asking Valentine to point out where the vehicle had been parked. They came to the spot, which was directly in front of the garage. Gaylord pointed at a spot in the grass. Valentine stood there and watched the sergeant remove a small flashlight from his pocket and flyspeck the area. He took his time, and Valentine felt himself shiver as the chilly night area knifed through his clothes.
After a minute, Gaylord went into a crouch. Sticking the flashlight into his mouth, he plucked several things off the ground and placed them on his outstretched palm. Rising, he came over to where Valentine stood. Valentine stared at several tiny shards of tinted glass and the butt of a cigarette. It looked odd, and he picked it up and gave it a whiff. Reefer. The men in the van had been smoking a joint when he’d shot them.
“Looks like they cleaned up after themselves,” Gaylord said.
They had also cleaned the interior of Ricky’s house. No broken or damaged CDs on the living-room floor, the furniture back in its proper place. Even the pool of urine left by the dog in the kitchen was gone. Gaylord dug into the trash and, finding nothing, went outside and looked in the garbage cans beside the garage. Ricky’s destroyed CD collection was nowhere to be found.
“You said they shot at you,” the sergeant said.
Valentine stood on the back lawn and re-created what had happened. Gaylord looked through the grass for shell casings from Juan’s automatic rifle but found none. He took a cell phone out of his pocket and called for backup. They went inside and sat in Ricky’s kitchen.
“What do you think’s going on here?” Gaylord asked.
Valentine shook his head. He had no earthly idea.
A uniformed cop named Farnsworth appeared fifteen minutes later. He was a handsome guy and all red in the face. Valentine wondered where he’d been rousted from.
“Watch him,” Gaylord said.
Farnsworth took Gaylord’s seat. The sergeant went outside and slammed the door. Through the kitchen window Valentine watched him enter the woods with the flashlight in his hand. Feeling the weight of Farnsworth’s stare on his face, he shifted his eyes.
“I saw the video of you shooting the bank robbers,” Farnsworth said. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that? Army?”
Valentine shrugged and resumed looking through the window. The images of Beasley and the scarecrow were gradually fading from his mind; in a few weeks, they’d be gone and would resurface only during bad dreams or those times when life got him down.
“I meant it as a compliment,” Farnsworth said.
“Thanks.”
“I’ve never had to shoot anyone,” he admitted.
“You’re damn lucky.”
Gaylord emerged from the woods ten minutes later. In one arm he held Ricky’s cat. He entered the kitchen and let the cat slip out of his grasp. It scampered over to its food bowl. He came over to the table, reached into his pocket, and dropped several small objects on the table.
“I found those in the woods,” he said.
Valentine picked the objects up and examined them. They were rubber bullets.
38
Sweet dreams,” Isabelle said into the phone.
They were in the kitchen of her house, Gerry drinking a cup of decaf at the kitchen table, Clarkson in the other room watching ESPN, two cruisers parked outside on the street. Isabelle blew a kiss into the phone and hung up. To Gerry she said, “Want a refill?”
“That would be great,” he said.
She joined him at the table, and he saw the glimmer of a tear in her eye. He remembered the first time his father had gotten shot and how his mother had reacted. It was like someone had invisibly torn her in half.
“Lamar wants to know if you’ve spent the money you won off him,” she said.
“I haven’t had time.”
“I think he was joking,” she said, spooning sugar into her cup.
Clarkson let out a yell. Gerry looked into the next room and saw the detective throw his arms into the air as his team scored. It was nice to see he had his priorities straight.
“Lamar really likes his job, doesn’t he?” Gerry said.
“Loves it,” Isabelle said.
“This won’t slow him down?”
She shook her head. “I think he saw it as another badge. Not one he wanted, but one he’d wear if it happened.”
“What kind of badge?”
She glanced at the living room, not wanting Clarkson to hear her. She had a sultry look that was in her genes. Part French and who knew what else. In a soft voice she answered him. “When Lamar was sixteen, he went into a convenience store in Gulfport to buy a loaf of bread and some milk and got himself arrested. Spent a whole night in jail. Got thrown in a holding cell with a bunch of hard cases. They scared the shit out of him. Worst experience of his life, to hear him tell it.”
“What did he do?”
“I told you. He bought a loaf of bread and some milk.”
Gerry felt like she was baiting him. He tried to imagine a scenario where a sixteen-year-old black kid could innocently enter a store and get arrested, and came up with air.
“Was it a case of mistaken identity?”
Isabelle shook her head. “It was nine-fifty in the evening. The store closed at ten.”
He chewed on the information for a little bit.
“Was the store in a bad part of town?”
“Yes. The store owner had been robbed several times. It always happened when he was closing up. That’s when there was the most money in the till. He saw Lamar and thought he was getting robbed again, so he pressed a buzzer beneath the counter and called the cops. And all because Lamar was big and black.”
Gerry said, “Is that why he went into law enforcement?”
“Yes. The first day on the job with the Casino Commission, you know what he did?”
“No.”
“He went back to that convenience store and had a chat with the manager.”
Isabelle’s cell phone rang. It was down inside her pocketbook and sounded like a tiny bird trying to escape. She dug the phone out and stared at the caller ID.
“Speak of the devil.”
She said hello to her husband, then went silent for a moment. She handed the phone across the kitchen table to her guest. “He wants to speak with you. Says it’s urgent.”
Clarkson drove Gerry to Gulfport Memorial Hospital. One cruiser led the way, while another followed them. Clarkson said it was risky going out, but Gerry didn’t care. He was not one to ignore a dying man’s request. They went inside and were met by a white-haired doctor with a kind face, holding a clipboard clutched to his chest. The doctor looked saddened by what had happened.
“He was doing fine a few hours ago,” the doctor said. “Then suddenly everything started to slip. I don’t like to give people death sentences, but I’m afraid I had to tell him. I asked him if he’d like us to call anyone, and he asked that we track you down.”
“Did he say why?” Gerry asked.
“No. I don’t think he has any immediate family. He wrote
They took an elevator up to the top floor of the hospital. It had rubber floors and walls and felt like the interior of a spaceship. Gerry followed the doctor down the hallway past the nurses’ station to the ICU. At the doorway the doctor pulled back.
“Call me if you need anything. There’s an intercom by the bed.”
