Revenant (10 page)

M
y hands were shaking as I steamed the wrinkles from a slate-blue blouse. The weight of the iron was unfamiliar, and I felt awkward and jerky. I'd ironed plenty in my day, but it had been a long time. In Miami, we'd had an endless supply of Daniel's cousins to help around the house, quiet young girls who were fleeing the hopelessness of Nicaragua. Many were probably no relations of Daniel, but I never asked. It didn't matter. The girls had no future in a country without a middle class. If they could get an education, they could become teachers or nurses, professions desperately needed back home. Or, they could marry an American. Several preferred that route.

We had a large house with a mother-in-law suite in the back where the girls stayed. They attended community college, where Daniel and I paid their way. They repaid us by doing light housework and babysitting Annabelle. My daughter had spoken Spanish like a native, and, more important, she was happy with her “big sisters” when I had to leave her for long stretches while I worked.

The still-warm blouse slipped over my skin with a light sensuality that caught me unawares. As I put on the right sleeve, the silk glided onto my scar, bumping over the uneven texture. I glanced in the mirror, surprised by my reflection. My eyes were old, more brown than I remembered. I'd always considered them green.

In the kitchen the cats threaded my ankles crying for the shrimp I'd thawed. I tossed the pink flesh into the air for them to snag with a paw. It was just after seven when I drove to the office. To my surprise, Jack was there, and it looked as if he hadn't gone home. His shirt was rumpled and his tie thrown in a wad on his desk.

“Carson, about that money,” he started to say.

“Forget it, Jack.”

His face clouded with anger. “I'm going to pay you back.”

I sat down on the edge of his desk. “Okay, you can. Educate me about the coast. Tell me the history. Who's who? Who's got power? Who wants power? That's something money can't buy.”

Jack couldn't meet my gaze, and I felt such sudden kinship that I touched his shoulder. He was in some kind of trouble, and it wasn't any of my business if he didn't want to talk. “Tell me about Alvin Orley and the Gold Rush.”

What he told me fleshed out the bare bones of what I already knew. Orley had been the center of prostitution along the Gulf Coast from the 1970s through the late '80s. He'd hosted illegal gambling in his nightclub, sold untaxed liquor and plotted the enforcement of the “neighborhood” protection plan, all while fronting as a civic-minded businessman—sure, his girls showed a little flesh as they performed, but it was all harmless fun. Orley had the best bands and even the church didn't object
too
strenuously, thanks to his large donations. Right on the beach, the Gold Rush was party central at that time. Everyone ended up there on a Saturday night.

“Orley was a French name, but Alvin's bloodline was mostly Yugoslavian,” Jack continued. “They had a mob—these beefy guys who would visit a place of business and squeeze the owner for money so his place didn't get robbed or torn up. Of course, they were the vandals and robbers. Just like the Italians, but on a much smaller scale.”

I thought about Orley and his pale blue eyes. I'd heard that he once cut a man's toes off, strung them on fishing line and made him wear them as a necklace. I mentioned the story to Jack.

“I heard that, too, but nobody's ever been able to confirm it. It suited Alvin's purpose to let folks believe that even if it isn't true. I know he didn't hesitate to work his girls over if they gave him any sass. There was some talk, too, that the CIA hit man who was actually involved in the Kennedy assassination in Dallas ended up working for Alvin. There's a house up the Little Biloxi, sort of on a peninsula. That's where he lived. It's a fortress.”

Now, that was something I hadn't heard. “Could there be any truth to it?”

“If you don't believe Oswald alone killed Kennedy, there's always the possibility the CIA was behind it. Bunch of dirty bastards.”

Jack didn't soften his opinions. It was another thing I liked about him. “Women, gambling, protection. Mississippi's Studio 54. Anything else?”

“Dope. Alvin sold weed, and a little coke. Back then, though, folks didn't do drugs like now. It was a kinder, gentler bunch of drug addicts.” Jack smiled. “Why the big interest in Alvin?”

“It was just that photo of him, giving a check to a scholarship fund. And he made a comment about how he'd personally helped Mitch Rayburn through law school.” I couldn't exactly say why that niggled at me.

“Like I said, Alvin did some civic-oriented stuff. He sponsored the Boys and Girls Ranch, did some fund-raisers for the sheriff's department. Of course, he contributed directly to some law-enforcement officers' salaries. A lot of police officers made ends meet by working nights as security for Alvin.”

“What about the girls?”

“Alvin ran some dives where prostitution was flagrant, but the Gold Rush was something else. Some of the girls were real beauties. Exotic looking. They'd dance on the runway, or on stages that hydraulically moved up and down, that kind of thing. They were professionals worthy of a Vegas act.”

He shrugged. “There were rumors they hooked out of the back. That gave Alvin a lot of muscle. Politicians from north Mississippi, Louisiana and Alabama would come over to spend some time with the girls. It was a little quieter than New Orleans, where a man might run into someone he knew. And Alvin kept clean girls. Besides, he knew how to keep his mouth shut, and it paid off handsomely for him. He had friends in high places.”

Jack had given me plenty to think about as I went to my office and began to organize my notes.

 

Verda Coxwell was a ghost of a woman. Her hair was a colorless gray, like her eyes. Her lips were skin toned, and she wore a gray cardigan over a pale dress. She blinked against the sunlight as she stood in the doorway of her small house north of I-10 in the Woolmarket community. This was a rural area, a good place for kids to grow up with tree swings and dirt roads.

“I don't want to talk to the press,” she said, her hand already swinging the door closed.

“Please, Mrs. Coxwell, the man who killed your daughter is still out there, and he may be killing again.” I spoke as gently as I could. I knew what it felt like to be drained by grief, but it was important that she talk to me.

She sighed and stepped back from the door. “Come on in, I guess.” She led me to the kitchen where a pot of coffee had just been brewed. She poured two cups and handed one to me. “Sugar's on the table. Cremora, too.”

“Black is fine,” I said. She was too defeated to even argue about talking to me.

“I'm not supposed to be home today,” she said. “I'm supposed to be at work. I'm a clerk at Baby Power, over at Edgewater. I didn't feel well today, so I stayed home.”

She was nervous. I sipped my coffee, trying to think of an approach to a subject that could only be painful. “I'm sorry about Audrey,” I said.

Her eyes filled. “For twenty-four years, I've prayed every night that she would come home. All of that time, she was dead, lying in that ground under asphalt, cars parking on top of her like she was some kind of trash that didn't matter.”

“I wish it had turned out differently.”

“It's Nat's fault.” She dared me to disagree. “It is. He was too hard on her. He wouldn't let her go out and be a teenager. He kept her home, saying her friends were wild. He made her pray and read the Bible for hours at night.” She bit her lip, bringing the first bit of color to her face. “I should have stopped it. God forgive me, I should have. But I didn't.”

“Hindsight has remarkable clarity,” I said. “‘If only' is a dangerous game to play, Mrs. Coxwell. You did the best you could, and I'm sure Audrey knew that. And knows it now.”

She sat across the table from me, but the look she gave me was as solid as a touch. “You have regrets, too,” she said. “I can see it.”

“Everyone does.” My regrets weren't part of the story. “Is your husband home?” I wanted to talk to both of them, if possible.

“He died. Two months ago.” Her face held no sadness.

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” Her tone was flat.

“Would you mind telling me about Audrey?”

She stirred her coffee. “She was going to be a bridesmaid in another girl's wedding. She was so excited. The dress was yellow chiffon, and I was going to hem it for her that weekend. It's still hanging in the closet. I should have given it away, but I just couldn't. She loved it so.” She got up and went out of the room. In a moment she returned with a well-worn photo album. “Audrey was beautiful. See for yourself.”

I thumbed through the photos, studying the smiling face of a girl who looked happy. She was beautiful, with long dark hair that hung straight, more the style of the '60s than the '80s. She was posed with stuffed toys, with her classmates, with her graduation hat and robe, with cats and dogs. But there were none of her with boys. “She was lovely,” I said.

“She wanted to date. It was only normal. Nat wouldn't hear of it. He said she'd drop her panties and get pregnant and shame us all. He said that kids had gone wild and were smoking dope and screwing like rabbits. He said he wouldn't let them influence his daughter and turn her into a jezebel.”

I made a note. I hadn't thought that the murders might be committed by someone with a fanatical religious streak, someone who saw young girls as potential temptresses. That might explain the severed ring finger—they weren't worthy of marriage.

“Nat saw God as his mission. He had a personal relationship with Him. He studied the Bible and interpreted it for me and Audrey. He was a domineering bully who punished us for the sake of our souls.” A flush touched her cheeks and her pale eyes, giving them a spark. “He accomplished two things, though. I hate his God. And he killed his daughter.”

Her face was suffused with anger. I wasn't certain if she meant what she said. “How did he kill Audrey?”

“She had to sneak around to do anything with her friends. She had to lie. That night she disappeared, she was supposed to go over to Sheila Picket's house to talk about plans for her friend's wedding. She didn't go there, though. She went somewhere else, somewhere where the killer saw her and got her. Nat's to blame because she couldn't act like a normal girl and just go out on a date.”

“What were Audrey's habits?”

“The police have already asked me all of this.” She wasn't complaining; she was just stating a fact.

“I have to make my own notes,” I explained. “I can't use what you told them.”

“Audrey was an honor student in high school. She played the flute in the band. She rode the bus there, and she came straight home. Nat wouldn't let her spend the night with anyone or anything like that. God forbid, they might have a brother who she would sleep with.” The bitterness in her tone stung me.

“What about that Friday? If she didn't go visit—” I looked at my notes “—Sheila, where did she go?”

“I never found out. It doesn't matter now. She's dead. There's nothing that will change that.”

And she was right. Saying I was sorry wouldn't change the facts. I gathered my notes. “Is there anything at all you can think of that might bear on who killed her? Did she ever mention someone was following her? Or bothering her?”

Verda Coxwell shook her head. “My sin is that Audrey couldn't confide in me. I was afraid of Nat. He'd make me kneel and lay across the bed and then whip me with a belt if he thought I went against him. He said women were children who had to be taught the right path. I didn't encourage Audrey to tell me things because I was afraid I'd blurt them out and get her in trouble.”

Verda Coxwell had no information for me, only regrets. Blaming was the only action left in her life, and I wished I had something more to offer her. “Thanks, Mrs. Coxwell,” I said, standing.

“Find the person who did this,” she said. “I want to be there when they kill him.”

She stood in the door and watched me get in my truck. I pulled out of her driveway, went down the street and parked in the shade of a live oak. I sat with my hands on the steering wheel of the truck and took a few deep breaths. Death had taken Verda's daughter, but it had also taken her life.

The clock on the dash showed eleven. I could justify lunch, or at least a Bloody Mary, but instead I drove to the Lopez home. I hadn't yet been able to locate an address for a relative of Charlotte Kyle, the second girl murdered, so I went on to the Lopez home downtown off Pass Road, one of the busiest streets along the coast.

A neat brick house was centered in a yard fenced with eight-foot-high chain-link. After I got out of the car I understood why. Four large dogs and five small children all ran over. The dogs barked frantically, and the children screamed. It was bedlam.

A middle-aged woman with dark hair and olive skin came up to the fence. She wore shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. Her face was etched with lines around her mouth and between her eyebrows. She yelled something in Spanish and the little children ran squealing back to the swing set. The dogs weren't so easily deterred. She had to clap her hands and lunge at them to get them to move.