I said. “Those were good stories on the Dixie Mafia.”
“It’s easy to dredge up history. Your piece on the murders was well written and restrained.”
“Except for the headline.”
Jack barked a laugh. “You should’ve seen Hank and Brandon go at it.”
I felt a twinge. Hank had a bad heart, and he had no business arguing with Brandon. I took what comfort I could in knowing that if it wasn’t my story they fought over, it would be something else. “You said you needed a favor?”
“I’m in a little bit of a jam.” Jack’s voice was thin, as if he were having to force the words out. “Could I borrow five thousand dollars until Friday?”
“Sure.” I didn’t hesitate. Money was one thing I had. When Daniel and I had sold our property in Miami, we’d made a lot of money. Daniel had been more than generous. “Want me to run it by?”
“No!” He took in a deep breath. “I’ll come get it now. Thanks, Carson.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jack.” I could run up to the ATM and get some cash, since it sounded like a check wouldn’t do. “Come on by.”
The bank was only five minutes away, and I was sitting on my front porch when Jack pulled in. The fact that he wouldn’t meet my gaze told me a lot. I put the envelope on the seat of a wicker chair.
“I’m glad to do this, Jack. It’s the first time I’ve felt useful in a long time.”
He still didn’t look at me. “I’ll pay you back.”
“I know. Don’t be in a rush about it.”
He was a proud man, and whatever circumstances had forced him to borrow money from me was not my business unless he wanted to talk. Obviously he didn’t. I stood up. “I’m going to make a drink. Would you care for one?”
“No.”
I left the door open when I walked inside. His footsteps sounded on the porch, and then the screen door slammed. He was gone.
9
I got to the newspaper at 8:18 Monday morning. My arrival earned a sarcastic whistle from the police beat reporter, who rightly felt the Bridal Veil killings should have been his story. I ignored him as I walked by, but he couldn’t let it go.
“What happened? They close the bars early last night?” he asked, pointedly looking at his watch.
I turned slowly to face him. “What happened to put you in such a nasty mood? Your wife refuse to let you wear her garter belt and stockings?” I understood his anger, but it was directed at the wrong person. Brandon should be his target, not me.
Jack gave a loud laugh and there were a few twitters around the newsroom. I was disliked because of Brandon’s treatment of me. The police beat reporter was disliked because of how he treated others.
I lost interest in the newsroom when I saw my office door standing ajar. I’d left it locked.
“Nice comedy routine.” I stepped into my office. Avery was sitting in the chair in front of my desk, and I had no idea how long he’d been waiting.
The Biloxi detective wore a black suit that was indistinguishable from his other black suits. Or, perhaps he had only one. It fit him well, the pants creased and sharp. His shirt was crisply ironed, his shoes polished. He was a detail man; it stood to reason he was good at his job. “I gather this isn’t a social visit,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that I was flustered. I didn’t know Avery well, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t in the habit of paying social visits to reporters. “How’d you get in?”
“Brandon opened the door with his master key.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement at the heat that jumped into my face.
“He’s such a jerk.”
“Yeah, this business—” he waved a hand around my office “—seems replete with ’em.”
“Why are you here?” I didn’t want a fight.
“Mitch sent me. For some reason he wants you to be part of the investigation. He gave me some hogwash about how we needed the newspaper with us on this case.”
“He’s right,” I said. “You have five bodies, four of them girls killed in 1981. The fifth is unidentified. And now you have a current body.” I paused for effect. “Without any real leads. I’d say the newspaper could be a very powerful ally.”
Avery didn’t like being pressed into a corner, and it showed in his expression. “Mitch is the boss. If he wants you in on this, you’re in.” He stared into my eyes. “I’m just a little curious. Mitch has never felt the need to buddy up with the press before. Maybe he wants a date.”
“Would you like some coffee?” I decided to ignore his misplaced antagonism. “I have some questions about the investigation.”
He thought about it. “Sure. Black.”
I went to the coffee kitty, put in a five-dollar bill and poured two cups of strong black coffee. When I got back to the office, Avery took his, and I closed the door.
Once I was settled at my desk, I opened my notebook and flipped through the pages. “I searched through the back issues of the paper. That’s where I got the names of the missing girls. But there wasn’t a fifth girl. At least not one that I found.”
“There’s not a missing-person report on the fifth victim, either.”
That would save me some long hours of eye-straining work. Avery didn’t want me in this investigation, but he was going to do what Mitch said. “Thanks for telling me that.”
He shrugged. “Aside from the headline, your story Sunday was good. Accurate. Not blown out of proportion. Well written.”
“Thanks.” I was surprised. Avery had paid me a compliment. “So what do you have on the fifth body?”
He frowned. “We’re checking missing-person reports from around the Southeast.” He hesitated and his discomfort was clear. “Have you talked with Pamela Sparks’s family?”
“I was going to do that today, and then follow up with an interview of the families of the other dead girls.”
He nodded. “We sent a couple of officers over to the Sparkses’, but the parents got upset. I went by there myself, but they won’t talk to the police. Mitch said this was your forte—that you could get anyone to talk to you.”
I leaned forward onto my desk. “Why won’t the family talk to you?”
“Pamela’s dad did a stretch in Parchman for a burglary he says he didn’t do. He doesn’t trust the police for any reason. He says he’s going to find Pamela’s murderer himself.”
If Highway 90 is considered the Gulf Coast main drag, then d’Iberville is the backstreet. The homes fronting the beaches are lovely.
