The Quiet Game (25 page)

“Who?”

“Ray Presley.”

Dad tosses his cigar into the water, where it hisses and sputters out. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Ray told Willie that he’d tried to solve the case in sixty-eight, but that
he’d
been warned off too. He wouldn’t say by whom, but it was enough to scare him off.”

“That would take some doing.”

“That’s what Willie said. He dropped it. Didn’t Presley do a lot of work for Marston in the seventies?”

“I believe he did.”

“Think about it. We’ve got Ray Presley, a blatant racist, investigating a politically sensitive race murder while Leo Marston is D.A. I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility that Marston could have committed criminal acts under those circumstances.”

“But
why
? That’s what I can’t see.”

“I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t the statute of limitations have run out on anything short of murder?”

“That’s right. Anything short of murder.”

He looks like a sculpture in the bow of the boat, frozen in contemplation. We’re two hundred yards from shore now, far enough that even a severe drought would be unlikely to uncover the swamp bottom. Even if it did, there would only be the cement-filled pail lying in the baking mud among the dead fish and loggerhead turtles. A lost anchor. Nothing else.

I lift the long pole out of the water and lay it along the gunwale of the boat. Dad starts to get up, but I motion for him to stay seated. The last thing we need is to capsize in water teeming with water moccasins, and perhaps even alligators.

I drag the heavy bucket toward the stern and lift it onto my seat, then sit beside it, flex my arms, and roll it over between my legs. After a deep breath, I slip my hands under it and stand up, using my legs for power. In seconds my arms are quivering from the weight.

“Throw it!” Dad cries.

I heave the bucket to my left and into the black water, heeling the boat hard to starboard and almost losing my balance. The splash sounds like a cannonball and showers both of us with slimy water.

“God almighty!” Dad exults. “I thought we were going over!”

“That gun is history,” I say quietly. “Let’s go to the house.”

I pick up the pole, plunge it to the muddy bottom, and work the bow back
around until it points to the dirt road where we parked Dad’s pickup. High above us, a hawk circles over unseen prey. As it sails through the falling dusk, Dad says: “Could it have been the feds who warned Ray off the Payton case?”

Despite the heat, I feel a shiver deep in my chest. Willie Pinder’s remarks are playing in my head. “What makes you ask that?”

“I remember a picture from somewhere. It showed Marston and J. Edgar Hoover together. Both of them glaring into the camera like junior G-men. Marston always claimed to be a personal friend of Hoover’s. That’s not fashionable now, of course. But thirty years ago it was quite a coup.”

I had thought I might be able to keep my father on the periphery of this case, but that’s simply not practical. The fact is, I need his help. “Dad, the guy who sent me that list of FBI agents is Bureau himself. He told me a couple of disturbing things.”

“Like?”

“This morning Austin Mackey requested the FBI file on Del Payton, and he was turned down. The Payton file was sealed by J. Edgar Hoover in 1968 on grounds of national security.”

His eyes narrow in disbelief.
“What?”

“Now you tell me Marston was a personal friend of Hoover’s. I’ve already determined that Presley probably lied about the bomb that blew up Payton’s car. The FBI had to know that. I don’t know how it all adds up, but as district attorney, Marston had to be right in the middle of all this.”

He looks toward the shore, as though trying to spot his truck against the darkness of the trees. When he answers, his voice is so soft it seems to drift out of the lap of water against the bow.

“Leo Marston put our family through hell for a year and a half. The stress damn near killed me, and it changed your mother forever.”

I say nothing, wondering if he’s talking to me or himself.

“The things he’s done to other people . . . compromised them, bullied them. You don’t know half of what he’s done. I’m not a vindictive man. But to make that bastard pay for some of that . . . God, that would be justice.”

He is taking himself where I wanted to take him all along.

“We’d have to find a way to protect Annie and Peggy,” he says. “Around the clock.”

“We can do that.”

He looks back at me. “You’re not in Houston anymore. You have no authority here. You can’t investigate secretly. Half the town already knows what you’re doing.”

“The more people who know, the safer we’ll be.”

“Marston can apply pressure from angles you never dreamed of. But physical safety is the first priority. I know a couple of good men. Cops. Patients of mine.”

“Do you really think you can trust them? Cops, I mean. Ray Presley was a cop.”

Dad chuckles softly in the shadows. “They’re both black. What do you think?”

Caitlin Masters has the corner booth in Biscuits & Blues. She smiles and waves when she sees me walking through the tables. I speak to a couple of people I know, but there’s no applause tonight. The restaurant is packed with diners absorbed in their own affairs.

“I’m sorry,” Caitlin says, pointing at a shrimp cocktail before her. “I was starved. I couldn’t wait. Have one.”

“No, thanks,” I reply, sitting down opposite her. She’s wearing a white button-down oxford shirt and emerald drop earrings that bring out the color in her eyes. Each time I see her, I’m shocked by the way those green eyes are almost wrong for her face. The fine black hair and porcelain skin seem to call for something else. Yet the final result is a remarkable beauty.

The young waitress who asked me to sign
False Witness
the other day hurries over and asks if she can get me something to drink.

“Jenny, right?”

She blushes and nods.

“What happened to my waiter?” Caitlin asks.

“I switched tables with him. I’ll take much better care of you guys.”

Caitlin gives her a sidelong glance. “I’ll bet you will.”

“Jenny, I’d love a Corona with a lime.”

“On the way.” She disappears like a dark-complected elf.

“Jenny has the hots for you.”

“A little starstruck, maybe. She’s probably got a novel in progress upstairs.”

“I don’t think that’s it. She watches you in a strange way.” Caitlin drinks from a sweating martini glass. “Trust me. I have lethal instincts.”

“You’re not drinking gimlets tonight?”

“They’re out of Rose’s lime. So, how’d you spend this lovely day?”

“I’ll tell you later. First, you owe me an explanation.”

She gives me a wry look. “Why did I make such a big thing of Del Payton?”

“Yes.”

“It’s simple, really. My father.”

“The one you grew up without?”

“That’s him. When he took over the chain from
his
father, it was five dailies, all in Virginia. In twelve years he built that into thirty-four papers across the Southeast.”

“I’m impressed.”

She raises a cynical eyebrow. “Do you know how he did that? He went into small cities that had only one or two newspapers. If there were two, he’d buy the dominant one, then institute John Masters’s Commandments, the cardinal one being, ‘Don’t piss off the advertisers.’ He printed every detail of little league games, weddings, society parties, high school graduations—everything but controversy. It didn’t make for very informative newspapers, but it kicked profits into the stratosphere.”

“Is it a public company now?”

Caitlin makes a fist and thrusts it toward the ceiling with mock fervor. “Never! Family-owned, down the line. Starting to get the picture?”

“You want to shake up Daddy’s world.”

“Yes. But not for some Freudian reason. Hard news is going unreported in every town where we have a newspaper. I’m instituting a new policy. At
one
paper, anyway.” She takes another swallow of her martini, and her eyes flash with conviction. “From now on, hard news leads.”

“The Payton murder wasn’t news until you made it news.”

“So, sue me. My gut tells me it’s a big story, and I’m going with it.”

“Good for you. It is a big story.”

She freezes with a shrimp in midair.

I take my Corona from Jenny the waitress before she can set it down. “How would you like an exclusive on the solution?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“There’s one condition. You print absolutely nothing until I give you the okay.”

“You know who killed him?”

“Maybe. But even if I do, proving it could be difficult.”

She pops the shrimp into her mouth and chews for a few moments. “I don’t get it. If you don’t want me to print anything, why bring me in at all?”

“Because I need your help.”

“For what?”

“Research that I don’t have the time or resources to do.”

“What do you need to know?”

“You haven’t agreed to my condition yet.”

She mulls it over some more. “Why should I muzzle my paper to help you? How do I know you’ll solve the case any faster than I could?”

“Do you have a copy of the original police file?”

“No. But I’m working on a request for his FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Don’t bother. You won’t get it. J. Edgar Hoover sealed the Payton file in 1968 for reasons of national security.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I smelled a Pulitzer the minute you told me about this case. Okay, deal. Tell me what you want, I’ll get it. Fast. But I want in on everything.”

“Fair enough,” I say, wondering if I mean it. A half hour ago Cilla called from Houston. After spending hours tracing the names on Peter Lutjens’s list, and finding most retired or dead, she lucked into a fan of mine. He hadn’t worked the Payton murder, but he remembered it. More important, he numbered Special Agent Dwight Stone, the field agent Althea Payton recalled so fondly, among his old friends. Stone is retired and living outside Crested Butte, Colorado. Cilla called him and found him friendly enough until she mentioned Del Payton, at which time Stone bluntly stated that he would not discuss the Payton case with me or anyone. I intend to test his resolution very soon.

“So, what do you want to know?” Caitlin asks.

“I need everything you can get on Leo Marston. You know who he is?”

“Sure. A big-time attorney everybody calls Judge because he served on the state supreme court. I tried to get a comment from him for my Payton story, but I couldn’t get through. His secretary’s a cast-iron bitch.”

“You should meet his wife.”

“The woman who baptized you at the cocktail party?”

“That’s her.”

“No, thanks. Why Marston?”

“You don’t need to know that yet.”

She doesn’t like this response. “Who else?”

I’d like a detailed bio of Ray Presley, but Caitlin can’t access the kind of information I need on him. “Just start with Marston. Companies he owns, whole or in part. Personal and political connections. His tax returns if you can get them.”

Jenny reappears at our table, her dark eyes watching me with a disconcerting intensity. “Have you decided?”

“I’m not really hungry,” I confess, handing her my unopened menu. “I had to eat before I came. My daughter helped cook.”

“How old is she?”

“Four.”

“That’s a fun age.”

“Are they working on my ribs back there?” Caitlin asks.

“They’ll be out in a minute.” Jenny gives her a curt smile and heads back to her station.

“You owe me an answer too, remember?” says Caitlin. “You’re the most liberal person I’ve met here, as far as race goes. You’re a fascist on the death penalty, of course, but we’ll skip that for now. How did you wind up so different from other people here?”

“It’s simple, really. My father.”

She puts her last shrimp in her mouth and chews slowly, her green eyes luminescent in the soft light. “Let’s hear it.”

“This never sees print. It’s no big deal, but it’s personal. That’s something we need to get straight right now. If we’re going to work together, some things
never
see print.”

“No problem. It’s in the vault.”

“I remember three defining moments with my father when I was growing up. The first had to do with race. Most kids I grew up around used the word ‘nigger’ the same way they used ‘apple’ or ‘Chevrolet.’ So did their parents and grandparents before them. One night, at home, I used it the same way. My father got out of his chair, turned off the television, and came and sat beside me. He said, ‘Son, I grew up working in a creosote plant right alongside colored people. And they’re just like you and me. No better, no worse. We don’t say that word in this house.’ Then he turned the TV back on. And I stopped saying nigger.