At ten o’clock on Monday morning Bill Reichert picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed Morgan Hannah’s number. She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he said brightly, trying to hide the irritation he felt at her not being available the day before.
“And how are you this morning?” He wondered if she ever said anything that didn’t have the sound of promise behind it.
“I guess I’m fine. A little disappointed maybe.”
“Disappointed?” Her tone didn’t change.
“I tried to call you yesterday afternoon from about one-thirty on until about ten. I left a message,” he said.
“I was at the beach in the afternoon, and didn’t get in last night until late.” He knew she wouldn’t tell him where she had been and he couldn’t ask. It was an unspoken part of their arrangement.
“I wanted to see you,” he said.
“If you had called in the morning....”
“You said not early.” There was displeasure in his voice.
“I was up by nine-thirty. That’s not early, and I didn’t go to the beach until noon. Why didn’t you call earlier?” she asked.
“I had a meeting at twelve and wasn’t free until one-something.”
“I’m sorry. I would have liked to see you, too.” She didn’t sound convincing. He wondered if someone else were there with her.
“What about lunch? Busy?”
“I’ve got a hair appointment in town. Then I think I’ll do a little shopping. May even go over to Palmetto; I haven’t been off this island in days.”
“Should I call this evening?” Bill Reichert was angry at her coyness. He wouldn’t beg. Never had; never would. She was just a piece of fluff. But a good piece of fluff, came the afterthought.
“Why don’t we wait until tomorrow? Call in the morning. Maybe we can do something in the afternoon if you’re free.”
“I don’t know what’s on my calendar,” he said coldly, knowing there was nothing he couldn’t avoid or wouldn’t cancel. “I’ll call.”
“Hey, lighten up,” she said. “We’ll try for tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Tomorrow,” he said and hung up the phone.
He sat at his desk being bored. The whole business of banking had become monotonous to him. There was little to do. He had been promoted up and out of useful work. Loan meetings, if there was an important loan, handling a rare employee problem and attending the weekly Rotary Club meeting. That was pretty much it, other than at audit time. The bank was well-organized, which he considered his major talent. Vice-presidents and branch managers did all of the day-to-day work. He selected them carefully for that very reason.
He decided to call Charley Clay and see if he was available for lunch. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of expanding the business and adding new people. The additional money was appealing, but how many BMWs could he drive at one time?
“Charles Clay, Attorneys-at-Law,” the secretary answered.
“It’s Bill Reichert. Charlie available?”
“Not yet, Mr. Reichert. He called in from the beach house and said he wasn’t sure exactly what time he would be in. Any message or anything I can do for you?”
“No, just tell him I called. I would like to talk to him when he gets a minute.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you.” When he hung up the telephone, he had no idea what to do next; however, with additional currency coming in, there was research to be done. The thought of reorganizing The Company’s system was aggravating.
It was cold when Karen Chaney woke up on Monday morning; the room felt wet. The blinds were closed, making it impossible to determine whether it was day or night. She pulled herself out of bed and opened the blinds. It was day, gray and raining. If she were staying in a better place, she would have gone back to bed; it was that kind of day—a depression-booster. The only positive thing that had happened to her since coming to Covington was meeting and spending the good part of a Saturday with Sam Larkin. Didn’t know why that was positive, but it seemed that way.
She had participated in a number of difficult and dangerous operations since being assigned to the Special Operations Unit of the DEA, but she had never felt so isolated. She was on her own; there was no team. All decisions regarding her activities were hers alone. Kind of like a one-person Special Forces Unit dropped behind enemy lines. The objective was simple: infiltrate the Covington District Environmental Service and determine if information received by the administration regarding the importation of marijuana and hashish into the area had any validity.
Neil Dougherty, the supervisor who assigned the project to her, believed the information was sound. However, the procedures appeared haphazard, which made her nervous. She was simply put in place, told to observe and report anything she thought important. A fishing expedition. If it was justified, a full unit would be sent in. She was to report to Dougherty every third day. Today was the day, but not now. Neil could wait.
When she finished dressing, she left the motel for the Environmental offices. Three Hispanic men were sitting on milk crates in front of the room next to hers drinking Colt 45 Malt Liquor. The thought of drinking at this hour made her gag. She glanced at them, and their heads went down. As soon as her back was to them, she heard a laugh.
“Hey, Puta, come back in the room with us and make the day worthwhile. You can have all three of us,” one of them said.
Chaney turned and walked back to them. She put her hands in her pockets, opening her jacket just enough to show the Ruger .357 clipped to her belt. The heads went back down.
“Come on. Don’t you want to see what you’re going to get?” she said. They looked up and took in the gun wide-eyed. “I don’t think all three of you together would make one good bone.” She turned and headed toward her car. The three men were silent.
The office of the Covington County Environmental Service was located in the Wylie Building, an old, dirty, red-brick, two-story structure built by the W.P.A. in the thirties. The entrance consisted of two framed glass doors at street level. On each floor a long, narrow, dark hallway ran the length of the building. Office doors with opaque glass windows bearing identifying titles such as Tax Assessor, County Records, Zoning Board, Licenses and Permits, District Attorney and South Carolina Division of Motor Vehicles were lined up symmetrically on both sides of the corridor.
The Environmental Services office was at the end of the hall, housed in a large room, crowded with furniture: six desks, which were seldom used, numerous filing cabinets, a water cooler, and a large conference table in the center. The government-green walls were stained by water leaks, years of coal-furnace dust and cigarette smoke accumulated before the facility was declared a ‘smoke-free’ environment. The walls were covered with citations, regulations, framed newspaper articles and agents’ pictures. Outside the supervising officer’s private office stood an American flag and a South Carolina state flag. Only a fire would remove all of the accrued grime that Karen Chaney was looking at as she sat at her desk, located at the furthest end of the room from the entrance.
Sunday had been devoted to looking for an apartment. It was surprising to her how little was available and the prices that were being asked. Seven hundred a month was all she was allowed. She finally gave up on the owner-ads late in the day and stopped into a realtor’s office, where she found a two-story townhouse listed that she fell in love with. It was in a pleasant location and looked out over the river. Two bedrooms—the master upstairs, guest down—living room, kitchen, bath, powder room and a small dining area. A wrought-iron spiral staircase led to the second floor. The river side of the unit was all glass, which gave an exquisite view from both the living room and the master bedroom. It was well-furnished, including a king-sized bed from which she could see a wide expanse of the river. More than perfect. It was also nine hundred and fifty dollars a month, but too beautiful to pass up. If she had to hit her savings to supplement the allowance, she would. Covington wouldn’t be long term, which created another problem.
She was looking for a month to month or a sixty-day lease with two month’s rent up front. The salesman told her the owner wanted a full year lease. He was doubtful, but said he would see what could be worked out. The thought of starting her search all over again was depressing.
In her short time in Covington Karen Chaney had learned nothing about the people she would be working with. The office was loosely-run, each officer pretty much on his own.
The word was, keep up with your arrest quota, which was very small, do your paperwork, and check in at the office occasionally. Other than that, you were kind of an independent contractor. It was foreign to the work environs she was used to: duty rosters, red-tag cases, surveillance reports, and all of the other common and basic elements of law enforcement.
She needed boat time, but it was no day to be out on the water. Consequently, she found herself in the office with little to do other than hope for a call from the real estate agent. There were two other officers present, each working on their own paperwork projects; they didn’t seem predisposed to conversation. She finally faced the inevitable and put in a call to Neil Dougherty.
While the phone was ringing, she assumed her professional demeanor and rehearsed what she was going to say.
“Neil Dougherty. Karen Chaney calling,” she said when the switchboard operator answered the phone.
“Belle Starr,” came the smiling voice on the other end of the line. He had given her the name when he was a trainer and she was a trainee. Said it was because of her tenacity and willingness to bend the law when solving classroom problems. In retaliation she started calling him Blue Duck after Belle’s emasculated paramour. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in as instructed. What about you?”
“Tryin’ to find some bad guys to put away. What’s going on in Carolina?”
“Haven’t been here long enough yet. They don’t hand out brochures on drug- smuggling in Covington County to newcomers,” Karen said, keeping her voice low.
“Covington may be the hub, Karen, or maybe not, but if it is and it’s a growing operation, it may have already spread to Charleston and beyond. Don’t get near-sighted.”
“I’m not a beginner, Neil. I don’t close my eyes to any possibilities, but give me a chance.” There was a pause in the conversation.
“Have you met anyone yet?” Dougherty asked.
“Professionally, a couple of environmental officers and the head man. Socially? None of your business.”
“Sounds promising. I was asking about the investigation.” I’ll bet you were, she thought.
“That’s about it at the moment. Think you could get me an extra two hundred a month for rent?” she asked.
“You renting a penthouse?”
“Almost. Need a place to entertain. See what you can do.” Nothing pleased her more than needling Dougherty.
“Not a chance.”
“Just asking. As the good book says, “Ask and you shall receive.” It doesn’t say “Bitch and you shall receive.” Guess I’ll have to keep looking. Call you in a few days.”
“Karen, I….” He heard the phone click.
Once again she faced the loneliness of nothing to do. In some ways Dougherty was her best friend. In others, he was a pain in the ass. Big Brother. She found it amusing when he asked if she had met anyone; Sam Larkin came to mind. Interesting. She knew nothing about the man. Could be a Bluebeard, hiding women’s bodies around that isolated house of his. Or the chief smuggler. It was time to check out Mr. Larkin. It would keep her busy.
He said Louisiana, which was next to home territory for Chaney. She had also worked a couple of operations there, which left her with a number of non-federal contacts. First, she called Buck Link, a divisional commander of the Louisiana State Police and asked for a run on anyone named Sam or Samuel Larkin, gave him a time period, a brief description and asked for anything he could find. He offered to check the records he had access to and the Bureau of Vital Statistics if she would stand him for dinner the next time she was in Baton Rouge. Second, she called a friend who was a banker in Louisiana to check on credit cards, loans and credit records. When she was finished, she was pleased. Within a few days, the picture of Sam Larkin might be fully developed.
Before she could decide what to do next, the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Miss Chaney?” She recognized the deep southern accent of the real estate agent and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Yes?”
“This is Chris Blackwell. Dowdy Real Estate?”
“Yes?”
“Let me tell you what I was able to work out with the owner of the townhouse, and then you can make your decision. He wants at least a three-month lease. Said it’s just not economically feasible to clean the place thoroughly and advertise with the possibility of only a one or two month rental. Now I know...”
“That’s fine,” she said, catching him off guard. “How soon can I move in?”
“Well, stop by the office, sign the lease, and I’ll give you the keys. You can be sleeping in your own bed tonight if that’s what you want. The utilities are all on, but you’ll have to get them transferred to your name within the next couple of days.”
“I’ll be by in an hour. That long enough for you to get the lease ready?” she asked with anticipation. It would only take her that long to pack and get over there.
“Of course.”
“I’ll see you shortly, Mr. Blackwell,” she said and hung up. “Yes!” she exclaimed and watched the two other officers turn and look at her. “Found a place to live.” She picked up what she needed to take with her and left the office.
School district Superintendent, Cedrick Hamilton, was as striking in appearance to men as to women. Although he had just turned fifty, his trim physique, cafe-au-lait skin and uncharacteristic Romanesque features created a presence that turned heads and commanded attention. To say assessments and opinions of him were conflicted in the black community would be an understatement. To some, he was a shining symbol of the rising power and position of their race, an example that served as an inspiration. To others, he was just another Oreo pandering to the white power structure of Covington County. To the white community he was either their contribution to affirmative action or another uppity nigger. Cedrick Hamilton was brilliant at walking a very thin line.
He was sitting at his desk when his secretary buzzed to advise him of Isabel Reichert’s arrival. She was a frequent visitor in the superintendent’s office. Hamilton knew when he hired her that her ambition would make her a valuable ally. Whenever there was a problem or he anticipated a problem within the administrative infrastructure, he liked to run it by Isabel. She was not only intelligent, but exemplified class and represented the school district’s image well. She also had a handle on things that were going on in the district. And she was white, which gave him a conduit into white attitudes and the inner-workings of the political elements in the community. They had become friends. He rose from behind his desk to greet her at the door.
“Isabel. Come in,” he said with a broad smile.
“How are you, Cedrick?” she asked as he ushered her to a chair.
“I’m fine.” He seated himself. “How about you?” His voice was gentle, which tended to relax people, give him time to work.
“I’m okay. Was in the building. Thought I’d drop by and say hello.”
“Okay doesn’t sound very good.” Cedrick Hamilton knew the status of Isabel Reichert’s marriage. She had confided it to him one afternoon at the end of a principal’s meeting. “Bill?” he asked.
“Of course. He’s the bane of my existence.”
“Well,” he said with a smile, “I can’t really comment on that, but I think I understand how you feel.”
“That’s not your problem, Cedrick; it’s mine. I’ll handle it.”
“Anything I can do, all you have to do is ask. You said that wasn’t my problem; do I have any problems?” He sat back in his chair and twisted a pencil in his hand. He was wearing an expensive-looking, sand-colored linen suit that was exquisitely tailored, a pale blue shirt and a brown and green figured tie. GQ. He bought the whole package down to his sand-colored socks and highly-polished tan Cole-Hahn loafers. Cedrick Hamilton was never “not put together.”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Anything new?”
“No. What about you? What’s happening in the charmed life of Cedrick Hamilton?”
“Charmed life? If you only knew. I’d like to get rid of Harold Taylor. He’s a pain in the ass, but with the bond issue coming up, the board won’t admit they made a mistake, and neither will I. I don’t think he can do too much damage in that length of time. You want the job?” He was smiling. It seemed he was always smiling.
“A high school? Not in a million years. I’m tired, Cedrick. I’m not sure I might not hang it up altogether.” Her words caught him by surprise.
“You’re not serious.”
“Probably not.”
“Don’t scare me like that. I can’t afford to lose you; you’re too valuable.”
Isabel Reichert chuckled. “Cedrick, you know and I know why I’m valuable to you. I don’t think either one of us has ever been in the dark about that,” she said. “And don’t deny it.”
“Got me.”
“Right. Now I’ve got to figure out a way to get rid of a husband while seeking the appropriate retribution.” She smiled as if it were a joke. It wasn’t.
“I trust your ingenuity,” he said and came around his desk to give her a hug. It was their usual ritual. “You know the door is open anytime you need to talk.”
She looked at him. “How well do you know Sam Larkin?”
“Not at all. Teaches at the high school. Science, I think. He the reason for your dropping by?”
“Not really, but you should know your employees better, Cedrick.”
“A character fault,” he said. “Why Sam Larkin?”
“He’s interesting,” she said.
“First time I’ve heard you express interest in anyone; I think that’s good.”
“Time for everything, Cedrick, but it’s just a momentary fantasy, and we all have those, don’t we?” She was grinning as she left the office.
Hamilton’s telephone buzzed before he got back to his desk.
“Mr. Clay on line one,” his secretary said.
Bad nights didn’t come often for Sam Larkin, but when they did, there was little rest. It had been one of those nights when a single thought or memory presents itself, opens a door, and, from that point on, the mind will not turn itself off. It was frustrating and exhausting.
The week had gone quickly, but only because he forced himself to work. The deck was finished except for treating the wood, a weekend project. He spent every evening doing sketches for a series of paintings he was planning. He was master of his own time, except for his job, something he was beginning to rethink. The job—done right—was more demanding than he wanted, yet there was no other way he could do it.
He had done a lot of thinking during the week and made up his mind to crunch some numbers and see if he could walk away from it. The house was finished. He had a small savings, and he could always get a part-time job. Nothing was out of the question. It was just sad that the system made him feel this way. If it were just the teaching, there would be no problem; it was all of the other meaningless tasks that boggled his mind.
He lit a cigarette, put on a quiet Sinatra tape and zoned out. The world was dancing on the ceiling overhead. It was Friday. The next two days were his.
Turner Lockett had not gone into town for his weekly visit with the girls on Wallace Street. Used to be four or five times a year; lately it had been a weekly occurrence. It was the only thing he spent his money on. Charley Clay warned him about spending too much money, which was no problem for him; there wasn’t anything he wanted. Now, the girls on Wallace Street seemed a thing of the past, something he would never enjoy again.
The trailer was hot. He was sweating beneath the covers, but he chilled when he threw them off. It had been the same every night since Jared Barnes disappeared. Someone was watching him he was sure. Someone knew what he had done. He could feel a presence and it was evil. But how could anyone know? He made sure to cover his tracks. Even used the slow trolling motor instead of the outboard to take Jared’s body up into the headwaters. At the time he laughed at himself for being so cautious. Now it wasn’t funny.
He shook as thoughts he couldn’t stop paraded through his brain. Vivid thoughts: the feel of the lead pipe meeting bone with no more resistance than a pillow and making the sound of crushing peanut shells, Jared’s moan after the first blow, the deadly silence when he stopped after the second, the dead look on the man’s face when he dumped him overboard, the man’s eyes looking into his own as if they could actually see.
His own screaming brought him back to where he was. Sobbing, he got out of bed, turned on every light in the trailer and the flood light outside on the power pole. He was exhausted. The same sequence of events had recurred every night since the killing. The next step was to get dressed, get his shotgun and go outside to sit in the broken lawn chair in the shadows. He had never seen nor heard anyone during his vigils, knew it was a creation of his own guilt, but couldn’t convince himself to let it go.
He was still sitting in the chair when pale light came through the fog that lay heavy on the marsh. He couldn’t remember sleep and wondered if he weren’t as dead as Barnes.
Since there was no requirement that she physically make an appearance at the office on any regular schedule, Karen Chaney made the townhouse her base of operations. She could call the office to pick up urgent messages, and she had a beeper for emergencies, though she couldn’t imagine many of those in Covington. There was an answering machine that signaled what kind of call she had received and the urgency to return it. A facsimile machine and a computer. A telephone extension cord ran under the carpet from the answering machine on the kitchen counter into a walk-in closet in the guest bedroom where there was a filing cabinet and a small table for the computer and fax machine. When the louvered closet doors were closed, the decor was undisturbed.
On Friday she awakened early, put on a pot of coffee and decided there was no hurry to do anything. After a wake-up shower—hot as you can stand it, then a switch to cold water for three minutes—she wrapped a white terry-cloth robe around her, got a cup of coffee, sat on the overstuffed, white couch and looked out over the river. A marine fog covered the water when she woke up, but it receded quickly. The sun—a scarlet orb signaling the beginning of the new day or, perhaps, the end of the world—played on the water, throwing red diamonds at anyone who took the time to look.
Karen Chaney was not one to believe in synergy, but as she was questioning why she had received no responses from her inquiries about Sam Larkin, the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Karen? Buck Link.”
“I was just thinking about you. How are you?” It was difficult to be conversationally gracious when your curiosity was killing you and hard not to smile at his name, which always reminded her of a hard-nosed private-eye out of a detective novel.
“I’m fine. I got some of that information you asked me for. Don’t know if it’s enough to get you to spring for dinner or not though.” He laughed.
“Let me hear what you’ve got and I’ll pick the place for dinner.”
“It’s pretty slim and may give you more questions than answers. Samuel T. Larkin, if it’s the same guy, worked for the State of Louisiana Environmental Service for four years, ten years ago and left without reason. No record of anything in this state since then, as far as I can tell. No arrests, tickets anything like that. Not even a car registration. A clean record as far as the law is concerned. Haven’t gotten over to Vital Statistics yet, but I thought you might be gettin’ curious.”
“I am, Buck, and thanks. I do owe you that dinner. Let me know if you come up with anything else.”
“I will, Karen. You take care now.”
She remembered Larkin saying this was his fourth year at the high school, which meant that if he stayed in Louisiana all that time, he had neither registered a car nor had a traffic violation for five or six years. That was strange enough, but the fact that he was an environmental officer and never mentioned it was even more astounding. She felt the hairs prickle on her arms and warning bells go off in her chest.
She picked up the phone and dialed her banker friend’s number. What he had found was incredible, the reason he hadn’t called. Nothing. There was no financial trail from Louisiana or anywhere else except in Covington where he had a modest savings account and a checking account at the Wachovia Bank. He could only go back eight years without a lot of digging, which he was working on, but for that period there were no loans, credit cards, accounts, anything.
The questions she was left with were overwhelming. Where did he get the money for the house? It was a place she could only dream about, and there wasn’t even a mortgage. More important, what happened to the six years between the environmental service and Covington County High School? She wondered if Sam Larkin was under a deeper cover than she was.
Throughout the week she had resisted the temptation to make contact with him. She thought maybe he would call the office, but no such luck. He wasn’t scratching at the shell of her curiosity; he had broken through it. The best way to handle curiosity is to satisfy it, she thought. Frustration? Face it full on. Both techniques had gotten her into trouble more than once, but she had to know whether Sam Larkin was a good guy or a bad guy. It looked like he was the only one who could tell her.
She made up her mind. She would take the boat out and drop by Larkin’s place unannounced. See what she’d find. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Ready, Sam?”