Solemn (30 page)

He went on, staying behind and pushing off sleep, to flick through the missing persons database at headquarters—scanned police and coroner's reports—for women with dark faces and caring families and stories dense enough not to be flat-out lies.

Another one caught his eye: At the start of the year, a Shahari Montgomery washed up where the Mississippi River Watershed drained into the Gulf of Mexico, a tattle of treeless marsh. She was faceup amidst marsh roses and bleach-white fairy candles, washed of melanin. Her toxicology report found meth. Her sister and grandmother reported her missing for three months, last known to be obsessed with a new boyfriend. White. The boy never came in the house. Honked from the curb and brought her back late. A half-incorrect license-plate number the grandmother recalled finally scrambled into the Department of Motor Vehicles registry as that of a blue Jeep—belonging to a Richard Singer of Vicksburg. This was noted, Bolden saw. “I ain't seen the Jeep in months,” transcripts quoted. “Brett run it in the ground. That's how he is with stuff.” Then, this new spring, a Brett Singer was stopped for driving under the influence on the Trace. The arresting officer reported a young black woman with him—passed out sleep in the backseat. When stirred due to the commotion, she explained she carried no identification. Her name was not taken. His was. They called his daddy once more: no mug shot, no fingerprinting, “keeping this hush.” Brett's brother—twin—picked him up the next morning. In return favor, Brett was finishing up one hundred hours' community service: helping his daddy and brother fix up the low-income housing the family owned.

Most recently, at one of Warren County's Fourth of July celebrations, a Brett Singer denied any part of a melee set off faulty Class B fireworks that did not detonate properly—caused burns and busted eardrums to a few in the nearby crowd, all for a stunt. Prankster he was. Another slap on the wrist.

“Even if this … this theory you done concocted had weight to it,” Nichols said, “it's hardly enough to say we don't have to punish the Redvines for being crooks.”

“Forensics still got the hairs collected from Pearletta's bathtub and Kimberley Williams' rape kit. Shahari Montgomery's DNA might be in that Jeep, if this kid ain't wrecked it by now. Now, if there are matches…”

“So what? We show up in Vicksburg tearing hair out of Richard Singer's son's head? Driving off with his fleet without telling nobody why?”

“No,” Bolden said. “We subpoena DNA samples. We get a warrant on the Jeep.”

“On what grounds? Some black gal who cheated her way into a seedy motel room, fornicating, having a made-up conversation in a motel room with a poor woman?”

“It wasn't a made-up conversation. She knew Pearletta Hassle was on dope.”

“We told her fella we thought heroin was involved, Justin!” Nichols yelled. “We told everybody we talked about it with. That woman is a junkie stacked in one of the crack houses where they done sold off their IDs to kids who wanna buy liquor. Just to get a quick rock. Tryin' to forget she left behind the good life she could have had for a druggie nut in a trailer. We can't go scapegoating a boy like that until—
if
—she turn up.”

“What if she doesn't?” Bolden pleaded. “We don't even check? We just do nothing for families out here probably having nightmares as we speak?”

“I ain't trying to get them Weathers amped up again.”

“We don't have to tell 'em who we bring in for questioning.”

“We need a reason to collect samples, fingerprints. In this case, a good one.”

“So we just go with what we know about Earl Redvine, for taking some … some
things
? We ignore what we don't know elsewhere, for lives of these girls? Like we done so many times before? Like we did when we found Pearletta's baby out there in that well? Just an acre from where we found a family who stole some guns they ain't used.”

“Do your damned job, boy,” Nichols said. Then he was out the door.

For him to sit back awhile was the only defiance Justin Bolden had to give. He knew it. But he could pretend. He had a daughter to worry about, and a wife, and a mortgage now. He wouldn't have much of an inheritance beyond his parents' house declining on cinder blocks. He had needed the promotion just as much for money as for prestige. He saw where the resources were funneled, who or what took longer attention spans. The fact anyone believed what they stood by in this case shocked his system.

He just walked into people's unprettiness and problems and desperations as a disciplinarian, like a principal packing heat or that faraway uncle who knew how to get a man killed. If he had it his way, he would have tripped a white man like Brett Singer in the middle of the night and drug him down to an unmapped part of Texas to dig a hole in the desert sand. Instead, he paid the tab his boss left him with.

*   *   *

“Now you know what all to say?”

The confirmation was made as if the practiced speech was as innocuous as slicing off a lizard's tail. Presumably, Solemn would grow back, however crooked or bent. And Solemn knew what to say about it all, to think not of the lies but of getting out of Bledsoe, closer to the cities and the TV and the stars and all of it. Her home was too sullied now, leaden and bleak. She had no fear Redvine would harm her, but he was suspect. And anyone who had a problem or concern or imperfect life either disappeared or got treated like a witch. Maybe it was the trees, the dark, the roads, the well, the fields.

Landon needed to return to Hattiesburg, for his assignment, if not the children. Akila refused. “In case the cops need me.” Bev Redvine had already called to be directed to Detective Bolden, a name she remembered well from jagged times around the season when Pearletta Hassle lost that baby and Stephanie almost lost hers. Now, it was her own. She knew nothing. She never heard Redvine mention anything about stealing nothing. He would have surely told her. They had that kind of marriage.

Had Akila known all this was coming out of Singer's, she would have told Landon to kiss her ass and go home. But that fork in the road was too far back now. She was stuck on its prongs. She helped tidy up Solemn's hair and snap-button, coverall-jean dress. It was one of the new things. Solemn gave in against flip-flops or sandals. She had on white bobby socks folded down and jammed into blue buckled shoes. Her arms and legs were baby oiled. At raised hemline, her knee scar was still prominent. And what she had to say about it all was what she always thought anyway: “I wanna go.”

Landon and Akila showed up to help piece it all together—with the proper English and thought processes born of traveling, a more integrated life, dodging overt prejudice, juggling the covert kind. Tense nights in the trailer lingered until the morning, with promises of financial support should Redvine get locked up. Insistence none of this was going to happen. DigiCate terminated Redvine's contract, once ‘Walter' told the big boys what he heard. The mobile home was owned. Bev could always pick up more hours on the shelves at the Bible college. They could sell the Malibu. Or she and Solemn could pack up and get the hell out of Singer's. The Longwoods had. Husband and wife chopped down peach and fig trees at cracks of dawn a few mornings before they silently left. The squirrels, raccoons, crows, and possums raced to the splattered tale of fruit left long before anyone at Singer's showed up with their barrels and plans to sell what they ferreted. Maybe, no matter if they got out of this here or not, it was time for the Redvines to go. Good fishing and low prices in Tennessee, Bev heard. Maybe. But for now …

*   *   *

Beverly, Akila, and Solemn Redvine sat waiting for Mr. Bolden.

“Please, in here.” He extended his hand toward the room behind him. They all filed in and scooted back chairs. Solemn sat in the one Akila set out for her.

“Would anybody like water or coffee, soda pop, chips?”

“No. We ate already,” Bev Redvine said. “We just had a very nice pizza dinner up the street at Solemn's favorite place.”

“Yeah, I love that spot, too,” Bolden said. “Wife hates it, 'cause she's had to pick me up a few wider belts. But what can you do? Solemn, how are you today?”

She had certainly grown. So had he. She mumbled something.

“Thanks for coming in,” he finally said. “And a family attorney…?”

“We gonna get one,” Bev told him. “My son helping us out.”

“Sure,” Bolden said. “So, Mrs. Redvine, as Solemn's legal guardian, since she is a minor, you know everything here is taped and possibly watched?”

“I do.”

“And Miss Akila is not necessarily a guardian, but…”

“I'm here to witness.”

“Yes,” Bolden said. “Witness. So that's fine. Normally, we only allow those in question and perhaps their legal guardians in here. But seeing as though Solemn is a minor, we can go ahead and make an exception.”

“Thank you,” Bev said.

Bolden circled his mouth to talk. Akila asked, “Have you found out any more about Pearletta Hassle and the Singer folks?”

“Mrs. Redvine, I personally want to thank you for coming forward,” Bolden had rehearsed. “The information you provided opened doors nobody had explored. And, that's priceless. I informed my superiors of what was discovered and tried to take it all into consideration for the case here. The investigation is ongoing at this time. I'll be sure to update you on the proceedings, if you wanna keep in touch about 'em.”

“Certainly I wanna know what happens,” Akila told him.

“I'm sure it means a lot to you, if you would go through all your trouble to track down the owner of your in-laws' home and accuse his son of that kind of involvement.”

“We own our home,” Bev stated.

“Not your home per se,” Bolden stated, “but the property in general. The park. There is a connection there. Which would somewhat explain what this man was doing in Bledsoe to begin with…”

“Owners don't come 'round that much,” Bev said. “Truth be told, my family and I didn't know that woman much more than you asking us to help her move.”

“Well, it may have been a good thing, rest assured. As I said, all this is ongoing. But, as you know, Earl Redvine—your husband—was taken into custody for home invasion and possession of stolen property in correlation to an estate robbery in Cleveland, where he says he took Solemn.”

“Yes,” Bev said. “Solemn loved to go out on the road with Red, and he loved to take her. I figured it was good for her to get out and see something new, you know?”

“Sure,” Bolden said. “And, as you found out, I've been assigned to the case to get to the bottom of things. Now, if you don't mind, I'll ask Solemn some questions.”

“Go 'head,” Bev said.

“So, Solemn, you understand I'm an officer of the law?” he asked the young lady he couldn't help but still see as roadkill, stretched out on her back on an off-the way road.

“You remember we met before,” he continued. “A few times. You were a little—”

“I remember you.” Solemn rolled her eyes.

Bolden proceeded. “Now, Solemn, you also understand you're going to be answering questions as part of a criminal investigation? That means the things we discuss involve crimes.”

“I understand.”

“Okay. Now, just answer and tell the truth. And your mother and sister are here to support you. And you can also ask me questions, if you like. Just stop me and let me know if you don't understand anything I've said, okay?”

“Fine.” Solemn's eyes settled to the front desk outside the window.

“Okay, how old are you, Solemn?” He positioned his pen and the paperwork.

“I just turned fifteen.”

“And what is your occupation … or no, excuse me. Where you go to school?”

“I don't.”

“Solemn's homeschooled,” Bev offered.

“Oh, okay. Clever way to keep up with her, huh?”

“Something like that.” Bev sighed.

“And, back in July, you and your father visited Bolivar County in his car, in order to sell some computer equipment … Digital … er…?”

“Well, he sell 'em. I just come along.”

“Yes. Your father works as a traveling salesman, and you travel with him?”

“Yes.” Her eyes followed a fly buzzing throughout the office.

“Okay, now … Solemn, you payin' attention?”

“Solemn, listen to the man,” Bev said.

“And do you go inside every single house with him or stay in the car, or what?”

“Mostly, I just stay in the car,” Solemn recalled. “He doesn't really go into too many houses 'cause people don't let him in like that. It's a lot of white people.”

“I see. And are these white people at home when he comes into their houses?”

“Yeah.”

“Say ‘yes,' Solemn,” Bev said.

“Yes, they open the doors.”

“All the time?”

“Yes.”

“What about in Cleveland? Your father ever go into a house nobody let him into?”

“I don't know. If he did, I didn't see it.”

“So, you aren't saying ‘No.' You're just saying you ain't see?”

“I think she's saying ‘No,' Detective,” Bev said.

“Well, I have to make sure with her.”

“I never saw Daddy go into anybody's house when the owners wasn't there and steal a bunch of stuff he sold later,” Solemn said.

“Got it,” Bolden said. “When you went into these houses with your father, did you ever touch anything?”

“I guess I did,” Solemn recalled, her eyes up top of it all. “But my mama told me never to use anybody else's toilet. It's impolite.”

“Did your mother ever tell you not to take anybody's things?” Bolden peered.

“Yeah, she has. ‘Thou shalt not steal.'”