Desiree knocks on the door of a simple wooden cottage in Conroe. She hears a woman yelling inside, telling someone called Marcie to “turn the music down” and “don’t let the dog out.”
A teenager opens the door a crack. She’s wearing skintight cutoff jeans and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt. A dog is scrabbling on the wooden floor, trying to squeeze between her legs.
“We’re not buying an’thang.”
Desiree shows her badge.
Marcie yells over her shoulder. “Ma! It’s the Feds.”
This girl watches too much TV.
Marcie grabs the wet-looking dog by the collar and drags it along the hallway, leaving Desiree standing on the doorstep. A woman appears, wiping her hands.
Desiree holds up her badge. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“In my experience when people say something like that, they’re not sorry at all.”
Mrs. Beauchamp pushes strands of hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized denim shirt that is dotted with wet spots. “I’ve been washing the dog. He rolled in something dead.”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about your late husband.”
“He’s been gone twelve years in January, can’t get much later than that.”
They move to a cluttered living room. Magazines are gathered off the sofa to make room. Desiree sits. Mrs. Beauchamp glances at her wrist, but she’s not wearing a watch.
“I’ve been taking another look at the Armaguard hijacking and robbery,” says Desiree.
“He’s out, isn’t he? I saw the news.”
Desiree doesn’t reply.
“I still get folks looking at me funny…in the supermarket, or at the gas station, or when I pick up Marcie from school—they’re all thinking the same thing: that I know where the money is.” She laughs sarcastically. “Do they think we’d live like this if I had all those millions?” The rims of her nostrils whiten, as though she remembers another unfinished thought. “They blamed Scotty.”
“Who blamed him?”
“Everyone—the police, the neighbors, complete strangers, but especially Armaguard. That’s why they refused to pay out his life insurance. I had to sue them. I won, but the lawyers ended up with most of the money. Thieving scum!”
Desiree listens quietly while the woman tells her about the robbery, how she heard the news of the hijacking on the radio and tried to call her husband.
“He didn’t answer. When Marcie came home from school I lied to her and said her daddy had been in an accident. I couldn’t tell her what had happened. The county coroner said he died from his injuries. He died trying to protect that money. He was a goddamn hero and they made him out to be a villain.”
“What did the police say?”
“They started the rumors. There was never any evidence but they decided to smear someone because they couldn’t recover the money and Scotty wasn’t around to defend himself.”
“Did he normally make the run to Chicago?”
“He’d done it five, maybe six times.”
“Always a different route?”
She shrugs. “Scotty didn’t talk to me about work. He was ex-military. When he fought in Afghanistan he wouldn’t tell me about his deployments. It was operational. Secret.”
Mrs. Beauchamp stands and pulls open the net curtain. “He wasn’t even supposed to be doing that run.”
“Why?”
“One of the trucks was damaged in an accident, so they missed a previous delivery. Scotty was due a vacation, but they asked him to make the run.”
“Who asked him?”
“His supervisor.” She wipes a spot of dirt from her cheek. “That’s why there was so much money in the truck. It was four weeks’ cash instead of two.”
“How did the truck get damaged?”
“Somebody put the wrong gas in the tank.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know—some apprentice or general moron.” Mrs. Beauchamp drops the curtain. “I work two jobs—both of them barely above minimum wage, but I still get people looking at me funny if I buy something new.”
“They must have had a reason for suspecting your husband.”
The woman scoffs and screws up her face. “They had a photograph taken at a gas station a month before the robbery. Have you ever seen that picture?”
Desiree shakes her head.
“Well, you go and look at it! My Scotty is holding a door open for a man to walk through. That man was Vernon Caine. Scotty could have been saying, ‘How do you do?’ They could have been talking about the weather or the football scores. Doesn’t mean Scotty was one of the gang.”
She’s building up a head of steam. “He fought for his country and died for his job and they treat him like some scumbag criminal. And then that boy went and fessed up, but got ten years instead of going to the chair. Now he’s running around, free as a bird. If I sound bitter and twisted, it’s because I am. Scotty won medals. He deserved better than this.”
Desiree averts her eyes, not knowing what to say. She apologizes for taking up Mrs. Beauchamp’s time and wishes her a happy Thanksgiving. Outside, the day seems brighter and the trees a darker green against the blue. Desiree puts in a call to Jenkins in Washington, asking for a list of employees at Armaguard, including the name of the supervisor in January 2004.
“That was eleven years ago,” he replies. “There might not be a record.”
“I don’t expect there will be.”