The Last Clinic (3 page)

Kendall did the serious hunting and used a bow and arrow most of the time. The bow had a 50-lb. pull and a mechanical tip on the arrow that expanded on impact. She was scary good with it. Lulu, a private chef, was a poor shot but turned whatever they caught into dinner. Darla went along because it was something to do and to keep her buddies company. She carried a Remington 12 gauge that belonged to Kendall, but she never did any shooting. “Once you’ve shot someone, it’s hard to look at shooting as a sport,” she said when her swamp sisters pushed her on the subject. But Kendall would hunt every week if she had the chance. She even went out to the tree stand by herself if Lulu and Darla didn’t feel like it.

This was their first year out. Kendall bagged three white tail bucks, two does, and a wild boar. She had the trophies, one of each, hanging in the den. It was Darla’s house they lived in, and Darla didn’t care for the stuffed animal corpses. They reminded her of the embalmed bodies in funeral caskets. But she figured Kendall needed something to make herself feel like the place was hers too.

“Look at you. All dressed up and going to work,” said Kendall.

Darla tossed Kendall a towel. Kendall snatched it and dabbed at the sweat on her face.

“Did you have the radio on when you were running, or were you doing iTunes?” Darla said.

“Shelby called you didn’t he? I heard the Josh Klein’s report, and I knew Shelby would be all over you. He’ll need somebody with credibility working on this case—an outsider that he can hold responsible if they don’t find the killer. Somebody Shelby can throw to the right-wingers when they come at him with their pitchforks. Even better if it’s a Yankee.”

Kendall knew the political scene. Her ex was a lobbyist. Also, she’d grown up in Jackson and lived here all her life.

“He’s calling in a marker. I didn’t have a choice.”

“What I don’t understand is why that bastard Jimmy wasn’t shot sooner,” Kendall said. “The shithead. You ever see the picture of that fetus he had on the wretched cross? And the way he treated the women who crossed his picket line and went into the clinic, telling them they were killers and whores of the devil. Getting photographers to take their pictures and posting them on his website. Most of the women weren’t even pregnant. Just getting their yearly pap smear. Really, it was only a matter of time before somebody plugged him. It will probably turn out to be one of the women he tried to intimidate.” Her flushed face got redder by the sentence.

Darla liked this part of Kendall, the part with a temper that said exactly what was on her mind. It was welcome relief from the standard issue Northeast Jackson women, who batted their eyes and smiled and squeaked and carried on as if they’d spent every day of their childhood playing with puppies.

“I thought you sided with the right-to-life people,” said Darla.

“I go back and forth on the issue. Thank God, I was never personally faced with that kind of a decision. What I don’t believe in is treating women the way Jimmy Aldridge did.”

“So why did you go to his church for all those years?”

“It was Bobby’s church. Like most everything else in our marriage, it was Bobby’s decision. He and Jimmy were KA’s at Ole Miss.” She stopped for a beat and retraced when she saw Darla look at her funny. “Kappa Alpha. Bobby and Jimmy were fraternity brothers. They were there at the same time. When it came to picking churches, Bobby felt he had to be loyal to his fraternity brother. In Mississippi, social hierarchy fraternities and sororities are a rung above churches. You can change churches easy, especially if the preacher gets to repeating himself. And of course, most of them do. What’s the difference between Methodist and Presbyterian anyway? Damned if I know or care. Just enter a new destination on your GPS. But with Greek organizations it’s like herpes; it’s forever. Besides, we had friends at The Southern Church of The Holy Redeemer, or so I thought.”

Kendall’s messy divorce and the affair with a man from Louisiana that spawned it had cost her. For reasons nobody fully understood and Kendall never explained, Bobby was granted custody of the children. Speculation was the judge didn’t want to cross a powerful lobbyist like Bobby Goodhew. Bobby and his firm raised heavy campaign dollars for conservative elected officials, judges included. The other speculation was that Bobby had dirt on Kendall. Nobody knew what, and Darla never asked. She figured Kendall was entitled to her privacy. The divorce also cost Kendall her home and most of her friends, including the Jackson Junior League crowd—everyone except Darla and Lulu.

“We’ve never really discussed abortion, have we?” said Kendall.

“You mean Roe v. Wade?”

Kendall started to snicker. “I’m sorry. I just thought of that joke that went around right after Hurricane Katrina. They asked Bush where he stood on Roe v. Wade. He said, ‘People should get out of New Orleans any way they could.’”

“So what are you going to say when Josh Klein sticks a microphone in your face, which you know he will. ‘Detective Darla Cavannah, where do you stand on this all important issue?’”

“I’ll say I’m a cop. I’ll say I’m looking for Reverend Aldridge’s killer. I’m not supposed to say any more than that.”

“Me? I guess I’m against abortion in most cases. But I think the decision should rest with a woman, not a bunch of dickheads down at the legislature. It’s just, well, I’ve never known a woman who made that choice and didn’t feel horrible about it afterward. Have you?”

“No. I haven’t,” said Darla.

“I’m just glad to see you’re up working again,” said Kendall, standing by the refrigerator, the freezer door open so she could cool her face down, the way Darla remembered Hugh doing when he came off the field. “That moping around was getting on my nerves. All you did was lie in bed and watch movies, like some damn Netflix junky.”

“I like Netflix. I only get three or four a week.”

“Then there’s that Eagles highlight reel you made me watch over and over.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a man in a uniform.”

“Oh, honey, Hugh Cavannah was hot. Those big shoulders and tight little butt. And that catch he made in the Super Bowl, when it bounced off the defender’s helmet, and Hugh leaped up and snatched it with his fingertips. But after seeing it for the umpteenth time it was getting a little old.”

Darla saw him in her mind. Hugh Cavannah, “Hugh the Glue,” they called him. The surest hands in the NFL. Philadelphia Eagles, Number 24. Standing next to her on the sidelines, the time he introduced himself. Six five, towering over her, protective-like. Hugh making her feel small and delicate, like every woman wants to feel. The only man who ever did. His voice as sweet as Tupelo honey. Extending his hand, almost bowing. Her first encounter with Southern chivalry. She was only twenty-five at the time and had tried out for cheerleader for the Eagles on a dare. She got it too. A lady cop who’d just made detective and a cheerleader to boot. A pro-bowl wide receiver for a boyfriend. Those were the days.

“I’m off to shower,” said Kendall, breaking in on Darla’s reverie.

Darla wasn’t ready for Kendall to leave just yet. Figured she’d get some background first, the dirt of Reverend Jimmy Aldridge. Kendall was third-generation Jacksonian. Kendall knew everybody worth and not worth knowing in town. She had opinions on most of them and was always ready to share.

“Were you close to Reverend Aldridge’s wife? What’s her name, Lenore?” said Darla.

“The little mouse.” Kendall pursed her lips, scrunched her nose, and squinted her eyes imitating Lenore’s rodent-like appearance. “I wouldn’t say we were close. We got together as a couple a few times every year. Way more than I wanted, especially when Jimmy became a client of Bobby’s. Jimmy and Bobby were—what do they call them up in Philadelphia?—asshole buddies. I didn’t care for Jimmy from the get-go. I can’t believe I let him marry us. That shit-eating self-righteous bastard with his plastered-on fake smile. And I tired of Lenore real fast, the way she was always going on about Jimmy, like he was the one that put the surprise in the Cracker Jack box. The most disgusting part was she was always deferring, letting her husband call all the shots, even worse than me. She let him run her damn life for her. She and Lulu are still friends though. Lulu is godmother to their daughter Beth. You know how Lulu is always going on about Beth this and Beth that?”

“Beth. Of course, I’d forgotten she was the Aldridge’s daughter.”

“You know that thing about six degrees of separation? In Mississippi we got it down to two, maybe one and a half.”

“What do you know about the doctor? Nicoletti, the one who runs the clinic?”

“I hear good things. They say he’s got the touch, so to speak,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Kendall’s mind was always running to sex. “But you should ask Lulu. She’s been going to him for a couple of years. She swears by him. I actually think she’s in love with him. Apparently so are a lot of his patients.”

Darla stepped into the guest bathroom, just off the kitchen, and gave herself the once over. She felt her period start, closed the door, and prepared herself. Coming back to the kitchen, she had a sinking feeling. Was it her period or the fact that she was back chasing killers again?

“I don’t know if I’m ready for all this.”

“Maybe you can lean on your partner for a change. Who have they got for you?”

“Ever hear of Tommy Reylander?”

“Officer Elvis?” Kendall couldn’t help herself. She started cutting up, gyrating her hips and making like she was strumming on the guitar, giving Darla bedroom eyes. Kendal imitated Tommy imitating Elvis.

“You’ve seen his act?” said Darla.

“For eons is all. Let me tell you something. He’s not like red wine. He hasn’t improved with age. Actually, I went out with him once in high school on a double date. A cousin of his fixed us up. Tommy wasn’t that bad looking then, and his band was playing at the YMCA. I figured what the hell. At least I’d get in free. Afterwards, I swiped a bottle of Maker’s Mark from Daddy’s liquor cabinet, and the four of us went out to Mayes Lake. After three bourbon and cokes, I had to pee, so I go off into the trees. When I come back, Tommy’s the only one there. The others are off making out somewhere. So Tommy sees me, and he says, ‘Girl, I think it’s about time you met my best friend, Little Elvis. Maybe we can get him to come out and say hello.’ Whereupon, after some fumbling with his fly, he whips out his pecker. Well, it was kind of dark. Still, I was always good with guessing measurements. And as we both know, I’ve never been one for diplomacy. So I say, ‘Little Elvis is right.’ Things went downhill from there. He called me a prick tease and started trying to grab hold of me, so I picked up his guitar—his precious Gibson—and smacked him up the side of the head with it. He ended up with three stitches. My daddy had to agree to buy him a new guitar. Tommy still uses it, the same Gibson I bought for him. Whenever I’m in the audience, I’ll stop by and remind him of how he got it. Pisses him off but good. The reason I’m telling you this, in case he starts talking about Little Elvis, you might want to shield your eyes.”

“Words to live by,” said Darla.

Kendall, pulled off her T-shirt and shorts, tossed them in the laundry, and headed for the shower as Darla left.

Halfway to the car, Darla stopped and went back into the house. She’d forgotten her .380 Taurus ACP, the weapon she’d used to shoot the skinhead up in Philadelphia, and the three others as well: a crack dealer who went out the window on her during a bust, a mob guy who thought she was kidding when she told him to drop his weapon, and the carpenter who was threatening his wife with a chain saw.

 Her jeans wouldn’t cover an ankle strap, so she shoved the .380 inside her waistband and zipped her windbreaker halfway up to hide the handle.

“Time to turn off the DVD,” she muttered to herself. “There’s bad guys out there.”

4

Show Me the Money. Please.

Sather Street was crammed with gawkers, spilling off the sidewalk into the street, backing up traffic in both directions. The assemblage all milling about, talking to each other, taking pulls on their morning coffee and nibbling on sausage biscuits. The Krispy Kreme across the street from the clinic had a long snaking line running out to the parking lot. Some of Jimmy’s flock who’d heard the news had rushed to the scene and were holding each other and crying. Most of the onlookers were just standing around, enjoying a few minutes in the morning sun, socializing—Mississippi’s unofficial pastime.

The Jackson Police Department had cordoned off a parking area. A half-dozen Hinds’ County cop cars were lined up like a used car lot. Detective Tommy Reylander’s 1962 pink Caddy, with its humongous tail fins, was parked at the head of the line, letting everybody know Tommy was The Man.

Darla showed her identification to the patrolman in charge of the parking area. He let her park at the far end of the line. She made her way through the crowd, crossed the yellow police tape, and signed the logbook. She was now officially part of the problem.

Tommy was waiting by the entrance to the clinic, checking his watch, looking antsy—a man with somewhere he needed to be.

“Shelby told me you might be coming back. I was always hoping we’d get to work together,” he said. He didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Looks like a South Philly block party,” she said.

“Josh Klein and the WJAK team just left. You know how it is. People hang around, hoping they’ll get to see themselves on television.” As if he wasn’t.

“Did you make a statement?”

Darla was hoping he’d resisted the temptation to go before the camera. It would be nice if Tommy had kept his mouth shut until they both could figure out what was going on.

His round face broadened into a smile.

“Not until Klein promised to give us lead story on the six o’clock news. That’s when you get the biggest numbers.”

Tommy was dressed in one of his outfits—black shirt, string tie, and a checked sport coat. Darla thought she remembered the getup from the movie
Viva Las Vegas.
He did look a little like Elvis in the face, especially with those razor-cut sideburns and the pompadour hair dyed jet-black. But then there was his body, a shorter version of the bloated older Elvis. He was more like Elvis as a Hobbit, she decided. Darla pictured Kendall whacking him with his Gibson back in high school and how he’d probably never lived it down. It was funny but also pathetic. Jackson, with a metro population of over 400,000, still had a small town way of remembering every embarrassing thing anybody ever did.