Too bad they didn't get a smarter lawyer,” she said. “This idiot's filed in Cherokee County, Oklahoma. You have to be a resident of a state before you can be sued there.”

Jonathan's shoulders sank lower as a new wave of rain pounded the tin roof above them. “There's something else you don't know.”

His words punctured her brief moment of joy.
Dear God
, she thought,
there's more
. “What?”

He gulped. “I am a resident of Oklahoma.”

She cocked her head, thinking she must not have heard him correctly. “You what?”

“I bought a little duplex that was in foreclosure, the day I dropped Lily off at the Moons.”

Once again, she felt too stunned to speak. For weeks he'd told her he'd rented a ground floor room at the Sooner Motel. For weeks, he'd lied.

He rubbed his forehead. “Mary, you just don't know what it was like. When Fred Moon took Lily's hand and pulled her inside his house he gave me this shit-eating grin. Then I saw a big-ass motor home parked behind his house. I knew that if they ever took off with Lily in that trailer, I'd never see her again.”

“But you told me you stayed at the Sooner Motel.” She couldn't get past his lie. It felt so much like a slap that her cheeks burned. “For a month!”

“I had to do something, Mary. The duplex was cheap, and it's so close to their house I could keep an eye on them. I've already got one side rented out, paying the note. I can use the other side myself if I ever take Lily out there again.”

“And you just weren't ever going to tell me?” She stared at him. He'd changed, somehow, into someone she didn't know. Never had he been dishonest. Even when his words wounded, he'd always spoken the truth.

He lowered his eyes. “I didn't think you'd understand.”

“Oh, I understand that you wanted to protect Lily,” she said. “I just don't understand why you felt you had to lie to me about it.”

She sat back in her chair, staring out into the rain. What a fool she'd been. She'd encouraged them to go together. She thought a father-daughter trip would be fun for them. She never dreamed their lives would be shattered when they returned.

In a few minutes he spoke again. “So I guess I have to respond to this?”

“Of course you have to respond, Jonathan. You can't just ignore a lawsuit. Buying that house gave them the toehold they needed. I can help you with it, though.”

He walked to the edge of the porch, hands in his pockets, swaying slightly on his feet. She could tell he had more to say. Her stomach curdled as she waited. A moment later, he turned to her.

“I don't think you need to be involved in this, Mary.”

“Not involved in this?” Again, she looked at him as if he'd turned into a stranger. “Jonathan, I've spent my entire career in the courtroom. Why would you not want me to respond to this lawsuit?”

“You're the reason the Moons are filing it,” he said, his voice thick.

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Just read the rest of those papers.”

She began flipping through the pages. At first it was all the usual legalese, then she came to the bill of particulars. As she read the charges Fred and Dulcy Moon had levied, she went cold inside.

At no time has
Mary Crow respected the bonds of matrimony that existed between our daughter Ruth and Jonathan Walkingstick.

Mary Crow has never acted in the best interest of Lily Bird Walkingstick, the natural daughter of Ruth and Jonathan Walkingstick, conspiring to keep her away from her biological relatives in Cherokee County, Oklahoma.

Mary Crow's jealousy of and hostility toward Ruth Moon Walkingstick culminated in a physical altercation that left our daughter dead, a crime for which Mary Crow has never been prosecuted.

We respectfully submit that Mary Crow, the woman responsible for our daughter's death, is neither loving nor trustworthy in her care of our granddaughter and maintains an emotionally toxic environment for our grandchild. As Lily Bird Walkingstick's biological grandparents, we, Fred Amos Moon and Dulcy Sims Moon, petition the court for full custody of said child.

“Oh my God.” Mary looked up from the complaint, her hands shaking. “They're claiming I killed Ruth—that I got away with murder.”

Jonathan walked over and grabbed the papers from her lap. “You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to treat this like the piece of shit it is.” He ripped the first page in half.

“Don't do that, Jonathan!” She stood up and grabbed the papers back. “You've got a court date, in two weeks. If you don't show up, the Moons will get the judgment. Federal marshals will come here and take Lily away.”

“The hell they will! I'll take her to Mexico. Or Canada.”

“And live where? In the woods? Hiding from the Mounties?”

“If I have to.” He turned to her, his eyes blazing. “Woods are woods. I could feed us.”

“And what kind of life would that be for her?” Mary asked. “Or you? Or us?”

“I don't know,” he replied. “All I know is I'm not letting the Moons have my child.”

She walked back in the kitchen then. She couldn't talk to him anymore, he wasn't thinking rationally. She took the rest of the Moons' complaint and retreated into her study. Sitting down at her desk, she read the pages through twice more, each time her heart sinking further. This case was way out of her league—she was a former prosecutor, now a broker of ballparks. She knew nothing of Oklahoma law or child custody statutes. Still, she did know one person who might help. She grabbed the phone and punched one of the three phone numbers she knew by heart. Moments later, a sleepy male voice croaked something that sounded like “Yo?”

“Hello, Charlie? This is Mary Crow, calling from North Carolina.”

“Hey, Mary.” Charlie Carter's voice was rusty with sleep. “What's up?”

“Could I speak with your lovely wife?”

“Sure. Hang on.”

She heard a rustling noise, then her oldest and dearest friend came on the line. “Mary?”

“Hey, Al,” she said, tearing up at the sound of Alex Carter's soft Texas drawl.

“What's wrong, girlfriend?” Alex cut to the chase, apparently figuring that Mary wouldn't call at 2 a.m. to chat about old times.

Mary gulped, fought sudden tears. “Do you know anybody who can practice in Oklahoma?”

“I can. Why?”

“I need a lawyer.”

“What on earth for?”

“The Moons are suing us for custody of Lily.”

“Hang on a minute.” The graininess had left Alex's voice. “Let me put on a robe and go down to the den.”

By the time Alex picked up the phone again, Mary had dried her tears. Now was not the time to weep; now was the time to figure out what to do.

“Okay,” said Alex. “Tell me what's up.”

Mary told her how Jonathan had taken Lily to Oklahoma for a visitation with her grandparents. There, he'd become convinced that the Moons were going to kidnap her; how he'd foolishly bought a duplex to stop that from happening.

“He bought a house to live in for a month out of the year?” asked Alex. “Did you tell him that was a little over the top?”

“I didn't know he'd bought it until an hour ago.” Mary felt her face grow hot; Alex must wonder what kind of relationship they had. Marriage-wise, she and Charlie always seemed to be exactly on the same page.

“Okaaaay,” said Alex neutrally. “So Lily spent a month in Oklahoma with the Moons, being spied on by her father.”

“Right.” Mary pictured Jonathan in camouflage, belly down in a field, binoculars trained on Lily's every move.

“So what happened next?” asked Alex.

“A couple of weeks ago, Jonathan got a summons from Cherokee county civil court.” Mary recapped the bill of particulars. “The Moons seek full custody, citing previous judgments of grandparental rights.”

“Sounds like they're throwing shit against the wall to see if any will stick,” said Alex.

“They've got a piece that might stick,” said Mary.

“What?”

Mary took a deep breath, and slowly read the paragraphs that damned her.
“
‘Mary Crow's jealousy of and hostility toward Ruth Moon Walkingstick culminated in a physical altercation that left our daughter dead, a crime for which Mary Crow has never been prosecuted
'
.”

“Wow,” said Alex, giving a low whistle. “They're actually arguing that you killed their daughter and the cops just let it slide.”

“The cops did not let it slide,” snapped Mary. “They ruled it self-defense. Ruth Moon was out of her frigging mind.”

“I know, I know,” Alex said soothingly. “I just wonder why the lawyer threw that in.”

“They want to open the door to the night Ruth died,” cried Mary. “They paint me evil enough and no judge will let me near Lily!” Again, her throat closed with tears.

“Okay, okay,” said Alex. “We need to stay calm, Mary. And think.”

“You're right.” Mary took a gulp of air. “I'm sorry.”

“What does Jonathan say about this?” asked Alex.

“He's threatening to take Lily out of the country. You know how he can get.”

“Has he mentioned anything we can blow back on them? Any mistreatment or neglect of Lily?”

“Not unless we counter-sue for parking her in front of a television and letting her eat Cheetos all day.”

Alex snorted. “That sounds vaguely like the Twinkie defense.”

“I don't care,” said Mary. “At this point, I'll take anything.”

Alex gave a long sigh, as if reviewing the facts of the case. “Have you got a scanner there?”

“I do.”

“Then scan the whole complaint into your computer and email it to me as soon as we get off the phone.”

“Okay.”

“Then tomorrow, you bundle up your boy and his little girl and send them back to Oklahoma.”

“But the trial date's two weeks away.”

“I'm going to try mediation first. If Jonathan shows up and makes nice with the Moons they may settle for something less than full custody.”

“Jonathan will make nice with the Moons when pigs have wings, Alex.”

“He may have to, or lose Lily until she turns eighteen.”

Mary realized Alex was right. All of them needed to present their best selves to the judge in Oklahoma. “Okay,” she said. “I don't have anything else on my plate. We'll hit the road first thing in the morning.”

For a moment, Mary heard nothing, then her best friend spoke softly. “I'm afraid the invitation doesn't include you, Mary.”

“Doesn't include me? Alex, I know the particulars of this case inside and out. I may not do child custody work, but I can read up on the statutes. I can—”

“Mary,” Alex stopped her in mid-sentence. “You're an amazing attorney, a wonderful mother, and the best friend I'll ever have. But you cannot come to Oklahoma.”

“Why not?”

“Because you and I both know where opposing council will go, Mary. The last thing we need is you on the witness stand, recounting the last night of Ruth Moon's life.”

Fifteen

Jerry Cochran sat in
the patrol car, watching wispy tendrils of fog caress the stylized faces of Nick Stratton's totem pole. Whaley had gotten Judge Barbee to sign off on all structures at Pisgah Raptor Rescue Center, but he'd also listed specifically all non-serrated knives, smooth leather straps, all denim jeans, and Lisa Wilson's gold ring. Now the two sat waiting for the sweep hand of Cochran's watch to pass 6:00 a.m. As he sat there Cochran thought of Ginger, home in bed, her hair a pile of fiery curls on her pillow.
How nice to be there with her
, he thought. Kissing her awake, lifting her on top of him, letting that long red hair cover him like silk.

“Ready to go?” Whaley interrupted his reverie, checking the time on his cell phone. “I've got 6:01.”

“Okay,” said Cochran, reluctantly leaving his dream of Ginger just as things were getting interesting.

He got out of the car and motioned to the phalanx of police cruisers that had accompanied them. Saunooke and three other officers emerged, ready to execute the search warrant for Stratton's domicile.

“Gentlemen, we need to go absolutely by the book,” Cochran said. “All of you know what we're looking for. I want you to work carefully and in pairs. I don't want any evidence we may find thrown out because of a questionable search. Understand?”

They nodded.

“Okay. Whaley and Fields will take the intern dorms. Saunooke and Parker will do the bird barn, the staff cabins, and the hacking stand. Hastings and I will take Stratton's residence.”

“Are the interns still here?” asked Fields.

“Nah, they all lawyered up and went home,” said Whaley. “We can probably do the dorms pretty quick.”

“Any more questions?” asked Cochran. When no one spoke, he gave a quick nod. “Okay, let's get going.”

Silently, they hurried up the road to Stratton's cabin. With search warrants, Cochran always liked to maintain an element of surprise. A person's private face often differed vastly from the one they presented in public. Behind closed doors and under stress, Nick Stratton might be very different from his benevolent Dr. Lovebird persona.

They reached his cabin. Cochran walked up the steps and rapped on the door. “Nicholas Stratton?” he called. There was no answer. He knocked twice more, going from a knock to a near-pound. Just when he was about to have Whaley put his size thirteen shoes to the lock, the door swung open. Stratton stood there, wearing only a pair of canvas shorts.

“Nicholas Stratton?” Cochran read the warrant to him officially, feeling silly since he'd been up here just two days ago.

Stratton nodded.

“I've got a warrant duly issued by Judge James Barbee to search your domicile, your vehicles, and your livestock structures.” He handed the warrant to Stratton, who looked at it as if it were written in Greek.

“Is this where you guys wreck the house?” he asked, frowning.

“My department doesn't,” said Cochran.

“Do I get to call a lawyer?”

“You can call one,” Cochran replied. “But it won't stop us.”

“Well, okay.” Stratton stepped away from the door. “Come on in.”

Cochran remained on the porch, directing the other officers to their assigned locations.

“They won't unlock any of my bird cages will they?” Stratton asked, frowning at the two men headed to the bird barns.

Cochran shook his head. “Not unless they find evidence inside them.”

As Whaley and Saunooke left with their partners, Pete Hastings moved in behind Cochran. Stratton stood there, blinking, his hair tousled from sleep.

“Mr. Stratton, we are looking for the items listed specifically on that warrant,” Cochran explained. “If we find them, we will confiscate them as evidence against you. We cannot confiscate anything not listed on that writ. However, we can and may confiscate items belonging to the deceased Lisa Carlisle Wilson. We will not disturb your properties any more than necessary to execute a thorough search. Right now, you need to remain calm and allow us to do our work.” Cochran looked at Al Sayles, a burly traffic cop he'd asked to come keep an eye on Stratton. “Officer?”

Sayles stepped forward, pistol snug in his holster. “Find a comfortable seat, sir,” he told Stratton. “This may take awhile.”

Stratton started to say something, then apparently changed his mind. With a shrug of his shoulders, he went over and sat down on the couch.

Cochran turned to Hastings. “Let's start in the kitchen.”

They searched the kitchen carefully. Stratton had only four knives, all held by a magnetized strip over the sink. Though none had curved blades, Cochran put them in an evidence bag just the same.
You never knew
, he told himself. Again he glanced at the refrigerator, looking for anything written in the same shapes carved on Lisa Wilson's body. As before, he found none. But unlike before, he saw Mary Crow's business card, paper-clipped to a calendar.

Wonder when Stratton got that
, he thought, taking note of the little gold-and-black card. It hadn't been there when they'd notified him of Lisa Wilson's death.

They found nothing else of interest in the kitchen, so they returned to the living room, ready to start on the rest of the house.

“Can I go in the kitchen now?” asked Stratton. “Make some coffee?”

“You may,” said Cochran. Sayles followed Stratton into the kitchen while he and Hastings began to search the living room. It was, fortunately, minimally furnished. Stratton had a small couch, two filing cabinets that served as end tables, two chairs, and a reading lamp. What took up most of their time was a low bookcase, filled with books. Cochran and Hastings removed each volume and flipped through the pages, hoping something would fall out.

As they worked Cochran realized how much Stratton's library resembled his own—non-fiction titles about natural history, geology, tales of survival in extreme conditions. He pulled one small paperback off the shelf and smiled. A similarly battered copy of
The Boy Scout Handbook
rested on his own bookshelf.

Still,
The Boy Scout Handbook
yielded nothing, so he and Hasting moved upstairs, where a loft served as Stratton's office and bedroom. A huge topographic map hung above an unmade bed, flanked by expensively framed photographs of Stratton with a bald eagle, Stratton on skis, Stratton embracing a pretty, dark-haired woman dressed in buckskin and feathers.

They searched the bathroom, finding nothing more lethal than a large bottle of ibuprofen. The office consisted of a desk with a computer and printer, but contained none of the warranted items—not a penknife, not a leather strap, certainly not a ring.

They turned their attention to Stratton's bedroom. Cochran started with the closet, rifling through his clothes, hoping to find a pair of Walmart jeans. Again, he was disappointed. Not a single pair of jeans hung in Stratton's closet—all his pants were heavy twill trousers. Most of his shirts were pale blue and long-sleeved. He had a single black suit, a starched white dress shirt still in plastic from the dry cleaner, and a silk necktie that had some kind of hand-painted design on it. Cochran removed a black leather belt that hung from the hanger.

“Working man's wardrobe,” he said, thinking how very much it looked like his own. One suit for special occasions, everything else no-nonsense, work-related, probably bought at the local Tractor Supply.

He closed the closet door and turned to Stratton's drawers, removing each one and dumping the contents on his bed. The first two held tee shirts, boxer shorts, a couple of wool sweaters. The bottom drawer was different—either swollen or out of alignment. Hastings had to tug hard on the thing to pull it open. Finally, though, he wrenched it free. It held nothing but long underwear and heavy wool socks. They were rifling through those when a dark, heavy thing rolled out from a sock and on to the floor.

“What's that?” asked Hastings. “Chewing tobacco?”

The thing bounced once, finally rolling lopsidedly underneath the bed. At first Cochran thought it was a can of shoe polish, then he realized it was an item beloved by northern boys.

“A hockey puck,” he told Hastings. “Probably a memento. I'll get it.” He knelt down on the floor just as he heard Whaley's voice booming up from the living room. Hoping that the overweight detective had better luck than he and Hastings, he lifted Stratton's rumpled bedspread and peered under the bed. It was empty, except for two pairs of boots and some dust bunnies. The puck had rolled near the head of the bed, where the frame met the wall. With Whaley thundering up the stairs, Cochran stretched out, reaching for the puck with one arm. As he pulled the thing from beneath the bed, something else caught his eye. A small, glittery thing. Tossing the puck to Hastings, he scooted forward to retrieve what he'd spotted.

“Where's Cochran?” he heard Whaley call.

He reached forward, the little item still just beyond his grasp.

“Under the bed,” Hastings replied as Cochran stretched out farther.

“Look what I found in the dorm,” said Whaley.

Cochran reached as far as he could, dust crawling up his nose, making him want to sneeze. Finally, his fingers curled around a small metal object.

“What?” asked Hastings.

“Lisa Wilson's iPhone and diary!” said Whaley. He moved closer, lifted the bedspread from the floor. “You hear what I said, Sheriff?”

“Yeah,” said Cochran, scooting out from under the bed. He opened his hand. In it lay a gold filigreed ring, old-fashioned, but well-worn, the band noticeably thinner at the back. It was the same ring Lisa Wilson had worn in the picture where she'd smiled up at Nick Stratton, a look of utter devotion on her face.