Between Black and White (14 page)

30

Rick woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. Stumbling off the bed, he grabbed the phone from the nightstand. The time in the upper right hand corner said 2:30 p.m. Jesus . . . he had slept for five hours. After breakfast at the Bluebird, he had only intended to take a catnap at Ms. Butler’s and then head back into town. He sighed. The caller ID was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Yeah,” Rick said, his voice a low croak.

“Drake, this is Peter Burns, the bartender at the Sundowners—not the author of
Sliding Down a Pole
.”

Rick’s grogginess was gone in an instant, and he looked wildly around the room for pen and paper. “Yes. How are you?”

“Jesus, you sound terrible.”

“Thanks,” Rick said. “Been taking a nap.”

“Well, I hope you got a few winks, because if you want to talk to me or Darla Ford, you need to come over to my apartment. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“Leaving? Where . . . ?”

“Just get over here,” Peter said, and the phone clicked dead.

Fifteen minutes later Rick pulled into Burns’s apartment complex.
Déjà vu all over again
, he thought, parking in the same place he’d spent eight hours last night. He had managed a quick shower and grabbed a Coke on the way out of Ms. Butler’s. On the drive over he’d tried the Professor again on his cell phone, but there was still no answer.
Where the hell is he?
Rick wondered, stepping out of the Saturn and seeing Burns heading toward him, carrying a duffel bag under one arm.

“I hope you’ve got a full tank of gas,” Peter said, throwing his bag in the back of Rick’s car and climbing in the passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” Rick asked, tensing as the man, basically a complete stranger, started fiddling around with the radio.

“Jesus Christ, man. When did you get this car? When Clinton was president? I thought lawyers were supposed to all drive Mercedes. Where’s the USB port for an iPod?”

“Don’t have one,” Rick said, still stunned by Burns’s presence in the car.

“Well, you got any CDs?”

“Uhhh . . . there’s some in the glove compartment. Mr. Burns—”

“Just drive, all right. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“On the way . . . where?” Rick asked, hesitating a second before backing out of the space.

“Destin,” Peter said, rolling down the window and howling.

“Destin?” Rick asked. “Destin . . . Florida?”

Peter howled again. “The Redneck Riviera, baby. If you put this dinosaur in gear, we’ll be eating oysters on a half shell and drinking Coronas with limes in just under”—he turned his wrist and made like he was looking at his watch, but he wasn’t wearing one—“nine hours!”

Rick stopped the car. “Are you telling me that you want me to drive you all the way to the panhandle of Florida?”

“My piece of junk won’t make it to Birmingham, and I got no other options that ain’t gonna cost me at least two or three hundred dollars. But you can take me for free.”

“What’s in it for me?” Rick asked.

“Do you want to talk with Darla Ford?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good,” Peter said, pointing his finger out the window. “Then take my ass to Destin.”

Rick hesitated with his hand on the gear shift.
This is crazy,
he thought.

“Yes!” Peter screamed, pulling the worn George Strait CD out of the glove compartment and sliding the disc into the player.

As George started singing about “oceanfront property in Arizona,” Rick finally put the car in drive.
This is crazy,
he thought again, pulling onto Highway 64.

Headed due south . . .

31

Bone hated surprises.

And this definitely qualified, he thought, watching Drake’s Saturn pull out of the apartment complex with Peter Burns, the bartender from the Sundowners Club, in the passenger seat. Parked in the back corner of the complex, Bone eased the truck forward, wondering what this was all about.

Bone had laid low since the attack on McMurtrie, which according to his benefactor had achieved the desired effect—the old professor had left town to recover from his injuries, and it was doubtful he’d be able to try the case. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be 100 percent, and the kid would have to do the heavy lifting.

Bone knew the police would give up on finding the assailant after a few days, so he’d stayed clear of Pulaski, playing his role as Martha Booher’s “nephew” at the Amish settlement in Ethridge, doing his chores during the day and paying “rent” to “Aunt” Martha every night. It had been good, but he was restless. Ready to be back in the game.

He’d resurfaced in Pulaski this morning, picking up Drake’s scent at the Bluebird Café. He’d been a bit surprised when Drake drove to the bed and breakfast instead of the office. After all, it was Friday, a workday for those fools who made an honest living in this world. Maybe the boy was going to work from the house today. Or maybe he was about to head back to Tuscaloosa. Bone’s new employer had indicated that the case was now in limbo until the grand jury issued its indictment. Bone thought there might not be anything for him to do for a while.

I thought wrong,
he knew as he watched the Saturn take the I-65 South ramp.
Where in the hell are they going?

From a safe distance of about four hundred yards behind, Bone followed them onto the interstate. Then, taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number of his employer.

32

The warden of the St. Clair Correctional Facility in Springville was gracious enough to let them use his administrative conference room for the meeting. Fearing that he wouldn’t be strong enough for the walking required at the jail, Tom had reluctantly agreed to let Powell push him in a wheelchair. After they had gone through security, a corrections officer took them down a long hallway and opened the door to the conference room. Before going inside, Tom looked up at Powell. “Any word from Wade?”

The three had split up at the farm, with Wade taking the Dodge Charger to Pulaski while Tom and Powell took Tom’s Explorer to Springville.

“Nothing yet, but you know Wade. He’s not one to call or text unless he has some information.”

Tom nodded and let out a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

The prisoner was waiting for them when Powell pushed Tom’s wheelchair inside the room.

Jack Daniel Willistone was thinner than Tom remembered, and his formerly clean-shaven face was now bristled with salt and pepper whiskers. But even wearing the dark-green jumpsuit of a state prisoner, he still gave off an air of strength and power, sitting straight in the chair, his head up, eyes moving slowly back and forth between Tom and Powell. Finally, he focused on Tom and crossed his arms.

“Well, Jesus Christ Superstar,” Jack said. “McMurtrie, right?”

Tom nodded. “Mr. Willistone, you look . . . pretty good. Have you lost weight?”

“As a matter of fact I have. When all there is to eat is turd sandwiches and turd stew, you tend to drop a few.” Jack paused, squinting at Tom. “What happened to you, McMurtrie? Did you get run over by a bus?”

“A hammer,” Tom said. “I got hit in the head and ribs with a hammer. Tore ligaments in my knee trying to block the blows.”

Jack continued to squint at Tom. “Well . . . that’s unfortunate.” Then he shifted his eyes to Powell.

“Conrad,” Jack said. “Always such a pleasure to see you.”

Sitting next to Jack was an unnaturally tan man with dark, oily hair who had introduced himself as Gregory Zorn outside the conference room. Zorn had been one of several lawyers who represented Jack in the criminal case and had granted the visitors permission to speak to his client. Of course, as the conversation would center around a possible deal for less jail time, granting permission was a no-brainer.

“Gentlemen, Mr. Willistone has agreed to listen to your questions,” Zorn said, his voice loud and official sounding. “That is all he has agreed to, and if I feel that the questioning is inappropriate, then I’m going to cut it off and send you on your way. Understand?” According to Powell, Zorn was a greaseball who got his reputation defending DUI cases. A lot of bluster and a limited supply of brains. On the bigger cases he tended to plea, which is what he’d done in Jack’s blackmail and witness-tampering cases, though no one could have faulted him for that. The evidence against Jack had been overwhelming.

“Thanks, Greg,” Powell said, but his eyes were on Jack, ignoring Zorn. “But we don’t look at this meeting as an opportunity for Mr. Willistone to do us a favor. We look at it as a chance for us to consider doing him one if he provides us with helpful information.” Powell paused, still only looking at Jack. “Understand?” Powell repeated Zorn’s line, the intensity in his voice and behind his eyes palpable.

Jack smiled. “Could one of you boys spare a cigarette? I think a little better after a shot of nicotine.”

“Mr. Willistone, I don’t think smoking’s allowed . . .” Zorn started to say but stopped when Powell pulled out a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket and slid them across the table. Then he pitched a lighter toward Zorn—a little too hard, Tom thought—and Zorn dropped it on the table. “Light it for him, would you, Greg?” Then without missing a beat, Powell turned to Tom. “83 woulda caught that.”

Tom couldn’t help but smile. “83” was Kevin Norwood, a young wide receiver on Alabama’s football team. Powell had asked the warden before going in the room if it was OK if he gave Willistone cigarettes to get him talking, and the warden had simply said, “Whatever works, potnah.”

“Norwood, right?” Jack said, taking a draw on the now-lit cigarette, and Powell nodded. Next to Jack, Gregory Zorn’s face had turned crimson red. He was being ignored by his client and the prosecutor.

As smoke fumes filled the room and Tom leaned away to breathe, Powell put both elbows on the table. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Willistone. We have reason to believe that your old buddy JimBone Wheeler has surfaced in Giles County, Tennessee. We think he may have involvement in multiple crimes in that area, including the attack on Prof. McMurtrie. As we have linked Wheeler to a murder in Faunsdale, Alabama
and
an attempted murder in Tuscaloosa, catching him has become a top priority.” Powell paused. “We think you may have information that could lead us to him.”

“What makes you think that?” Jack asked, tapping an ash out in Zorn’s coffee cup.

“Based on the civil trial in Henshaw last year, we know that JimBone Wheeler was seen inside the Henshaw County Courthouse sitting by your side. We also know that he was spotted at the Sundowners Club outside of Pulaski on multiple occasions with you.”

Jack took another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke across the table in Powell’s direction. His face gave away nothing. “So what are your questions?”

“Tell us what you know about Andy Walton,” Powell said.

Jack shrugged, tapping another ash in Zorn’s cup. “When Andy made all his money in the ’70s, he started a lumber and logging business over in Lawrenceburg. Walton Lumber. He needed someone to haul freight to various parts of Tennessee and Kentucky, so . . .” He shrugged again. “That was one of our biggest contracts at the time. We had been around for twenty years but were mostly limited to Alabama and the eastern tip of Mississippi. Walton Lumber doubled our coverage and probably led to a half-dozen other contracts.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth but didn’t puff on it. “Landing that deal really put us on our way.” Jack lowered his eyes to the table, the Marlboro hanging out of his mouth like a toothpick.

“Why you?” Powell asked. “Of all the trucking companies out there, why you?”

Jack raised his eyes from the table, glaring at Powell. “Because we were the best. The fastest, the most dependable, and the best bang for your buck.”

“Did you have a prior relationship with Andy?”

“Not really. I knew of him, I guess, when he was running with the State Line Mob over in McNairy County. But our paths really didn’t cross until he started looking for a freight hauler.”

“How did you find out he was looking?” Powell asked, and Tom was struck by Powell’s skillful interrogation techniques. The questions were so natural that Willistone barely blinked at them.
But we are getting close to the heart of it,
Tom knew
. Just a few more questions . . .

“We had a mutual friend. Larry Tucker. I had just helped Larry with the down payment on his club and—”

“The Sundowners?” Powell interjected, and Jack nodded.

“Yeah. Anyway, Larry owed me, and Andy and he were friends from way back to Andy’s Klan days.”

“Did you keep up with Andy over the years?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack said, taking a drag on the cigarette. “He was a big client, so of course. I’d go dove hunting every fall on his farm, and he normally threw a big party in Knoxville every other year for the Alabama-Tennessee game. We’d return the favor when the game was in Birmingham or Tuscaloosa.”

“How about JimBone Wheeler?” Powell asked. “When did you meet him?” Again, Tom was impressed with the change of direction.

Jack smiled and tapped the cigarette several times on Zorn’s cup, though there were no ashes about to fall off. Stalling . . . “Oh, I don’t know. A few years ago.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I can’t remember.”

Powell glared at Jack. “Greg, perhaps your client needs a reminder of why we’re here.”

“If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember,” Zorn fired back.

Jack dropped his cigarette in the coffee cup and pulled another Marlboro from the pack that still lay on the table. Zorn lighted it, and Jack blew a smoke cloud in the air. “Next question,” he said.

“Describe your relationship with JimBone Wheeler.”

“Casual acquaintance.”

“Why was he at the trial in Henshaw last year?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did you ever pay him to do . . . jobs for you?”

“Not that I recall,” Jack said.

Powell crossed his arms and sighed in frustration. “Sticking to the same old script, huh, Jack? You must really like prison.”

“Fuck you,” Jack said.

“Ditto,” Powell said, starting to stand. “Come on, Professor. I told you this guy would be no help.”

But Tom didn’t move. He was glaring at Jack Willistone, who was giving it right back to him. Finally, Jack laughed. “McMurtrie, why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want?”

Tom nodded at Powell, who slid several sheets of paper across the table.

“What the hell is this?” Jack asked, beginning to leaf through the papers.

“It’s a list of visitors to the jail,” Powell said. “Each sheet has the date, the name of the visitor, and the name of the inmate the visitor has come to see. It also has the check-in time of the visitor and the checkout time. The highlighted names are the people who came to see you.”

“OK . . .” Jack said. “So what do you want to know?”

“Why did Larry Tucker come to see you on July 20, 2011?” Tom asked. “It’s on the third sheet of paper.”

“Money,” Jack said without turning to the sheet.

“Be more specific,” Tom said, feeling a twinge of excitement. Money was a powerful motive.

“He said the club’s income was down almost half from the year before. A lot of the reason why was that my trucks weren’t rolling.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“I mean you boys shut me down last year. We had over a hundred drivers, and on any given week anywhere from twenty-five to fifty of them would be hauling ass down Highway 64 to one of Andy Walton’s businesses in Pulaski, Columbia or Lawrenceburg. We wore that stretch of road out, and the Sundowners was a regular stopover. The Tennessean Truck Stop in Cornersville is just thirty minutes away, so the boys could go off duty at the Sundowners, have a few beers, and look at some skin, and be asleep in their berths less than an hour later, ready for the next haul in the morning. Those that got too drunk would just stay parked in the lot until they were sober. Larry didn’t mind.” Jack took a quick drag on the cigarette. “But that all changed last June. When I was arrested, the Feds launched a full-scale investigation of my company, and all operations came to a halt for ninety days.” He shrugged. “That’s a long time, gentlemen. When my drivers stopped getting paid . . .” Jack paused and took a last drag on the cigarette before tapping it out in Zorn’s coffee cup. “I can’t blame them for leaving. A man’s got to eat.”

“So . . . are you saying that the federal investigation put Willistone Trucking Company out of business?” Powell asked.

“Actually, no. McMurtrie over there is who put me out of business.” He paused, chuckling bitterly. “We had to bankrupt after that jury in Henshaw came back with its ninety-million-dollar verdict.”

“If it makes you feel any better, all we ended up receiving was the policy limits,” Tom said.

“It doesn’t. I’d have rather paid the ninety million and stayed in business. But we were mortgaged to the hilt, and my arrest, followed by the Feds’ investigation . . . we just couldn’t withstand all of that going on at once.” He took another cigarette out of the pack and placed it in his mouth. “Sad thing is that my logs were clean as a whistle, and they got nothing from any of the boys. Not one damn thing. But for that ridiculous verdict, we’d still be rolling.” Jack squinted at Tom from across the table. “You shut me down, you son of a bitch. You, showing up at the trial when you did.”

“What did Tucker want?” Tom asked, trying to redirect the conversation back on point.

“A loan,” Jack said. “Anything I could spare.” Jack leaned toward Zorn, and his attorney lit the new cigarette. “He also wanted to know why the drivers had stopped coming in. He knew about the verdict and my arrest, but he hadn’t heard about the bankruptcy.” Jack puffed on the cigarette. “So I filled him in on the bad news.”

“And he went away empty-handed?” Tom asked.

“Like everyone coming in here wanting handouts.”

“Why didn’t Tucker ask Andy Walton for money?”

“You’d have to ask Larry about that,” Jack said.

“During Tucker’s visit, did he mention any other problems he was having?” Tom asked.

“No, just the money.”

“Did JimBone Wheeler’s name ever come up?” Powell asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.”

“Mr. Willistone, I’ve done the math and it appears that outside of your wife and son, the person who came to see you the most was Andy Walton. Does that sound correct?” Tom asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“It looks like he came four times, starting on March 1, 2011. His last visit was August 11, just a week before his murder.”

“If you say so,” Jack said.

“Look at the last page of the stack.”

Jack put the cigarette in the cup and flipped through the documents to the last page. He held the sheet out from him and then brought it closer, like someone who needed bifocals might do. Then he smiled.

“Something funny?”

“Just you boys,” Jack said. “All right, I see it.”

“You see the name Andy Walton and the date August 11, 2011?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he come to see you on August 11?”

“I really don’t remember much about that day. The first time Andy came, he had a bunch of questions about other freight haulers. Who was good? Who would I recommend? Anyone I’d stay away from? That kind of stuff. When we’d gone under, every Tom, Dick, and Harry had come to Andy, wanting his business. The last couple times . . .” Jack paused, smiling again.

What is he smiling about?
Tom wondered.

“The last couple times all he wanted to talk about was prison life. How were they treating me? The food? Was I able to sleep? That kind of stuff. I got the feeling . . .” Jack paused.