Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (21 page)

Kim knew Roscoe was the key to building the Reacher file. Whether she was trustworthy enough to help was the big issue. Now Kim decided the answer to one simple question would make up her mind.

She asked, “Will you lose your job over this, Beverly?”

“Yes,” Roscoe said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Whose decision is it?”

“The mayor appoints the chief of police.”

“Why won’t he let you keep the job?”

Roscoe’s shoulders slumped; she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Long story. Family rivalry. Goes back a hundred years. Teales think they own Margrave.”

“How’d you get appointed, then?”

“Finlay insisted. Mayor Teale’s been looking for a good excuse to fire me before the second I was sworn in.”

“Why didn’t he fire you before?”

“No cause. But look at the facts here. Harry Black was operating right under my nose. Even folks who believe I didn’t know what my sergeant was up to will judge me incompetent. You know how hard it is to pass counterfeits these days. The banks have taken old bills out of circulation. Harry’s stash might have been equal to all the old hundreds still existing in the entire country. Every time he tried to spend one, it would be rejected by the scanners. People will figure he couldn’t have passed those bills anywhere in Margrave, hell, anywhere in Georgia, without my knowledge. Even I can’t believe it. This is definitely the end of my career. Even Finlay won’t be able to help. Can’t imagine our little asshole mayor will let such a prime opportunity go to waste. In his shoes, I wouldn’t. Would you? I mean, it’s not so much losing the job. When you serve at the pleasure of a weasel, that’s always hanging over you. It’s going out in shame that hurts. My entire family has been so proud of me. After a hundred years of obscurity, we’d finally become something in Margrave again. Might not mean much to you, but in our little corner of the world, to my kids and my husband, my parents, it means a lot.”

Roscoe shuddered, and Kim watched her.

Now or never. Life or death. Yes or no?

She took the plunge.

She said, “I can help you, chief.”

Roscoe raised her head, looked deeply into Kim’s face, wary and weary.

She asked, “In exchange for what?”

Kim said, “Reacher.”

#

Kim said, “Think about it, chief. We were sent here because of Reacher. And think about the two shots in Harry’s head. That’s how Joe Reacher died, too, wasn’t it? It was a message. Reacher killed Harry. He killed the guy in the Chevy. Maybe vengeance for his brother. Maybe money. Maybe Sylvia. Maybe something else.”

Roscoe was listening.

Kim continued. “Then Reacher rescued Sylvia. You saw her face on that video. She was expecting him. She was happy to see him.”

A flicker of something else crossed Roscoe’s face.

Jealousy?

Kim pressed on. “A clever jailbreak, easy enough for an ex-military cop, right? He knows where the weak points are. He’s got Harry’s money now, too. He can go underground forever if we don’t find him soon.”

She wasn’t pleading, but her argument was solid even if she couldn’t prove it all. Roscoe had to recognize that. “Help us find him. And you’ve got my word. I’ll help you navigate your way out of this mess. Finlay’s not the only guy in high places. You’ve checked me out. You know I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t deliver.”

Roscoe studied Kim for what felt like a long time. She breathed in, and breathed out. She shook her head, slowly, and maybe with regret. She said, “Even if I knew where Reacher was, I wouldn’t tell you. Even though I’d like to see him again, myself.”

Kim shrugged, one bad habit she’d already picked up from Gaspar. She’d tried. She’d given Roscoe the best she had to offer. Sad. She’d come to like the woman. There would be no pleasure in bringing her down.

There were helicopters again in the distance, getting louder. Two, maybe three.

Roscoe said, “The GHP isn’t going to accept all those shoe boxes were empty when you found them. You won’t be able to leave Margrave tonight.” She took out a card and a key. She said, “Make yourselves at home. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

She walked away.

Kim read the card in her hand. It said:
Mr. & Mrs. David Trent, 37 Roscoe Place Drive, Margrave, Georgia.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

4:30 p.m.

They used Roscoe’s car as far as the Margrave Police Station, and then they changed to their own Crown Vic and drove south toward town. The county road ran straight through Margrave. Now labeled Main Street, it was nothing more than potholes connected by multi-layered asphalt patches.

The GPS found a satellite. Gaspar said, “The directions look pretty simple. We stay on Main Street to Roscoe Place Drive.”

“Who knew Margrave was such a lovely place?” Kim said. Slow progress let her study peeling paint, broken windows, and ragged awnings. Small buildings faced each other on opposite sides of Margrave’s four-block commercial district. Vehicles waited for angled parking spots along both sides of the street as patrons came and went. Graffiti defaced walls and sidewalks sprouted hearty weeds from their cracks. Pedestrians simply walked around them.

November twilight meant store signs and interior activities were illuminated.

Teale’s Barber Shop was lined with benches where clients waited inside and out. Teale’s Pharmacy had a flashing neon sign promising that flu shots were still available. Teale’s real estate office windows were papered with colored flyers offering homes for sale or rent. Teale’s Mercantile & Sundry filled most of the storefronts in the center block. Its stenciled windows boasted discounts and closeouts on everything from baby clothes to toilet paper. Shoppers rooted through bargains piled on long tables, pushing and shoving as they competed for the best deals.

“Easy to see why the Teales might think they own Margrave,” Gaspar said.

“Roscoe’s right,” Kim said. “Surprising she’s lasted this long on the wrong side of anybody named Teale.”

In the third block, Kim recognized a standard construction single story brick U.S. Post Office, circa 1960. Vehicles lined up to park as folks filed in and out before closing. A tall flagpole out front flew the stars and stripes as required, with an illuminating floodlight at its base, but the other poles along Main stood bare of colors.

“Want to stop and check out the P.O. Box question?” Gaspar asked.

“They’re too busy right now. Let’s put that on tomorrow’s list.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

At the south edge of town a village green similarly in need of an increased maintenance budget sported a statue of a long-dead city father on a flat patch of long-dead brown grass, dandelions, and overgrown hydrangea bushes. Birds had defaced the statue in the usual way making it difficult to identify the bronze under the white slop.

“Roscoe should take a lesson; the birds know how to handle those Teales,” Kim said, and Gaspar laughed.

Off one side of the statue’s roost, a residential street ran west. Beckman Drive, its barely visible green sign asserted. A tired white church with an empty gravel parking lot filled a larger unkempt circle between Beckman and Roscoe Place Drive, the opposite residential street pointing east, where a convenience store serving coffee and conversation adorned the corner.

When the GPS instructed, Gaspar turned left into near darkness brightened only by the moon. This had been farmland once. Roscoe said her family had lived in Margrave a hundred years, probably here on the farm once upon a time.

Roscoe Place Drive opened up to a quiet residential lane unbounded by hedges or fences. Lawns rolled from the pavement up to red brick homes settled on multi-acre parcels. Built within the past twenty years. Not ostentatious, but stately. Well kept.

Kim counted three driveways as they passed. Each with solar lights along the drive to mark the way, and mailboxes enclosed by brick housings at the road. Each box was numbered. 7, 17, 27.

The Crown Vic’s headlights revealed the house at the end of the road. Same vintage, similar construction. Number 37. Nobody home. Gaspar said, “Nice shack. A step up from what I can afford on my paycheck. Still think Roscoe didn’t pocket some of those Kliners?”

Kim said, “Lets get connected. Let’s find out what we can before Roscoe gets here.”

Gaspar popped the trunk and stood aside while she collected her bags. He stretched like a cat. Bent over at the waist in three directions. Walked around a little. Retrieved his stuff and plopped it down by the front walk. “You’ve got the key, Sunshine. Turn on some lights. I’ll stow the car.”

Roscoe’s key unlocked the double front door which opened into a wide carpeted hallway. Kim flipped light switches as she moved through. Fifteen feet in, French doors faced each other on either side. A formal dining room on the left, guest bedroom on the right. She placed her travel case just inside and continued through the archway entrance.

A staircase leading to the second floor rested against the guest bedroom’s wall, open rails and spindles on the great room side. The rest of the first floor was spacious openness.

Even uninhabited and chilly, the room was an inviting place to nest. On the right, a family room with hardwood floors, fireplace, and comfortable furniture. On the left, an expensively appointed kitchen. The two living spaces separated by a ten-foot cooking island containing a fashionable sink and pricey accoutrements. Big bay window on the front.

“Let’s meet back here in twenty?” Gaspar suggested. “I’ll make coffee. Whoever gets back first finds some food. OK?”

“Perfect.” By the time Kim pulled out her toilet kit, fresh clothes, and entered the guest bath off the kitchen, brewed coffee’s heavenly aroma floated everywhere. A shower, and the promise of coffee, food and sleep. She almost swooned in ecstasy. Ten minutes later she was dressed in black jeans, red sweater and ballet slippers, wet hair loose around her shoulders, holding a cup of black coffee and working at her laptop on the kitchen table. She barely registered Gaspar’s return.

“You’re fast for a girl,” he said. He opened his own laptop.

“So I’ve been told.” She didn’t look up from her work.

“My suit’s a goner,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for a new one somewhere in our travels.”

“How about Teale’s? They have a closeout, don’t they?” He’d dressed in casual clothes similar to hers, but lighter weights acquired for his Miami life.

“Find anything to eat?”

“Didn’t look. Got distracted.”

“By what?” He poured his coffee, opened the sub-zero fridge for cream and searched amid the neatly organized pantry until he found a bag of sugar and a measuring cup.

“Sylvia and Harry’s tax returns. We also have the Roscoe/Finlay Kliner Foundation testimony. And images of whole Kliner bills.”

“Where’d that stuff come from?” He continued searching cabinets for dinner, moving Roscoe’s staples around.

“I’m guessing the boss made it happen. I found them waiting when I opened up my secure connection.”

“So he’s got a guilty conscience?” Apparently Gaspar found nothing to his liking among the foodstuffs because he’d now returned his attention to the refrigerator.

“Or something,” she said, sourly.

“You know we can’t finish this job without his help. You don’t have to like it, but prepare yourself to make that happen.”

“That’s what I have you for, number two.” She returned to the screen, absorbed again.

After a while, enticing aromas. Her nose began to twitch. Stomach flip-flopped in happy anticipation. But she didn’t look away from her work until he put two plates on the table, refilled her coffee, and sat down beside her.

“I hate eggs,” she said.

“No problem.” He picked up her plate and scraped the eggs off onto his own, barely stopping the shovel to his mouth. “How’s that?”

She grinned. Snatched up his toast in one hand and hers in the other. Put the ham between the buttered bread. “Excellent. You’re a good cook.”

“I have many talents you’ve yet to discover,” he said between bites. He polished off the entire batch of eggs and returned to the fridge for more ham. “Tell me while I cook.”

“For starters, Sylvia’s prior name was Kent. Not the one she was born with, maybe. I’m running that down. And Mr. & Mrs. Harry Black’s joint tax returns are beyond silly. They even filed the short form because they didn’t have enough deductible expenses to itemize. Claimed only themselves as dependents.”

“Which means?” He remained at the stove, pan frying ham and eggs and working the toaster.

“Harry and Sylvia are practically begging to be prosecuted. Handing the IRS such an obvious fraud case doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense, Sunshine. I’ve told you that before. Even when the crooks are cops, they’re not as rational as we give them credit for.” He winced slightly.

“You’re not listening. Harry and Sylvia, like all smart crooks, filed tax returns because they knew not filing is the quickest way to jail.”

“I’m aware. So what’s the problem?”

“Second quickest one-way ticket to Uncle Sam’s hotel-for-life is filing fraudulent returns. Might pass undiscovered for years. Harder to prove when suspected.”