It was still dark when Robin kissed my cheek. “Coffee’s on,” she said. “I’m out of here.”
I rolled over. Her face was a blur. I smelled her skin and her hair. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m going to find Zebulon Faith.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Bad things have been piling up on us. We need something good to happen. I’ve stayed out of it because it’s a county case, but I’m tired of waiting for them to break it. I’ll do it myself.”
“You’ll piss off Grantham.”
“I’m starting to feel like you do. Screw Grantham. Screw the politics.”
“Do you think Zebulon Faith attacked Grace?”
“At first, I didn’t. Too obvious. Now, I’m not so sure. He has a lot of things to answer for. Bottom line, I want to talk to him. I tend to trust my instincts.”
“What about DEA?”
“They looked at the drugs we seized and confirmed that the cold meds were stolen. They’ll ask around, but they’re useless on this.”
I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Five forty-five.
“He’s gone to ground,” she said, “but I don’t think he’s gone far. His son is dead, his drugs are seized, and he knows we’re looking; but he’s stupid and he’s mean and he still thinks there’s some way out of all this. He has thirty acres worth seven figures. He’ll be in some dark hole close by, at least until the power company’s deal is off the table. I’ll start with known associates. I’m not scared to squeeze.”
“Let me know,” I said.
Robin left and my mind raced until the gray light found me. At eight o’clock, I walked out under heavy clouds and found George Tallman sitting in a parked cruiser. He got out when he saw me. He looked like he’d been up all night. Wrinkles marred the perfection of his dark blue uniform. He watched me with bloodshot eyes. “Morning,” I said.
“Morning.”
“You waiting for me or Robin?”
“You.”
His face was meaty and pale under two days’ worth of beard. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Come on, Adam. Everybody knows. It’s the talk of the police department, probably of the town.”
“What do you want, George? It’s early.”
He leaned against the hood of his car, spread his hands on the paint, and looked suddenly grave. “It’s about Miriam,” he said. “She told me that you know.”
“About the cutting?”
He looked away, as if from the word itself. “Yeah.”
“There’s no bullshit in that, George. The issues that drive it… I can’t begin to guess what it all means. Can you handle it? Do you want to handle it?”
“It’s like I said the other day, Adam. Miriam needs me. Fragile, beautiful.” He held the imaginary teacups again, then opened his fingers like a conjurer. “She’s got issues. Who doesn’t? She has the soul of an artist, and that doesn’t come without cost. She feels pain more than most of us would.”
He was clearly shaken, and I sensed the depth of his feeling for her. “Do you know why she does it, George?” I was thinking of Gray Wilson, and of how she mourned over his grave.
He shook his head. “She’ll tell me when she’s ready. I know better than to push.”
“My father should not be out of the loop on something so important.”
“He can’t help Miriam. I love him, but he can’t. He’s a hard man and she needs a soft touch. He’d tell her to grow up, be strong, and that would just make it worse. She cares what he thinks. She needs his approval.”
“Janice can’t handle this on her own.”
His feet clicked pavement. “First of all, Janice is not handling this on her own. I’m dealing with this, too. Miriam sees a counselor in Winston-Salem. She goes to inpatient treatment three or four times a year. We’re taking care of her, doing what needs to be done.”
“Just make sure you pay damn close attention.” He started to speak, but I cut him off. “I mean it, George. It’s no game.”
He rose up, indignant. “Do you even realize the nerve it takes for you to say that to me? Where have you been this whole time? Off in your big-city life, living large on your father’s money. I’ve been here for her. I’ve picked up the pieces time after time. I’ve held her together. Me. Not you.”
“George-”
“Shut up, Adam, or I will shut you up myself. I will not stand here and be judged.”
I gave myself a few seconds. He was right. “I’m sorry, George. I’m out of touch, out of the loop. I just worry. She’s family. I love her, hate to see her in pain. I have no right to judge how you and Janice are handling the problem. I’m sure that she’s seeing the best people she can.”
“She’s getting better, Adam. I have to believe that.”
“I’m sure you’re right, and I apologize again. What can I do for you, George? Why are you here?”
He took a deep breath. “Don’t tell your father, Adam. That’s what I’m here to ask you. We haven’t slept. She cried all night long.”
“Miriam’s asking?”
He shook his big head. “She’s not asking, Adam. She’s begging.”
I tried to call Jamie from the car and got his voice mail again. I left a message, and doubted that my voice sounded kind. He’d been unusually scarce and I guessed that he was either drunk, hungover, or avoiding me. Miriam was right, I realized. The family was tearing itself apart. But I couldn’t worry about Miriam now, or even Grace. I had to concern myself with Dolf first. He was still in jail, still not talking to any of us. There were things that I did not know, things going on, and I needed to get to the bottom of it, preferably before Grantham did. Today, I told myself, and Candace Kane was a good place to start. I found her apartment at eight thirty.
It was an old development, two stories high, redbrick, with a balcony running along the facade. It filled a skinny lot a block away from the college: thirty units, mostly blue-collar local. Forty years’ worth of broken beer bottles had been ground to powdered glass under ten thousand tires. The whole lot looked like spilled glitter when the sun hit it right.
Candace’s apartment occupied the back corner, second floor. I parked and walked. Rough concrete grated beneath my shoes as I hit the stairs. From the balcony, I could see the tall spire of the college chapel, the magnificent oak trees that stood above the quad. The numbers were off the door, but I saw a trace of the number “sixteen” in the discolored paint. Desiccated tape covered a drilled-out peephole. A corner had folded up in the heat, and I saw where someone had packed the hole with tissue before taping it up. A plastic garbage bag leaned against the wall, smelling of sour milk and Chinese takeout. I knocked on the door, got no answer. A minute later, I tried again.
I was halfway to my car, sun finally breaking through, glass shards lighting up on the tarmac, when I saw the woman cutting across a parking lot two hundred feet away. I watched her: mid-twenties in pink shorts and a shirt too small to contain either her breasts or the penny-roll of fat around her waist. I thought of Emmanuel’s description: White. Kind of fat. Trashy. Looked about right. She had a paper bag in one hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. Bleached hair straggled out from under a baseball cap.
I heard her flip-flops.
Saw the scar on her face.
She pulled up when we were ten feet apart. Her mouth opened into a small circle and the eyes went wide, but the expression didn’t last. Her face closed down and she changed the line of her walk just enough to miss me. I cut the corner and said her name. She narrowed her eyes, rolled up on the balls of her feet. Up close, she was prettier than I expected, even with the scar. Clear, blue eyes framed a slightly upturned nose. Her lips were full, skin clear. But the scar hurt her. It was tight and pink, glossy as a vinyl skirt. Three inches long, it had a jagged kink in the middle that spoke to me of emergency room surgery.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
Two keys hung on a ring at her waist, the plastic key fob shoved under the elastic of her shorts. I smelled breakfast in the bag and guessed she’d walked to the local barbecue joint for takeout.
“You’re Candace, right?”
Much of the initial fear had left her. It was early morning next to a busy street. Five thousand college kids were no more than a block away. “Candy,” she corrected me.
“I need to talk to you about Danny Faith.”
I expected her face to pinch, but instead, it loosened. Her lips spread to show a single, corrupt tooth on the right side. Tears widened her eyes and her breakfast hit the ground. She clamped her hands over her face, hiding the bright pink rip in her otherwise flawless skin.
She shook, a weeping wreck.
It took her a minute. When the hands came off, her face was splotched white where fingers had pressed too hard. I picked up the warm bag and handed it to her. She fished out a napkin and blew her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just found out yesterday that he was dead.”
“Do you care?” I asked. “He gave you that scar,” I said. “You filed an assault warrant against him.”
Her head dipped. “It don’t mean that I didn’t love him.” She sniffed, trailed a dry corner of the napkin beneath one eye, then the other. “People fix mistakes all the time. People move on. People get back together.”
“May I ask what you were fighting about?”
“Who are you again?”
“Danny and I were friends.”
She made a damp sound, raised a finger. “You’re Adam Chase,” she said. “He talked about you a lot. Yeah. He said you were friends, said you could never have killed that boy. He said so to anybody that’d listen. He got in fights about it sometimes. He’d get drunk and angry. He’d talk about how great you were and how much he missed you. Then he’d go out and look for people saying things about you. Five times, six times. Maybe more. I can’t remember all the times he came back bloody. A lot. It used to scare me.”
“Blood can have that effect.”
She shook her head. “Blood don’t bother me. I have four brothers. It was what came after.”
“What do you mean?”
“After he calmed down, washed the blood off, he’d sit up late and drink by himself. Just sit in the dark and get all weepy. Not like he was really crying.” She made a face. “It was just kind of pitiful.”
The thought of Danny standing up for me hit hard. After five years of silence, I’d assumed that he’d written off the friendship, moved on with his life. While I tried to bury things, Danny was protecting the memory. It made me feel worse, if possible. I’d interpreted my exile as a mandate. Do whatever it took to get through the hours. Forget your family and your friends. Forget yourself.
I should never have doubted him.
I should have kept the faith.
“He called me,” I said. “You don’t know what he wanted, do you?”
She gave a head shake. “He never mentioned anything.” Her eyes were red, but drying. She sniffed. “Want a cigarette?” she asked. I declined and she pulled a crumpled pack from the back of her shorts. “He has a picture of you in his room. The two of you, I guess I should say. He had his arm around you, but not like he was sweet on you or anything. You were all muddy, laughing.”
“Dirt biking,” I told her. “I remember.”
She took a drag, and the smile died on her face. She shook her head, and there was such meaning in the gesture. I thought that she might cry again.
“What did you and Danny fight about?” I asked.
She dropped the cigarette, crushed it with a green, rubber sandal and I saw how pink polish had chipped away from her toenails. She did not look up. “I always knew he had other girls,” she said. “But when he was with me, he was completely and totally with me. See? Those other girls didn’t matter. I knew I was the one. He told me so. None of them others would last. It’s just the way Danny was. And it’s not like I could blame them.” She laughed wistfully. “There was something about him. Something that made me put up with it. With all of it.”
“All of what?”
“The girls. The drinking. The fights.” She broke down again. “He was worth it. I loved him.”
Her voice fell off and I prompted her. “He hit you?” I asked.
“No.” Weak voice. “He didn’t hit me. That’s just what I said. I was mad.”
“What happened?”
“I wanted to hurt him, but you can’t tell the cops, okay? They asked me the other day, and I told ’em that he had. I was scared to change my story.” She paused. “I just wanted to show him.”
“You were angry.”
When she looked up, I saw the black gulf behind shining, blue eyes. “He tried to break up with me. He said it was over. What happened to my face… That was my fault. Not his.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t hit me, like I told the cops. He was trying to walk away and I was pulling on his arm. He jerked it and I tripped on a stool. I fell into that window.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said. “He’s gone. The warrant means nothing.”
But she was crying slow, oily tears, her head loose on her neck. “I put the cops on him. I chased him into hiding. Maybe that’s what got him killed.”
“Was he into something illegal?”
She shook her violently, either answering in the negative or refusing to answer at all. I couldn’t tell. I asked her again. No answer.
“Gambling?”
A nod, eyes closed.
“Is that who beat him up four months ago? The people that took his bets?”
“You know about that?”
“Who handled his bets, Candy?”
She choked up. “They beat him so bad-”
“Who?” I pushed.
“I don’t know. Danny said they’d been looking for him. They went to the motel. They went to the farm. He went missing for a while beforehand. I think he was hiding from them. You should ask Jamie. He’s your brother, right?”
“Why should I ask Jamie?”
“He and Danny ran around a bunch. Went to the ball games and the gambling clubs. Dogfights somewhere out in the county. Cockfights. Anything they could bet on. They came home with a new car once, won it from some guy over in Davidson County.” She smiled thinly. “It was a junker. Two days later, they traded it for beer and a moped. They were friends, but Danny said once that he couldn’t trust Jamie the way he trusted you. Said Jamie had a cruel streak in him.” She shrugged. “He really missed you.”
She was still crying a little, and I needed to think about what she’d said. She was the second person to think that Jamie and Danny were mixed-up in gambling together. George Tallman had said basically the same thing. I considered the implications. I gave her a second. The hard question was coming up. “Why was he breaking up with you, Candy?”
She tilted her head so far to the side that I saw nothing but baseball cap and dry hair bleached to the color of soap. When she spoke, I could tell that the words hurt. “He was in love. He wanted to change his life.”
“In love with who?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No idea?”
She looked up, unforgiving, and the scar twisted when she spoke. “Some whore.”
I called Robin as Candy Kane walked away from me. I heard traffic sounds when she answered. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Slowly. The good news is that the sheriff’s office has, indeed, been looking for Zebulon Faith. I’ve spoken to some of the same people, covered a lot of the same ground. Bad news is, I’m getting the same answers. Wherever Faith went to ground, it’s out of his name or off the grid.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked with the utility companies for Rowan and surrounding counties. As far as I can tell, he has no other properties, nothing with a phone or power hookup. I’ve got other irons in the fire. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I just spoke to Candace Kane.”
“Grantham spoke to her yesterday.”
“What did she tell him?”
“I’m off the case, remember? I’m the last person Grantham will talk to. All I know is that he tracked her down.”
“She told Grantham that Danny hit her and that she hated him for it. That’s not entirely the truth. She loved him. He dumped her right before he died. Could be a motive.”
“You think she’s capable?”
“Of murder?” I looked up as Candace mounted the stairs. Her long legs pumped beneath pink, terry cloth shorts. The extra weight on her jiggled. “I don’t see it,” I said. “But she has four brothers. They may not like the scar on her face.”
“That’s a viable motive, but again… it was Dolf’s gun. I’ll run the names and see if any of them have a sheet. Who knows. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
She did not sound hopeful, and I understood. It all came back to the gun. It only made sense if Danny took the gun himself and somehow lost control of it. And that was thin. Danny knew how to handle himself. “Do you think Faith knows that his son is dead?”
“That depends on how deep he’s hiding.”
“Danny might have been into gambling. It looks like somebody beat him pretty badly four months ago. Might be gambling related.”
“Says who?”
“Candace Kane. George Tallman.”
“George, huh?”
I heard the disdain in her voice. “What do you have against him?”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Seems like more than that.”
She hesitated and I knew she was thinking about the question. “I don’t trust him.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve been a police officer for more than a few years. I know a lot of cops and a lot of criminals, and, in some ways, the two aren’t that different. Criminals have their good sides, if you can find them. Cops can run dark. You understand? Cops can’t be saints. The job won’t allow it. Too many bad people in your life. Too many bad days, bad decisions. It accumulates. Likewise, criminals are rarely bad all the time. They have kids. They have parents. Whatever. They’re human. Spend enough time around anyone, and you should see hints of both sides. That’s human nature. You see what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve worked with George Tallman for four years. I’ve never seen his dark side.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nobody is that easy. Nobody is that level, least of all a cop.”
She was wrong. I’d known George since he was in high school. He could not hide a feeling if he had to. I let it go, chalked it up to cynicism born of long years wearing a shield. “What about the gambling? Do you think there could be some tie-in there? Something to link it to Danny’s death? Candace Kane said that these bookies came looking for Danny. They went to the motel. They went to the farm. Have you seen anything that might support that kind of motive? Danny was killed on the farm.”
“There are some big game-makers in Charlotte. Highly profitable, highly illegal. If he was in over his head, it could get ugly.”
“Is anybody going to check it out?”
Her voice was not without pity. “Dolf confessed. Nobody is looking for alternate explanations. Any jury in the country would convict him.”
“Grantham has doubts about motive,” I said.
“It’s not up to Grantham. It’s up to the sheriff and he isn’t going to waste time or money when he already has what he wants.”
“Grantham thinks that Dolf might have confessed to protect my father.” Robin was silent. “That’s stupid, right?”
More silence.
“Robin?”
“Grantham’s smart. I’m trying to see this from his perspective. I’m thinking.”
“Well, think out loud.”
“Whoever killed Danny would have to know about the crack up on the knob.”
“That could be anybody. We used to have parties up there. Shoot skeet. I could name a hundred people that have been up there.”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate, Adam. Danny’s killer would have to be strong enough to get the body in the hole. Your father has no handguns of his own, but has access to Dolf’s gun cabinet. Danny worked for him off and on. Plenty of opportunity for problems to fester. Did he have any reason to be upset with Danny?”
“I have no idea,” I said, but then thought of Jamie’s gambling. Danny was a bad influence. The family was short on cash.
“Then I don’t know what to tell you. Nothing makes sense without a motive.”
“For now, I’m going to assume that Danny’s death has something to do with the power plant or with his gambling. Whoever took his bets has already assaulted him once. I need to look into that.”
“Don’t. Not in Charlotte. Those guys are heavy hitters. They don’t like people messing around in their business. Cross the wrong one down there and you may find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m not kidding. I won’t be able to help you.”
I pictured Danny, spoiling for a fight then coming home to drink alone. Dolf, in a cell. Grace crumbling from the inside out. Grantham’s insinuation that Dolf was lying to protect my father. There was a piece missing, and somebody, somewhere knew what it was. I had no choice but to dig where I could. Deep down, Robin had to recognize that.
“I have to do something,” I said.
“Don’t, Adam. I’m asking you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and continued before she could question the lie. “You’ll check on the brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“I doubt it means anything, but I’m guessing that Candy Kane wasn’t the only woman Danny dumped.”
“What do you mean?”
“Danny lived at the motel. We went through his room after his body was found. One of the windows was broken, patched with cardboard from a shoe box. On a dresser we found a rock sitting on top of a note. The note was yellow paper, unfolded, rock sitting on it like a paperweight. Looked like someone had wrapped the note around the rock and tossed it through the window. The rubber band was still on the rock. The Mexican guy, Emmanuel, thought he remembered that happening shortly before Danny went missing.”
“What did the note say?”
“ ‘Fuck you, too.’ ”
“How do you know it was from a woman?”
“Lip prints where a signature should be. Bright red lipstick.”
“Perfect,” I said.
“Sounds to me like Danny Faith was cleaning house.”