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      torney will argue that the divorce doesn’t really matter

      because there had been no formal division of property

      yet so the terms of the LLC will still be in effect. On the

      other hand, if the divorce was finalized before he died,

      then the ED could go forward, with his estate taking

      whatever he was awarded. It could be a pretty little legal

      problem. Of course, he did own property and money in

      his own name and his will should stand as to the dispo-

      sition of that part of his estate.”

      “How much are we talking?”

      “His personal estate? Maybe three million, give or

      take a few thousand.”

      “So answer me Deb’rah’s question. Who inherits?”

      “I can’t tell you that, Dwight.”

      “Sure you can. Like she said, it’s all going to be pub-

      lic record soon enough. Is Flame Smith in the will?”

      Reid thought about it a minute, then threw up his

      hands in surrender. “Oh yes. To the tune of half a mil-

      lion. Except for a few small bequests, the daughter gets

      everything else, which he thought was going to be half

      of Harris Farms.”

      Dwight leaned back in his chair. “What was Buck Harris

      really like, Reid?”

      “He was okay. Blunt. To the point. Knew what he

      wanted and was willing to pay for it. Expected full value

      for his money though.”

      178

      HARD ROW

      “So why would someone take an axe to him like that?”

      “Damned if I know.” Reid took a first swallow of

      his coffee and grimaced. “Y’all need to let Julia Lee

      start buying your coffee beans. This stuff ’s like battery

      acid.”

      “I doubt if Bo’s budget runs to a coffee grinder and

      gourmet beans,” he said, remembering how he used to

      look for excuses to drop by the firm of Lee, Stephenson

      and Knott, before Deborah ran for the bench. Coffee

      was always good for one visit a week and they did have

      the best coffee of any office in town.

      Not that he was ever there for the coffee.

      After Reid left, Dwight phoned Pete Taylor. “I’d ap-

      preciate it if you could get Mrs. Harris to come in and

      see me this afternoon?”

      Taylor promised that he would try.

      Down in the detectives’ squad room, he gave out the

      day’s assignments as to the lines he wanted pursued and

      the people they should interview.

      “One thing, boss,” said Denning. “I found a hammer

      at the back of the shed. There was blood on the peen

      and one strand of hair that I compared with hairs from

      the comb in Harris’s bathroom. I’ve sent them both to

      the state lab, but the hairs look like a match to me.”

      “Which means?”

      “He was probably coldcocked over the head with the

      hammer first. We’ll have to wait till we find the head to

      know for sure.”

      As Dwight returned to his office and the rat’s nest of

      179

      MARGARET MARON

      paperwork awaiting his attention, he heard Jamison say,

      “Talk to you a minute, Major?”

      “Sure. Come on in.”

      The deputy followed and closed the door. There was

      a troubled look on his round face.

      “What’s up?” Dwight asked. He gestured to the chair

      Reid Stephenson had vacated, but Jamison continued

      to stand.

      “I need to tell you that I’m resigning, sir.”

      “What? ”

      “Yes, sir. Effective the end of next week, if that’s okay

      with you.”

      “What the hell’s this about? And for God’s sake, sit

      down.”

      The detective sat, but he looked even more uncom-

      fortable and was having trouble meeting Dwight’s

      eyes.

      Dwight studied him a long moment. “What’s going

      on, Jack? If it’s a better offer from another department,

      you’re about due a raise. I don’t know that we can

      match Raleigh, but—”

      “It’s not Raleigh, Major. It’s Iraq.”

      Dwight frowned. “I didn’t realize you’re in the

      Guard.”

      “I’m not. It’s DynCorp. They’re a private security

      company that—”

      “I know what DynCorp is.” He realized that he should

      have seen this coming. Police departments all over the area

      had lost good men to private security companies. First war

      America’s ever had to contract out, he thought sourly.

      “They’ve accepted me into their training program. If

      I qualify, I’ll be helping to train Iraqi police officers.”

      180

      HARD ROW

      “And that’s what you want to do?”

      “Not really but the pay’s too good to pass up, Major.

      We’re just not making it on thirty-seven thousand a year.

      Cindy wants things for our son and I want them, too.

      Over there, I can start at around a hundred-thirty.”

      Dwight leaned back in his chair, feeling older and

      more tired than he had in a long time. “No, we cer-

      tainly can’t match that. But you say you want things for

      your son. What about a father? Civilian personnel are

      getting killed over there.”

      Jamison nodded. “I know. But like Cindy says, police

      officers are getting shot at over here, too.”

      “You ever been shot at?”

      “Well, no sir, but it does happen, doesn’t it? A couple

      or three inches more and Mayleen could have died back

      in January. Anyhow, I figure two years and we’ll be out

      of debt with enough saved up to put a good down pay-

      ment on a real house. It’s worth the risk.” He took a

      deep breath. “And if I do get killed, she’ll get a quarter

      million in insurance. That should be enough to get Jay

      through college.”

      Dwight shook his head. “Do the math, Jack. Divide

      a quarter million by eighteen years. Cindy won’t have

      enough left to pay your son’s application fees.”

      By the determined look on Jamison’s face, his mind

      was clearly made up.

      “So. The end of next week?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Okay. I’m really sorry you feel you need to do this,

      but notify human resources and make sure your paper-

      work’s caught up.”

      Jamison came to his feet. “Thank you, Major. And I

      181

      MARGARET MARON

      really do appreciate all you’ve done for me, making me

      a detective and all. Maybe when I get back . . .”

      “We’ll see. You’re not gone yet though, and I expect

      another full week of work from you, so get out there

      and see what you can dig up on the Harris murder.”

      182

      C H A P T E R

      21

      It is a matter of paramount importance to the prosperity of

      any community or State to have its surplus lands occupied

      by an industrious, enterprising, and moral population.

      —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

      Deborah Knott

      Tuesday Morning, March 7

      % Because I had nearly forty-five minutes to kill after

      leaving Dwight and Reid, I stopped by
    the dis-

      patcher’s desk out in the main lobby where Faye Myers

      was on duty.

      Faye’s in her early thirties, a heavyset blonde who strains

      every seam of her uniform. She has a pretty face, a flaw-

      less complexion that seems to glow from within, and the

      good-hearted friendliness of a two-month-old puppy. She’s

      married to Flip Myers, an equally plump EMS tech, and

      between them, they have a finger on almost every emer-

      gency call in the county, which means she also has the best

      gossip—not from maliciousness but because she genuinely

      likes people and finds them endlessly fascinating.

      183

      MARGARET MARON

      “New hairdo?” I asked with what I hoped was a guile-

      less tone. “Looks nice.”

      She immediately touched her shining curls. “Well,

      thank you, Judge. No, it’s the same style I’ve had since

      Thanksgiving. I did get a trim yesterday but I might

      should’ve waited ’cause this wet weather’s making it

      curl up more than usual.”

      “Detective Richards tells me she goes to the Cut ’n’

      Curl. You go there, too?”

      “No, I just get my sister to clip it for me. She cuts

      everybody in the family’s hair.”

      “Lucky you,” I said. “You must save a ton of

      money.”

      She beamed.

      “But the new stylist at the Cut ’n’ Curl did a great job

      on Mayleen Richards, didn’t she? She looks like a differ-

      ent person these days.”

      “Yeah, well . . .” Myers gave me a conspiratorial look.

      “She’s real happy right now.”

      “Oh?” I encouraged.

      Within moments, I was hearing how Richards had re-

      cently become involved with a “real cute Mexican guy,”

      who ran a landscaping business “out towards Cotton

      Grove,” someone she’d met last month when investigat-

      ing a shooting over that way. A Miguel Diaz. “Mayleen

      calls him Mike.”

      A naturalized citizen, he had been in North Carolina

      for eight or nine years and had bootstrapped himself

      up from day laborer to employer who ran several crews

      around the area, contracting with some of the smaller

      builders to landscape the new developments that were

      springing up all over the county.

      184

      HARD ROW

      Faye was under the impression that he wanted to

      marry Richards but that she was hanging back because

      of her family.

      “They’re sort of prejudiced, you know,” the dis-

      patcher confided. “But I told Mayleen that’s prob-

      ably just because they don’t really know any Mexicans.

      Think they’re all up here to take away our jobs and get

      drunk on Saturday night. Not that some of ’em don’t.

      Get drunk, I mean. But Mike— Oh, wait a minute! You

      know something, Judge? You actually talked to him.”

      “I did?”

      “That guy that stole the tractor and messed up a

      bunch of yards ’cause he didn’t know how to lift the

      plows? Wasn’t he in your court Friday?”

      “That’s her new boyfriend?”

      “No, no. Mike was there to speak up for him, least

      that’s what one of the bailiffs told me anyhow.”

      “Oh yes. I remember now. The Latino who said he’d

      see that the rest of the damage was repaired?”

      “That’s the one. It’s real nice when people take care

      of their own, isn’t it?”

      I couldn’t exactly recall Miguel Diaz’s face, but I did

      retain an impression of responsibility and I remember

      being surprised by how fluent his English was.

      “Mayleen says Mike felt so sorry for the man, what

      with all his troubles, that he’s hired him on after he got

      kicked out of the camp he was staying at.”

      “That’s right,” I said, as more of the details came

      back to me. “His wife left him, didn’t she?”

      “Went right back to Mexico after their baby died.”

      Faye looked around to make sure no one was near and

      leaned even closer. “I might not ought to be telling this,

      185

      MARGARET MARON

      but Flip was on call that night and he helped deliver the

      baby and he said—”

      Her phone rang then and, judging by the sudden

      professional seriousness of her voice, it sounded like an

      emergency for someone, so I gave her a catch-you-later

      wave because Reid walked past at that moment.

      He held the door for me and we walked around to

      the stairs. When we reached the atrium on the ground

      floor that connects the old courthouse to the new ad-

      ditions, the marble tiles were slick where people had

      tracked in muddy water. A custodian brought out long

      runners and laid them down to cover the most direct

      paths from one doorway to another before tackling the

      floor with a mop.

      We paused to speak to a couple of attorneys, then sat

      on the edge of one of the brick planters filled with lush

      green plants to finish our coffee and enjoy the rain that

      was sluicing down the sides of the soaring glass above

      us. At least, Reid was enjoying it. My agenda was to get

      him to tell me everything he’d told Dwight.

      “I suppose his daughter scoops the lot? His house-

      keeper told Dwight that he was close to her. Poor Flame

      Smith.”

      “Not too poor,” said Reid, half-distracted by the

      weather he was going to have to brave to keep an ap-

      pointment back at his office. “The daughter’s the resid-

      ual beneficiary, but Flame’ll get half a million. I don’t

      suppose you’ve got an umbrella you could lend me?

      Flame took mine and John Claude keeps his locked up

      for some reason.”

      I had to laugh. I know exactly why John Claude

      keeps his umbrella in a locked closet and I immediately

      186

      HARD ROW

      began to chant the exasperated verse our older cousin

      always quoted whenever he discovered that Reid had

      once again “borrowed” his umbrella:

      “The rain it raineth every day

      Upon the just and unjust fellow,

      But more upon the just, because

      The unjust hath the just’s umbrella.”

      “Very funny,” Reid said grumpily as he stood to dump

      our cups in the nearest trash bin. He spotted Portland

      Brewer coming up the marble steps outside and, ever

      the gentleman, he rushed over to hold the heavy outer

      door for her. Her small red umbrella hadn’t warded off

      all the wet, but she was so angry, it’s a wonder the rain-

      drops didn’t sizzle as soon as they touched any exposed

      skin. “Dammit, Deborah! I thought Bo and Dwight

      were going to take away all of James Braswell’s guns!”

      “Huh?” I said.

      “He got out of jail yesterday morning and last night

      he shot up Karen’s condo.”

      “What? Is she okay?”

      “No, she’s freaking not okay! She’s scared out of her

      mind.”

      I made sympathetic noises, but Por was too wound

      up to be easily calmed. The rai
    n had curled her black

      hair into tight little wire springs. Reid took her dripping

      umbrella and made a show of holding it over the green

      leaves.

      “You in court this morning?” he asked her.

      “After I get through blasting Dwight and Bo. Why?”

      Too riled to give him her full attention, she continued

      venting at me. “The only reason Karen’s still alive is that

      187

      MARGARET MARON

      she’s been staying at her mother’s. She could have been

      killed for all they care.”

      “Now wait a minute,” I said. “That’s not fair. They

      can’t put a twenty-four-hour watch on her. And besides,

      how do you know it was Braswell?”

      “Who else would it be? You think a sweet kid who

      works at a Bojangles and takes care of an invalid mother

      has that kind of enemies? Hey! Where’re you going with

      my umbrella?” she called as Reid pushed open the door

      for one of our clerks and kept walking.

      “I’ll drop it off at your office,” he called back and

      hurried down the marble steps and out into the unre-

      lenting rain, Portland’s umbrella a small circle of red

      over his head.

      As Por stormed off in one direction, I was joined on

      my walk upstairs by Ally Mycroft, a prisspot clerk who

      had pointedly worn my opponent’s button during the

      last election whenever she had to work my courtroom.

      Making polite chatter, I asked, “You working for

      Judge Parker today?”

      “No,” she said, with equally phony politeness. “I’ll

      be with you today.”

      I made a mental note to drop by Ellis Glover’s office

      sometime today, see if it was me our Clerk of Court was

      annoyed with or Ally Mycroft.

      “In fact,” Ally said, “Mr. Glover has assigned me to

      your courtroom for the rest of the week.”

      In my head, Brook Benton began singing his world-

      weary “Rainy Night in Georgia.”

      “Lord, I feel like it’s rainin’ all over the world.”

      188

      C H A P T E R

      22

      I’ve got an old mare who will quit a good pasture to go into

      a poor one, and it’s just because she got into a habit of let-

      ting the bars down.

      —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

      Deputies McLamb and Dalton

      Tuesday Morning, March 7

      % “Better not block the driveway,” Deputy Raeford

      McLamb said and Sam Dalton, the department’s

      newest detective trainee, parked at the curb in front of a

      shabby little house in sad need of paint. A white Honda

     


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