Authors: Kathy Reichs
“Yes! A Canadian.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Disapproving look. “Neil Young makes up for the national flaw of not having Dove bars.”
Ryan slipped the disc into the PC.
First acoustic guitar, then the familiar nasal tenor issued forth.
Synapse trip down memory lane. Pete in his marine dress whites. In jeans playing backyard croquet with Katy. In plaid flannel PJ bottoms watching TV.
This had been Pete’s favorite CD.
Somewhere on a desert highway…
I studied the album’s cover art. A scarecrow, backlit by an orange and red sunset.
Or was it a native dancer in a fringed coat?
A witch?
And there it was again. The subliminal sneeze that wouldn’t break.
Witch? Pete?
She rides a Harley-Davidson…
I flipped the case and looked at the title.
Harvest Moon.
The sneeze geysered into my forebrain.
“Holy hel.”
Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Something’s been bugging me about Evans and I just got it.”
As before, I grabbed the phone and dialed.
As before, Slidel answered.
I gestured at the computer. Ryan lowered the volume.
“Klapec lives in Onslow County, right? In Half Moon?”
“So?”
“I just remembered. I can’t believe I missed it until now. I’ve been to Onslow County, know the town. I just didn’t remember I remembered it.”
I was so psyched I was babbling.
Ryan pantomimed inhalation.
I took a breath. Started over.
“When you questioned Evans at Rinaldi’s funeral, he referred to Jimmy Klapec as a half-moon hick. I though it was just a derogatory expression, but my subconscious pricked up at the reference.”
“Your what?”
“Evans meant it literaly. Half Moon. It’s a town on Highway Two fifty-eight, north of Camp Lejeune and Jacksonvile. The Klapecs live there. If Evans never met Jimmy Klapec, how could he know the kid’s hometown?”
“That lying piece of crap.”
For several seconds I listened to Slidel’s breathing. Then he made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“Stil won’t get me a warrant.”
“How do you know?”
“Already tried. Got shut down. DA says it’s al circumstantial. Besides, Evans alibis out. Didn’t say so, but there’s also the fact that the guy works for a public figure. DA don’t want to poke that hornets’ nest without a smoking gun.”
Slidel was right. The crack about Half Moon. The resemblance to Rick Nielsen. Lingo’s number in Rinaldi’s notes. It was al speculative. So far we’d found nothing to show either motive or opportunity. And Evans had witnesses putting him elsewhere on both the September and October dates in question.
I thought a moment.
“Have you checked into Evans’s vehicle?”
“I’ve got a cal in on that. By the way, Klapec’s been charged. Unit found the gun. Motel manager confirms Klapec’s story, and a security camera shows him checking in at twelve twenty-seven this morning. Plus the confession’s clean. Looks like the pathetic bastard’s teling the truth.”
Ryan was stil surfing the Cheap Trick Web site, the volume turned low. Seeing my face, he reached out for one of my hands.
“Feeling jammed up?”
“I keep seeing Klapec in that interrogation room. First, he lost his son. Now he’s probably murdered an innocent man.”
“You realy think Lingo’s aide is your boy?”
Raising frustrated palms, I summarized the circumstantial evidence Slidel and I had just discussed. “And Evans has an alibi.”
“Let’s crack it.”
“According to the man who found it, Klapec’s body was dumped the morning of October ninth. Evans was in Greensboro.”
“Let’s let that go for now. You said Klapec could have been kiled earlier, then placed in a freezer.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I was saying that a lot lately. “But Klapec was last seen alive on September twenty-ninth.”
“By whom?”
“Vince Gunther.”
“A felow chicken hawk.”
I nodded.
“Is Gunther credible?”
“Apparently Rinaldi thought so. His notes suggest he was wiling to pay the kid five hundred dolars for information on Klapec’s kiler.”
“What was Slidel’s take?”
“We never questioned Gunther directly.”
“That’s right. Gunther’s in the wind. Stil no word on his whereabouts?”
I shook my head. “But we did interview April Pinder, Gunther’s former girlfriend. Her story confirmed what we suspected about Klapec and this Rick Nielsen/Nelson character arguing, then Klapec disappearing. It supported an LSA for Klapec on September twenty-ninth.”
“How about Pinder? She reliable?”
I waggled splayed fingers. Maybe yes, maybe no.
“Could she be covering for Gunther?”
“Doubtful. She’s pissed as hel. After she paid his bail, Gunther dumped her.”
I saw thought working in Ryan’s eyes.
“Exactly how did Pinder’s story corroborate Gunther’s?”
I relayed what Pinder had said about Gunther watching TV the night he got out of jail. About Gunther teling her he saw Klapec and Rick Nelson/Nielsen arguing that day.
“And Evans was out of town at that time, too?”
“On a campaign swing across the state.”
“He’s sure about his dates?”
“Very.”
“Is Pinder?”
“She seemed to be. But who knows? She’s not al that bright.”
“But, cupcake. We have a means at our disposal to check.”
“We do?” Ignoring the bakery reference.
Ryan worked a few keys, checked the screen. Worked some more.
“I’l be damned.” He pointed at a line of white text in a black box. “You’re going to like this.”
The box listed al Cheap Trick appearances, live onstage, on television, and on radio, and provided links to recent and old interviews.
I read the line Ryan was indicating.
It took a moment for the significance to register.
When it did, I took in a breath.
“Cheap Trick appeared on HBO September twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, in a two-part special featuring seventies and eighties rockers,” Ryan said.
“So Pinder had to be wrong about the date. Cheap Trick wasn’t on television on the twenty-ninth.” I was thinking out loud. “Gunther was in jail on the twenty-eighth. He couldn’t have been watching at her house that night. It had to have been the twenty-seventh, the day
before
Gunther went in, not the day he got out.”
“Does Evans have an alibi for the twenty-seventh?” Ryan asked.
“Holy mother of God.”
I was so excited I had to punch Slidel’s number twice. No matter. My cal was roled to voice mail.
“We’ve got him,” I said. “Klapec was last seen alive on September twenty-seventh, not the twenty-ninth. Check Evans’s whereabouts for that date. Cal me.”
I clicked off.
“Good one,” I said, high-fiving Ryan.
He grinned a grin as wide as the Rio Grande.
Seconds dragged by. Hours. Eons.
I chewed at the cuticle on my thumb. Got up and paced. Sat down. Chewed some more.
Stil the phone didn’t ring.
“Where the hel is he?”
Ryan shrugged. Ate a handful of popcorn. Continued surfing.
“Don’t drop kernels into my keyboard.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Or drip butter.”
I looked at the clock. It had been twenty minutes since I left my message.
“Maybe I should fax that page to Slidel. Can you print it?”
Pointless. But it was something to do.
Returning to the Cheap Trick Web site, Ryan made hard copy and handed it to me. The page made me think of Rinaldi’s notes. Something else to do.
I puled the papers from my briefcase. Returned to the study.
“Look at this,” I said. “Now everything makes sense.”
Ryan dropped onto the couch beside me.
JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG. RN-PIT. CTK. TV. 10/9-10/11? CFT. 10. 500.
“According to Vince Gunther, Jimmy Klapec was last seen alive with Rick Nielsen on September twenty-ninth. Rick Nielsen with pits. Gunther noted the resemblance when he saw Cheap Trick, CTK, on TV. October ninth to eleventh is the time Klapec was found. Rinaldi was meeting Gunther at CFT, Cabo Fish Taco, at ten with five hundred dolars.”
Silently, Ryan and I read Rinaldi’s last lines of code.
RN = BLA = GYE. Greensboro. 10/9. 555-7038. CTK-TV-9/27. VG, solicitation 9/28-9/29.
GYE 9/27?
“Rick Nielsen equals Boyce Lingo’s aide equals Glenn Yardley Evans. Rinaldi caled Lingo’s office, and Evans told him that he and his boss were in Greensboro on October ninth, when Klapec’s body was found.”
“Rinaldi must have known something was wrong with the September dates. Cheap Trick appeared on TV September twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth. Vince Gunther was in jail for solicitation on the twenty-eighth, so Rinaldi knew he couldn’t have seen Nielsen, and by extension, Klapec, on that day.”
“So April Pinder got the date wrong. They had their pizza party the day
before,
not the day
after
she busted Gunther loose.”
“A day for which Evans may have no alibi.”
“Jesus, Ryan. Somehow, Rinaldi figured al this out. Evans discovered that he knew.”
My fingers were curled so tightly my nails were digging crescents in my palms.
“Evans kiled him.”
The phone shriled.
I leaped for it.
Slidel sounded as wired as I felt. “Evans was in Charlotte on the twenty-seventh.”
I started to speak. He cut me off.
“He drives a white Chevy Tahoe.”
“Holy shit.”
“Judge finaly cut paper. We’re going in.”
“I want to be there.”
“How’d I know you’d say that?”
I waited.
“Just you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
36
“WHERE’S YOUR WHEELS?”
Rubber squealed as we hooked a sharp right from the Sharon Hal drive.
“Ryan took my car to check out of his hotel.”
I expected a wisecrack about my sex life. Slidel didn’t make one.
“Tel him it ain’t personal. The DA wants this handled like the world’s watching.”
Though Ryan’s insight would have been an asset in executing the warrant on Evans’s property, I couldn’t fault that reasoning. Given Lingo’s position, a lot of eyes would be watching. Perhaps courtesy of CNN and FOX.
“Is Evans at home?”
Slidel shook his head. “He rents a coach house apartment on property owned by a woman name of Gracie-Lee Widget. What the hel kinda handle is that?”
I gestured for Slidel to continue.
“Gracie-Lee says Evans works Thursday nights, gets home around nine. She ain’t nuts for the idea, but says if I show a warrant she’l let us into his crib.”
Evans lived in Plaza-Midwood, a neighborhood of winding streets, large trees, and modest turn-of-the-century bungalows. I’d been there many times. Located midway between uptown and the UNCC campus, the area is popular with underpaid university faculty.
Slidel made a right onto Shamrock, another onto a short dead-ender, and parked in front of a lowcountry house with a down-sloping roof, brown stucco wals, and green plantation shutters. The long front porch held rocking chairs and basket-hanging ferns, al looking wel past their shelf life.
We got out and climbed the steps. Slidel rang the bel.
It took roughly a decade for the door to open. When it did, I understood why.
Gracie-Lee Widget’s hair floated wispy white around a face shriveled by a thousand wrinkles. Scarecrow lips suggested edentulous jaws. But age wasn’t the woman’s most striking feature.
Gracie-Lee had one arm. That’s it. No other limbs. Her left shoulder was outfitted with an elaborate apparatus ending in two opposable hooks, and she rode a motorized chair that looked like something out of
Star Wars.
A tartan plaid blanket covered her lap and what looked like two midthigh stumps.
Gracie-Lee scowled up at us, clearly not pleased.
“Detective Slidel.” Slidel badged her. “We spoke on the phone.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
Gracie-Lee snatched the badge. Drew it close to her face. Made a sound like
tcht.
Gave it back.
Slidel produced the warrant. Gracie-Lee shooed it as she might flies from a cake.
“Mr. Evans isn’t here.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It’s not right invading a man’s home.”
Slidel held out a hand. “We’l be real careful.”
Gracie-Lee didn’t move.
“Ma’am?”
“Tcht.” The hook rose and dropped a key into Slidel’s palm.
“Don’t harm none of that nice young man’s belongings.”
With that Gracie-Lee pressed a button on her armrest. The chair swiveled, and the door slammed.
Slidel shook his head as we descended the steps. “Glad I don’t face that every year over Thanksgiving turkey.”
“She’s old.”
“She’s mean as a snake.”
The coach house was a two-story frame affair across a patch of grass at the end of a gravel drive. Double garage down, living quarters up. The second floor was accessed by an exterior wooden staircase.
Ancient myrtle grew thick at the back of the property. Though dusk was fading fast, through the foliage I could see what looked like a vast, sweeping lawn.
“Wel, ain’t that sweet. Evans lives at the ass end of Charlotte Country Club.”
Slidel’s voice dripped scorn. For golf? For being on the wrong side of the course? For those rich enough to belong to the club?
I said nothing.
We passed a koi pond that was green with algae. A brick planter overflowing with dead leaves. A birdbath lying in two pieces on the ground.
As we walked, Slidel’s hand drew up to his gun butt. His eyes roved our surroundings. Neck tension suggested alert listening.
At the coach house, Slidel gestured with a downturned palm. Sensitive to his body language, I froze.
Through a dirty window I could see that the garage held only garden equipment, a wooden ladder, and a set of wrought-iron lawn furniture. A door opened from the back wal, I guessed into a smal work-or storeroom.
“No Chevy Tahoe,” Slidel mumbled, more to himself than to me.
“Where is CSS?”