Travellin' Shoes Read online

  We watched as Hulk closed the door and then got into the car. Once the car pulled away from the curb, I felt the trance Mrs. Hartford-Graham had cast over me lift.

  “What was that about?” Harley asked.

  “I have no idea. I think we were just sized up, but I don’t know what for.”

  “You don’t think that old bird had anything to do with murdering Warren, do you?”

  “Not directly, but maybe indirectly. She’s certainly rich and powerful enough to have paid someone to do it. She’s smart, and if she had him killed, I think she’d make it hard to prove.”

  We stopped by the station one last time. We checked our messages, cleared up some files, returned our security badges and were just about to leave when Detective Hastings stopped by.

  “You weren’t planning to sneak out without saying goodbye?”

  “You weren’t here.” Harley smiled and offered his hand.

  “Let me take you to the airport. What time does your flight leave?”

  “Four o’clock.” I grabbed my bag.

  “Great. That gives us plenty of time. We can return your rental car and then I can take you by a little place I know.” Detective Hastings seemed anxious and nervous.

  “I don’t know if we have time. How far is it?” I wasn’t feeling sociable and my mind was fully occupied with the strange events at the funeral. But Hastings wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we stopped resisting.

  After dropping off our rental car, Harley and I piled into Detective Hastings’ “clutter-mobile,” as Harley affectionately referred to it, and went to a small bar not far from the airport. Basically a dive, the Dew Drop Inn was cramped, dark, and dirty. The cigarette smoke was so thick it hung in the air like a heavy blanket, just waiting to suffocate any who lingered too long. My eyes stung and my throat contracted. Harley started coughing and I thought he was going to choke. I was just about to turn around and walk out when Hastings pulled us through the bar toward a door at the back. We followed in hopes that it led outside but were disappointed. It led down a flight of stairs to the basement. If leaving didn’t mean returning through the haze we’d just left, we would have done it. But with the door closed and a cool breeze blowing from the basement, we decided to keep going. I did notice Harley slipped one hand inside his jacket where I knew he kept his weapon. I found myself fingering my holster too. I turned and glanced at Harley. I could see the question in his eyes. Were we wrong to have trusted Detective Hastings? We were about to find out.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a basement of painted concrete blocks, stained concrete floors, and 1970s furniture in the form of a poker table, several chairs, a pool table, and a large, industrial-strength ceiling fan. Despite the outdated décor, the basement was homey and somewhat inviting. Or maybe it just seemed more inviting than the claustrophobic gas chamber upstairs. There was only one person in the lower level, and he was sitting alone at one of the tables, nursing a bottle of beer and playing solitaire.

  Detective Hastings went behind the bar and grabbed three bottles of beer then sat down and motioned for Harley and me to join them.

  Once seated, Hastings did the introductions. “This is my dad. Carl Hastings Senior.”

  We shook hands. Regardless of the age, the attire, or the situation, criminals and cops were always able to identify other criminals and cops. I knew Hastings’ dad was a cop from the moment I saw him. I don’t know if it was his posture, his haircut, his clothes, or the world-weariness in his eyes. Whatever it was, he had the look. In one glance, he had assessed Harley and me and found us trustworthy, because he nodded, raised his beer, and started to tell us a story.

  “I was on the force for thirty-two years before I retired a year ago. I’ve never done anything illegal in all that time. Never even took a pencil that didn’t belong to me.” His eyes were moist and his voice was gruffer than it had been a moment before. He took a swig of beer to regain his composure before continuing.

  For thirty minutes, the elder Hastings told us everything he knew about Benson, McCormick, and Chandler, Tyrone Warren, and Mrs. Hartford-Graham. We didn’t interrupt. Talking seemed cathartic for Hastings and we let him tell his story.

  After he’d finished, I asked, “How much can you prove and how much is speculation?”

  He waited so long to answer, I almost repeated myself. But staring me in the eye, Carl Senior nodded to his son, who stood up and went behind the bar. When he came back, he was carrying an envelope. Back at the table, he sat down and slid the envelope across to me.

  With Harley looking over my shoulder, I opened the envelope and took out a file folder with one photo. The photo was of a book opened to a page full of numbers.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I’m sure Junior told you that when we were investigating those accountants, some of the evidence disappeared.”

  Harley held up the photo. “Is this part of the missing evidence?”

  Hastings Senior nodded. “Before you ask, I didn’t take it.”

  “So how did you come by this?” I asked, still unsure what I was looking at.

  Senior paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I worked with a detective on the investigation. I’ve known the guy for years. I think he was paid to … lose the evidence.”

  “How? And why didn’t you take this information to Internal Affairs?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know about it. He died about six months ago. His wife was going through his things, and she found some stuff she didn’t know what to do with. She called me.”

  “I still don’t know why you didn’t turn this over to Internal Affairs,” I said, looking down at the photo, still wondering what this had to do with our murder investigation.

  “I remembered seeing a page with numbers like that when we were investigating those accountants. That’s a photo. I turned in the original.”

  “What is it? Harley asked.

  Hastings shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t involved in the case as much as Bronson. I just remember associating that page with the accountants.”

  “Was there anything else?” I asked.

  Hastings Senior shook his head. “Not really. Most of the other stuff had nothing to do with any investigations. Bowling trophies … personal stuff. I think he must have destroyed the evidence but somehow missed this one page. I would have missed it too, but it just struck me as weird. That’s why I took a picture of it.”

  “Look, I don’t know what we can do in Indiana. We’re here trying to find a murderer, that’s all. This probably doesn’t have anything to do with our murder, but thanks.”

  Chapter Nine

  The flight back from Cleveland was short—too short. I needed time to process everything, from the funeral, to the meeting with Mrs. Hartford-Graham, to the bizarre events afterwards with Detective Hastings. It just wasn’t fitting in neat little buckets, and I had the feeling I was missing something—something other than the identity of our killer. One elusive puzzle piece was hanging just out of reach, so I sat back and let the pieces weave in and out of my mind in hopes that I’d find the missing one.

  I barely had time to sift through the information Detective Hastings had told us before it was time to deplane. The photo was of a page containing a combination of numbers—a code of some kind. According to Hastings’ notes, they had been trying to crack that code for months. Eventually, the lawyers demanded that everything be returned, including copies. He had risked a lot keeping this. As a cop, he would have been forced to turn it in. As a private citizen, he might be protected under whistleblower laws. I had no idea. But I intended to turn it in. I had a murderer to find, and after three days in Cleveland, we weren’t much closer to naming the killer of Thomas Warrendale than we had been back in St. Joe. We had a lot of information, but none of it really fit.

  After leaving the airport, I drove straight to Mama B’s. She was in her chair watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

  “Welcome back.”

  I
gave her a kiss and sat down on the sofa. “Thanks. Where’s Paris?”

  “She’s upstairs. I hollered up to her when I saw you pull up, so I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Why do you watch this stuff? You have to have seen this a thousand times.”

  “I have, and it’s funny every time. There’s so much trash on television these days, I can’t hardly watch it anymore. I mostly watch the news, old reruns of television shows from the fifties and sixties, and my stories.”

  “Your stories probably have more sex and violence than any other shows on television.” This was an old argument between me and Mama B. She loved watching those old soap operas.

  “Maybe, but a woman has got to have some excitement in her life.”

  We both laughed at that one. Mama B’s housedress had definitely seen better days; a knot she had tied at the middle of her leg was the only thing holding up her stockings. Slippers on her feet and a scarf tied around her head completed the ensemble. Mama B was at home and comfortable. She rarely got dressed up unless she was going to church, but once her hair was wrapped up, she was in for the night.

  I heard Paris coming down the stairs and had to check myself to make sure I wasn’t grinning. She was wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, and boots, and I felt compelled to stand. Of course, standing there, I felt rather stupid and tried to play it off by sliding down on the sofa so she could have the seat of honor closest to Mama B.

  “Hi.” I am a much more engaging conversationalist than I’ve demonstrated from my few encounters with Paris, but for some reason I found it a little hard to get started.

  “Hi. When did you get back?”

  “About an hour ago. Have you eaten?” The suddenness of my invitation took her by surprise. I hadn’t planned to blurt out the invitation quite like that. I’d intended a lead up.

  “No. We haven’t. I think Mrs. Bethany cooked though.”

  We both looked to Mama B for confirmation. She just rocked and smiled before adding, “It’ll keep.” She rocked on for another few seconds and then added, “You’d better take a sweater. It’s supposed to be cool tonight.”

  “Aren’t you going to join us?” Paris did the polite thing, including Mama B in the invite.

  “Of course. You should definitely come.” I tried hard to sound sincere. I think I tried too hard. She just kept rocking and smiling.

  “Baby, I ain’t going no place. I’m in for the night. Me and Andy Griffith have a date.” Mama B rocked and smiled.

  Paris went up to grab her sweater and Mama B tried to make eye contact while I aimed to avoid it. A few minutes later, Paris returned and we headed out.

  “Have fun,” Mama B called after us as we left the house.

  I helped Paris into the car and we drove off.

  “Do you have a taste for anything in particular?”

  “I like just about everything, but there’s a new restaurant that just opened up on the riverfront called Cesselly’s.”

  “I heard about it too. It’s a new jazz dinner club. It’s supposed to be great.”

  I turned the car around and headed toward the river.

  Cesselly’s was actually located within walking distance of my home. It was part of an old warehouse that had been converted to retail shops and now a restaurant.

  We talked about Warrendale. Paris couldn’t remember anything helpful, but she went over the specific things she noticed when she was reviewing her books. Her attorney hadn’t found anything useful, and the bank was still investigating. So far, she hadn’t gotten any closer to locating the missing money. When she finished giving me her summary, she did the most amazing thing—she fell silent. Most people can’t stand silence and talk just to fill the dead space, but Paris was one of those rare individuals who could enjoy the silence in between conversations.

  Finally, she asked, “What do you think they’re after?”

  I knew she was referring to whoever had broken into her shop. “I don’t know yet.”

  “I can’t go on indefinitely staying with Mama … ah, Mrs. Bethany.” We both laughed at the momentary slip as she fell into my childhood name for Mrs. Bethany.

  “She won’t mind your calling her Mama B.”

  “Why do you call her that? Are you related?”

  “I’ve called her Mama B since I was a small child. She was like a mother to me, and after my mother passed, she filled an empty spot.”

  I rarely talked about my mother. It had been almost fifteen years since her death. I’d made my peace with it. She was a strong Christian and her faith helped me and my sister through the long days of chemo and treatment. However, there was something very personal about discussing her. So I rarely did.

  After dinner, we walked around by the riverfront. It had been a warm spring day, but the night was cool. There was a walking path that ran along the river. During the day, the path was usually crowded with joggers, power walkers, kids, bicyclists, and lovers who ambled hand-in-hand along the winding, fragrant trail. Tonight, it was pleasantly deserted, but well lit. We paused in the middle of the bridge that led across to the other side of the river. We were watching the waterfall when my stamina failed and I yawned.

  “You must be dead tired. You flew home and haven’t had any rest all day. We should go back.”

  “I’m used to getting just a few hours of sleep.” I hadn’t intended to tell Paris about my accident or the nightmares that kept me up at night, but I did. She listened. After my second yawn, she insisted we head back. I tried to protest, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself by falling asleep. Besides, we were skating on dangerous ground. I was attracted to her, but she was involved in the case. I was still on the force and I had to be careful. So, we walked back to the car. My attraction to her gave me further motivation to figure out who killed Tye Warren.

  It was a relatively short drive to Mama B’s. I dropped Paris off and was just about to get out when she said, “You don’t have to walk me to the door. It looks like Mama B’s in bed, so I’ll just say good night and thank you for a lovely evening.”

  I waited to make sure she got into the house safely before heading home. After I got home, I went straight to bed. I was more tired than I’d been in a long time. Before long, I did something I haven’t done in months. I fell into a sound sleep.

  The next day was Friday, and I experienced déjà vu as Harley, Chief Mike, and I once again enjoyed the mayor’s hospitality. I leveled with the mayor and told him everything we’d found, which really wasn’t much. I shared the details of the investigation the cops in Cleveland had done two years ago and even told him about the photograph of the page with the coded numbers.

  Mayor Longbow, still elegantly attired and impeccably well groomed, shocked all of us by picking up his phone, cancelling his next meeting, and asking the city’s attorney to join us. We moved over to the conference table. The mayor took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. We talked about everything. Two hours and an untold number of cups of coffee later, Harley, the city’s attorney, Chief Mike, and I left the mayor’s office.

  The mayor reminded us we were investigating a murder, not money laundering. The other information was outside of our purview. If the cases overlapped, and they sure seemed intertwined, then we could follow the threads. Solving a murder was time-consuming enough. Add money laundering, racketeering, and whatever else these people were doing into the mix, and it might take an entire army to get to the bottom of it.

  One loose end on this murder investigation was the other person who Mama B named as a possible love-tie to Thomas Warrendale—Tonya Rutherford. I took a few minutes and drove to the home of Tonya, the woman who, if Mama B was to be believed, was supposedly carrying Thomas Warrendale’s unborn child. Harley was due in court on another matter, so I went alone.

  Tonya was a young woman, not more than seventeen or eighteen. She was extremely smart, a straight-A student. Last year she’d taken the SATs and got a perfect score of 1600. It was all over the newspapers and the
church had a nice write-up about her in the newsletter. That rare feat had won her a full ride to the college of her choice. I heard she was considering an Ivy League school, although her mom was hoping she’d stay closer to home. If she was indeed pregnant, that might put a crimp in her plans.

  Viola Rutherford, Tonya’s mother, was a single parent. She was disabled and rarely left the house. She lived in a small, rundown apartment on the edge of the ’hood. The neighborhood had once been respectable but now was littered with cars sitting on cement blocks, empty beer cans, and homes with plywood instead of glass in the windows. Men of varying ages sat on the porches drinking, laughing, and gambling 24/7. Tonya was a shining example of how, no matter what your situation, you could overcome any limitations with hard work and determination. I secretly hoped Mama B was wrong, but she rarely is about things like this.

  The only thing that distinguished the Rutherfords’ unit from any other was the empty beer bottles, broken glass, and tires that were piled neatly on the side of the apartment. The car sitting in the front yard was old and rusty but wasn’t on cement blocks, and the empty gas can on the backseat indicated that someone held out hope that this giant yard planter would one day move again.

  I knocked loudly on the door that was barely hanging on its hinges and waited while Viola Rutherford shuffled to the door.

  Viola Rutherford was probably in her mid-forties, but her illness and a life of chain-smoking made her look a lot older. The fact that Viola Rutherford smoked had made her a target for a lot of the older church members when I was a kid. Some religions take a stand against smoking—First Baptist Church did not. Some of the older members felt smoking was a sin, but Reverend Hamilton never condemned smokers. However, he did ask members to smoke on the side of the church rather than on the church steps.

  “RJ, what brings you down here?” Viola Rutherford moved aside to let me enter.

  Despite the dilapidated exterior, the interior of the home was sporting brand-new leather furniture much too large for the room. The sixty-inch plasma television occupied a place of prominence on the wall in front of the sofa. Viola Rutherford shuffled back to a recliner and motioned for me to sit on the sofa.