Officer Elvis (3 page)

“Is there a will? Insurance? Did Tommy own anything of value?” Darla asked. It was the usual place to start.

“Tommy's attorney, L. N. McClure, called the Hinds County Sheriff's Department. Like every other reasonable citizen in Jackson, he assumed they'd be handling the case. They copied me. McClure's got a will and some insurance papers on file at his office. He'll be in this morning if you want to check.”

“And the girlfriend?” said Darla.

“I haven't had the pleasure, but apparently Miss Edwina was the love of Tommy's life. Not like she'd had a lot of competition for the position. She's a good-looking woman, though, according to the gossip mill—which usually gets those things right.”

“Did they live together?” asked Darla.

“In mortal sin, which is punishable by the eternal fires of hell,” said Shelby, “or so I hear in church, every now and then, when my guilty conscience gets the best of me and I am forced to attend.” He checked the phone's screen again. “They have an apartment together over in Ridgeland. It's a recent arrangement, I believe.”

“I'll need access to Tommy's computer files,” said Darla.

“We both know there ain't much in them.” Shelby hit the speed dial on his desk phone. “Miss Rita,” he said, “you're on speaker. How'd you like to assist the famous Detective Darla Cavannah?”

“Will I need a weapon?” Rita said. She sounded excited.

“What
I
need,” said Shelby, grinding his words a little, “is for you to have Tommy's case files emailed to the detective.”

“In other words, more of the same?” said Rita.

“Can you also have someone at the Hinds County sheriff's office pull Tommy's cellphone records for the last six months?” asked Darla. “And I'd like to have his office computer sent to my office.”

“You getting this, Rita?” asked Shelby.

“Loud and clear,” said Rita. “I'll get right on it, unless you're needing a tobacco run?” The line went dead. Rita hadn't waited for his answer.

“Reminds me a little of you,” said Shelby. “The part where she disses me.”

“Does the file show if Tommy had been working on anything of consequence in the last year or two?” Darla asked. “I've made a point of not following his career.”

“Sheriff Holcomb kept Officer Elvis in vice most of the time, same as I did—monitoring bingo games and strip club operators. Making sure the titty bar owners aren't violating county code. Stuff where Tommy couldn't get himself into any real trouble. According to Tommy's sheet, his only major bust in the last two years had to do with one Hardwick L. Lang.”

“Hardy Lang? Hinds County Hardy?”

“The one and only,” said Shelby.

Hardy Lang was reputed to be the largest meth dealer in the Jackson metro. His meth crystals were sold on the street in specially made resealable plastic bags, with the initials HCH stamped on both sides.

“I heard his product was off the market, but I thought it was the state narcs that busted him,” said Darla.

“True on both counts,” said Shelby. “The Mississippi Bureau of Narcotics shut down Hardy's lab about six months ago. The way I heard it, the lab was in a trailer, parked out in god-awful nowhere, in the middle of a pine forest up near Tupelo. It was on land Hardy owned, allegedly for the purpose of hunting. The story goes Hardy was in the trailer at the time the state narcs busted the lab. The lab reeked of that ammonia and vinegar kind of smell, the way meth labs do, but it was clean. Hardy apparently had just shipped the product. He had a gram bag in his pocket for personal use and on the counter was a carton of those Baggies he uses. The DA has Hardy on possession but is trying to get him on intent to distribute. Meantime, Hardy's out on bail. The case won't come to trial for God knows how long. Interesting, though, his product is off the market. No little empty HCH-stamped bags turning up in the usual places. Understand Hardy's been busted before, but his product was always back on the street the next day. But now, for some unknown reason, Hinds County Hardy is in repose.”

“How does Tommy fit into all this?” asked Darla.

“Believe it or don't, it was Tommy that uncovered the lab, with Hardy in it. Tommy's version is that his discovery was the result of dogged but brilliant police work. The general opinion of the law enforcement community is that it was more of the blind squirrel finding the nut situation. Who knows the real answer? However, and this is another interesting aspect: According to the arresting narcs, during the arrest Hardy was supposed to have said to Tommy—this is a quote now from the report—‘You put me out of
my
business, and I'll put you out of
my
misery.' ”

“Nice turn of phrase,” said Darla.

“The narcs didn't think much about it at the time, Hardy being a man of an intemperate nature and prone to the practice of verbal intimidation. As I recall, Hardy threatened to relieve me of my manhood on a couple of different occasions. Anyway, as fate would have it, six months after the bust, Hinds County Hardy is out of the meth business, and Officer Elvis is dead. Still, it's near impossible to believe that after a twenty-year reign as the Jackson drug king, Hinds County Hardy would get taken down by Tommy Reylander.” Shelby removed his glasses and sat back in his chair. “That's all she wrote,” he said.

“There's got to be more in Tommy's file,” said Darla.

“As you well remember from your days in the sheriff's department, Tommy didn't make a lot of enemies among the most vicious wing of the criminal element. He never posed much of a threat to anyone. He wasn't smart enough for that.”

“All right,” she said. “I'll talk to McClure, the girlfriend, and Hardy. It's a start.” She stood up, stretched her long limbs, loosening her torso, and headed for the door. Darla paused and looked back at Shelby. “We needed to do this.”

“That damn unwritten law,” said Shelby.

It was standard procedure for the investigator in a homicide case to meet with the deceased's attorney to review the will and any other legal matters that might be relevant.

Darla walked across the street from the MBI office and down Walsh Street to the dowdy two-story 1970s duplex that housed the office of L. N. McClure, Tommy's attorney.

Darla had never met him, but McClure was known around the state capital as a legal handyman—a competent but unambitious attorney. In Jackson, that usually meant the attorney augmented his professional income with family money. McClure carried out the small but necessary legal activities of modern life—wills, deeds of trust, land transfers, simple contracts. Rumor had it, his free time, of which there was a great deal, was taken up with online poker and Jack Daniel's.

The sign on the second story office door read L
.
N
.
M
C
C
LURE, LLC, ATTORNEY AT LAW
and under that it read
LICENSED REAL ESTATE BROKER
.

Darla opened the office door, thinking it led to a reception room. Instead, she found herself standing in McClure's private office, a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room with a set of law books lining the back shelf and two semicomfortable-looking chairs positioned in front of McClure's L-shaped desk/computer station.

McClure sat at his desk facing away from her, eyes on the computer screen. Seemingly unaware of her presence, he was engaged in a hand of Texas Hold'em.

Darla cleared her throat. When that didn't get McClure's attention, she whistled.

He pressed the pause button on his Hold'em game and wheeled around to face her. “My, my,” he said, looking her up and down. “Most impressive.”

McClure had a thick head of what Darla guessed used to be red hair, but was now completely white. His features were what family and friends might have described as cherubic when he was child. Now he just looked fat-faced. He wore a seersucker suit and a bow tie, the kind you had to tie yourself. In Mississippi that meant you probably went to an Ivy League school, or at the very least Vanderbilt or the University of Virginia. Also that you came from money and didn't mind being thought of as effete.

Darla guessed that if she hung around long enough McClure would allude to his family background. That's what people in Jackson did if they had a family background worthy of mention. Somewhere in the conversation, it would somehow surface.
My granddaddy was mayor of Hattiesburg,
or
He owned the fourth-largest cotton plantation in Carroll County.
Generally it was something far grander than the reduced circumstances the speaker found himself in at the moment.

It was the other way around in Philadelphia, where Darla came from. Mostly when people mentioned their ancestors it was to talk about humble beginnings.
My grandfather was a grammar school janitor,
or
My grandmother waited tables in the cafeteria down the street from Wanamaker's—
the idea being that your family was on the ascent, not the decline.

Darla handed McClure a card, which he looked at and pocketed. “Oh, I see,” he said. “The MBI is to assume the burden. Tommy would be most happy.” He made a time-out sign with his hands. “Bear with me, if you will. I just flopped a top pair and I'm about to lay a trap. The hand should be finished in another minute or two.” He turned back to the computer and resumed play.

Darla eased into one of the chairs in front of McClure's desk and waited. A few seconds later she heard McClure mutter: “How extraordinary. He check-raised me on fourth street.” Darla lifted herself out of the chair and peered over McClure's shoulder. The river card was turned up, the ten of diamonds, to go with McClure's hole cards, a pair of tens, giving him three tens. Without hesitating, McClure went all in. His online opponent, identified onscreen as Texas Lexus, called him and turned over two diamonds to make a flush.

McClure pushed back, swiveling in his chair to face Darla. He shook his head. “Two diamonds came up on the flop, but Texas Lexus was representing the bottom pair. By the time we got to the river, I was pot committed,” he said. “I suppose it happens to the best of us. You ever play no-limit, Detective?” he asked.

“No,” Darla said. Gambling was a subject she didn't care to discuss.

“Of course, online is merely for the purpose of practice,” said McClure. “The serious wagering is still at the casinos.”

“I'm aware of that,” said Darla. Her first husband, Hugh Cavannah, had taken up no-limit Texas Hold'em following his injury-forced retirement from the NFL. Hugh had gambled away most of the family money before he lost his life in a car crash on his way home from a Vicksburg casino. Most people in Jackson thought it was suicide, brought on by depression due to the premature ending of his spectacular football career and his many gambling debts. Three years and a marriage later, Darla still blamed herself for being too busy with her career to know what was going on with Hugh.

“Thank you for indulging me. L. N. McClure,” he said standing up halfway, extending the standard Southern gentleman's limp handshake. “Forgive me, but I have naught to offer in the way of refreshments.” The wastebasket near his desk contained an empty two-liter bottle of Jack Daniel's. “And before you ask, as I know Northerners are fascinated with the fact that Southerners at times prefer initials in place of their Christian names, I will divulge what ‘L.N.' stands for, on the condition that you promise not to share this intimate knowledge with another soul.”

“I'll take it to my grave,” said Darla.

“Very well. ‘L.N.' stands for…wait for it…Little Nelson,” said McClure.

“That does explain your preference,” said Darla.

“They are both family names, from my mother's side. Of course, the order of my two names did make a difference. My maternal grandfather, Ronnie Little, helped found Little and Monroe, one of the largest timber management firms in the South. You will find pictures of Little relatives on the walls down at the capitol. Still, I put it to you, what man—especially what Southern man—would willingly allow himself to be called
little
?”

“If I could have a look at Tommy's papers, L.N.,” said Darla, stressing the initials.

“Forgive me,” he said. “You're a lady on a mission.” He fiddled about in the top drawer of his desk and removed a manila file with the words “T. Reylander” handwritten on the tab.

Opening the envelope, Darla emptied the contents on L.N.'s desk.

“As you can see, the dearly departed didn't leave a will, as such,” said McClure. “Anything not covered by the documents in this envelope—and there is precious little else—will be probated and most likely end up in the hands of the cousin, which the authorities thus far have been unable to contact. He is believed to reside in Fish Belly, a town in northern Arkansas we haven't yet located.”

The envelope continued three documents: an insurance policy from Wichita Life for ten thousand dollars, naming Edwina Nothauzer beneficiary; a title to Tommy's Caddy, with Edwina's name next to Tommy's; and a ten-page trust document, which Darla took a few minutes to scan.

“If I'm reading this right,” said Darla, “Tommy owned a two-hundred-and-three-acre parcel of land, which he has placed in some kind of a trust.”

“
Peace in the Valley
was his name for the property,” said McClure.

“ ‘Peace in the Valley' was one of Elvis's hit songs, wasn't it?” asked Darla. “I'm assuming this is hunting land of some sort?”

“Thomas was informed by the previous owner that Elvis Presley used to hunt deer on the property. This prompted Thomas to offer a thousand dollars an acre for the parcel, using every last dollar of the insurance money he received when his parents were killed during Hurricane Katrina. Surrounding acreage was going for somewhere around two hundred twenty-five an acre.”

“Sounds like Tommy,” said Darla.

“Thomas, believing the land to be sacred, put the parcel in trust,” said McClure, “specifying that it could never be sold. Last month he named Miss Nothauzer the guardian of the trust in the event of his demise, giving her authority over how the land is to be managed. She will also be the beneficiary of any income from the land. However, for the last three years there has been barely enough income from the pine tree thinnings to cover the taxes. In addition, the land is too hilly for any other cash crop.”

“Anything in a safe-deposit box?” asked Darla, moving on.

“Alas, he didn't maintain one,” said McClure. “There was a valuable Gibson guitar, which I understand perished in the car along with him. And of course there are the Elvis outfits. I've seen him in four or five different ones. It's my understanding that Elvis jumpsuits can fetch a goodly sum on the market, even used, although given Thomas's less than athletic physique they may be hard to liquidate. The proceeds from their sale will likely make up the biggest part of his estate.”

“So, the girlfriend,” said Darla. “Ms. Nothauzer gets the markdown value on the Caddy, a small insurance policy, and income from some land that doesn't produce any sizable income.”

“Not exactly a widow's fortune,” said McClure.

“Did you ever meet this Ms. Nothauzer?”

“Only once,” said McClure, raising his eyebrows.

“And?” asked Darla.

“She's quite attractive and,” he paused, looking for the right word, “quite exuberant.”

“Exuberant?” asked Darla.

“The image of a roller-coaster ride comes to mind,” said McClure. “But I must say, she and Thomas were quite besotted with one another.”

“Did Tommy have any other legal papers?” asked Darla.

“None that I'm aware of,” McClure said. “And I believe I would have known. Thomas, as I'm sure you were aware, was always one for frugality, and my rates are the most reasonable in Jackson.”

“Did you know of anyone that might want to harm him?” asked Darla.

“Perhaps someone in his line of work,” said McClure, “but I know nothing of that.”

When the conversation paused, McClure shifted in his seat. “Well, I suppose you'll want to know where I was last night?”

“If you feel the need to tell me,” said Darla. “I could check your name off the list.”

“I was having dinner with my precious mother,” said McClure, dotting his alibi with a polite smile.

“With your mother?” Darla repeated flatly, the way cops do, implying that the matter required further explanation.

McClure was quick to respond. “I know what you're thinking. A middle-aged Southern man still tied to his mama's apron strings. I don't live in her house. I have my own dwelling. Mama is quite attached to me, is all. Family is everything here in the South.”

“Thanks for the sociology lesson,” said Darla. She gave the documents a last look, slipped them back into the envelope, and handed them across the desk to McClure. “Could you have copies made and sent over to the MBI office, to my attention?”

“It would be my pleasure,” said McClure, sounding more solicitous than the situation called for.

Darla let a few seconds of silence fill the room, while her green eyes bore in on his watery blue ones. She sensed L. N. McClure had left something out of his well-prepared story, but she wasn't sure how to uncover it. She stood and offered her card to McClure. “In case something else comes up.”

He pocketed her card. “Yes, exactly,” he said. “It would be useful to know where to find you, if the need should arise.”