Before The Killing Starts (Dixie Killer Blues Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter 16

As soon as he'd finished
on the phone with Ellie Evan put a call in to Ed Guillory. Guillory was a
detective with the local police department and they'd almost become friends
after the case that had thrown then together. Since then Guillory had helped
Evan out on a number of occasions, probably because he thought Evan was such a
nice guy. And—as Evan liked to point out whenever he got the opportunity—Evan's
taxes were paying his wages after all.

Unfortunately, it wasn't
Guillory who answered the phone; it was his partner, Ryder. Evan and Ryder had
got off to a bad start and it had gone rapidly downhill from there. Their
mutual animosity was a constant source of amusement to Guillory.

'How's the diet going, E-Z?'
Evan said when Ryder picked up. Evan knew they were never going to have a good
relationship, so he may as well have a bit of sport with the guy.

'Up yours, Buckley,'
Ryder responded with all his usual ill-humor. 'And don't call me that. Friends,
colleagues and all the other normal human beings I meet call me that. Last time
I checked, you didn't fit into any of those categories.'

'Is your boss there?' He
knew it wound him up when he said that.

'You mean the
lieutenant? No, he's not here.' Before Evan could think of anything else to
say, he carried on. 'And if you meant Guillory, he's not here either. So you're
going to have to look elsewhere for all the free help and information that
you're not entitled to.'

The phone went dead in
his ear. He called Guillory on his cell phone.

'I thought I told you to
burn this number,' Guillory said in his laid back tone. He was the most
unflappable guy Evan had ever met despite some of the patience-trying antics Evan
had got up to in the past.

'Having a nice, relaxing
day at home while poor old Detective Donut looks after the shop?'

Guillory laughed.
'Something like that. And I told you, don't call him that. It's disrespectful.'

'So, what's happening?
You break a leg?'

Guillory snorted, the
sound loud in Evan's ear. 'I'll tell you later. What d'you want?'

'I was just calling to
see if I can buy you a beer some time.'

'No you weren't.'
Guillory laughed again. 'And I've told you this before as well, if I drank all
the beers you owe me, I'd be fatter than Ryder.'

Evan laughed with him.
'Yeah, I asked him about his diet.'

On the other end of the
line Guillory sucked in air between his teeth. Evan pictured him shaking his
head, the hint of a smile on his lips. 'I bet that didn't get you far.'

'Funny you should say
that . . .'

'Anyway, what
do
you want?'

Evan could hear the
sound of a spoon stirring something, coffee or tea, and then a metallic rattle
as it was thrown in the sink. He could do with a good strong coffee himself,
right now.

'I could do with a nice
cup of coffee myself.'

There was a loud slurp
followed by a long
aaaaaah
. 'Sorry, that was the last of it.'

'Some free information,
then, hopefully stuff I'm not allowed to have. You know the sort of thing.'

Evan could almost feel
Guillory's sideways grin coming down the line. 'The usual, you mean. What is it
this time?'

Evan gave him the
license plate of the two guys' car and asked him to find out who it was
registered to.

'Is that it?' There was
genuine astonishment in his voice. 'That's hardly going to be an inconvenience
at all.'

'Well . . . there is
something else.'

'That's more like it.'
There was another loud slurp. 'Good coffee, by the way.'

'I can hear you're
enjoying it. It sounds like a pack of thirsty bloodhounds. Anyway, have you
ever come across a guy called Dixie?'

'Dixie? I know a country
music band called the Dixie Chicks . . .'

'Well, that's useful.
His real name's Richard LaBarre—'

'But everyone calls him Dixie.'

'
Damn
. I can see
now why you're a professional detective and I'm just an amateur.'

Guillory let out a hoot
like he'd just won the lottery. 'Ryder would give his right arm to hear you say
that.'

'Ain't gonna happen.'

'Anything else you can
tell me about this guy, maybe help to narrow things down a bit?'

'I was told he hangs out
at Kelly's Tavern—although everyone in there denies ever having heard of him.'

Guillory snorted in
disgust. 'The low-lifes in that pigsty wouldn't admit to knowing their own
mothers.'

'You got that right.'

'You actually went in
there and asked for him?'

Evan shrugged, an
apologetic smile on his lips, even though Guillory couldn't see him. 'No point
in beating about the bush.'

'You never cease to
amaze me.' In his mind Evan pictured the slow head shake. 'So how did that pan
out?'

'I thought it went
pretty well, considering it was my first time.' He ran the morning's events
through his mind, felt and heard the satisfying snap. 'I broke a guy's finger
and squashed his nose a bit, then got chased and pistol whipped by a couple of
beaners. Just a normal day at Kelly's I suppose—the beer was awful though.'

'You know I'm going to
be genuinely upset the day I get called out to some bloody, broken body lying
crumpled in an alley and turn it over and see your stupid face looking up at
me. Probably with that stupid grin still on your face.'

Evan knew he meant it
too. Knew he honestly believed it was going to happen some day. 'You don't need
to worry about me.'

Guillory knew there was
no point wasting any more breath on that subject. 'Anyway, would these guys
happen to own the car we're talking about?'

'Uh huh. No flies on
you.'

There was an
exasperated,
why do I even bother?
sigh. 'Why do you want to find them?
You like being pistol whipped?'

Evan thought about
telling Guillory the real, underlying reason that was driving him. Guillory
knew his history after all, knew all about Sarah. He just didn't want to get
into it over the phone. He also didn't want him to tell him not to be so
gullible.

'I'll let you know right
after you finish telling me why you're not at work.'

'Like you taxpayers pay
me to be, you mean?'

'Well, I wasn't going to
mention it . . .'

They carried on the
inane banter for a while longer before Guillory ended the call, promising to
get back to him as soon as possible.

Chapter 17

Jackson
sat in the warden's office and
stared at a dirty stain on the wall while the warden droned on.
Blah, blah,
blah, pom tiddly pom
. He cocked his head and tried to work out what it was.
And why hadn't it been cleaned off? Another five minutes of this and he'd be
out. After two years he could wait a few more minutes. Behind the warden, a
clock ticked noisily, its hands jerking erratically like a cockroach that some
small boy had pulled most of the legs off. Then it clicked. That's what it was—the
warden had squashed a cockroach or a water beetle against the wall. Next to
that there was a rectangular outline where something had been tacked to the
wall. Jackson just knew it was one of those cheesy, motivational posters with a
bear or an eagle (never a cockroach) that said something like
Believe in
Yourself: Because the rest of us think you're an idiot
or perhaps
Ambition:
The journey of a thousand miles sometimes ends very, very badly
. He
stretched his neck out and glanced at the clock again. He didn't think he'd be
able to wear a wristwatch or hang a clock on the wall ever again.

All the usual platitudes
washed over his head in the warden's soft, reassuring voice, the calm, measured
tones designed for talking at people of subpar intellect. The warden suddenly
stopped talking and leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his desk, palms
pressed together, like he was about to pray but his arthritic knees wouldn't
let him kneel. Jackson, aware of the sudden silence in the room and not sure if
he'd been asked a question, looked up into his earnest face. It was the sort of
face you wanted to punch, see if you could get rid of that patronizing smugness
that said
I get to go home every night
. Yeah, right, but having seen a
photo of the warden and his wife at a charity ball, Jackson thought he'd take
his chances in the shower block. Besides, today he was the one who got to go
home. Wherever that was.

'Look LaBarre, I'm not
stupid,' the warden said. 'I realize you're not the usual, run of the mill
prisoner we get in here.'

Jackson
acknowledged the statement with a
small shrug. Did the guy really think he was about to explain everything now,
five minutes before he walked out the door forever?

'The other prisoners
knew it too,' the warden said. Jackson sure as hell couldn't deny that. 'What
you went through in here . . .' The warden trailed off and shook his head
sadly. 'I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.'

Jackson
nodded in agreement but didn't
really see what he could add. Maybe something like
what doesn't kill you
makes you stronger
seeing as platitudes seemed to be the order of the day,
or maybe something a little more pithy, but he couldn't think what.

'I don't know what
really went on here—obviously access to that information is above my pay
grade.' He gave Jackson a conspiratorial smile. A
we're all running around
in the dark together
sort of smile. What a crock. The guy was just pissed
because he didn't know what was going on in his prison.

'I'm not sure I
understand what you mean, warden,' Jackson said.

The warden sighed
heavily. Jackson could see from his expression that he knew he wasn't going to
get anywhere, but he wanted to say his piece anyway. Jackson knew he was
basically a decent guy and probably genuinely had the prisoners' interests at
heart. A regular churchgoer, most likely. Perhaps he'd loaned the motivational
poster to one of the inmates to put up in his cell. A coochy-coo picture and
some cute words always made you feel better as you nursed your sore ass and
contemplated another next ten years of the same.

'I know you had it hard
in here,' he said. 'You didn't go looking for trouble—you didn't need to—but
you didn't back down either.' He paused and looked away. Jackson followed his
gaze, through the window and to the world outside. The free world which is
where he'd be in a few short minutes. He looked back at the warden and half
expected to see him wringing his hands together.

'I suppose what I'm
trying to say is . . . I just hope it was worth it.'

Jackson
let out a sharp laugh, almost like
a bark, not quite deranged in its intensity. He couldn't help himself. Even if
he wanted to confide in this man, he wouldn't know where to start.

'Are we done here?'

He put his hands on the
desk to push himself up out of the chair. The warden looked at his hands
resting on the edge of the desk and Jackson saw a quick flash of disgust—or
maybe it was just disappointment—cross his face.

'Whatever happened in
here, it's a pity you had to do something stupid like that,' he said, pointing
at the tattoo on Jackson's hand between his thumb and forefinger. 'Why in God's
name did you want to get a permanent reminder of all this . . .' He waved his
arm, taking in the whole of his office and everything beyond it and Jackson was
sure he nearly forgot himself and said
all this shit
, but the warden
didn't use bad language.

'Why remind yourself,'
the warden continued, 'of what I hope, for your sake, turns out to be the two
worst years of your life?' There was something close to despair in his voice
that Jackson could relate to. He could imagine the guy getting up for work each
day, sitting in a bright, sunny breakfast nook with his (ugly) wife, eating a
big bowl of cheerios drenched with ice cold milk and feeling his heart sink as
he contemplated the impenetrable brick wall that he had to spend another eight
hours banging his head against, dealing with all the recidivists and perverts
and baby-rapers and the occasional garden variety murderer.

Jackson
pushed himself to his feet and
smiled. 'Don't worry, I didn't get that in here, I've had it years.'

'I suppose that makes it
not quite so bad,' the warden said grudgingly, twisting his head to take a
closer look. 'What is it? It looks like the number
29
.'

Jackson
shrugged and looked at it himself.
He didn't really see it these days. 'Let's just say it's a private joke.'

The warden stood and
fired his hand into Jackson's, a little too eager perhaps and held longer than
was strictly necessary, but a firm grip nonetheless that surprised him. He
wondered idly if he'd open up the paper one day and read how the warden had
reached the end of his tether and used those strong, callused hands to strangle
his (ugly) wife as she prattled on incessantly in her whiney voice in the
bright, sunny breakfast nook, the fat that hung down from her arms like
pregnant bellies quivering as he squeezed the life from her and then buried her
in the garden before driving to work like normal.

He'd always had an
active imagination and prison seemed to have made it ten times worse.