Hard Row Part 15

She considered the ramifications for a moment, then said, "That might not be a bad idea. It won't hurt for him to hear again from you that he's supposed to listen to me when you're not around so that he'll know we're both on the same page, but please make it clear that you don't know any details and that you're not asking for any, okay?"

"Gotcha."

She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Poor kid. I think it's really starting to sink in that Jonna's gone forever and he's stuck here with us."

"That still doesn't mean-"

"No," she agreed before he could finish the thought. "But it does mean I'm not going to take it too personally and you shouldn't either. Mother used to tease me about the time I stomped my foot and yelled that I was purply mad with her."

"Purply mad?"

"I knew purple, I didn't know perfect. The point is, she was my mother. Not my stepmother, yet I absolutely hated her at that moment. Nothing we can say or do changes the fact that Jonna's dead. That's the cold hard reality Cal has to deal with, but it's something he's going to have to work through on his own. All we can do is give him love and security and let him know what the rules are."

Her face was turned up to his and he bent his head to kiss her. "Anybody ever tell you you ought to run for judge?"

When they got to the courthouse, it was still pouring, so he dropped her at the covered doorway to the Sheriff's Department and she waited while he parked and made his way back with a large umbrella. Despite the rawness of the day, this felt to him like a spring rain, not a winter one.

"I know Cletus and Mr. Kezzie have a garden big enough to feed everybody," he said happily, "but don't we want a few tomato plants of our own? And maybe some peppers? Oh, and three or four hills of okra, too?"

She shook her head in mock dismay. "Are tomatoes the camel's nose under the tent? Am I going to come home and find the south forty planted in kitchen vegetables? I'm warning you right now, Major Bryant. You can plant anything you want, but I don't freeze and I certainly don't can."

Because it was early for her, they walked down to the break room and as they emerged with paper cups of steaming coffee, they met a damp Reid Stephenson.

"Got an extra one of those?" he asked.

"You're out early," Deborah said.

"I've had Flame Smith on my tail since last night. What about it, Dwight? When did he die? Before the divorce or after?"

"Now that I can't tell you for sure. We may not ever know."

"Guess I'd better go talk to Pete Taylor," he said.

"Was there a will?" Deborah asked.

Dwight frowned at her and she grinned unrepentantly. "It's going to be a matter of public record sooner or later. So cui bono, Reid? Or weren't you the one who drew it up?"

"Oh, I did one. It was about a week after he initiated divorce proceedings over here. Both the Harrises decided to hire personal attorneys instead of using the New Bern firm that handles their combined business interests."

"Does Flame inherit anything?"

"Goodbye, Deborah," Dwight said, sounding out every syllable of her name.

She laughed and turned to go. "See you for lunch?"

"Probably not." He motioned for Reid to follow him into his office.

"I really ought not to tell you anything till I put the will in for probate," the younger man said.

Dwight took his seat behind the desk and asked, "Who's his executor?"

"His daughter up in New York." Reid pulled up a chair and set his coffee on the edge of the desk. "She was pretty upset when I called her yesterday, but she called back this morning and she's flying in this afternoon."

"Whether or not the divorce was final won't affect the terms of the will, will it?"

"Actually, it probably will. From the doc.u.ments he gave me-and you might want to check with their company attorneys-their LLC was set for shared owners.h.i.+p with rights of survival."

"If one of them dies, the other gets full owners.h.i.+p?"

"That's my understanding. I'm sure Mrs. Harris's attorney will argue that the divorce doesn't really matter because there had been no formal division of property yet so the terms of the LLC will still be in effect. On the other hand, if the divorce was finalized before he died, then the ED could go forward, with his estate taking whatever he was awarded. It could be a pretty little legal problem. Of course, he did own property and money in his own name and his will should stand as to the disposition of that part of his estate."

"How much are we talking?"

"His personal estate? Maybe three million, give or take a few thousand."

"So answer me Deb'rah's question. Who inherits?"

"I can't tell you that, Dwight."

"Sure you can. Like she said, it's all going to be public record soon enough. Is Flame Smith in the will?"

Reid thought about it a minute, then threw up his hands in surrender. "Oh yes. To the tune of half a million. Except for a few small bequests, the daughter gets everything else, which he thought was going to be half of Harris Farms."

Dwight leaned back in his chair. "What was Buck Harris really like, Reid?"

"He was okay. Blunt. To the point. Knew what he wanted and was willing to pay for it. Expected full value for his money though."

"So why would someone take an axe to him like that?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know." Reid took a first swallow of his coffee and grimaced. "Y'all need to let Julia Lee start buying your coffee beans. This stuff's like battery acid."

"I doubt if Bo's budget runs to a coffee grinder and gourmet beans," he said, remembering how he used to look for excuses to drop by the firm of Lee, Stephenson and Knott, before Deborah ran for the bench. Coffee was always good for one visit a week and they did have the best coffee of any office in town.

Not that he was ever there for the coffee.

After Reid left, Dwight phoned Pete Taylor. "I'd appreciate it if you could get Mrs. Harris to come in and see me this afternoon?"

Taylor promised that he would try.

Down in the detectives' squad room, he gave out the day's a.s.signments as to the lines he wanted pursued and the people they should interview.

"One thing, boss," said Denning. "I found a hammer at the back of the shed. There was blood on the peen and one strand of hair that I compared with hairs from the comb in Harris's bathroom. I've sent them both to the state lab, but the hairs look like a match to me."

"Which means?"

"He was probably coldc.o.c.ked over the head with the hammer first. We'll have to wait till we find the head to know for sure."

As Dwight returned to his office and the rat's nest of paperwork awaiting his attention, he heard Jamison say, "Talk to you a minute, Major?"

"Sure. Come on in."

The deputy followed and closed the door. There was a troubled look on his round face.

"What's up?" Dwight asked. He gestured to the chair Reid Stephenson had vacated, but Jamison continued to stand.

"I need to tell you that I'm resigning, sir."

"What?"

"Yes, sir. Effective the end of next week, if that's okay with you."

"What the h.e.l.l's this about? And for G.o.d's sake, sit down."

The detective sat, but he looked even more uncomfortable and was having trouble meeting Dwight's eyes.

Dwight studied him a long moment. "What's going on, Jack? If it's a better offer from another department, you're about due a raise. I don't know that we can match Raleigh, but-"

"It's not Raleigh, Major. It's Iraq."

Dwight frowned. "I didn't realize you're in the Guard."

"I'm not. It's DynCorp. They're a private security company that-"

"I know what DynCorp is." He realized that he should have seen this coming. Police departments all over the area had lost good men to private security companies. First war America's ever had to contract out, he thought sourly.

"They've accepted me into their training program. If I qualify, I'll be helping to train Iraqi police officers."

"And that's what you want to do?"

"Not really but the pay's too good to pa.s.s up, Major. We're just not making it on thirty-seven thousand a year. Cindy wants things for our son and I want them, too. Over there, I can start at around a hundred-thirty."

Dwight leaned back in his chair, feeling older and more tired than he had in a long time. "No, we certainly can't match that. But you say you want things for your son. What about a father? Civilian personnel are getting killed over there."

Jamison nodded. "I know. But like Cindy says, police officers are getting shot at over here, too."

"You ever been shot at?"

"Well, no sir, but it does happen, doesn't it? A couple or three inches more and Mayleen could have died back in January. Anyhow, I figure two years and we'll be out of debt with enough saved up to put a good down payment on a real house. It's worth the risk." He took a deep breath. "And if I do get killed, she'll get a quarter million in insurance. That should be enough to get Jay through college."

Dwight shook his head. "Do the math, Jack. Divide a quarter million by eighteen years. Cindy won't have enough left to pay your son's application fees."

By the determined look on Jamison's face, his mind was clearly made up.

"So. The end of next week?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. I'm really sorry you feel you need to do this, but notify human resources and make sure your paperwork's caught up."

Jamison came to his feet. "Thank you, Major. And I really do appreciate all you've done for me, making me a detective and all. Maybe when I get back ..."

"We'll see. You're not gone yet though, and I expect another full week of work from you, so get out there and see what you can dig up on the Harris murder."

CHAPTER 21.

It is a matter of paramount importance to the prosperity of any community or State to have its surplus lands occupied by an industrious, enterprising, and moral population.

-Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890 DEBORAH KNOTT.

TUESDAY MORNING, MARCH 7.

Because I had nearly forty-five minutes to kill after leaving Dwight and Reid, I stopped by the dispatcher's desk out in the main lobby where Faye Myers was on duty.

Faye's in her early thirties, a heavyset blonde who strains every seam of her uniform. She has a pretty face, a flawless complexion that seems to glow from within, and the good-hearted friendliness of a two-month-old puppy. She's married to Flip Myers, an equally plump EMS tech, and between them, they have a finger on almost every emergency call in the county, which means she also has the best gossip-not from maliciousness but because she genuinely likes people and finds them endlessly fascinating.

"New hairdo?" I asked with what I hoped was a guileless tone. "Looks nice."

She immediately touched her s.h.i.+ning curls. "Well, thank you, Judge. No, it's the same style I've had since Thanksgiving. I did get a trim yesterday but I might should've waited 'cause this wet weather's making it curl up more than usual."

"Detective Richards tells me she goes to the Cut 'n' Curl. You go there, too?"

"No, I just get my sister to clip it for me. She cuts everybody in the family's hair."

"Lucky you," I said. "You must save a ton of money."

She beamed.

"But the new stylist at the Cut 'n' Curl did a great job on Mayleen Richards, didn't she? She looks like a different person these days."

"Yeah, well ..." Myers gave me a conspiratorial look. "She's real happy right now."

"Oh?" I encouraged.

Within moments, I was hearing how Richards had recently become involved with a "real cute Mexican guy," who ran a landscaping business "out towards Cotton Grove," someone she'd met last month when investigating a shooting over that way. A Miguel Diaz. "Mayleen calls him Mike."

A naturalized citizen, he had been in North Carolina for eight or nine years and had bootstrapped himself up from day laborer to employer who ran several crews around the area, contracting with some of the smaller builders to landscape the new developments that were springing up all over the county.

Faye was under the impression that he wanted to marry Richards but that she was hanging back because of her family.

"They're sort of prejudiced, you know," the dispatcher confided. "But I told Mayleen that's probably just because they don't really know any Mexicans. Think they're all up here to take away our jobs and get drunk on Sat.u.r.day night. Not that some of 'em don't. Get drunk, I mean. But Mike- Oh, wait a minute! You know something, Judge? You actually talked to him."