The Clouds Roll Away (36 page)

A simple deduction, really. I guessed he was the kind of cop who probably couldn't enjoy the holiday unless he got work done first. He'd missed almost a week because of the flu. Coming in Christmas Eve meant nobody would interrupt. So he thought. The detective's work ethic was among the reasons I believed my dad's killer would one day be caught. One day. Someday. Just not today.

“I'm sorry about the task force,” I said. “I take full responsibility.”

The sound in his throat wasn't good. “You want to apologize, help me close some cases. I found six murders with blank ammo.”

“Six? That wasn't a red flag?”

“You think we keep track of these on spreadsheets? These are inner-city murders, years old. I've got hundreds.”

“You're right. I'm sorry. And I might as well apologize now for what I'm about—”

The mustache twitched. “What?”

“It seems things are a little more complicated than I thought,” I said.

He glared. “Now you don't need this?”

I laid out the facts about the men in the swamp and what I heard on Zennie's cell phone. I told him about the break-in at Rapland and what Sonny said KKK stood for. The detective held up his hand, stopping me. He reached over, turning down the volume on a police radio at the edge of his desk.

“Make it quick,” he said. “I've got two bikes and a Ping-Pong table to put together by tomorrow morning.”

I pulled out Zennie's box of rocks, opening the top. “I was just over at Greenbaum's Jewelry. He claims he doesn't know what these are.”

The detective looked inside the box, shaking it. “What are they?”

“Diamonds.”

He looked up. “They don't look like diamonds.”

“These are rough diamonds, what they sometimes look like coming out of kimberlite pipes in Africa. I tested them; they're real.”

“So maybe Greenbaum didn't know,” he said.

“Sure. Except every jeweler knows the scratch test. By the looks of his counter, he's scratched a thousand times. I watched a posse shopping in there. They left with a three-carat diamond and Greenbaum didn't charge them.”

“The cold medicine's still in my system,” he said. “Tell me nice and slow.”

“I thought I was.”

“Slower.”

“I think the gang on Southside is money laundering through RPM. They give him drug money; he takes it over to Africa. He does some humanitarian aid, but he also buys black market diamonds and guns and ammo, bringing the merchandise back to Richmond on his private plane. The gangs give the diamonds to Greenbaum. He cuts and polishes, then sells them to unsuspecting buyers, funneling most of the money back to the gang. On the wiretap they talked about ‘the fat man coming down the chimney.' That's probably Greenbaum.”

The detective pawed his mustache. “You tell the task force all this?”

“Not yet. It's still a theory.”

“You mean she didn't buy it,” he said, referring to Phaup.

I nodded. “Shot me down before I could explain.”

“And you expect me to jump in?”

“You just found six cold cases linked to blank ammo,” I said. “Do you remember when I first asked you about these gangbangers?”

“I'm trying to forget.”

“You said they had big money suddenly. The idea was they were going national, hooking up with a gang in Chicago.”

“I still think that,” he said.

“Okay, but there's more. And this guy RPM is involved, somewhere between the locals and the Russian mob.”

I waited while the detective stared at some middle distance between us. The big analog clock on the wall ticked eight times. When his brown eyes shifted toward me, I couldn't read his expression.

“They already shipped you to Oregon,” he said.

“Washington.”

“The point is, you're out on a limb again. And I can hear the branch cracking.”

“That's odd, because I hear cases closing.”

He grunted.

“Look, I'm not going to get you in trouble. But I can't play it safe right now. My source said RPM talked about leaving for Africa. He already shipped his family over there, his house is empty, and he killed the main guys running the gang, the guys who knew what was going on. He's literally cleaning house and if he gets to Liberia, we'll never get him back.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Hard evidence. I need a warrant to hold him. Please, can you check your cold cases again? Blank ammo
and
victims wearing a substantial amount of diamonds. If there are any heavy rashes—”

“You want me to match up elementary schools?”

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” he said. “I haven't got anything. And you might wind up in Oregon again.”

“Wash—” I stopped. “Whatever.”

chapter forty-two

A
t six o'clock on Christmas Eve, I held a flickering candle in the darkened church and thought the priest should hurry up. We sat in back—closer to the exit, I decided, as my mind went over dilemmas and theories and evidence. Time was running out.

“Peace be with you,” my mother replied to the priest's recitation.

Her eyes were closed and in the candlelight her tears were golden, slipping down her cheeks. Her weeping began the moment we arrived—late. My fault. I'd spent the afternoon rushing through the snow to track down the sheriff. But I didn't find him and he didn't call back. When I finally got my mother into the church, my mind filled with chattering thoughts.
What if—

“Listen.” She placed her hand on mine.

I looked up. The priest's white vestments glowed in the candlelight. Hundreds of candles, the valiant worshippers who made it here tonight. Standing in the elevated pulpit, the priest looked down on our flickering flames and said, “God does nothing by accident. We know that. So why did he choose an inn with no vacancies?”

Not now
, I thought, inwardly groaning.
Not now. Just give
us the blessing and let me out of here
. My mind bounced with images of RPM getting on that plane, taking off forever. And me, explaining to Phaup what was really going on. How I would take the fall for her mistake. I checked my phone again, turned to silent ring. I kept hoping the detective would call. Or the sheriff. Just not Sonny. I didn't want Sonny telling me the guy was leaving. I wondered again about getting this warrant on Christmas Eve, whether I'd have enough evidence and how much— “Are you listening?” she whispered.

“God could have sent them anywhere. But he chose that inn. Two thousand years later, it's still true. That inn is symbolic. It represents our hearts.”

I stared at the candle flame.

“We fill up our lives with work and concerns and lists of things to do. We go, go, go. We shop, we buy things. We wrap presents. But take a look at your heart. Is it so full of stuff that there's no room for the Savior?”

White wax dripped down the side of the candle.

The church smelled of paraffin and my mother's tears and my own shame. Closing my eyes, I felt something wash over my shoulders. I saw Wally, staring at me with hate.
“You call yourself a
Christian . . .”
I sent up a prayer for his protection. And a second petition, almost contrary, asking that rock bottom came fast, so fast he asked for help. I prayed for my mother, and for myself, for mercy. I'd thrown Wally out at Christmas, in the icy cold. The list went on but when I heard feet shuffling, I opened my eyes.

The congregation was standing. Above the flickering flames, each face looked tender and expectant as the organ released its tonal notes. The voices lifted, rising, singing of angels heard on high, a sweet singing over the plains. And our echoed reply: “Gloria, Gloria, Gloria.”

When we walked inside the big house with its new locks, I felt spent and exhausted. It was as if weeks of worry and failure caught up with me all at once. Slowly I unraveled the scarf around my neck and wondered about this night. What would happen now?

“Oh, look.” My mother peered at the blinking red light on the answering machine. “Aunt Charlotte, I'll bet. She misses us.”

She hit Play. I tugged off my boots; my socks felt damp. In the background of the message I heard sounds like traffic, cars. I could see my aunt standing outside her New Age store in Seattle, calling from the sidewalk because cell phone microwaves interfered with the vibrations coming from her crystals. She was loony and I loved her.

“It's me,” the voice said.

I whipped around, staring at the machine.

“Oh, it's Wally,” my mother said.

In the background I heard something metallic scraping, a long scar of sound. It was followed by a rhythmic rattle and clatter. Trains.

“I thought about what you said.”

She turned to me. “Raleigh, what did you say?”

I couldn't look at her. I stared at the answering machine. His voice. What was that I heard?

“You're right, I'm not okay. I need help.”

Not defeat. Despair.

“Why—” My mother's voice was rising. “Why does he need help?”

“I'm so cold,” he said. “I'm so cold and tired and—”

“He's crying!” she exclaimed. “Why is he crying?”

“I'm on the Lee Bridge. Help me. I want to kill myself, I—”

My mother screamed. The line went dead.

I threw on my boots and ran out the door.

Richmond's bridges crossed over the river like shuttles in a giant loom. As I raced the Benz down Cary Street, I counted them off.

I turned south at Fifth Street, fishtailing into the parking lot at Tredegar Iron Works. The parking lot was empty and I left the car where it stopped, jumping out. I ran, boots slipping, and raked the beam of my flashlight across the footbridge. The concrete path was suspended high over the city falls.

“Wally!”

I aimed the beam with my left hand. In my right, I held my Glock. Pitch black, ice cold, not the best part of town, I ran down the span, pointing the light at the water below. It was black, except where it fulminated around the boulders. I pointed the light up and saw him.

He stood on the handrail facing west, his arms outstretched, fingers curled around the steel suspension cables.

I walked forward, slowly. The crust on the snow crunched under my boots. “Wally.”

His body swayed like a diver about to launch.

“Don't do it,” I said. “Don't.”

He stared down, transfixed by the rushing water below.

“You'll kill Nadine.”

“Nadine.” His voice sounded even more broken. “I didn't mean to get like this. I didn't.”

“I know that.” I pressed the flashlight into the snow, holstered my gun, and grabbed the cables, pulling myself up. My stomach lurched. “She's really worried about you.” I slid my feet sideways across the bar. He was three feet away. “She loves you and she's scared and she—”

“Raleigh.” His arms were shaking.

“Take it easy.” I moved hand-over-hand on the cables. Two feet away.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't come any closer.”

One foot away. The braided cable felt cold against my clammy skin.

He let go with his left hand, windmilling his arm across the dark.

“Wally—no!”

He let go of the other hand.

I swung my right arm, connecting with his chest, and kicked my right leg out, extending like a trapeze artist. His falling weight ripped the cable from my left hand. I dove back for the bridge, throwing both arms around his body, tackling him, and for a long, quiet moment, we fell. We fell one centimeter at a time, ticking down through the dark with no purchase, all air. I held his coat and squeezed my eyes shut.

The bridge punched the air out of my lungs. My eyes flew open. Thick steam clouded the cold air. My breath. His breath. Snow on my face. My arms wrapped around him. I stared at the back of his head, relief pouring through me.