Paper son, p.16
Paper Son, page 16
Having held the locals at bay, Thomson climbed in the front seat and turned around. He slid back the Plexiglas plate in the divider between officer of the law and disrupter of it.
“Ma’am,” he said, and I realized that was the first word I’d heard him speak. “Sir.” Thomson’s voice was deep and measured. “I just want to make sure all y’all understand what a bad idea it is to be messing with Detective Lucknell. He’s a man with his own way of doing things.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But we’re not trying to mess with him. Really.”
“No, I suppose not.” Thomson shook his head. “Just, y’all happen to be the ones found Tremaine McAdoo’s body, same way you, ma’am, happen to be a relation of Leland Tam and Jefferson Tam. And Congressman Reynold Tam.”
“I don’t just happen to be related to the Tams. It’s why we came here, to see if we could help my cousins. But as far as Tremaine McAdoo, you’re right. We came to talk to him and found him dead. That’s all.”
“Meaning, there’s no connection between this here, and what happened to Leland Tam.”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t mean that at all. There might well be a connection. But if there is, it isn’t us. And about Detective Lucknell’s way of doing things? Once Bill and Mr. Stafford and I realized we were at a crime scene, we tiptoed away to preserve whatever evidence we could. Bert Lucknell just ordered Mr. Stafford to go over there with him and between the two of them, they’ve now stomped any footprints there might have been right into the mud. What kind of investigation is that?”
Thomson nodded slowly. “Ma’am, it’s not my place to be criticizing Bert’s methods, and most especially not to civilians. I’m not saying if it was me, I wouldn’t maybe do things differently. But it isn’t me. I’m a deputy. Bert’s the detective and he’ll run things the way it seems right to him. And he don’t take to interference. From me or from anyone.”
“We’re grateful for the advice,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Well, we’re just sitting here.”
“This afternoon, when you stopped us on Route 278. You knew we were coming. You were waiting for us. Right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you know?”
“Highway patrol radioed us.”
“Why?”
“I suppose, ma’am, the officer didn’t like y’all’s driving.”
“I see. It wouldn’t be because some Ferguson called Bert Lucknell and told him to get on our case?”
Thomson met my gaze. “You saying Detective Lucknell might be cozy with the Fergusons?”
“The thought occurred to us.”
Thomson nodded. “See, that right there, that’s the kind of thinking I would not advise. I’m not going to say anything to Bert about it. And if I was y’all, I wouldn’t mention it, either.”
With that, Tom Thomson slid the panel into place and clambered out of the car, leaving me and Bill to exchange looks and then settle back. We had nothing to do, and deemed it wisest to have nothing to say, until Bert Lucknell returned.
28
I had a little bet with myself whether it would be Bill or me left stewing in a police station interview room while the other got the first chance to bask in the light of Bert Lucknell’s attention. It turned out to be me who stewed, which was what I’d put the odds on. Lucknell, I figured, couldn’t get past the idea that Bill was really in charge.
By the time Lucknell finally pushed open the door and deposited himself in a folding chair, I’d cataloged the chipped paint on the block walls, the scratches on the vinyl floor, and the water stains on the mismatched tile ceiling.
“Ma’am,” Lucknell said. “Appreciate the patience.”
“Anything to help in your investigation, Detective.”
He looked at me, gave a short laugh, shook his head. “Yankee private eyes. Just when I thought I’d seen everything. So, ma’am, me and Mr. Smith, we just had us a very interesting conversation.” Lucknell gave me his coyote grin and waited for my reaction.
“He’s a very interesting guy.”
I got the sense Lucknell was a little disappointed that I wasn’t shaking in my boots about what Bill might have told him, but he went on. “That he is. He tells me you were hoping Tremaine McAdoo would have some information on what happened to Leland Tam.”
“Not information, really. More like a theory.”
“And what would that theory be?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get to ask him.”
“Still, y’all wouldn’t have gone way out to Oldman’s Brake without some idea what was there to find. How’d you know where Tremaine lives, by the way?”
“Pete told us.”
“Why?”
I was tempted to say, Because we asked him, but I was getting hungry and I didn’t want to be here all night.
“We wondered if what happened to Leland might be a hate crime, and Pete said as far as he knew, everyone liked Leland, except maybe the McAdoo family. Since the mother just died and the brother’s at Parchman, we thought we’d try Tremaine.”
“Ain’t that something? That’s just what Smith said.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Or because y’all worked that story out in the car while we was waiting for the crime scene folks to show up.”
The crime scene folks had turned out to be from the state police, Coahoma County not having a lab of its own. I’d tried not to be pleased at how annoyed they were by Lucknell’s tromping all over the pathways. But though from inside the car we couldn’t hear what was said, I’d found myself smiling when they pointed and barked orders. As Lucknell stomped back to the flat and out of their way, steam almost visibly poured from his ears. I could see some of the people of Oldman’s Brake snickering on their porches.
A tech had come over and asked me and Bill to step out of the car so she could take our fingerprints and casts of our shoes. These requests were made politely, either because the techs didn’t consider us suspects, or to irritate Lucknell. Either was fine with me. They did Lucknell’s, Thomson’s, and Big Bone Stafford’s shoes, too, and the shoes of the people on the porches. During all this, Bill and I exchanged no words.
“If we’d worked our story out in the car, Detective,” I said to Lucknell now, “you’d have it on tape already.”
He paused and then got my meaning. “We don’t bug our cars, ma’am.”
I thought that was probably true, for budget reasons if nothing else; but I also thought it wouldn’t hurt to flatter him a bit. “Come on, Detective. It’s done everywhere. Leave the suspects alone and turn on the recorder. No legal expectation of privacy in a police car, but most people don’t know that.”
From his face, neither had Bert Lucknell. He recovered well, though. “All right, ma’am, I’ll give you that. Not that y’all couldn’t have worked out your story before we showed up, but let’s just move along. I can’t say I’m satisfied with your explanation of what y’all wanted with Tremaine. Don’t suppose the truth is more like, he knew where to find Jefferson? And if he did, maybe Jefferson killed him to keep him from saying. Or maybe, being Jefferson’s cousin, you did that yourself.”
“That’s ridiculous. But if you’re planning to arrest me, I want a lawyer.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not fixing to do that right now.”
“Good, because I’m sure your medical examiner will find that Tremaine died a while ago.”
“Nothing to say you couldn’t have killed him a while ago, then gone away and come back. But how about we leave that until Dr. Delew finishes the autopsy? So, you never got the chance to ask Tremaine where Jefferson might be?”
If this was his sneaky attempt to trip me up on why we’d gone to Oldman’s Brake, his technique needed polishing. “We wouldn’t have anyway. That’s not why we wanted to see him. If Tremaine McAdoo knew where to find Jefferson, it’s news to me. And I don’t know why he would, since the McAdoos don’t like Chinese people.”
“People get paid enough, they could like anybody.”
I wasn’t sure what that remark referred to, so I didn’t answer it. Lucknell waited and then shrugged.
“Still and all,” he said, “I suppose there’s no shortage of people might have wanted Tremaine McAdoo dead. Man was in a dangerous profession, that’s for sure. A customer might’ve felt cheated. Or some one of them Fergusons decided they been letting him slide long enough. Truth is, ma’am, I got no reason to connect up Tremaine’s killing and Jefferson Tam except for y’all’s being there.”
“Which we explained.”
He eyed me and switched tacks. “Now, another interesting thing. I got a witness swears a white guy wearing a hoodie and shades came to see Tremaine yesterday. Just after sundown. Strange time for sunglasses, wouldn’t you say?”
“I never wear mine then.”
“Does your cousin Jefferson?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“The witness says you thought it might be Jefferson. Got to admit, with sunglasses on, Chinese look just like everybody else.”
I ground my teeth. Except in the other half of the world, I thought, where you’d have to wear sunglasses to look like everybody else.
“I didn’t say anything about Jefferson. I just asked if the ‘white guy’ might have been Asian.”
“Why?”
“Just being thorough, Detective.”
“Same witness says he heard gunshots right around that time. Deer season, so he didn’t give it much thought.”
“Yes, I understand deer season is big around here.”
Shaking his head, Lucknell smiled. “Ma’am, you really are something. All right, you can go.” He stood. “But I got to try one more time to make myself clear. I’m getting tired of seeing you and Smith every time I spin around.” His face took on a thoughtful expression I hadn’t seen before. “Still, looking on the sunny side, I suppose as long as y’all are hanging around Coahoma County, that most likely means Jefferson’s still here, too.”
“That only makes sense if you think Bill and I know more about where he is than you do.”
“Is that so? Well, ma’am, when you’re up to your neck in horseshit, probably there’s a pony around someplace.”
Bill was waiting for me downstairs in the sheriff’s department lobby. “How’d it go?” he asked, lifting himself off an orange plastic chair.
“A peaceful interlude in an otherwise hectic day. I get the sense Lucknell still thinks we’re hiding something, however.”
“He made that suggestion to me, too.”
“Did he tell you about the pony?”
“What pony?”
“Never mind. I’ll call Pete.”
Pete was home, having begged a ride from Henry. That was a good thing, since the Malibu was still back at Oldman’s Brake.
Bill had just finished a cigarette when Pete pulled up in a red Miata.
“Nice ride,” Bill said as we got in, me scrunched in the back because the car was so tiny.
“Midlife crisis. Well, that was its grandpa. This is Miata the Third. So tell me again how you folks just happened to be at Tremaine McAdoo’s place right after he bought the farm.”
“Again? We didn’t tell you at all, yet.”
“I was being polite. Not pointing out how you’re keeping the client in the dark. And I better not find out you went to Oldman’s Brake because you were in Burcell anyhow.”
“We weren’t. But, Pete—”
“But me no buts.”
“How about,” Bill broke in, “we discuss this over dinner? I’m starving. Pete, is there a place we can go?”
“Yeah,” Pete grunted. “I know just the spot.”
We backtracked to Oldman’s Brake to pick up the Malibu, passing through Burcell, where nothing had changed except now Rupert’s Bud sign was lit.
Rectangles of yellow light shone in windows in Oldman’s Brake as Pete pulled onto the flat. The McAdoo place was dark, but it had its yellow accents: it was wrapped with crime scene tape.
“Damn,” said Pete. “I haven’t been in Oldman’s Brake since I was a kid. Even then, hardly ever.”
“You don’t come out to visit Big Bone?”
“Nah. We socialize at Red’s, or the Shacks, or up in Tunica. Neutral territory, so to speak. Out here, it’s kind of like the Down Home Club. Place black folks can call their own.”
A few faces appeared at windows, and a man opened his front door. He stood silhouetted, watching us, as if to prove Pete’s point.
“But it was different when you were a kid?” I was still befuddled by the intricacies of Mississippi social structure. Maybe I should have paid more attention in cultural anthropology class.
“Well, Daddy had a customer here, way back when. He’d come out with a delivery most every week. Sunday afternoon, when the store was closed.”
“H. Tam and Sons delivered?”
“Not so unusual, then. Those days, lots of folks without cars, so Daddy brought his customers the necessaries. Usually took Paul along to help him carry. If Paul had a ball game or something, he’d bring Jonas. Once or twice me, just so’s I could feel big, too, but I was kind of useless.” He peered around. “That house right there, I think.”
I was surprised. “The McAdoo place?”
Pete’s lips pursed. He sighed. “Long time ago, Cousin Lydia. I can’t really say.”
The man in the open door didn’t move when Bill got out of the Miata and into the Malibu. He was still there watching as we drove out of Oldman’s Brake.
We headed to Clarksdale. Before going on to whatever supper spot he had in mind, Pete, with Bill behind us, pulled into his own driveway. Not a bad idea, I thought; hungry as I was, I could still use a little freshening up. When I followed Pete through the front door, though, I understood about the supper spot.
“God, Pete, it smells great in here! I thought you didn’t cook.”
“Expected you might be hungry, so I scavenged the store. Came across a couple boxes of Ronzoni, some cans of spaghetti sauce, a pound of sausage in the freezer. Dump some oregano in there, throw cheese on top, and you could be in Rome. Found a package of dinner rolls in the freezer, too, made garlic bread. Cookies and ice cream for dessert. And plus, before we eat, how about a little moonshine?”
29
While the dinner-roll garlic bread baked, we settled into sofa and chairs to nibble on olives and drink moonshine. The crystal clear liquid made Bill say, “God, Pete, this is great!” It made me shudder and cough. Both reactions got a big grin from Pete.
“Fellow I know makes this stuff out behind his garage. Couldn’t be more pure if it dripped straight from heaven.”
That may have been, but no matter where it dripped from, I couldn’t see the point of something that didn’t have any flavor, just the ability to light your insides on fire. I gave up after the second taste and dumped what was left into Bill’s glass. Drinking water to put out the flames, I filled Pete in on our visit to Callie Leblanc and why what we’d learned there had sent us to Oldman’s Brake. He listened, frowning, sipping his moonshine, and when I was finished, he got up without a word and went to the kitchen. He brought out place mats and plates and set them on one end of the dining table, crowding Leland’s photo and the flowers down to the other end. I tried to help, but he waved me to sit. I exchanged silent glances with Bill, and we watched through the opening while Pete drained the pasta, grated the cheese, and ladled the sauce. He took the garlic bread from the oven and beckoned us to the table.
Either I was ravenous, or Pete’s cooking was better than he claimed, or both. The al dente spaghetti, spicy sauce, and buttery garlic bread all tasted as good as they smelled. Pete waited until Bill and I had made serious inroads into our meals before he spoke.
“Listen, you two. There’s something we’re not saying. According to Bert, maybe Jefferson killed Tremaine because Tremaine knew where he was hiding. That’s ridiculous. For one thing, if you know someone knows where you’re hiding, why don’t you just go hide somewhere else? For another thing, a McAdoo’s going to be the last person to know anything secret about a Tam. But”—he looked down at his spaghetti-wound fork—“a Tam might know something about a McAdoo. Tremaine might’ve killed Leland, and Jefferson found it out, and killed him because of it.”
“Why would Tremaine do that?”
Pete shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Then—” I started.
“But whyever,” Pete pushed on, “it may be that Trevor knew what Tremaine was planning and wanted to sell the information to Reynold, and that’s what that was about.”
“Trevor’s a lifer,” I said. “What could be worth selling out your own brother for if you’re never getting out anyway?”
“Getting out,” said Bill. “Commuting his sentence, if Reynold gets elected. Roberson said congressmen have no influence at a state prison, and that’s true. But governors do.”
“Oh,” I said. “That actually makes sense.”
“Thanks.”
“But Jefferson killing Tremaine—are you saying, Pete, that’s why he escaped? To do that? But, come on. If Tremaine killed Leland and Jefferson knew that when he was arrested, why not tell the sheriff?”
“Might be he didn’t know, but he thought it could be. Maybe he did say it and they all thought he was just trying to throw suspicion somewhere else. Or maybe he didn’t find out until he was on the run.” Pete shook his head. “Got to tell you, I don’t like it. Or that guy with the sunglasses and hood turning up at Tremaine’s yesterday. I don’t like it at all.”
“As long as you’re not liking things,” I said, “there’s more.” While we ate, Bill and I took turns telling Pete about our trip to Oxford: the lady on the porch next door who didn’t approve of Jefferson’s friends, and the outdoor laptop sessions at the Café Café.
