“Jessica… Don’t think I don’t know that Clarence Davenport was one of Glen Robert’s best friends. This newspaper reported every angle of that situation, I know the situation. I was hoping over the course of our short time here… well, that maybe that was ancient history.”
Jessica didn’t reply.
“You’re a hell of a smart girl, Jessica. I don’t mind telling you, this paper’s on the precipice. People don’t get their news from us anymore... Hell, we hardly get our news from us. I may be just another useless dinosaur, but from the moment I met you, I felt I had something to teach you.”
“My stake in the Angry Jonny case notwithstanding?”
“Huh…” Al swiveled back to the television screen for a moment. “I guess that’s what we’re going to be calling it from now on.”
“Sir?”
“No, Jessica. I never cared that you were a pipeline to Angry Jonny. A boon, no doubt. But I’ve got a feeling that before this is all over…” Al took a moment, gathered all the momentum that he could. “Jessica, until this is all sorted out, I’m going to have to let you go.”
Jessica felt a malignant lump surface in her throat. “Right.”
“I’m going to keep this as quiet as I can. Far as anyone in this office is concerned you’re taking time off for a family emergency.”
“OK.”
“And for the record, I think Clarence Davenport is full of shit.”
“Then why can’t I stay?”
“Well… he could go to the press, couldn’t he?”
“Huh… I guess I should thank you.”
Al groaned. “For what?”
“For earlier… Once I told you that I had spoken to the detectives. Ethan was really keen on getting all he could out of me, wasn’t he? Even though he knew you’d be letting me go.”
Al avoided her gaze. “Maybe.”
“Well, thanks for not taking advantage,” Jessica said, heading for the door. She paused, fingers wrapped around the stainless steel handle. “However…”
“Jessica, you don’t have to –”
“You were wondering about the press conference…? You were wondering why they were so weak on the forensics, even after playing it up how they did.”
“Yes?”
Jessica turned around. “They say Jason Castle was found by the maid. Cleaning lady?”
Al nodded.
“Well…” Jessica squinted, playing the scenario. “None of the neighbors heard any screams. There was no sign of a break-in. Turns out Chloroform was the anesthetic agent that knocked him out and kept him from feeling any –” eyes cut out, tongue severed, the image made her flub her words “– Of any being aware of what was happening to him. If Castle was caught in his sleep, and if he was still unconscious when the maid found him…”
“Go on.”
“I’d take a look at the blueprints for his house.”
Al’s smile was tempered sad resignation. “How’s that?”
“…There’s a good chance, depending on when he regained consciousness, and where his bedroom is in relation to the rest of the rooms… Well, there’s a good chance the maid entered with her key and made a clean sweep of the house. Literally wiped almost the entire place free of any evidence. Just by doing her job.”
Al laid back in his chair. “My God.”
“That’s right. You wonder why there’s no talk of forensics? Maybe that got taken care of by someone who didn’t even know they were mopping up a crime scene… Maybe Angry Jonny got lucky.”
“A little too good to be true,” Al added.
“Yeah.”
“You’re a smart girl, Jessica Kincaid.”
“Not smart enough.” Jessica hoisted the door open and power-walked her way across the room. For every two steps, the offices of the Observer stretched out another three. Treadmill toes taking her past the concerned faces of those she had made the mistake of getting to know. Her index finger was already extended, stiffly anticipating the elevator button. She jabbed at the arrow, repeatedly. Almost bending her fingernail back. From beyond the doors, cables groaned against lazy gears.
Unable to wait, Jessica slammed against the stairwell door, concrete steps echoing all the way down.
She burst out into the lobby.
Scott nodded in her direction, raised his sandwich aloft in a casual farewell.
Jessica forced a smile and a wave. “See you in a bit, Scott.”
And then she was outside, ordering her legs to keep moving, to take her as far from there as they would carry her. Didn’t get too far. Halfway across the parking lot before she came to a halt. Loose bits of asphalt grinding beneath worn sneakers she had just found the confidence to wear to work.
Jessica dialed Dinah.
Got nothing but voicemail.
She took a deep breath and put on a happy face: “Hey, Blondie. Call me back, ASAP.”
Jessica took a seat on the scalding hot bench by the front door. A few feet away, one of the custodians watched her between drags of a cigarette. He reached into the pocket of his gray jumpsuit and pulled out a pack of Camels.
He flicked the top, revealing a tightly packed row of soft, cotton filters.
Jessica sighed. “Wish that I could, sir.”
He gave a sympathetic nod and extinguished his own smoke. Left Jessica seated, watching the cars speed along the highway, waiting for her aunt to take her back where she belonged.
Chapter 8: Chaucer’s Tales.
Jessica was halfway through her second orange soda, taking her third pass at Cali Jenkins’ submission, when she caught sight of Chaucer Braswell.
How long he’d been sitting at the bar was anyone’s guess.
It was a slow night for On The Rail, even for a Tuesday. Of the ten pool tables spanning the green and white checkered floor, no more than three had been occupied at any given time. A group of Pantheon grads stood at either end of the shuffleboard table, which bisected the hall in a wooden, twenty-foot stretch. Small collectives of regulars dotted the room. Working men and women, all keeping a close eye on their lighters. Specialty stouts and IPA’s for those who had come to drink beer. Two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon for those who had come to drink a lot.
Even the jukebox had taken to fits of silence. Occasional runs of Steve Miller, KC and the Sunshine Band, or Stevie Wonder would then leave large gaps, filled with the neon rasp of decorative beer signs and manila glow over the bar.
Dinah had spent the night fuming between sips of domestic beer and wilted Camels. Every five minutes, she would interrupt her niece to see how the investigation was going, if she needed anything. Speculating how to best take down Clarence Davenport. Eventually, one of the local hustlers hit Dinah up for a game of nine-ball. The two of them had shuttled off to talk trash, leaving Jessica at the bar.
Casper Noel was working the bar, an increasingly rare event since graduating Law school. He towered over Jessica, even while bending low to restock the coolers. His eyes landed on her, a pair of copper toned mischief makers, grin permanently imbedded in sandalwood skin.
“What’re you reading there, Jessica?” he asked, consonants crisp beneath his Carolina accent.
“Nothing but a big fat headache.”
“Speaking of which, you ever going to come and see me at work?”
“I’m seeing you at work right now. How could I miss you, you’re a goddamn ox.”
Casper laughed, reached up and rang the bell above the register. “Left myself wide open.”
A random customer would have never guessed that Casper was a magistrate for the city of Verona. It was his principal source of income, though it could hardly be considered a day job. Some of his shifts had him working well through the night; setting bail, signing warrants, committing an occasional street lunatic to the psych ward. Never without a story to tell, a firsthand witness to the ruined lives of others. But Jessica knew a thing or two about ruined lives. And her own firsthand experience before a Louisville Judge, awaiting a de
cision that could have resulted in any number of parallel lives, was not one that she cared to repeat.
Even as an observer in the wings.
“Yeah, I’ll come check you in action sometime,” Jessica assured him, knowing that wouldn’t be the case.
Casper was looking to crack wise when he spotted something across the room.
“Pantheon kids,” he muttered, rounding the bar. “How hard is it to keep your gosh-damn beer off the pool table?”
With Casper no longer obstructing her view, Jessica could see clear across the bar. The last time she had seen Chaucer, he had been dressed to the nines. Even in casual wear, he proved to be a stylish standout. White shirt, well-pressed, top two buttons undone. Eyes fastened to the television above the bar, bottle of Heineken in hand. He must have sensed the weight of her stare. Tilted his head with a smile, and abandoned his post.
Chaucer skirted the wooden arc of the bar and came to rest by her side.
He didn’t hover. Didn’t plant an elbow or lean in, the way countless men did while determining whether she was worth their while. Didn’t prop his foot on the lower rung of her barstool. Just took his seat, keeping a good two feet away.
As though reading her thoughts, he asked, “Did you know that Americans need more personal space than any other nationality?”
Jessica did not. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Why do I suppose I’m not surprised?”
“Why do you suppose we like our distance?”
“I don’t really have anything to compare our culture to.”
“Never been abroad?”
“Nope…” Jessica pursed her lips, blew a couple of brown coils away from her forehead. “I hear the south of France is real nice this time of year.”
“Seems like you’ve had a long day.” Chaucer’s eyes remained glued to the screen, slowly rotating his bottle between large fingers.
“You talk to the cops yet?” Jessica asked, putting an end to their dance.
Chaucer took a sip, reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Dunhill’s. Tilted it her way.
She shook her head.
“Yeah, they stopped by…” Chaucer lit up, waved his hand to keep the smoke out of Jessica’s face. “Donahue and Randal.”
“Where exactly did they find you?”
“I’m staying at the Prescott-Pantheon.”
“No kidding. I got an interview there tomorrow.”
“At the restaurant?”
“Prescott dining room, yeah.”
Chaucer smiled. “Movin’ on up.”
“Yeah, thems is some nice digs. I run the trail around the golf course almost every morning.”
“You play at all?”
“Golf?
“A game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.”
“I’m seventeen, and you’re asking me about golf and quoting British prime ministers?”
“Damn, girl…” Chaucer chuckled, blowing smoke. “You are sharp as a tack.”
“Yeah, my boss told me the same thing today, right before he fired me.” Jessica took a swing of pop, wishing it were beer, her lips crying foul. “As did the detectives while they grilled my ass over a flame. Something about Angry Jonny?”
“When did this happen?”
“Just this morning. You?”
“Just this afternoon.”
“How’d it go?”
“Standard routine.” Chaucer turned in his seat. Placed his back against the bar, checking the scene. “Most informal police inquiries are just questions they already know the answers to. Like control questions for a polygraph. Asked where I worked, what I was doing in town. Which I know they’d already asked my employer over in Wilmington. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have known where to find me.”
Jessica leaned forward to get a better look at his profile. “What are you doing in town?”
“Vacation.”
“Is that the story, or the truth?”
“How about true story?”
“Just hard to swallow,” Jessica said. “You live on the coast, you’re clearly a man of means. So, what, when the beach just gets a little too ideal, you go two hundred miles inland and don’t play golf?”
“Sharp as a tack,” Chaucer repeated. “Hotel room comes as a favor someone owes me. And I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I suppose if it wasn’t my own, then it’d be your business.”
“So nothing related to the food service industry, then.”
“See, this is why I said vacation.” Chaucer brushed some ash off his black dress pants. “Don’t need to be getting the police all up in my face.” He turned back to the bar, polished off his beer. “Either way, I don’t really have too much to sweat…” His eyes shifted. “You on the other hand… please tell me you were on the level.”
His worried expression didn’t sit well with her. It was genuine concern, no doubt. And Jessica had witnessed too little of that from too few people. Kick a dog long enough, and the next person who comes to pet him will send hair on end, teeth bared.
Chaucer squinted. “Ah.”
“What?”
With a wave of his empty bottle, Chaucer summoned the barkeep, front and center.
“What’s up, kids?” Casper took Chaucer’s empty, tossed it into a recycling bin.
“So, Casper,” Chaucer began, as Casper went to the industrial-sized fridge and opened the glass door. “You want to tell Jessica where you know me from?”
“This man’s the man,” Casper announced, running his fingers down shelves of bottled beer. Snagged a Heineken and swiftly decapitated it. He pitched the bottle cap at an unsuspecting regular before laying it on the bar. “Mr. Braswell here runs the Blue Paradise, out in Wilmington. Damn fine restaurant. Been a couple years since I made it out that way, but whenever I do, I always stop by and see him.”
“And, as you can see, Jessica,” Chaucer said, “I do the same for our friend here.”
“You need another Stewart’s Orange, Jessica?” Casper asked.
“I’m good. All good.”
Chaucer waited for Casper to depart before speaking. “So I’m not a cop.”
“It would appear.”
“Were you this careful with Randal and Donahue?”
“Well, much like certain restaurant managers in town on unspecified business, I don’t have too much to sweat, do I?”
“For the moment you got a considerable amount to be sweatin’,” Chaucer took a sip of his beer, thumbed his upper lip. “While you may not have had means, you most certainly have a motive.”
“Motive?”
“You publicly announced that, given the chance, you’d kill Mr. Table Thirteen.”
“Did they ask you to verify my nefarious little scheme?”
“I softened it up a little for you,” Chaucer assured her. “Much as I could, anyhow.”
“They really think I’d kill Jason Castle just for being an asshole?”
“If you could get away with it, would you?”
“Jason Castle wasn’t killed.”
“Please tell me that’s not how you answered that particular question.”
“It didn’t come up,” Jessica said, growing annoyed. No longer content to take his soft paternalism at face value. “Not to be a bitch, but what’s it to you, Mr. Braswell?”
“You can call me Chaucer.”
“I can call you whatever I want.”
“They don’t have any forensic evidence,” Chaucer said, brushing it off. “You’ve got to figure the maid wiped that place clean of everything. Garage door open, no forced entry. All the evidence they’ve got is going to be found in the bedroom where Castle was found. Or on Castle himself.”
“So?”
“So I’m sure you know all about Jason Castle.”
Jessica’s inability to stay ev
en one move ahead of him was wearing on her. “Yes.”
“Used to be a District Attorney down in Georgia.”
“Yeah, once again, so what?”
“So he’s got a list of enemies a mile long. But they’re going to narrow it down. And while they sort through all the people he put away, the Chief of Police is going to be looking for someone to pin this on. Buy some time while they take their sweet time figuring out that none of these suspects Georgia days fit the bill.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Braswell.”
“If even one hair from your head landed on Jason Castle’s clothes while you were waiting on him; if any similar evidence followed him home, and if any of it is found… They will ask for a DNA test. If you refuse, they will get a court order and make you do it. And when they find a match, they will make an arrest. And they will do all they can to catch you in a lie, delay the trial while they do whatever they can to dig up anything they can. And though you may eventually go free, while you may never see trial… that’s going to be the next year, two years of your life. But it will follow you for all the rest of it.”
The jukebox awoke from its nap.
James Brown, from beyond, reminding them that this was a man’s world.
Jessica pushed her bottle of orange soda aside. “Just a restaurant manager, huh?”
Chaucer shrugged. “I’m on vacation.”
“Damn, is this conversation ever over.” Jessica leaped from her seat, took a twenty from her bag. “Casper!”
Blink of an eye, and there he was. “Yes ma’am.”
“What’s the damage for Blondie and me?”
“Ten bucks.”
Casper was merciful when it came to charging regulars. Jessica threw him a grateful wink, slipped him the twenty and told him to keep it. He slid over to the register, rang the bell three times, and gave Jessica the double guns. “Stay safe, mop top.”
“Always…” Jessica turned to Chaucer. “As for you, you’ve got three seconds starting thirty seconds ago to tell me something real, or I call Donahue right now and tell him you ain’t really in town on a pleasure cruise.”
Chaucer didn’t appear remotely threatened. If anything, Jessica thought she saw a slender, inexplicable trace of pride swimming in the muddy depths of his eyes.
“I wasn’t always a restaurant manager,” he said.
“You don’t say.”
“I used to be a private investigator.”
Jessica had to laugh. “Oh, shit. Mr. Easy Rawlins in the flesh.”
“You wanted real.”