Dinsmore slid into the booth and signalled the waitress for a coffee without waiting for me to even sit down. I wore it – suppose I’d earned the slight. He leaned back and took a Lucky Strike from his pack and held it upside down between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You got some nerve, I’ll give you that.’
The diner was a half-block from the Recorder’s offices, just south of the point where Central Avenue shed the last of its glitz. Dinsmore had been all set to ditch me in the reception to go back to his desk, but I’d talked him down with the offer of buying him lunch. I’d never known a newsman to turn down a free meal, but figure what he really wanted was to watch me eat crow.
The booth was cramped, my knees butting into his as I sat down. He stared at me, tapping his smoke on the table to tamp the tobacco down.
‘Cut me some slack,’ I said. ‘You can see how it looked.’
‘That I was holding out on you? Why would you assume that? Seems like a dumb way to go about your business, you ask me.’
‘Enough, already, I’m buying you lunch, aren’t I? You can drop the wounded soldier act.’
His eyes twinkled, celebrating scoring a point off me. ‘You know, I feel like steak all of a sudden.’
‘Sure. Live it up.’ I looked off to one side, towards the counter, tapping my thumbnail on the table. Only half the stools were taken; all of the occupants were men, and most wore blue shirts and work pants. I turned back towards Dinsmore. ‘All right, let’s start over.’
He shrugged and clamped his cigarette between his front teeth. ‘Okay.’ He lit it, blew a stream of smoke sideways from the corner of his mouth; it curled against the window pane and came back towards us. ‘Where’d you turn up Jeanette Runnels’ name?’
The question caught me off guard. I didn’t see what it mattered, unless my first instinct was right and he was trying to keep tabs on who I was speaking to. ‘That’s not important.’
He stuck out his bottom lip. ‘No, I guess not.’ His tone said he wasn’t satisfied with that answer.
I pulled out the photograph. ‘You’re sure that’s not Miss Runnels or Miss Prescott?’
He took it to look at, then slid it across the table to me again. ‘Sure.’
‘Who killed the two women?’
The waitress set his coffee down in front of him, the mug gleaming white but chipped around the rim. She asked for our order, but Dinsmore surprised me by waving her off. ‘A nigger lowlife called Walter Glover. He already had a rap sheet full of minor offences, then sometime last decade he broke into the big leagues when he assaulted a woman in his car. He claimed she’d gone with him willingly, but the jury didn’t believe him.’
‘Any chance he was telling the truth?’
‘The dame was white, so what do you think? Anyway, they convicted him and he served eleven-and-change for it, got out in June. He’d only been free a couple weeks before he killed Runnels. Parole board had shaved his sentence some because he found Jesus in the clink. Made them look real bad, in light of what he did next.’
‘You said the cops soft-pedalled the investigation into the murders.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So how’d they get hip to Glover?’
‘Hot Springs PD didn’t want anything to do with it, but the Garland County Sheriff’s Department decided to involve themselves.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Hot Springs is the county seat of Garland County, they can do what they like.’
‘I meant why did they get involved if the city cops ignored it?’
‘Who knows why?’ He held his hands up as he said it. ‘Sheriff was a hoss by the name of Cole Barrett; he got a tip to look at Glover for the killings and he went after him. Tracked him to a dogtrot cabin out by Lake Catherine and gunned him down. Afterwards, Barrett said Glover confessed to the murders on the spot but tried to draw on him, so he had to shoot him in self-defence.’
I had the first thought I always did with anonymous tips: who was the tipster? ‘Did he kill him?’
He tapped his chest. ‘Sure did. Put two right in his heart.’
‘You believe Barrett’s version of events?’
Dinsmore pursed his mouth and spread his hands. ‘I have no reason not to.’
He saw the look on my face.
‘I know, I know, there are parts that sound fishy. Could be the case they’re not giving us the whole truth, and that’s why, but that wouldn’t be unusual. What’s done is done.’
‘Were there any witnesses to the shooting?’
He shook his head. ‘But there’s no reason to disbelieve Barrett. He was sheriff six years and a deputy a long time before that. He was well respected and never known as a gunslinger. And besides, why would he lie?’
‘Because he shot a man in cold blood?’
‘Come on, Yates, think it through – what cause would he have to do that? When backup arrived, the deputies found Glover with his gun in his hand. I’m inclined to believe it went down how Barrett said.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Couple months back – August, around then.’
August. Prior to Robinson’s time at Duke’s. I traced my fingernail absently across the tabletop, back and forth, wondering what the hell had drawn him to this mess. Seemed like Cole Barrett was someone I needed to talk to. Hearing Dinsmore speak about him brought to mind another sheriff – Horace Bailey, late of Texarkana. I wondered if that was the link – if Robinson had heard about Barrett, got a line on some dirt on the Glover shooting, and decided another crooked sheriff was more than he could stand.
Thoughts of Bailey summoned to mind my last image of him: his corpse on the floor of Winfield Callaway’s study, his hat fallen next to him, a smear of blood on the crown. My gun arm still shaking. The memory made my hands tremble again now; I folded them in my lap, out of sight. ‘Where’s Barrett’s office?’
Dinsmore tapped his cigarette on the chrome ashtray. ‘Forget it, he’s retired.’
‘Retired?’
‘Yeah. He was forced out, the rumour goes. Seems like you and our prosecuting attorney-elect think alike; he made it known he wasn’t buying Barrett’s story and that he’d be looking to empanel a grand jury when he takes office in January so he could bring unlawful killing charges against Barrett. From what I heard, the mayor stepped in to broker a deal – Barrett retires immediately and gets to keep his pension. In return, Masters – that’s the prosecuting attorney – promises he won’t go after Barrett. At first I couldn’t see why Masters agreed to it – he’s leading this GI Ticket, says him and his boys are going to clean the whole town up, but then he’s doing deals with Teddy Coughlin before he’s even in the door. But then you think about it, and realise it’s a smart move; Masters got what he wanted all along – Barrett out of office, clearing the way for one of his own men to be elected sheriff come November. For all his talk about justice, he didn’t give a damn what Barrett did or didn’t do. He just wanted him out of the way so he could—’
I held my finger up. ‘Why would Barrett take the deal if he had nothing to hide?’ I imagined Robinson hearing the same story I just did, and having the same thoughts – that Barrett was dirty as hell. Another lawman above the law. His blood boiling as he heard it.
Dinsmore shrugged. ‘Avoid the embarrassment. Protect his pension. Who knows?’
‘Anyone from your outfit think to ask him about it?’
‘Who, Barrett? Sure – I tried a couple times, but he wouldn’t talk to the papers.’
‘Maybe I’ll go ask him for myself.’
He laughed, billowing smoke as he did. ‘Good luck with that. Retirement’s done nothing to brighten his disposition.’
I looked him in the eyes. ‘I’ve dealt with worse. Where’s he live?’
‘Y’already owe me lunch, Yates. How many markers you want to build up here?’ He smiled when he said it, but it quickly faded when he realised I was serious.
He checked his watch, slid along the bench seat and stood up. ‘I oughta scram. Take some time to cool off. You’ll thank me for it.’ Then he stepped back from the table, cracked a smile. ‘And don’t think I’ll forget about lunch.’
When he was gone, I slumped back against the booth and closed my eyes, all of it dancing around in my mind. Political warfare and dirty deals. A dead sex fiend, supposed murderer. A sheriff forced from office under a cloud. Dinsmore playing coy, like it was for my own benefit – perking my suspicion about him. At the centre of it all, Jimmy Robinson and all those dead women.