The Evil That Men Do (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Riley

Riley watched her sister speed away over near molten roads.

Could she be right? She looked over to where Terry was now standing, twenty meters beyond the yellow taped police cordon. Surely she should tell him right away what Ricki had come up with. No, Ricki was their leader. She knew what she was doing, and if she had really thought that Joseph Cavanaugh had been murdered, then surely she would have been the first to flag it up to the authorities. In any case, it was just a hunch. Most likely there was no connection at all between the missing diamond and this strange death. Riley decided that until Ricki came up with something concrete, it would be best to leave the cops out of it.

Cavanaugh Junior was opening the door of the green Volkswagen. He saw Riley looking at him and he gave her a grim smile and smoothed his thinning hair back into place. He had clearly ruffled it in his grief and upon seeing his own reflection took measures to return the stray strands to a suitable position. Some of the wisps disobeyed. Cavanaugh frowned at them, and then realized Riley was still looking at him, and gave another wan, unconvincing smile that held no warmth. Riley saw the tension in his drawn jowls; clearly the grief of his father’s death was sitting ill with him. Cavanaugh had the bearing of a man who had lost too much weight too quickly and not through a good diet and hours at the gym. His eyes moved languidly, too slowly. The genial, overly polite man that Riley and Roberta had encountered the week before seemed buried within his pallid flesh, where the cheerful smile once offered her lemonade now was drawn a razor thin line. Misery? Or something else? He drove away, taking the same left turn that Ricki had made not two minutes previously, toward the main roads that led across town.

“I guess the cops are done with him, too,” Riley said to no one in particular. She frowned at the disappearing Volkswagen. Something was strange about that man, like he didn’t fit with Savannah, that either he was somehow not a citizen here, or that the town was not a part of him. That was not strange in and of itself; there were plenty of oddballs, dunks, soothsayers, weirdoes, hookers and heroes in Georgia. It was probably cognitive bias, Riley told herself. The word murder had been thrown into the ether by her sister, and now it buzzed in Riley’s mind like a hornet, driving her thoughts to suspicion. Damn it, it wasn’t like she didn’t have enough on her plate, just by being here, she was wasting time and money by not hunting down cars. Why did she always end up doing as Ricki said, anyway? Ricki was right; she wasn’t as good at leading as their father had been, and to Riley’s mind he never would be. Riley kicked an empty can listlessly, sending it skittering into the gutter.

There were more people on the street now, venturing out from their houses to gossip and goose neck at the police operation at the Cavanaugh house. Riley remembered Ricki’s instructions, and grudgingly agreed in her mind that interacting with the neighbors was a decent starting point to further the case. There was a group of young mothers with attendant flocks of children. The mixed bag of boys and girls aged between three and nine years old were running riot in their local vicinity. They chased each other, occasionally overstepping the patience lines of their parents and being suddenly frozen on the spot under a powerful, irresistible spotlight glare. Riley decided that she would rather perform the autopsy on Cavanaugh herself than attempt to extract information from these mothers. Across the street two men sat drinking on a porch. Whilst drinkers were freer with their words, in Riley’s experience the effects of alcohol on the ability of people to make use and relay the results of their observation skills rendered them useless in most cases. Standing alone and smoking a cigarette was an improbably thin, nervous looking white woman. Dressed in a vest that had once possibly been a vibrant sunburst yellow and orange pattern with cut off denim shorts, evident years of hard smoking and possible dabbling in harder substances had left what could have been a person in her late thirties looking twenty years older. Her heart shaped sunglasses perched uneasily on an over long nose and prematurely lined lips that were stained an over bright shade of crimson. The getup complemented a dyed blonde, permed hairstyle only in so much that the combination of the two distracted from the ravaged frame that bore them. Perfect, Riley thought. She crossed the street, feeling the eyes of Sergeant Dobbs tracking her and resisting the sudden urge to flip him the bird.

“Hi, I’m Riley,” she said once she had come face to face with the woman. The woman had noticed her approach once Riley had crossed the median line of the distance between them, and looked at her now with wariness feigning as indifference.

“Cheryl,” the woman said flatly. She did not take Riley’s proffered hand, and did not return her smile. Riley had not expected anything else, so was not offended.

“Any idea about what’s going on here? I’m waiting for a ride to get home, but they’re late. Mind if I hang out with you? I don’t know many folk round here.”

Cheryl’s eyes, barely visible through the tinted plastic of her cheap sunglasses, softened a little.

“Honey, you’ll learn after a few years in the business that if you’re doing home calls, the john always pays for your taxi home, you got it? Pimps who drive around all day picking up their girls from places like this should be spending their time getting more clients instead of making sure your money is coming in.”

Riley didn’t intend to give Cheryl the impression that she was a prostitute, but if it formed some kinship between them, it would be counter-intuitive to set her straight. Riley tried to look appreciative.

“Thanks for the advice. I haven’t been doing this long. It’s just until I get back on my feet, y’know? Say, what’s going on here? Is it a bust or something?”

Cheryl gave her an expression that said that she’d heard the line about turning tricks temporarily a dozen times before, but took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out underfoot so that she could speak clearly.

“Nah, you never seen cops when there’s a suspicious death? Looks like old man Cavanaugh is dead. I bet one of his loans came back on him big time, poor bastard. Would have thought his son might have helped him out some. Heard he was loaded, or at least he used to be.” Cheryl sassily cocked her head, displaying both her disdain for Cavanaugh the younger and also an impressive stretch of wrinkled skin on her neck.

“So Cavanaugh was broke, right?” Riley thought for a moment. “I don’t see why a loan shark would go for murder over a beating, though. I mean, isn’t that just like using a flamethrower on a hornet nest?”

Cheryl laughed scornfully.

“Girl, you really are green aren’t you? Fresh off the train from the hills or something? Lookit these cops right here. You think they’d have that many cops out for a black guy? Sure, maybe a loanie might not take the risk of offing the old man, but someone sure thought it was worth it. You should know better, y’know, being black and all. These cops don’t care about you, and yeah, I know, I’m white so what do I know. I’ll tell you this though, the only thing more worthless in this town than a white hooker is a black one, especially to guys like that prick, Dobbs.”

Riley turned to follow Cheryl’s jutted jaw. Dobbs was laughing and joking as the body of Cavanaugh passed him by, covered in a sheet on a gurney. The corpse was loaded into the back of a waiting ambulance, and Riley and Cheryl watched it in silence as it drove away. Once the sirens had retreated, Cheryl continued.

“Lookit him; not a care in the world. I didn’t know Cavanaugh that well, but when I go I’d hope I don’t have Dobbs laughing over my body, that’s for damn sure. Cops in this town are criminals, you know. Think about it, you can do whatever you want; no one will ever arrest you because you’re in the gang, and you can kill anyone you want, at any time. I had a pimp once, Johnny Silver he called himself. Way I hear it, he got pulled over for a traffic violation, and he ended up with three bullets in him, from Dobbs’ gun. Alright, sure he was a pimp but he never hurt nobody more than he needed to, and he looked after me alright. But Dobbs knew he could get away with it; no one cries for a dead pimp at City Hall. When the paper told the story, Dobbs said Johnny had pulled a gun on him, and he had to defend himself. Got a commendation for bravery out of it too. Regular folk are all happy that there’s one less pimp on the street, but they don’t see that a good pimp looks out for his girls, and with him gone the real bad guys move in, and the girls suffer.”

Cheryl took another cigarette from a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and offered one to Riley, who declined. Cheryl lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, exhaling a thick cloud of blue-gray smoke. Riley for her part was enraptured and disturbed by Cheryl’s story. Was Terry, her sister’s boyfriend, complicit in the deaths of people, by virtue of his inaction? Did he know? Surely he must know. He was Dobbs’ partner after all. Was he there when Johnny Silver died? Riley realized that she was getting distracted. She had to stay focused, and control the conversation with Cheryl. She decided to change the subject.

“What do you know about Cavanaugh’s son? He just left,” Riley said, thumbing over her shoulder. “Green vee dub?”

Cheryl looked at her with suspicion now, dipping her head forward to see Riley over the rim of her sunglasses. Riley saw that she had a fading bruise on her left eye, and the whites of both eyes were heavy bloodshot.

“Say, you’ve got an awful lot of questions. You better watch that. Asking too many questions gets you hurt, or dead.”

“Sorry,” Riley said with placating hands. “I just spoke to him, seems like a nice guy, is all.”

“Oh sure, real nice,” Cheryl spat, removing her sunglasses and pointing to her bruised eye. “That schmuck wanted a free ride, and slapped me around when I said no way. Sure, he looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but he’s a miserable swine. He lost his job, had to move back down here and straight off, he was bossing his old man around. I saw them from my window, yelling at each other about money. I mean, come on, old man Cavanaugh was like a thousand years old; where was he going to get money? He was on food stamps like everyone else round these parts. He’s a bum, and a pig, just like Dobbs, if you ask me. Anyway, looks like the show is over. You take care, Riley.”

Cheryl went back through the beaded curtain that hung in her open doorway. The police were packing up, or at least the crime scene investigators were pulling out their equipment from the Cavanaugh house and stripping off their overalls. Dobbs and Terry ducked under the yellow tape, heading for their squad car. Terry waved at Riley, and pointed to his black and white cruiser, indicating that he was offering her a lift. Riley remembered her sister’s words, to take the lift with Terry, but to steer clear of Dobbs. She shook her head at Terry, and turned to walk up the street toward the intersection. Even if she was in no danger with Terry around, she would rather take a cab than spend any time at all with Dobbs. She head Dobbs laugh, and involuntarily felt her pace quicken.

Her thoughts were ablaze with more questions following her chat with poor, beaten, broken down Cheryl. How could anyone experience what she had, and still be alive? Riley was sure that she had heard only the PG-13 version of some of the events from her life. Just like Dobbs, she had said, when talking about Joe Cavanaugh Junior. Did that include murder? Abuse of power? Surely there was no motive for him to kill his own father, especially as he had no estate from which to benefit; but then, how many times had Riley herself wished an untimely death on one of her sisters? She hadn’t done so for years, not since mom and dad had died—the guilt Riley had felt that somehow her childish wishes for divine retribution for perceived harsh crimes committed on her by her family as a child, ranging from scolding for an untidy room or Ricki’s patented hard knuckled dig to the ribs had been almost too much to bear.

No, she was sure that Cavanaugh was not a killer. In any case, it was a police matter. The Rock of Rhodesia was what the Vaughan sisters were tasked with recovering, and Joseph Cavanaugh was just a loose end in the case. Ricki would know what to do, when she returned from speaking to Madeline Frome.

Chapter Nine

Roberta

Covered in sweat, Roberta hauled Shenice Connor from the back seat of her pickup truck.

Connor had led her on a merry chase into the country, trying to escape on a motorbike across country and then on foot when she had crashed the bike into a ditch. It had been an entire morning worth of travel from the crack den she had been crashing at. Unfortunately for Roberta, it seemed that her quarry had been storing extra reserves of coke in her bloodstream, and had put in an Olympic-medal-worthy sprint through an alleyway to reach her bike, zipping out of reach before Roberta could chase her down. Nevertheless, it would be a dark day when Roberta Vaughan was outwitted by a junkie.

Shenice struggled and spat at her, despite being in handcuffs. The guard at the county jail gate stood and laughed as Roberta walked Shenice in a kind of half nelson hold toward him.

“Come on Joey, a little help here? She’s bucking like a jackrabbit, and I’ve had enough. Mind if I just take her leg off with my shotgun?” Roberta kicked Shenice in the back of the knee as she tried to wriggle free, ignoring the threat. Joey laughed harder, and unslung his nightstick.

“Now, Miss Vaughan, you know I can’t allow that, but I suppose I could accidentally throw her in with the violent types, instead of the nice, meek and god-fearing girls in general holdings?”

Shenice stopped struggling. This was a common occurrence, and a familiar role play between Roberta and the guards at Savannah County Jail. As a woman, many jumpers figured that if they can get their feet on the ground and out of the secured rear seat of Roberta’s pickup they could make a clear run for it, or overpower their captor somehow, despite Roberta already having defeated them once that day already. In such cases, the simple threat of worse consequences from which there was no escape was usually enough to calm them down enough to prevent further humiliation or injury. Shenice went into Joey’s custody with no further complaint, and Roberta waited by her car for him to take her into the jailhouse and return with her receipt.

“You look like hell, kid. She gave you a real tough chase, huh?” Joey scribbled on his receipt book as he spoke.

“Had worse, but damn, that girl can run. Keep the gates locked with her now, won’t you? I can do without another cross country run this month.”

Roberta toweled herself down with a napkin from her glove box. It was soon soiled with her salty sweat and stained with dirt. Her filthy clothes would have to last until she could get showered and changed. Joey handed her the booking in slip for Connor, which would be followed with a check when she went to trial. The flow of money goes on; the flow of people into the judiciary system went on. Roberta said her goodbyes to Joey, and drove away into the setting sun.

At six o’clock in the evening, Roberta finally returned to the R3 Recovery office, freshly changed, showered and full on leftover ribs. The property was deserted, and locked. Roberta unlocked the door using her key, and opened it into serene darkness. Something felt wrong. Ricki and Riley should surely have returned ahead of her, although Riley could well have been hunting down a car to repossess. Something was stuck to her shoe. An envelope. It was undoubtedly yet another bill from the electric company, or the water company, or whoever. Roberta bent down to pick it up, groaning slightly at the twinge in her knees, screaming their protest at further abuse after their already tortuous day. The envelope was without a name and address.

“Hey, you would not believe the afternoon I’ve had!”

Roberta jumped in surprise, dropping the envelope, bashing her head hard on the door handle and cursed loudly at the sudden pain.

“Wow, are you ok? That looked all kinds of painful,” Riley said, stepping around her crouched sister. Roberta glared at her.

“Yeah. Where have you been? Where’s Ricki?”

She rubbed the point where her head had made contact with the brass door handle, and flinched at the secondary wave of pain as tears stung in the corners of her eyes, refracting the star lines that danced and swirled toward the edges of her vision. There would be a bruised lump there in less than an hour for sure. Riley helped her to her feet, and scooped the envelope up from the floor.

“Oh man, you wouldn’t believe. You have no idea how hard it is to get a taxi in this town! I had to walk most of the way back from Old Man Cavanaugh’s—he’s dead, by the way, and then when I could get a taxi, it took three of them to go past before one stopped. Ricki should have beaten me back here from Madeline Frome’s place; that’s weird.”

Riley tossed the envelope on the desk at which Ricki usually sat, and slumped in her reclining chair heavily.

“Wait, back up,” Roberta said, “did you really just say Cavanaugh is dead? How? That’s too weird. He seemed healthy enough, but I guess he was pretty old, right?”

“Nah, it was a suicide apparently. Hung himself with a belt, pretty messed up, right? Seems like his son is a bit of a sucker too, according to a local, but with his old man dead, it looks like the trail is dead there. Hope Ricki got something out of Frome or we’re going to have to pull round the clock shifts to make Dumont’s money back for him.”

Riley picked up the envelope. Roberta couldn’t quite believe her ears. Sure, Cavanaugh seemed down on his luck, but was there really no way for him to improve his lot than to end it all? It didn’t bear thinking about, the tightening of the belt around his frail old neck, the kick of the chair. Roberta visualized the belt buckle jammed in the doorway, braced against the wooden door in a run-down house in Savannah.

“Hey, this envelope has no address on it. It’s not sealed either!” Riley said. “Shouldn’t we open it?”

Roberta looked at her sister groggily. Best get the next drama over with, see how much more screwed R3 Recovery’s financial accounts were about to become. She took the envelope from her sister, and shook out a small note written on a torn page from a red margined piece of legal paper. The paper itself was a pale yellow. Upon it, in neat, block capital letters written in black ink there was a message:

RETRIEVE THE ROCK OR YOUR SISTER DIES.

FROME HAS THE ROCK. TELL NO-ONE.

YOU HAVE THREE DAYS.

Roberta dropped the note, letting it tumble onto the desk. Her fingers went numb, and fresh, cold sweat beaded on the back of her neck, her forehead and between her shoulder blades. Riley looked alarmed, but Roberta barely registered a response. Riley picked up the note.

“Oh my God, Ricki! Roberta, what do we do? I’m calling the cops, no wait, he’ll kill her! Christ, what are we gonna do?” Riley had tears in her eyes.

Roberta’s mind was torn between multiple possible outcomes. If Frome had the necklace, why did she report it stolen, and who knew about the jewel anyway? If only it had been her who had been taken, she could have handled any punishment she was sure, and Ricki would be smart enough to work out the clues, even from this scant evidence. What could they do with this note, other than obey it and hope to rescue Ricki from the clutches of… who? A murderer? A thief? She guessed it was a fairly straight case of kidnapping, but that’s not what it felt like. It felt more personal. Could it be one of the people that R3 Recovery had returned to jail, or repossessed the property of, or had their sordid affairs investigated?

Roberta picked up the phone and dialed, ignoring Riley’s confused, grief stricken expression. When the phone was answered, Roberta found her voice choked and cracked.

“This is Roberta Vaughan, Terry’s girlfriend. I need to speak to him, please.” The operator put her on hold, and after what seemed like an eternity, Terry’s deep voice came on the other end of the line.

“Hey babe, what’s new?” he said.

“I need you. I need you right now, and come alone.” Roberta’s voice was deadpan, but Terry totally missed the point.

“Woah, not that I don’t need you too, but I’m still on shift and, well…”

“Shut up and get here Terry!” Roberta snapped. “I need you as a cop, not my boyfriend. I’ll tell you when you get here. This is really serious.” Terry came to full awareness, and hung up the phone.

The screeching tires and wailing siren of his cruiser announced the arrival of Terry and his repugnant partner Sergeant Dobbs less than twenty minutes later. Roberta’s heart sank even further into her boots. Hadn’t she specifically said that he should come alone? This would ruin everything, Ricki was surely doomed. Word would get out that the police were investigating, and Ricki would die for Roberta’s stupid mistake. She could not bear it, and as soon as Terry came through the door of R3 Recovery, she went into full attack.

“What is he doing here, you idiot!” she hissed. “I told you to come alone!” She slammed the door behind Dobbs as he followed Terry inside, and drew the shutters. Not that it would hide the police car outside, but it made Roberta feel marginally better. Dobbs made a bee line for Riley, sat at Ricki’s desk.

“Hey, there little darling,” he drawled with lust that was barely concealed, “What say you dry those eyes for Sergeant Dobbs, huh?”

“Drop it, Sarge, please,” said Terry. “This isn’t the time or the place. What’s going on, girls?”

Roberta threw herself into Terry’s arms. “Look! Look at this! Someone has kidnapped Ricki, and they want us to find a jewel to get her back, and I don’t know what the hell to do!”

Riley pushed past Dobbs, and brandished the letter at Terry.

“See! How does this even happen? What did we do?”

Dobbs took the letter from Riley’s hand.

“I’m the senior officer here; let me see it.”

He read the note aloud for Terry’s benefit, who had Roberta in his arms. Roberta felt more tears fall on her cheeks, to be soaked up by Terry’s uniform shirt.

“Sounds like this guy—or these people, it could be a group after all—doesn’t want your sister at all,” Terry said. “Sarge, you got an evidence bag on you, we should take this in for fingerprints.”

“Do you think there is any chance that you’ll get anything from it?” Riley said, with hope.

Terry considered.

“In all honesty, it would be a long shot, but we can’t rule it out. We’ll need to take prints from both of you, if you’ve handled this note.”

Roberta released herself from Terry’s embrace.

“Yeah, we both did. Oh God, that was so stupid. What should we do now? How do we get Ricki back?”

Dobbs cut in before Terry could reply.

“You girls do absolutely nothing. Anything you do could be under surveillance and anything you do to comply with their demands will only make our job harder. Leave it to the professionals, you got it?”

He looked from Roberta to Riley and back again, to ensure his words were heeded. Riley and Roberta nodded.

“Call me if you get any calls, or any more notes. Try and get some rest tonight, OK? We’ll get to the station and start work. I’ll call you tonight, Bobbie, ok?” Terry said as he kissed Roberta’s tears away.

Roberta looked into his eyes, and wanted to believe that the police could do something to save Ricki. Terry and Dobbs left, leaving Roberta and Riley alone, in the gathering dark of the Georgian summer evening.