Redemption Road: A Novel (17 page)

“About Adrian?”

“Adrian, yeah.” James stubbed out the cigarette. “Francis always hated that guy.”

*   *   *

When Randolph went back inside, Elizabeth finished her cigarette, thinking. Thirteen years ago, did Adrian have enemies? Who knew? Elizabeth had been so young at the time. After the quarry, she’d managed her final year of high school and two years at the University of North Carolina before dropping out to become a cop. That made her twenty on her first day out of training, twenty and fired up and scared half to death. She wouldn’t have known the hatreds or politics; she couldn’t have.

But, she was thinking about it, now.

Following the sidewalk to the corner, she skirted a clump of pedestrians, then turned left and stepped into the street. Her car was parked a half block up on the other side. She thought about enemies; thought she was out clean.

That lasted another dozen steps.

Beckett was sitting on the hood of her car.

“What are you doing, Charlie?” She slowed in the street.

His tie hung loosely, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. “I could ask you the same thing.” He watched her cross the last bit of dark pavement. She gauged his face; it was inscrutable.

“I just stopped by,” she said. “You know. Checking on the case.”

“Uh-huh.”

Elizabeth stopped at the car. “Have you identified the victim?”

“Ramona Morgan. Twenty-seven years old. Local. We think she disappeared yesterday.”

“What else?”

“Pretty but shy. No serious boyfriend. A waitress she worked with thinks she might have had plans on Sunday evening. We’re trying to pin that down.”

“Time of death?”

“After Adrian got out.”

He dropped that on her like a rock; watched to see if she could handle it. “I want to talk to the medical examiner.”

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it.”

“Because of Dyer?”

“He wants you isolated from anything to do with Adrian Wall.”

“He thinks I’ll jeopardize the case?”

“Or yourself. Hamilton and Marsh are still in town.”

Elizabeth studied Beckett’s face, most of it lost in shadow. Even then, she could see the emotion below the surface. Aversion? Disappointment? She wasn’t sure. “Does Dyer hate him?”

He understood the question. She saw it. “I don’t think Francis hates anybody.”

“What about thirteen years ago? Did he hate anyone then?”

A bitter smile cut Beckett’s face. “Did James Randolph tell you that?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you should consider the source.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning James Randolph was everything Adrian was not. Plodding. Narrow-minded. He’s been divorced three times, for God’s sake. If anyone hated Adrian, it was Randolph.”

Elizabeth tried to work that piece into the puzzle.

Beckett slid off the car and thumped the fender, changing the subject. “I didn’t know you were still driving this rust bucket.”

“Sometimes.”

“What year is it again?”

She watched his face, trying to catch the angles. Something was happening, and it wasn’t about the car. “’Sixty-seven,” she said. “I paid for it working summer jobs. It was pretty much the first real thing I ever bought by myself.”

“You were eighteen, right?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s right. Seventeen. Preacher’s daughter.” He whistled. “Lightning in a bottle.”

“Something like that.” She didn’t mention the rest: that she’d bought the car two weeks after Adrian Wall stopped her from jumping to her death in the cold, black waters of the quarry; that she would drive it for hours on end; that for more years than she cared to count, it was the only good thing in her life. “What’s with all the questions, Charlie?”

“There was this rookie, once.” The transition was seamless, as if they’d been speaking of rookies all along. “This would be twenty-five years ago, before your time. He was a nice enough guy, but all elbows and apologies. Follow? Not cop. Not street. Anyway, this poor bastard went through the wrong door on the wrong side of town and ended up with a couple junkies on his chest and the business end of a broken bottle against his neck. They were going to cut his throat, kill him right there.”

“Then you came through the door and saved his life. It was your first shoot. I’ve heard the story.”

“Give the lady a gold star. Do you remember the name of the rookie I saved?”

“Yeah. It was Matthew…” She looked down. “Shit.”

“Finish it.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Come on, Liz. I gave you the gold star. Matthew what?”

“Matthew Matheny.”

“The moral of the story is that a man like Matheny feels more loyalty to the man who saved his life than to the fifty-year-old version of some dumb-ass kid who got peppered in the leg with bird shot. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Does Dyer know?”

“Hell, no. He’d burn this place to the ground and take you with it. The only thing between here and there is me.”

“Then why are you beating me up about this?”

“Because bright and early tomorrow this street will be elbow deep in news crews from as far away as DC and Atlanta. By sunset, it’s headline news from coast to coast. We’ve got dead women draped in linen, a murderer ex-cop, a shot-up kid, and a tumbledown church straight out of some goddamn gothic masterpiece. The visuals alone will take it national. You want to get sucked into that story? Now, when the AG already wants you for double homicide?”

“Who put Adrian in lockdown?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s claustrophobic. Was it Dyer?”

“Goddamn, Liz. What is it with you and stray dogs?”

“He’s not a dog.”

“Dog. Convict. Lonely ass kid. You can’t save every little thing.”

It was an old argument that felt deeper than usual. “What if someone set him up?”

“Is that what this is? Seriously? I told you, Liz. He’s a convict. Convicts are players.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“It’s just that he’s wounded and alone, right? You don’t think he knows that’s your weakness?” Beckett looked suddenly resigned, the frustration draining away. “Give me your hand.” He took it without waiting, then used his teeth to pull the cap off a pen. “I want you to call this number.” He wrote a number on the back of her hand. “I’ll call him first. Tell him to expect you.”

“Who?”

“The warden. Call him in the morning, first thing.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re lost in the wasteland, Liz. Because you need a way out, and because you won’t believe the things he’ll tell you.”

11

Elizabeth left her partner on the street and drove west until the road crested a high ridge, and the sun flattened like a disk against the earth. Adrian was either lying or not, and Elizabeth could think of only one place to find the answer she needed. So she followed a two-lane out of town and ten minutes later turned onto the long, dark drive of a five-hundred-acre estate that bordered the river where it ran fast and white at the bottom of a tall bluff. Box bushes scraped paint as she pushed into the property. Branches hung low above the drive, and when it dead-ended, she climbed from the car. The house loomed beneath a dimming sky, and she felt the history of it as she stepped onto the porch. George Washington slept here, once. So did Daniel Boone, a half dozen governors. The current resident—though once equally impressive—came to the door in a poplin suit that looked slept in. He was unshaven, his face drawn beneath a cloud of thin, white hair that stirred as the door opened. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, seemed shorter, frailer, ancient.

“Elizabeth Black?” He was confused, at first; then smiled. “My God, it’s been a thousand years.” He squeezed her, took her hand. “Come have a drink. Have two.” The bright eyes twinkled. “Elizabeth Black.”

“Crybaby Jones.”

“Come in, come in.”

He turned into the house, muttering apologies as he cleared newspapers and law books from different pieces of grand, old furniture. Glass clinked as empty bottles and cut-crystal glasses disappeared into the kitchen. Elizabeth wandered the room, her gaze on walking sticks, oil paintings, and dusty guns. When the old man returned, his shirt was buttoned to the collar, his hair perfectly smooth and damp enough to stay put as he moved. “Now, then.” He opened a double-door closet that concealed a wet bar and a wall of bottles. “You don’t care for bourbon, as I recall.”

“Vodka rocks, please.”

“Vodka rocks.” His hands hovered by a row of bottles. “Belvedere?”

“Perfect.”

Elizabeth watched him fix her drink, then mix an old-fashioned for himself. Faircloth Jones was a lawyer, retired. He’d come from nothing, worked weekends and nights to put himself through school, and become—arguably—the finest defense attorney ever seen in the state of North Carolina. In fifty years of practice—decades of cases involving murder, abuse, betrayal—he’d only cried once in court, the day a black-robed judge swore him into the state bar, then frowned disapprovingly and asked the young man why he was so shiny-eyed and trembling. When Faircloth explained that he was
moved by the grandeur of the moment,
the judge asked that he kindly move his wet-behind-the-ears, crybaby self somewhere other than his court
.

The nickname stuck.

“I know why you’re here.” He pushed the drink into her hand, sat in a cracked, leather chair. “Adrian’s out.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Since retirement and divorce, I rarely leave the house. Sit. Please.” He gestured to his right, and Elizabeth sat in a wooden-armed chair whose cushions were covered in faded, wine-colored velvet that had, in places, been worn white. “I’ve been following your situation with great interest. An unfortunate business: Channing Shore, the Monroe brothers. What’s your lawyer’s name, again?”

“Jennings.”

“Jennings. That’s it. A youngish man. Do you like him?”

“I haven’t spoken to him.”

“Young lady.” He lowered the drink onto the arm of his chair. “Water finds a level, as you know, and the state will have its pound of flesh. Call your lawyer. Meet with him tonight if need be.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“I fear I must insist. Even a young lawyer is better than none at all. The papers make your situation quite plain, and I don’t pretend to have forgotten the politics of state office. Were I not a million years old, I would have sought you out myself and demanded to represent you.”

He was agitated. Elizabeth ignored it. “I’m not here to talk about myself.”

“Adrian, then.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth slipped onto the edge of her chair. It seemed so small, the truth she needed. A single word, a few letters. “Was he sleeping with Julia Strange?”

“Ah.”

“He told me as much less than an hour ago. I just want verification.”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

“I have.”

“And you asked about the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.…”

“Don’t say no.”

“I wish I could help you, but that information is a matter of attorney-client privilege, and you, my dear girl, are still an officer of the law. I can’t discuss it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I’ve dedicated my life to the law. How can I do less when the days that remain are so few?” He drank deeply, visibly upset.

Elizabeth leaned closer, thinking perhaps he might feel the strength of her need. “Listen, Crybaby…”

“Call me Faircloth, please.” He waved a hand. “The nickname reminds me of better days that hurt all the more for their passing.” He settled into the seat as if a hand were pressing down.

Elizabeth clasped her fingers and spoke as if the rest of her words might cause pain, too. “Adrian believes someone planted evidence to implicate him.”

“The beer can, yes. We discussed that, often.”

“Yet, it was never challenged at trial.”

“For that, my dear, Adrian would have needed to take the stand. He was unwilling to do so.”

“Can you tell me why?’

“I’m sorry, but I cannot; and for the same reason as before.”

“Another woman has been killed, Faircloth, murdered in the same manner and in the same church. Adrian has been arrested. It will be in tomorrow’s papers.”

“Dear God.”

The glass trembled in his hand, and she touched his arm. “I need to know if he’s lying to me about the beer can, the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails.”

“Has he been charged?”

“Faircloth—”

“Has he been charged?”
The old man’s voice shook with emotion. His fingers were white on the glass, spots of color in his cheeks.

“Not for the murder. He was picked up on a trespass charge. They’ll hold him as long as they can. You know how it works. As for the dead woman, I know only that she was killed
after
Adrian’s release from prison. Beyond that, I don’t know what evidence they have. I’m frozen out.”

“Because of your own troubles?”

“And because Francis Dyer doubts my intentions.”

“Francis Dyer. Phhh!” The old man waved an arm, and Elizabeth remembered the way he’d cross-examined Dyer. As hard as Faircloth had tried, he had never been able to discredit Dyer’s testimony. He was unshakable on the stand, utterly convinced of Adrian’s obsession with Julia Strange.

“They’ll hang him for this if they can.” Elizabeth leaned closer. “You still care. I can tell. Talk to me, please.”

He looked out from under bushy brows, the narrowed eyes very bright. “Will you help him?”

“Trust him or walk away. Those are my choices.”

The old man leaned back in the chair and looked small in the rumpled suit. “Did you know that my family and Adrian’s have been together on this river for two hundred years or more? No reason you should, of course, but there it is. The Jones family. The Walls. When my father was crippled in the First World War, it was Adrian’s great-grandfather who taught me to hunt and fish and work the land. He cared for my parents, and when the Depression came, he made sure we had butter and beef and flour. He died when I was twelve, but I remember the smell of him, like tractor grease and grass and wet canvas. He had strong hands and a lined face and wore a tie when he came for supper on Sundays. I grew up and followed the law and never knew Adrian that well. But I remember the day he was born. A group of us smoked cigars on the porch right there. His father. A few others. It’s good land on the river. Good families.”