The Buzzard Table Page 17

  Aunt Zell is like Mother with the edges smoothed off—a “good woman” as opposed to a “good ol’ gal”—and she seemed happy to see me when I pulled into their drive just as she and Uncle Ash were setting out for church.

  She could always read me like a book, but her only comment as she tucked her arm in mine was, “Your menfolk aren’t with you?”

  The minister’s text for the sermon was Psalm 118:24: “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”

  I took that as a good sign. All the same, a whole flock of swallowtails were doing barrel rolls through my chest when I drove down the long winding lane to our house. As soon as I neared the closed doors of the garage, though, I started laughing. In leftover red paint, a crudely lettered banner stretched across the whole width:

  CONGRATULATIONS, NEW MOM!!IT’S A BOUNCING BABY, HALF-GROWN, SON!!!

  CHAPTER

  23

  In deserts, or areas with rocky soils or insufficient fuel for cremation, disposal of human remains by vultures may be the best and cleanest option.

  —The Turkey Vulture Society

  Major Dwight Bryant—Monday morning

  Next morning when Dwight drove Cal down to the road to meet the school bus, Cal said, “Can I tell Mary Pat and Jake that she’s going to adopt me?”

  “She? She who?”

  Cal’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “Judge Knott,” he said, gurgling with laughter.

  Until Deborah mentioned it yesterday, Dwight had not noticed that Cal had quit using her name unless there was absolutely no way to avoid it.

  But when Deborah told him he could start calling her Mom if he wanted to, that didn’t seem to come easily either, so she had laughed and turned it into a game. She made him say “Mom” ten times in a row, then pelted him with questions that he had to answer “Yes, Mom” or “No, Mom.”

  “And you have to say ‘Son, son, son,’” he told her, which sent her reeling around the house in silly introductions that left him in giggles.

  “Mister Bandit, have you met my son?”

  “Major Bryant, I’d like you to meet my son.”

  To her own reflection in the mirror: “Hey, I hear you have a son now.”

  She downloaded the simple three-page adoption form—Petition for Adoption of a Minor Child (Stepparent)—and Dwight had looked at it in disbelief. “That’s it?”

  “You wish. We’re in for at least one home visit and evaluation by Social Services and God knows what else. But we can drop this off at Ellis Glover’s office tomorrow, get the ball rolling. If we’re lucky, we could be official by April or May.”

  “That long?” Cal was dismayed.

  “It’ll be worth the wait,” Dwight said. “If I know your new family, they’ll have a big pig-picking to celebrate.”

  “And lots of sparklers,” Deborah promised, her blue eyes shining.

  “Talk to you a minute, boss?” Mayleen Richards said.

  When she first joined the department, Richards was a farm-bred, sturdily built young woman from Black Creek with freckles across her prominent nose and cinnamon brown hair. After dumping both her dull marriage and her equally boring job in the Research Triangle, she had pestered Bo Poole till he took her on. Now she lived in a one-bedroom apartment over a garage on the outskirts of Dobbs and was estranged from her conservative family, who were appalled that she had taken a Mexican lover, even though Miguel Diaz owned a flourishing landscaping business and was an American citizen. Originally hired for her computer skills, she had worked her way up to detective, and she and Raeford McLamb were now Dwight’s most trusted deputies.

  “Sure,” Dwight said. “What’s up?”

  “Mike threw a fiesta this weekend and I got to talking with one of his cousins. She told me that she works out at the Clarenden, the four-to-midnight shift. I know we’ve been warned off, but she was on duty Thursday evening with another woman. Jasmeet. I guess she’s Pakistani or Indian. Anyhow, this Jasmeet told Mike’s cousin that at least two men called Thursday evening to ask if a Frank Alexander was registered. The first one didn’t want to be connected to the room because he said he and some friends were going to surprise him. But he did want to know the room number, which she didn’t give him. The second man was from the same place she is and spoke her language, so when he seemed to know about the surprise party and asked for the room number she gave it to him even though that’s against the rules.”

  “A surprise party, hmm?”

  “Yes, sir. Mike’s cousin doesn’t want to get her friend in trouble, but she thought somebody ought to know. And after they heard that the FBI was calling him Alexander Franklin, Jasmeet said she thought somebody had called earlier asking for that name.”

  “Alexander Franklin, Frank Alexander. Interesting. Mike’s cousin wouldn’t happen to know what language this Jasmeet speaks, would she?”

  “Poon-something?” Mayleen asked doubtfully.

  “Punjabi?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Did Jasmeet tell the FBI?”

  “I don’t think so. Mike’s cousin says she’s afraid of what their boss would say if he found out, so if you pass it on, could you leave out the part about her telling the room number?”

  “You know I can’t make that promise, but don’t worry about it. I’m sure the feds are gonna solve this without our help.”

  “Right,” she said, and started to leave when something caught Dwight’s eye.

  “You say Mike threw a fiesta this weekend? Wouldn’t have anything to do with that rock on your finger, would it?”

  Even though she had suddenly flushed a bright red, she looked down at a diamond solitaire that was at least a three-quarter carat and wiggled her fingers. “What? This ol’ thing?”

  “Your family finally come around?”

  She grimaced and shook her head. “Never gonna happen, I’m afraid, so I told Mike we might as well quit waiting. We’re thinking Easter and I’ll need to put in for some time off because he wants to take me to Mexico and meet the rest of his family.”

  They were interrupted by Ray McLamb, who came bounding in, dapper and sleek with the pencil-thin mustache he had recently grown. His brown face was creased with laughter as he grabbed Richards in a bear hug and swung her around even though she was almost as tall as he and could probably spot him a few pounds. “Congratulations, girlfriend!” he said. “Want us to throw you a bridal shower?”

  She laughed. “Been there, done that. Got more crock pots and silver picture frames than I’ll ever use. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, Major: I called the hospital this morning. Mrs. Harper thinks he tried to squeeze her hand when she spoke to him.”

  “Hope she’s right,” Dwight said.

  “But we still don’t know if he’s connected to the Jowett murder or that pilot’s, do we?” asked McLamb, getting serious.

  “Or neither,” Dwight told them. “And I don’t think he’s going to be able to tell us himself anytime soon, so that’s our first priority. Why don’t you go back and talk to the real estate agent, the Todds, and the Kendricks? See if they’ve remembered anything useful. And ask if any of them knew Jeremy Harper or had a connection to the airfield. Talk to Richard Williams, too. Maybe the kid confided in him.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Richards asked.

  “How about you get on the computer and see what you can dig up on that group that organized the demonstration out at the airport. When she tried his case last week, my wife says he testified that they don’t have a physical headquarters, just an Internet site. Dalton didn’t have much luck in Kinston, so see where the links take you.”

  He reached for his phone as they left. It was still his most useful tool in any investigation, especially since the hiring freeze had left the department at least three people short. Too soon to ask Terry if he’d learned anything, but he did connect with the SBI lab to ask where they were on the DNA samples they’d submitted.

  “I moved it to the fron
t of the line for you, Major,” the lab tech said, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Special Agent Massengill just how helpful I was.”

  Dwight chuckled. “You got it, son.”

  “I won’t be able to send you the written report for another day or two, but unofficially, we got two matches.”

  “Two?”

  “She was a busy little beaver, Major. Semen on the first pair of pants matches sample number two. On the second pair, sample number one. Number one was also on that upholstery sample. There was another stain on that upholstery, but it’s a lot older and doesn’t match with either of the two men.”

  Dwight carried his notes down to the crime scene lab that Deputy Denning had set up and told him the results. “Remind me of the sequence,” he said.

  Denning pulled up the file on his computer screen and a picture appeared of the contents of Rebecca Jowett’s laundry hamper, laid out on the floor in the order in which they had been retrieved.

  “Number two is Paul Kendrick; number one is Wesley Todd. So here’s where we found Kendrick’s semen,” Denning said, pointing to a lacy item that had come from near the top of the hamper. “Down here at the bottom, Wesley Todd.”

  “So she got it on with both clients about a week apart?” Dwight asked. “First Todd and then Kendrick?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Denning agreed.

  “Kendrick did say she showed him a condo on Saturday afternoon.”

  Denning grinned. “Wasn’t all she showed him, was it?”

  He clicked his mouse a few more times till he came to pictures of the tire tracks he’d found Friday morning. “Two of ’em are yours, Major, but this one isn’t.”

  The picture showed a crisp ripple pattern. “Unfortunately, it’s a common make and too new to show an individualized wear pattern. But see over here? Looks like a roofing nail’s embedded there, so if we found the right tire, we could tie it to that lane.”

  Dwight’s cell phone rang as he walked back down the hall. It was their medical examiner. “Thought you’d like to know the autopsy results on that motel death.”

  “They let you attend the autopsy?”

  “Get real, Dwight. But professional courtesy still means something in my field, and I’ve seen the preliminary report. Like I thought, the spinal cord was severely damaged near the top of the spine, between C-3 and C-4. That means spinal shock and almost instantaneous death. He had a minor scratch on the back of the neck and one very light bruise, but he died too quickly for significant bruises to form.”

  “What about that scratch?”

  “Just a shallow tearing of the epidermis. Approximately two centimeters long, no more than two millimeters wide. And he could have done it himself earlier. Oh, and absolutely nothing under his fingernails.”

  “Are they calling it an accident or murder?”

  “Right now, it’s labeled a suspicious death.”

  “I don’t suppose they named any suspicious names?”

  “Not that my friend’s heard.”

  “He give you a time of death?”

  “Well, a barbecue plate with slaw and a side order of extra hushpuppies was delivered a little after seven Thursday evening and he died about two or three hours after eating it. Assuming he finished it off right away, that would put the TOD between nine and eleven. Unless, of course, he waited for everything to get cold.”

  “Not hardly likely, is it?” Dwight said.

  He spent the rest of the morning catching up on paperwork, then met Deborah up in Ellis Glover’s office at noon. Tall and thin and completely bald except for a tonsure of straight white hair that circled a dome as shiny as any ivory billiard ball, their clerk of court had hooded eyes and ascetic straight lips. Give him a monk’s robe and he could have stepped out of a medieval painting, but he was all smiles today as he showed Dwight where to sign the consent to adoption form.

  Afterwards, as they walked out into the sunshine, Deborah said, “What do you feel like eating?”

  “Anything but barbecue,” Dwight said.

  By late afternoon, reports were starting to roll in. Mayleen had contacted various PAT members from around the Triangle who had been at the demonstration where Jeremy Harper was arrested. They all expressed surprise and concern to hear he’d been attacked, but could offer no valid reasons why. As far as she could gather, none of them were particularly close to the boy. They approved his enthusiasm for ending torture, but thought he went off half-cocked in his advocacy of more militant action. “He brought a bolt cutter to one demonstration, for God’s sake,” said one PAT member. “He wanted us to cut a hole in the chain-link fence and storm one of the hangars. Like there were any prisoners being held there. It’s just a refueling stop, not a terminus.”

  “They did have one funny story, though,” Mayleen said. “Jeremy was right about how they change the registration numbers on the fuselage, only sometimes they’re not as clever as they think they are. They sent me pictures of a Learjet with one set of numbers on the left side and an entirely different set of numbers freshly stenciled on the other side.”

  “Sorry, Major,” Ray McLamb said, “but Ms. Coyne couldn’t give us anything more, and neither the mother or the sister ever heard her mention the airfield except to say that’s where Mr. Jowett flew out of on a private plane Friday night. Rebecca Jowett was never out there so far as they know and the husband says the same thing.”

  He flipped through his notepad. “Todd was out on a call, but Mrs. Todd was there and she walked us through how long it would take to set those traps in the house and up in the attic. How they had to find where the rats got in and seal up the holes. Did you know that female rats can get pregnant at three and a half weeks?”

  “Never thought about it,” Dwight said.

  “Of course, they only live about a year in the wild,” McLamb said, “so I guess they have to get an early start. Not like a damn crow that can live twenty years.”

  Dwight grinned, having heard his deputy’s annual rant about how crows stripped the pear tree in his backyard.

  “And all the times check out?”

  “Yessir. She said he left the house around six-thirty Saturday night. She took the children over to her mother’s to spend the night and he drove straight out to the client’s house. That checks. The client says he got there around seven and spent at least an hour and a half setting the traps and looking for rat holes. According to Mrs. Todd, he got home a little after nine.”

  “What about Kendrick?”

  “Now that’s an interesting problem. He and his wife flew to Mexico this weekend.”

  “They did?” Dwight frowned and leaned back in his padded chair.

  “A neighbor gave me their daughter’s phone number and she was really ticked about it. Seems Kendrick called her and told her she had to come get her dog. That he was taking her mother to Mexico for Valentine’s Day, only they aren’t due back till the end of the month.”

  “Some Valentine present,” said Dwight. “Well, we can wait, but if he’s not back by the first of March, we might have to issue a fugitive warrant on him.”

  “Speaking of Valentine presents, is it okay if I take off now?” McLamb asked. “I forgot to buy Lillie anything and I’ll be in the doghouse the rest of the week if I don’t show up with something.” He paused in the doorway. “How’d it get to be that men have to buy the valentines and the anniversary cards?”

  “Damned if I know,” Dwight said, secure in the knowledge that he had it covered.

  He slid on his jacket, picked up his hat, and was reaching for the light switch when his desk phone rang.

  To his surprise, it was one of his old Intelligence buddies. “Your dead pilot? Yeah, he’s CIA all right. Up until last year, he was stationed at Shannon. Then he was yanked back here and reassigned to the flying equivalent of a desk job.”

  “What happened? What’d he do?”

  “I don’t have any details. No names either. Sorry, pal. All I know is that there was a scuffl
e on a flight to Warsaw last spring where he was copilot. His story was that the prisoner somehow got loose and killed an agent who was hitching a ride back to the UK. All my source could tell me is that both bodies were cremated in Berlin without an autopsy or any official investigation. It wasn’t the first time he’d been involved in something like this where the prisoner somehow got loose and wound up dead, but this was the first time another agent died. For what it’s worth, nobody’s shedding any tears over this guy’s death. I hear it’s going to go down as an accident pure and simple. Hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Hope I don’t either,” Dwight said. He thanked his friend and sat back in his chair, his mind teeming with one wild scenario after another. No matter how he tried to put the pieces of the two deaths together, they seemed totally unrelated, with the Harper boy their only common denominator.

  Was it a coincidence that he’d been left halfway between Crawford’s house and the site where they’d found Rebecca Jowett’s body?

  Despite Crawford’s innocent-sounding explanation, he and Jeremy had both been interested in the airfield and the dead man was a CIA pilot making a layover there, something he’d done before according to what the motel manager told Mayleen before the FBI showed up and took over.

  So where did Martin Crawford and his interest in the airfield fit in?

  Martin Crawford had reported Becca Jowett’s body. He’d found the boy, too.

  Another coincidence? Like—

  Well, damn! he thought.

  The other night Crawford had mentioned that his stepmother was Pakistani. Dwight swiveled around to his computer and quickly Googled Pakistan. As he’d thought: one of the major languages of that country was Punjabi, the native language of that clerk Jasmeet out at the Clarenden.

  An ornithologist?

  Like hell.

  More like MI6.

  Yes, Crawford had written books on the subject and no doubt he led informative bird tours. In Dwight’s experience, good spies usually had a real expertise in some area or other: archaeology, primitive art, engineering, sociology—anything that would explain why an average-looking, innocuous man might be bumbling around in a foreign country.