BACK IN THE numbered streets, I took a right at 33rd and slowed outside the bungalow home of Randall Moon, landlord for Corinne and Virgil.
I banged on the door. I still needed to get a lease from Moon without Corinne’s name on it.
A skinny Asian guy in his thirties opened the door. He wore a Roll Tide tank top and reeked of marijuana. I flashed him some tin, explaining why I was there.
“Yeah, I was expecting you, man. But it’s all cool,” he said, his hand running over a black peach-fuzz mustache and goatee. “Corinne called me. She explained it all.”
Explained what all?
I looked around, scanning the streets behind me. The last thing I needed was some dopehead talking about me being inside Virgil Rowe’s place the night he died.
“What exactly did she explain?” I squinted. “Because I’m doing you a favor, bud. I could have your place on 31st demoed. A tractor come in and knock it down.”
Moon coughed nervously and stood up straighter. “Yeah. No. I mean she didn’t say anything bad. Just that you two knew each other, and like you said—you’re doing us a favor.”
Us? Jesus. Was Corinne with this clown now? I stared at the guy’s pupils. He was as high as a Georgia pine.
“Is Corinne around still?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Trying to look me in the eye, but unable to.
“I thought she split town?”
“That’s what I meant,” Moon said. A line of perspiration formed on his forehead. “She’s out—but somewhere else, you know? Not here in Mason Falls.”
Jesus, he knows, Purvis said. And he’s lying.
I glanced over my shoulder again, at the cars parked nearby. Looking for anyone sitting in one of them. An undercover maybe.
“Virgil Rowe is the only name on the lease, bro,” Moon finally said, grabbing an envelope off the coffee table. A pile of papers was shoved inside.
Christ, what a mess. For all I knew, this guy sold Virgil the brick of weed.
Grabbing the envelope, I walked out to my truck rather than say another word to Moon.
I’d screwed up coming by to help Corinne that first night. Now this shithead junkie knew it, and maybe so did the lady who Abe was putting in front of a sketch artist.
The best I could do was to plow ahead—try and prove that Burkette and Rowe knew each other. If they did, I’d have connected the two cases.
Minutes later, I was inside Virgil’s house two blocks over and had every light in the place on.
I glanced into Rowe’s master bath. Same as the kitchen: things knocked over, cabinet doors left wide open.
I decided to search the house again, going room by room, seeing if there was anything that someone might’ve been looking for but didn’t find. This was why I’d asked Remy if the place looked tossed.
After twenty minutes, I had nothing.
I dropped into the same armchair where I’d sat when I confronted Virgil. I opened my satchel and paged through the case file.
When I got to the note about my print on the lighter, I looked up. In the last hour, I’d seen six other lighters around the place, the cheap colored type you get free at the liquor store when you buy smokes.
I stared at a box of matches on a shelf in the living room. They were the tall fireplace type—housed in an oversized “strike anywhere” box. Shoved in between two James Lee Burke paperbacks.
Was this odd in a home with no fireplace? Or to an arsonist was it some keepsake?
I grabbed the box, shaking it. It didn’t rattle. As I slid it open, I saw it was stuffed with currency. Hundreds. New bills.
I laid them out. There was ten thousand dollars. On the bottom bill, someone had written a single word across it, in black Sharpie.
Rise.
A tiny yellow Post-it was stuck to the back of the same bill. On it was scrawled the letters P.B. and a time, two p.m.
Who or what was P.B.?
I thought about Kendrick’s initials, K.W., and others in our investigation.
The other boy at the sleepover was Eric Sumpter. E.S.
And the McClure kid. J.M.
My phone rang, and it was Abe. “You got a TV in that place?” he asked.
I found a clicker.
“Channel four,” Abe said.
I punched it in and saw that since I’d left the precinct, the small group of protesters outside had grown. About a hundred folks marched with signs about equality, police brutality, and lack of diversity.
A breaking news graphic kept flashing along the bottom of the screen.
“They’ve been teasing a new lead for ten minutes,” Abe said.
I opened a cupboard where I’d seen a bottle of no-name vodka. Took a drag on it without even thinking.
“Here we go,” Abe said. I waited for the word “lynching” to come onto some graphic at the bottom of the screen. For everything to go to hell.
Instead, the footage showed me and Remy, parking at First Baptist.
“What the hell is this?” Abe said.
Someone had caught video on their cell phone of Remy pulling her weapon as she exited my truck. It cut off quickly and replayed in a loop, conveniently not showing the part where she’d put her gun away.
The graphic at the bottom of the screen read Police pull guns on church campus.
“Jesus,” I said.
On TV, Kendrick’s mom, Grace Webster, was interviewed. She was asked if she knew police had entered church property, and she shook her head.
A picture of Cory Burkette flashed on the screen, followed by a graphic that read Arson-Murder Suspect. The news channel must’ve put this together from our approach of the shed.
“P.T.,” Abe said. “Sorry. Channel four wasn’t the one I was waiting on. I’m in the break room and someone must’ve moved the dial. Switch over to eleven.”
I changed channels and saw Deb Newberry from Fox standing along a rural road.
“I’m standing off SR-909 outside of Bergamot,” Newberry said. “Behind me is the cabin of Clarence Burkette, the uncle of police suspect Cory Burkette, who is wanted in connection with the death of Kendrick Webster.”
“What the hell?” I said.
The camera panned to a small rustic cabin in the distance behind Newberry. “An hour ago, this reporter saw Burkette enter this small rustic cabin. He hasn’t left since.”
“We’re getting an address,” Abe said. “You want me to grab Remy? We’ll meet you there?”
“On my way,” I said, my keys already in hand. Then I bit at my lip, remembering something.
Remy would probably be suspended by Chief Dooger for getting caught on camera at the church.
“Just you, Abe,” I said. “Tell Remy I’m sorry, but she’s gotta wait for the chief.”
I grabbed the money and ran out, the wooden door slamming behind me.