The Stones Cry Out (5 page)

"Speaking of South Africa," I said, trying again, "the Fieldings wanted me to say hello."

“The Fieldings?” She looked at me, blinking. "The Fieldings. Oh. Peery and Harrison went to South Africa?"

"No, I’m sorry. Mac, she was wearing--she was wearing a diamond that probably came from South Africa." I tried again. "Geology. That was the connection to South Africa. And to that preacher. Sorry." I tried hard not to confuse my mother, ever.

"What wonderful news for MacKenna. Do you know the groom?"

"No."

"I hope you’ll get married someday, Raleigh. Your father wanted that for you."

The fading sun was painting the brick wall a deeper purple. And the traffic winding around Robert E. Lee had slowed, coming now in sporadic bursts. I waited a few more minutes.

"I should head in," I said.

"These hot summer days," she said, looking up at the sky, "they feel like weeks. One day feels like an entire week. And a week becomes a month. And the month turns into a year. And suddenly I am waking up and it's November 29 all over again." She turned to me and frowned. "Does this happen to you?"

"Yes."

It happened to me. November 29 was the day he died. And because she was watching, because it would make her feel better, I finished the entire glass of lemonade. Then I asked if she needed anything. She shook her head.

I carried the empty glass and the pitcher into the kitchen, putting them on the counter. She liked to wash the dishes. It filled her time.

On my way back across the courtyard, heading the carriage house, I leaned down and kissed her cheek. Her skin felt soft as talc. I said good night and she nodded vaguely.

She was gazing at the sky, waiting for stars.

Sure enough, the valerian-laced lemonade knocked me out cold. For the first time in weeks -- okay, months -- I slept.

Unfortunately, it wasn't good sleep. More like fitful slumber, the counterfeit version of sleep, like what you get on airplanes. And when I finally woke up I was grouchy and angry. Grouchy with myself for drinking the lemonade. And a little mad at my mom for making these strange herbal concoctions.

About the only good thing that came from my adventure in knock-out drops was that I was first into the office.

My cattle stall—otherwise known as a cubicle—was on the second floor in an unmarked glass block building just off Parham Road. Agent cubicles were identical, except that mine resembled a paper mill hit by a hurricane. I refused to claim full responsibility for the mess. The FBI was a tree-killing agency, and my desk held evidence notes, interviews, task force information, general Bureau notices regarding new regulations and employee changes, and plenty of FD-302s. The latter was a document written after interviews. It described only what was said and only what was known to be true at the time. It was literally, “Just the facts, ma'am.” Reading them out loud, the words sounded like a jackhammer.

This morning's 302s were fairly simple. Regarding the rooftop death interviews, almost nothing was said. And nothing new was known. But for the federal government even nothing required triplicate. One copy was my working file. I prepared another copy in case anything went to trial: one for our assistant U.S. attorney’s office and one for the enemy camp, aka the defense.

The personal benefit from spreading this much paper around my desk was that it discouraged other agents from doing impertinent things -- like using my telephone or, worse, eating my food. I was a girl who liked to eat, and I kept plenty of food in my desk. My bottom drawer alone contained a three-week supply of munchies and a range of beverages guaranteed to etch the porcelain right off your teeth.

The big clock over my desk read 5:15 a.m. as I dove into a large box of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies, washing down the sugar with a can of Coca Cola (never, ever Pepsi). My computer search on Hamal Holmes was not turning up much. He owned a boxing gym on Second Street, and his tax record looked questionable, since he never turned a profit but somehow drove a brand new Lexus that was paid for. His mother's house was mortgaged in his name, and he did indeed pay all her utility bills. Over the years the city had recognized his work with “troubled youth” and presented him with several civic commendations. I found an old story from the Richmond
Times-Dispatch
. Mayor Louis "LuLu" Mendant called Holmes “a hero.”

As I was opening a bag of Doritos, my phone rang. And my heart plummeted hearing the voice on the other end. Licking orange chemicals off my fingertips, I walked to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. The top floor. The floor with the office of Supervisory Special Agent Victoria Phaup. She was often the first into the office and the last to leave, and she trusted no one.

She pointed her pencil at a club chair that faced her desk. "Update."

I sat down. "Yesterday I knocked on doors with John. The only witness is an old woman who is nearly blind. She probably can't read a stop sign six inches away."

Phaup nodded. She suspected as much. "You checked into the backgrounds on the two dead guys?"

"The two deceaseds,” I said, “are Hamal Holmes and Detective Michael Falcon. I met with the mother and widow of Mr. Holmes. They weren't cooperative. And they probably won't be in the future. I haven't gotten to the detective's...."

I let my voice trail off. Phaup wasn't listening. Head down, she was shuffling notes on her desk. This happened. Too often. According to John, who was the source of most office gossip, Phaup was on the fast track at Bureau headquarters when she sent an email to the wrong recipient. In fact, she sent the criticism to the supervisor she was griping about. Ever since, she had bounced from one field office to another, before finally landing in Richmond. We were among the Bureau’s smallest operations.

I watched her peel paper from several of her piles, looking at them with a slightly baffled expression. Inevitably, her nickname was Foul-up.

"Here they are." She looked relieved, holding up two pink message slips. "I got a call from
People Magazine
. That's right,
People
. They're writing a story about some rapper from Richmond. He grew up on Southside. He called the magazine. He told them that Richmond cops are racist-- that's why he became a rapper. And now
People
wants a comment from us on the,
quote,
serious racial problems in Richmond,
end quote
."

She placed that pink slip near her phone.

"And then I got a call from the Richmond PD. The chief. Apparently nobody called to tell him about this civil rights case. Raleigh?"

"I didn’t think it was wise. We’re investigating one of their own."

"Touch base, act nice. Just don't tell him we're closing it."

I nodded and wondered how stupid she thought I was.

She sighed, as if to say,
Very stupid
. "I should probably assign a senior agent to this case, just to get it wrapped up fast. But I thought you could use the experience. So for the instruction factor, I’ll reiterate. This case needs to be resolved, now."

"Resolved?" Resolved meant we actually got answers. “Or closed?”

"Do not split hairs with me, Raleigh. Close it. Or it goes to John."

John, who also didn’t care what happened out there.

Phaup was lost in her papers again, and since I could never tell when these meetings were over, I waited to be excused. Out her corner window, the pale morning sky looked as milky as quartz. Down below, in the parking lot, our front gate guards were examining a FedEx truck before allowing it next to the building. When I glanced back at Phaup, she was adjusting herself.

I looked away again.

Among her other questionable habits, the woman tugged at her bra straps and pantyhose, constantly shifting the undergarments into place. She reminded me of a nervous third-base coach.

"Call the police chief today," she said, drawing her hand from her blouse. "Tell him we appreciate his cooperation, want to work together, et cetera, et cetera. Then close. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." I took that as my exit and stood up.

"Raleigh."

I sat down. "Yes, ma'am."

"Things at home--they're ... all right?"

I probably should’ve told Phaup the truth. I should’ve said my mother seemed better lately. Almost normal, sometimes. I should’ve. But my gut sense was telling me that if I said anything even close to that, I’d soon find myself investigating fertilizer theft in Sioux City, Iowa. I was a young agent, and I wasn't supposed to get my first choice of placement. The early years meant getting shipped anywhere, at any time. But I was here, living in my hometown, because of “a hardship issue.”

I had to take care of my mother.

So, God, forgive me.

"Things are very bad,” I said. “Really rough."

Phaup pursed her lips. She managed to nod. "You’ll let me know when that changes?" she asked.

"Of course," I lied. "Absolutely."

The River City Diner served the best grease in town. After an order of Eggs on Horseback—two eggs riding a strip steak—I drove down Main Street to Ninth and spent the next fifteen minutes circling the block for a parking space that was within walking distance of the Richmond Police Department.

The city's cop shop was built into a bump of city land. It looked like some hasty urban bunker. And maybe that was appropriate for a city detonating with daily robbery, assault, and murder. But the postage-stamp-sized lot meant no parking, not even for the department’s cruisers. Finally I stuck the K-Car on some gravel that charged five dollars an hour, all the way over by J. Sergeant Reynolds Community College, and walked. The morning heat mocked me.

Inside the department, sweating like I just ran a 10K, I showed my identification to the guard behind the bulletproof glass. She buzzed the double doors, and I walked down a hallway lined with yellow ceramic tile and softball trophies. At the vending machines I turned right and stopped at a pebble-glass door marked Room 102. Through the bumpy glass I could see the outline of the person inside. Which meant they could see me standing there, too. But after I knocked, they waited. Hoping I would go away.

I knocked again. "Detective Greene? Raleigh Harmon, FBI."

I heard a chair scraping back, and the shape grew larger on the pebbly glass, coming forward like a dark shadow. When the door opened, I was holding up my ID.

Detective Nathan Greene was a bit taller than me, about five-ten. His black Afro was cut short, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His forearm had a blue tattoo of an anchor. Navy guy, I decided.

"What?" he said.

“The Bureau conducting a civil rights investigation.”

“And?”

“And I need to ask you a couple questions. About your partner. Detective Falcon?"

He turned, walking into the room, leaving the door open.

I was getting used to it. I stepped inside, closing the door.

The office had no windows. Just concrete blocks painted a depressing beige, like vanilla with no flavor. Two desks. One was empty, nothing on the surface. He sat behind the other one. I took the splintered oak chair that faced both desks. The chair looked like a cast-off from some elementary school closed for asbestos pipes. When I sat down, it squeaked.

"Detective Falcon was your partner, is that right?"

He gazed at me levelly. He had a thick black mustache, shaped like a bat in flight.

Buying time, I opened my notebook and pretended to read the pages. "Police report said nobody saw Detective Falcon going into the building on Saturday.” I looked up. “And he didn't radio his location."

The detective leaned back. I was perversely satisfied that his chair squeaked, too.

“Do you have anything to say about that?” I asked.

"Mike worked SWAT for eleven years. The only reason he quit was because his wife worried. So the guy gives up the take-downs, hoping to stay alive, and gets killed watching a bunch of cry-babies call themselves victims."

"Which brings up another question.” I smiled. “Why would a veteran detective be working crowd control -- on a holiday weekend? Shouldn’t that be street patrol?"

"Ask management. They're the ones pulling us for these dumb festivals. We also work backup for night cops."

"Why?"

"Manpower shortages."

Phaup used the same excuse for closing cases before any work was done.

"Were you working out there on Saturday?"

"No. Mike pulled the weekend. I’ve got night cops."

I didn’t like the expression in his eyes so I began flipping the notebook pages, buying time, hoping he'd warm up. But he didn’t, and I decided the best tactic was to play novice agent.

"Here's what I don't get. Detective Falcon supposedly followed Holmes into that building, but he didn't radio anyone to say he was heading in?"

"‘Supposedly’?"

"Did I say that?”

“Yes.”