CHAPTER 15

When detective sergeant Riker walked into the reception area of the sheriff’s office, there was no one minding the store. A man’s deep voice came from the next room. Riker looked through the open doorway of the private office, but the only person in sight was a pretty woman with long red hair and a tight dress.

Riker sat down on a wooden bench with a carved backing a little higher than a church pew. A toilet flushed behind a door on the other side of the room. The door swung open, and a small boy of six or seven emerged, stuffing his T-shirt into his jeans. He had the pretty woman’s red hair, but not her large blue eyes. The boy’s eyes were small, brown and curious.

“Are you a bum?”

“No, I’m a cop.”

The boy’s mouth went up on one side, and the jut of his chin said, You’re lying.

Riker looked down at his tie, spotted with souvenirs of past meals. The old gray suit had been creased by the long train ride. It had been merely rumpled before he had gotten on that train. His scuffed shoes had not been polished since the last funeral he attended. He looked up at the boy, who was sniffing the air and no doubt detecting the beer scarfed down with lunch. “I’m an undercover cop,” he lied.

“Cool.” The boy sat down beside him and scrutinized the two-day growth of stubble on Riker’s face. “It’s really good.” And now the child took in every detail of the shabby apparel, down to the scruffy shoes. “Great disguise.”

“Thanks, squirt. So what’re you in for? You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”

“Well, no,” said the boy with some regret. Then he smiled and leaned deep into the zone of conspiracy, whispering, “But I think my mom did.”

“No kidding,” said Riker, very impressed.

“The Georgia police arrested her. Then they put us on a plane back to Louisiana. Sheriff Jessop’s in there with her now. He’s gonna make her confess.”

Now Riker and the boy listened together.

The sheriff’s voice was asking, “You think Fred might’ve had a hand in it?”

Riker thought the man’s tone lacked the passion of a good grilling. The sheriff might as well have been asking his suspect where she bought that tight dress. The woman’s response was too soft to carry distinctly, though Riker and the boy strained their necks in unison to catch the words.

“Sally,” said the sheriff, “I’m not looking at conspiracy theories here. Babe was no Jack Kennedy, and his death ain’t that big a deal.”

The woman said something in a low rush of words. All that was intelligible was a slight tone of indignation.

Riker leaned toward the boy and whispered, “Who’s Babe?”

“My father,” said the boy, brightly. “The bastard’s as dead as a doornail.”

And now Riker really was impressed. Even New York children were not so blasé about the demise of a parent. “I guess you didn’t like your old man that much.”

“He creeped me out, and my mother hated his guts.”

Now Riker looked up to see a man his own age with a gold star pinned to his dark linen sports jacket. The sheriff was taking his own turn at eavesdropping.

The boy followed the train of Riker’s eyes to the other man’s face. “Sheriff Jessop, are you gonna lock up my mother?”

Riker honestly could not tell if this would be good news to the boy or not.

“No, Bobby. You and your mother can go whenever you like. Who’s your new friend?”

“My name is Riker,” he said, standing up and extending his hand “I’m a cop. I was – ”

“And you’re from New York City,” said the sheriff, taking his hand in a firm grip.

Riker opened his wallet to display the NYPD gold shield and ID. “How’d you guess?” As if he didn’t know how thick his Brooklyn accent was.

“Oh, just a damn shot in the dark.” The sheriff held Riker’s ID at arm’s length to read it, and then handed it back. “If we get any more of you New York boys out this way, Betty’s gonna have to add another wing onto the bed and breakfast.”

The boy’s mother appeared at the door. Riker suppressed an appreciative whistle when she passed him by without a glance, as every pretty woman did. She sat down on the bench next to her son and ignored the sheriff when he spoke to her.

“Sally, when my deputy gets back, you tell her I said to take you out to the airport.” He gestured to the open door of his office. “Come on in, Sergeant Riker. Or should I call you Detective?”

“Just Riker is fine.” He settled into a comfortable chair opposite the sheriff. The clutter on the desk between them was amazing. His skill in reading upside down gave him an overview on the formidable paperwork for the Georgia extradition. Apparently, the Georgia boys had dragged their feet on compliance.

The sheriff lit up a cigarette and moved a handful of papers to expose a generous ashtray. Riker smiled and reached for his own cigarettes. So far, he liked this little town a lot. He had been in motion for two days on a nonsmoking train, only stopping for a quick lunch in the town square. He had wanted to kiss the floor of Jane’s Cafe at the sight of an ashtray on every table.

“So, Riker, I hear you New Yorkers ain’t number one in crime and murder anymore.”

“Oh, sure we are. And you would know that, if our police commissioner wasn’t the best liar in fifty states.” Riker exhaled a cloud of smoke and felt utterly at home, despite the trappings of another century.

“I don’t know about that.” The sheriff tossed a match and missed the ashtray. He eased his feet up on the desk, knocking files down to the floor, and winning Riker’s heart as a fellow slob. “Miami seems like a real up-and-comer in the killing trade.”

“Well, Miami’s real competitive. They claim to kill more tourists than we do, but that’s a damn lie.”

“According to the newspapers, you New York boys doubled the drop in crime nationwide.”

“That’s slander,” said Riker. “The top cop decentralized the department, and the mayor fired the press liaison. The reporters had no way to check the stats.” Riker draped one leg over his chair and dropped a long log of ashes on the pantleg of his suit. “It’s all politics. New York has the best politicians dirty money can buy.”

“Sorry, Riker. That happens to be our state motto. But you can be forgiven for brassing. We do admire that down here.”

And now Riker wondered why the sheriff had not asked him about his business in Dayborn. Just how slow did things move in this part of the world?

“There’s a friend of yours in town,” said the sheriff. “A man named Charles Butler.”

Well, that explained a lot. How much damage could Charles have done by now? “A friend of mine? This guy says he knows me?”

“He’s from New York City, too.”

“New York is a real small town, Sheriff, only eight million people. And you’d think we all know each other on a first-name basis, but we don’t.”

“What about the man that owned this?” The sheriff fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. “Louis Markowitz? That name ring any bells?”

“Never heard of him,” said Riker, denying the friendship of three decades, and never going for the bait – not looking directly at the golden disk swinging from the chain in the sheriff’s hand. He made a mental note to rag Mallory about the sentimental mistake of not ditching that watch with the rest of her identification.

“If you think this Markowitz is from New York, I’ll run the name through the department and see what they turn up.” New York had more Markowitzes than Israel did. Riker was confident that he could find one who had not been the former commander of NYPD’s Special Crimes Section.

“Thanks, Riker. I’d appreciate that. But you are here about the prisoner.”

“I’m here because you sent the FBI a serial number on a Smith and Wesson revolver. NYPD has a match. The gun was used in a fifteen-year-old homicide.”

And that much was true. Riker remembered the day, four years ago, when Mallory had pocketed the revolver during a rookie’s tour of the evidence room. She had wanted a gun that would make bigger holes than her police-issue.38. “It’s an unsolved case.” And that was a lie. The case had been closed when both robber and victim had died in a deli shoot-out.