Don't Know Jack

here again.”

“I hear ya, sister.”

They stepped down off the porch together and walked the outside perimeter. The side and back lawns were in the same condition as the front. Cracked, dried, mostly bare red dirt, a few dead weeds for color. There was one outbuilding in the rear yard, clearly constructed by the same inept craftsman as the house. The outbuilding had never been painted and weather had grayed the pine boards. It was nothing but a three-sided box with a wall from back to front that divided port from starboard. On the left side was a clothes washer and a dryer probably purchased when Reagan was president. On the right side was a ten-year-old Ford Taurus, sun-faded, beat-up, run- down. The driver’s door was slightly ajar.

Kim used her jacket sleeve and pushed the door fully open. The dome light came on inside. A bell warned that a key was in the ignition. The odometer showed 156,324 miles. On the passenger seat was an expensive designer handbag. Gaspar whistled, low and appreciative.

“Look at that, would you?” he said. “That thing’s worth way more than the car. More than the house. Hell, more than the land, too, I’ll bet.”

“How do you know so much about handbags, Agent Gaspar?”

“I’ve got a wife and four daughters. I mentioned that, right?” He grinned at her. “Did I also mention we’re all big soccer fans? You know who David Beckham is?”

Beckham wasn’t one of the top ten most wanted terrorists this week, so no, she didn’t recognize the name. But she didn’t say that.

“The soccer genius with the gorgeous wife, Victoria?”

Kim shook her head.

“Victoria Beckham is a very beautiful and fashionable woman and a huge fan of all things Hermes. She has quite a collection. To the tune of about $2 million worth, according to my oldest daughter. Including a birthday present in the same style as this one here, that her husband reportedly purchased for north of $150,000.”

“Assuming it’s not fake,” Kim said.

“Even a fake would cost more than I’ll bring home this week after Uncle Sam takes his cut.” He opened the glove box and pushed a yellow button. The trunk lid released.

Kim walked around to the back of the car and used her jacket sleeve to push the trunk lid up. “So, if the handbag is worth so much, how much do you suppose these four pieces of matching luggage would set you back?”

Gaspar said nothing. Just took pictures of the luggage. Maybe to show his daughter, Kim thought. Then from behind them Chief Roscoe said, “I’d appreciate copies of those pictures. Unless you’d prefer to hand over the camera.”

Gaspar slipped the camera into his pocket. Kim didn’t look up. She said, “Sure. No problem. We may want to look at your evidence, too. We can exchange when it’s convenient for you.”

Roscoe didn’t back down. “I assume this trunk lid was already open when you got here and you haven’t violated anybody’s rights by opening it without a warrant.”

“I love a cat fight,” Gaspar said, loud enough only for Kim to hear.

Kim looked at Roscoe, square in the eye, and said, “I’m guessing this luggage and the other contents of this vehicle belong to your suspect. I didn’t know Harry Black, but he doesn’t seem like the luxury leather goods type to me.”

“No,” Roscoe said. “He wasn’t. You’re right.”

“Or rich.”

“He wasn’t that either.”

“And the way it looks is that Mrs. Black was packed, dressed, and ready to go. She waited until her husband was asleep. And then she shot and killed him. The question is why she didn’t go ahead and leave at that point. Why did she call 911 and turn herself in? That doesn’t make any sense. She’s maybe a little crazy, maybe out of touch with reality somewhat, but she’s well oriented to time and place, as the psychiatrists say.”

“How do you know?” Roscoe said.

“I talked to her.”

Gaspar said, “And she didn’t kill him a couple of hours before we got here, either. Based on the lividity and rigor and the smell of decomp, I’m guessing he’d been dead eight hours or more when we arrived. There could be a federal crime here. We could call Atlanta, if you want. We could get some agents out here to take over.”

“Or not,” Kim said. “It’s up to you. You can take Sylvia Black as a murdering wife and process her for homicide and use this evidence of flight to support premeditation and we can get back to our assignment.”

Roscoe was considering her options. Kim recognized the signs. Eventually Roscoe said, “We’ll take it from here. We need to finish up with the scene and then I’d like to talk to you. Tonight. Or tomorrow. How can I reach you?”

“We’re going to eat,” Kim said. “Our cell numbers are on the business cards we gave you earlier. Call us when you’re finished here and we’ll meet you at your office or somewhere else in town. How’s that?”

“Sounds good,” Roscoe said, offering the firm, cool handshake she’d extended previously, but this time she offered it with more sincerity. “I appreciate the help. We’re a small department. We don’t get a lot of trouble. Some drugs. Meth mostly. A few robberies to finance the drugs. Some domestic battery on Saturday nights. And that’s about it. We’re a little out of our depth today.”

Kim appreciated the effort to make nice, even though Roscoe was more than just a little out of her depth and she knew it. That fact was obvious to the least sophisticated observer. But Kim would never have made such an admission in Roscoe’s shoes. Or any other shoes.

“It’s going to rain,” Roscoe said, and walked away.

“She’ll call us,” Gaspar said. “Right after she checks us out with Atlanta.”

“That’s what I would do,” Kim said. “Wouldn’t you?”

Gaspar grinned. “Of course I would.”

Kim’s stomach growled. “Good thing Asian women don’t weigh much. If I don’t get real food pretty soon, you may have to carry me when I faint.”

“Then we’d better hurry. We Cubans are not that chivalrous,” he said, as fat raindrops started to fall.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A solid wall of rain overwhelmed the Blazer all the way down the country road. Gaspar turned the wipers to their fastest speed, but they didn’t do much. Headlights on bright showed nothing but a curtain of water dead ahead.

“There,” Kim said, pointing at a dull gleam of aluminum. A sun-faded sign out front of the place said Eno’s Diner in letters the size of garbage cans.

“Got it, boss.” She saw exhaustion around his eyes and pain in the lines that etched his face. He pulled the Blazer into the lot. The only other vehicle was a green Saturn. He drove as close to the door as he could get and turned the engine off. They sat for a moment listening to the rain hammering on the roof.

Then they ran. She got there first. Was he still limping? She wrenched the door open, and they fell inside and back in time about sixty years.

Eno’s Diner resembled a converted railroad car. Retro. Like American Graffiti. There should have been table- side jukeboxes in the booths loaded with Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis records. Maybe Ray Charles singing Georgia, or even that sad old dude, Blind Blake, considering the location.

The place was narrow, with a long counter on one side, and booths lining the opposite wall, and a kitchen off the back. The doorway was in the center where one of the booths had been removed. A small sign posted at the cash register immediately ahead said, “Please be seated.” The entrance aisle formed a T intersection from the front door and required a right or left turn to choose a table. Gaspar turned right, walked fifteen feet on checkerboard black and white tile and chose a booth. He sat down hard on the red vinyl upholstered bench, facing the door. Predictable.