“I’m not sure I understand, Sergeant.”
“Well, he asked me whether a guy who’d been in the MP could end up in the artillery reserve.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I said it was entirely possible. We don’t have any reserve MP units here in Miami. So someone who’d been with the MP would have had to request a new MOS, and assuming it—”
“MOS?”
“Military Occupational Specialty. And assuming his request was approved, he could then join one of the existing reserve units here in Miami. The field artillery is one of those units. The Seven/Nine Field Artillery Battalion.”
“The Seventy-Ninth?”
“No, sir, the Seven-Slash-Nine. The Seven/Nine, sir.”
“I see. And you told this to Harper?”
“Yes, sir. And then he asked me where somebody attached to the Seven/Nine would go for his monthly drills. I told him that depended on the battery. HHB is divided into—”
“HHB?”
“Headquarters and Headquarters Battery Battalion.”
“Yes?”
“Is divided into Main Company, Service Battery, A-Battery, and B-Battery. The first two normally drill at Pompano...”
“Pompano, yes, go on.”
“A-Battery drills at Vero Beach. B-Battery drills at Port Charlotte.”
“Did you tell this to Harper?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“Sir, do you have any idea why he wanted this information?”
“I think so, yes. I think he was trying to find someone. Sergeant, I wonder if you could do me one other favor. Could you check your records on a man named Lloyd Davis? He would have been with the Military Police, and I’m fairly certain he’s now in a field-artillery reserve unit. Can you let me know what battery he’s with?”
“I’d have to make some calls on that, sir.”
“Could you? And get back to me, please?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Be happy to.”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” I said.
He called me back ten minutes later to report that Corporal Lloyd C. Davis had begun his cross-training, or retraining, with the Seven/Nine in January almost two years ago, and that he would fulfill his obligation to the army next January, on the fourteenth. He further told me that Davis was with A-Battery of the Seven/Nine Field Artillery Battalion and that they had been drilling at Vero Beach on the weekend of November 14–November 15. The first sergeant of A-Battery had informed Palmer that Lloyd Davis had taken a phone call at about nine Sunday morning, November 15, and had come to him immediately afterward asking to be excused that weekend because there was an emergency at home. He promised he would make up for the missed session within the thirty days allowed by the army. The last his sergeant had seen of him, he was driving south in a red Thunderbird convertible.
I thanked Palmer again, and then hung up.
The call from Detective Morris Bloom did not come until almost the end of the day. I was, in fact, packing my briefcase and clearing my desk when Cynthia buzzed to say he was on the line.
“Matthew,” he said, “we’ve got Harper. The Miami cops picked him up early this afternoon — he sure likes Miami, doesn’t he? He was driving a car stolen here in Calusa, a Cadillac Seville, no less. He’s here now; we’re about to question him on Sally Owen’s murder. I think you ought to come down.”
I asked Bloom if I could have a few words with my client before they began the Q and A. A uniformed cop brought Harper into the empty office where I was waiting for him. He was manacled and chained. I had never before this moment seen a human being chained like an animal. The chain was wrapped around his waist and through the connecting links of the handcuffs that held his hands fastened behind his back, and then looped between his legs and through the connecting links of the leg irons on his ankles. There was blood caked on his face and both his eyes were swollen and discolored. Looking at him, battered and chained that way, I couldn’t help remembering what Sally Owen had called him: King Kong.
“How are you?” I said.
“So-so,” he said.
“Sit down.”
“Ain’t too comfortable, my hands locked behind my back this way.”
He sat anyway, easing his huge body into a leather chair, shifting his weight so that he was resting on one hip.
“Why’d you hit me?” I asked.
“You was about to turn me in.”
“No, I asked you to turn yourself in voluntarily.”
“Same thing.”
“Because I was afraid you might get hurt out there.”
“Got hurt out there anyway, dinn I?”
“Who did it?”
“Don’t actually know. Lots of cops ’tween Miami an’ here, all of them with clubs.”
“What were you doing in Miami again?”
“Sightseein. Lookin.”
“For Lloyd Davis?”
He shifted his weight in the chair. His eyes avoided mine.
“Mr. Harper? Did you go to Miami looking for Lloyd Davis?”
He did not answer me.
“How about Pompano? You were there on the fifteenth, did you go there looking for Lloyd Davis?”
He still did not answer.
“Or Vero Beach? You went there that same day. Did you expect to find Lloyd Davis there?”
“Thass a lot of questions, Mr. Hope.”
“But no answers so far. How about helping me?”
“Why would I go any of those places lookin for Lloyd?”
“Because his wife told you he was with an artillery reserve unit, and your former buddy Ronnie Palmer told you where all the Seven/Nine batteries drilled. You didn’t know which battery he was with, so you had to start trying them all. Why were you looking for Lloyd Davis?”
“Thass personal, Mr. Hope.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t.”
“I ain’t sure I know what you mean by that.”
“I think you found out about him and Michelle, Mr. Harper. I think that’s why—”
He shoved himself out of the chair and lunged toward me. The chain between his legs and fastened to the leg irons caught him up short. He stood there shaking, straining at the chains, and I thought for a moment he might snap them as easily as King Kong had. And then suddenly, he began weeping the way he had the first time in this building, only this time he wasn’t sitting, this time he stood there like a huge mountain erupting tears, his shoulders and his chest heaving, his entire body quaking, the tears streaming down his face like molten lava.
I went to him. I put my arm around his shoulders.
“It’s all right,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Sit down.”
He shook his head again.
“Please. Sit down.”
I helped him into the chair. He sat bent forward, his hands cuffed behind his back, his body still shaking, the tears still coming uncontrollably.
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“I found the paintin Sally Owen done.”
“The one in your garage?”
“Yessir.”
“What about it?”
“Found it in the closet, ast Michelle whut it was. Ast her whut it was spose to be. White woman kissin a black man, whut was it spose to be? She tole me it was her an’ me, said it was spose to be her an’ me. Said it was a present from Sally. I tole her the man in that pitcher dinn look nothin at all like me, an’ if it was spose to be us, if it was a present from Sally spose to be us, then whut was she hidin it in the closet for? And then she... she tole me.”
“When was this, Mr. Harper? When did you find that painting?”