Tin God (3 page)

“Probably. But let Detective Charles sniff that out on his own.”

“How can you keep quiet?”

“Because I know how the police work. Charles wouldn’t hesitate to haul my ass in for prostituting, no matter that it’s the big dogs in this town paying for my services. Their names would stay out of it, and I’d do a six-month bid. No thanks.”

“We’re talking about a murder.”

Crystal pulled up in front of Sallie’s Diner and brought the car to a neck-breaking halt. “Trust me, it’s better to keep my mouth shut. And you should, too. You ain’t exactly popular with the upper crust ‘round here. You’ll be opening a can of rotting worms you don’t need to deal with.”

Jaymee glared out the window watching the tourists shuffling by on the sidewalk. Laden with souvenir bags and sweating in the heat, they were probably clueless about the horror discovered in Roselea’s star attraction.

She didn’t know what to do. Rebecca Newton had been good to Jaymee. She’d ignored all the bullshit people like Jaymee’s father spewed and given her a job. She treated her like an equal, not a low-class girl from the other side of the cemetery. Rebecca deserved the truth.

Jaymee shoved the car door open and stepped back out into the blistering sun. “You need to do the right thing. Or else I will.”

Crystal leapt out of the driver’s seat with the grace of a cat and strode around the old car to block Jaymee’s path. Her long legs gave her at least two inches over Jaymee, and her eyes shined like black ice. Crystal’s angular features morphed into a frightening mask, reminding Jaymee of a rattlesnake preparing to strike.

“You ain’t had a lot of luck telling the truth around here. People didn’t believe you then. You think they’ll believe you now, talking shit about a prominent businessman? And a grieving husband?”

“I never should have told you what happened with the adoption.” Years of guarding her secret, and Jaymee’d spilled her guts over a bottle of cheap tequila.

“Alcohol has that effect on people.” The malice left Crystal’s face, leaving her with her usual wide-eyed, sultry expression–the black widow luring in her prey. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t right of me.”

“No.” As if it mattered. Crystal knew how to use information to her best advantage.

“But it’s the truth, Jaymee. You got problems. You got a plan. You got more things to worry about than Royce Newton and his dead wife.”

“She was good to me.”

“That’s nice. But she’s gone. And your problems are still here. Take it from me, you get mixed up with the cops, everything you been working for these past few years’ll end up in the toilet.”

Jaymee scrunched her face against the building tears. She wouldn’t cry in front of Crystal. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

“But they will. Cops’ll bring you down somehow.” Crystal slid back into the car and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She fluffed her hair, pinched her cheeks. Satisfied, she turned back to Jaymee with pity in her eyes. “I’m just thinking about you, Jaymee. You get into trouble with the police, then how you gonna get your daughter back?”

###

The night drifted by in a blur of gossiping customers and fervor. Business was slower than normal, but those who did stop by to eat all had one thing to discuss: the murder of wealthy housewife Rebecca Newton. Rumor was already spreading that Jaymee found the body, and the stares made her skin itch. Even worse, her tired brain had Crystal’s words stuck on repeat.

Jaymee had spent seven years squirreling away every extra cent and trying to get the nerve to find the little girl she’d been bullied into giving up. She needed to stay below the radar and focus on her own problems.

She hated being alone in this life.

But that wasn’t fair. There was Cage, Lana’s brother. He and Jaymee remained close, but there were things he didn’t know; things she couldn’t tell him. It wasn’t the same.

Lana had been her only real ally, a mother figure when Jaymee’s own mother was forced to pretend her daughter didn’t exist. Jaymee dug her fingernails against her lips to keep from crying. Her throat stung with the effort.

She missed her mother as much as she did her dead friend, and Sonia lived five minutes away. She’d never been allowed to give Jaymee much comfort, at least not when her father was around. But still. Sonia had been there, and the love in her eyes–the one thing Paul Ballard couldn’t beat out of her–had shined when she looked at Jaymee.

A rogue tear trickled down her face. She huffed angrily and wiped it off her face. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself and focus on the problem. Getting involved in Rebecca’s murder would only complicate her life. Give a judge another reason to turn her request for custody down. If she ever found Sarah.

When she found her
. Jaymee had come too damned far to believe anything else.

The racket of cicadas accompanied Jaymee on her walk home. The sun had set an hour ago, but a shadowy glow hovered in the western sky. Downtown Roselea was mostly closed up, but a few stragglers were out to enjoy the relatively cool evening air. Jaymee left downtown behind her and headed into the residential district. She’d taken this route home for seven years. Sometimes she caught a ride from Cage or his parents or Crystal, but plenty of nights she wound down from a busy shift by strolling past the quaint, old homes.

Tonight was the first time she felt the need to look over her shoulder.

On the hill, Evaline stood silent and foreboding. Somewhere in Roselea, a killer was hiding. Had Royce murdered Rebecca, or were the rumors true? Snitches of dinner conversation mentioned rumors of Rebecca having an affair. Jaymee had no idea if that were true, but she couldn’t blame the woman. Royce Newton obviously didn’t love her as much as he wanted everyone to believe.

Headlights blinded Jaymee. She stopped in mid-stride, holding up her hand to protect her eyes. A quick flash–the blink of the high beams. The vehicle sped up and headed toward her with purpose. Instinct told her to run, but her feet were glued to the sidewalk. The sound of her pounding heart drummed in her ears as images of Rebecca’s body splayed over her blood stained sheets robbed her of any rational thought.

The car was close now. Minivan. Silver. Shaggy-haired driver.

The van rolled to a sharp stop, and the passenger window slid down. Her brother leaned across the front seats, his angry expression evident in the glow of the van’s interior lights.

“I cannot believe you’re walking home at night.”

Jaymee tried to slow the rapid staccato of her heart. “What was I supposed to do? Click my heels together and say ‘There’s no place like home?’”

Darren rolled his eyes to the van’s cushy ceiling. “For Christ’s sake. Get in.”

Nick Samuels hated mornings. Stumbling around the small kitchen, he willed his heavy eyelids to stay open. Coffee. Must have it. He dug the bag of filters out of the drawer and dropped the entire thing on the floor.

“Goddammit.”

Working as an investigative reporter for Jackson’s Clarion-Ledger gave him the chance to cultivate his night owl tendencies, but he had to meet with his editor today, so he was up early. If he’d even slept. It had been one of those nights filled with twisted dreams and heartbreaking memories. Twice, he’d woken up in a cold sweat. Four years and the pain still burned raw.

Trying to wake up, Nick leaned against the counter while the coffee brewed. A tension headache had already started. He rubbed the creases between his eyes with his knuckles and sat down at the bar that served as both a table and sometimes an office. He popped his laptop open, waited as the machine took its time loading, and logged onto the newspaper’s website.

Hazy fragments of last night’s dreams floated through his mind. Same ones he’d had since his wife’s murder. Lana, running through the field she’d been found in, looking over her shoulder as her killer closed in. Her face bore the same terrified expression she’d had in the morgue when he identified her.

The images never changed, and they rarely left Nick alone for more than a few nights at a time. He’d be stuck in this purgatory until Lana’s murder was solved.

He tapped the track pad to scroll through the stories. It was an election year, so the front page centered on political bullshit. Couple of stories on a zoning issue the city council was fighting over. A robbery.

A grainy, black and white picture on the left of the page caught his eye. The ropelike tension in his forehead exploded across his face and into his neck. Nick sucked in a breath, his gut retracting as though he’d been slugged.
Lana.
She was on the front page of the Jackson Clarion-Ledger again. He’d been jettisoned back to four years ago when his life shattered.

Except it wasn’t Lana.

A smiling woman with honey-blond hair gazed back at him, eyes blue and piercing. Pouty, pink lips, perfectly shaped nose. She could have been his dead wife’s sister.

Nick snapped his head back and forth, tried to control his breathing. He wiped his clammy hands on his legs.

Wife of former prominent Jackson attorney found dead in couple’s Roselea home.

Roselea
.

The room spun.

Lana’s childhood home
.

A tourist darling, historic Roselea was the kind of town Northerners pictured when they thought about visiting the old south. It also had one of the lowest murder rates in the state.

Lana had been killed four years ago in Jackson. But this woman–this woman who looked so much like his wife–had been attacked in Roselea. In her home. Strangled. Beaten.

Different encounter. Different circumstances. Different killer.

Coincidence
.

He looked at the picture again. His fingers flexed, aching to grab the phone, call his brother-in-law, and find out the details. Lana’s murder had been a stranger abduction. No real evidence left behind. Couple of hairs, a few fibers, but nothing that matched anything. Every suspect had been cleared, every lead a dead end.

Nick read the article again. The smiling blond-haired woman had been attacked in her home with no signs of forced entry. Her husband was the prime suspect–Royce Newton, a former prominent Jackson attorney retired from his family law practice. As a social worker, Lana might have known him.

Four years had passed without a lead in Lana’s case, and Nick desperately wanted to make the connection. But he knew the drill, having covered dozens of murders in his career. There was nothing here but hope and a creepy coincidence.

His muscles loosened back into their normal, tired state. Life went on, and he was done chasing ghosts. He hauled himself up straight and took a final gulp of coffee, then dumped it out in the sink. He had to clear his head and get ready for the pitch his editor couldn’t refuse. Not this time.

###

“No way.” Kim Lear, editor of Jackson’s Clarion-Ledger, glared at Nick across her immaculate desk. He met her gaze, chin jutted out like a petulant child’s, eyes narrowed in defiance.

“Kim. Come on. This is a real story.”

“You’re right.” She stood up and began to pace. Her thick braids were twisted into a loose knot, her heels sharp against the floor. Kim was constantly in the middle of a shitstorm, and Nick knew he slung more than his fair share of muck her way. But she was also a damned good journalist, fair and always seeking the truth. She couldn’t pass this up.

“The Reverend Wilcher is into something illegal,” Nick insisted. “He’s living too damned high for a preacher. He’s got to be embezzling.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I can if you let me.”

Kim took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Doesn’t seem to matter if I let you or not. You’re already hounding Wilcher and pissing off advertisers. His followers give us big bucks to advertise, and we can’t afford to lose them.”

Nick said nothing, his anger building as Kim continued.

“You going to deny harassing Wilcher yesterday?”

Why was the good Reverend offended? All Nick had done was stop by during Reverend Wilcher’s brunch at The Garden to ask a few tough questions. Guess the saint of Jackson had been embarrassed in front of his cronies.

“Didn’t harass the man. Just spoke the truth.”

“You followed him, went up to his table, and told him–in front of two members of the Mississippi Republican Party–that you’d heard some nasty rumors. Thought it was time to investigate.”

“Again. Spoke the truth.”

“Well, don’t. There are a dozen other stories to follow, all of which have real leads. This is a witch hunt, Nick.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.” Kim returned to her desk and pulled out a manila file with his name on it. “Four years ago, you pitched this same idea to Allan before he stepped down. He told you no for the same reasons I’m telling you now.”

Nick rubbed the day old stubble on his chin. “I’m still hearing the same rumors–”

“Really? Because I checked around, and you’re the only one with boo to say about Wilcher.”

“I’ve got better sources.”

“No. You’ve got guilt.”

Heat lit up Nick’s fair skin. He dug his chewed fingernails into the leather on the chair’s arms. “Excuse me?”

“You told Allan this was something your wife suggested.”

“Yeah. She was a social worker. She had contacts throughout the court system and the police department. Private sector, too. Heard some stuff. So?”

“You also told him later, after her murder, that you two had fought over you not pushing Allan harder.” Her gentle tone did nothing to quell the anger rising in Nick’s chest.

“This has nothing to do with Lana.”

Kim sat back down. She folded her arms over her desk and gazed at Nick with the same look of pity he’d seen on countless others. “It’s
all
about Lana. Ever since she died–”

“Murdered,” Nick cut her off. “Still unsolved.”

“Ever since then, you’ve been getting more and more reckless. I admire your willingness to get a story, but you’ve been threatened with jail time over harassing witnesses, accused of hacking into a computer system–”

“Never proven.”

“And gotten involved with a gang.”

“Undercover. Busted the drug ring, didn’t I?”

“You got lucky. Point is, you’ve been running half-cocked for four years, and you’re about to smack the bottom.” She looked him up and down, shaking her head. “You’ve lost weight, you live on caffeine, you’re always here, rarely home. Do you even have a life outside this paper?”

No. But he never had, even when he was married and his wife begged for attention. Climbing the career ladder and proving the poor kid from the sticks could become a big shot had been Nick’s focus for as long as he could remember. He hadn’t been able to change when Lana was alive; he sure as hell couldn’t when she was dead and he had nothing but guilt to live with.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you start affecting sales. So far, all your exploits have made you a hero. But you’re picking the wrong battle this time. Reverend Holden Wilcher is a well-respected man with a lot of powerful allies. Ones who’d have no problem bringing you down and us with you.”

“I can’t believe this.” Nick shoved the chair back and stood up. He glared down at his boss. “You used to be different, Kim. You didn’t give a damn about the rules or kissing ass. You wanted to tell the truth.”

“Then I became the boss. Unfortunately, someone’s got to smooch some ass if the paper’s going to keep going in this Internet economy. Politics are everywhere.”

Nick raked his hands through his hair. “This is bullshit. I’m telling you Kim, he’s dirty.”

“Maybe he is. But you’re not investigating him.”

“And what if I do?”

“You’ll be looking for a new job.” She leveled a hardened glare at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“So much for loyalty.”

“I’m sorry, Nick. I’ve got to draw a line somewhere.”

His shoulders sagged, the anger turning into bitter disappointment. Lana had been so sure about Wilcher, gung-ho to bring him down. He should have listened to her when he had the chance.

“You need a vacation,” Kim spoke again, the sharp edge in her tone replaced by sympathy. “You’ve been going hard ever since it happened. Why don’t you take some time to properly mourn her, find a way to get your life back?”

“How do I do that, Kim? The sonofabitch who killed her is still walking free. How am I just supposed to move on?”

“I don’t know.” Kim’s gaze went to her desk. She swallowed hard, like she was choking down rocks. “But you need to get your act together, or I’m going to have to make some changes.”

“Excuse me?”

She finally looked back up at him. “I don’t want to. But my responsibility is to this paper first. Take two weeks off. Rest. Think about the way your life’s going.”

“And then?”

“Either come back with a new attitude, or don’t come back at all.”

He couldn’t look at Kim as he left her office. Barely spoke to colleagues as he gathered the mail off his desk. He was sick of the pity and fed up with the whispering. But work was the only thing keeping him from drowning in a pool of guilt.

Outside, a purple wall of thunderclouds closed in from the west. The oncoming rain brought little relief from the heat. His black Taurus baked under the hazy sun, the leather seats hot enough to fry meat on. Nick sank into the driver’s seat and cranked up the air.

He slammed the car into reverse and then gunned the accelerator, whipping out onto Congress Street. A soccer mom in a blue SUV honked when he cut her off, but Nick didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Lana would have yelled at him.

God he missed her. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed–the quintessential southern belle. She’d hooked him from the moment she’d walked into the library at Ole Miss, hair pulled back, black-framed glasses on, with a sway in her hips that demanded male attention. She was a year younger than him, majoring in sociology and planning to be a social worker. They’d been inseparable from the start, married just after Lana earned her master’s in social work and Nick had been a fledgling reporter at the Ledger.

That’s when the trouble had started. He hadn’t been a very good husband. Not a cheater or a slacker. Just absent. A workaholic who supported his wife in theory but never in action.

He cut into the left lane, scrunching up his face at the onslaught of images. Lana, laid out in the morgue, her face covered with purple contusions, fair skin sliced up with superficial wounds, the telltale strangulation bruises creeping out from beneath the graceful slope of her neck.

Nick once thought the pain of Lana’s death would be the worst he would ever experience, but with each passing year, the agony grew, festering within him like a spreading cancer and robbing Nick of any chance to move on as he knew Lana would have wanted. The knowledge her murderer walked free, breathing clean air while Lana moldered in the dank ground, tortured him.

He pulled into his parking spot at the Tombigbee Lofts, one of the few amenities that came with the cheap downtown residence, and let the engine idle. Bigby’s was just around the corner. Maybe he’d walk over and drown himself in drink. At least his mind would have the chance to shut off.

Nick reached for the mail, a whiskey and Coke on his mind. A letter caught his eye. It sat on top of the week’s worth of crap he’d picked up. Plain white envelope, his name and the Ledger’s address typed. Typed, not printed. Instinct prodded at the base of his skull, warning him not to touch the envelope without gloves, but it was too late. Who knew how many people had handled it?

He grabbed the envelope and tore it open, yanking out the note. Plain white stock paper, black ink. From a typewriter. Who the hell still had a typewriter these days?

Carefully, he unfolded the letter. The words jumped off the page.

I killed your wife again last night.