Once they found a drowned stranger, a sort-of stranger, a guy from another tribe who was a known exhibitionist and molested the street women, often paying them in cigarettes after he was finished with them. One had to be hospitalized — he had been so brutal in his business. When they pulled him from the water, his man-thing had been sheared by what appeared to be a sharp branch. They said he’d tried to bribe Jimmy for a turn at Jolene years ago.
Once, or twice maybe, a white man came floating and I began to believe Jolene had given up on Indian guys altogether. I’ve considered it myself, but can’t stand the never-ending explaining you have to do to date outside. One came up so fast they found him minutes after he’d swallowed waters, yet no effort was made to clear his lungs by the followers or the police. I figure she shamed herself in seducing the historical enemy and wanted no part of being affiliated with him after the fact.
I saw Jimmy earlier this week. Maybe I’ll follow him, take him down to the water tonight, bring her comfort. Soothe the blue-black night waters welling with Jolene. Soothe them.
Daddy’s girl
by Mistina Bates
Memphis, Tennessee
Standing behind her husband’s left shoulder, the woman emitted hiccupping sobs that set Daniel Carson’s teeth on edge. His skin prickled with the same sensation as if he’d raked his nails against a chalkboard. Carson forced himself to focus on his client’s face. Failure to catch any lies could have fatal results.
The man pursed his porcine lips and shook his head. As if commiserating, his ice-blue gaze locked with Carson’s, and he shrugged. “You have to understand, my wife is so upset because this is our only daughter.”
Carson nodded once, as the fleeting image of his own daughter — a pigtailed girl with a gap-toothed grin — brought a twitch to his face.
Seizing on this minute gesture, the man leaned forward onto the leather blotter built into the massive mahogany desk. He steepled his fat fingers. “So, you’re a family man?”
“My domestic situation has no bearing on the matter at hand.”
The man blinked, and irritation flashed across his face. He quickly regained his composure, no doubt deciding it unwise to piss off a man in Carson’s line of work. “You come highly recommended,” he began, then paused, as if waiting for a response. Carson inclined his head but said nothing. Sighing, the man continued, “You understand that discretion is of the utmost importance.”
“Naturally. Has there been any communication since your daughter’s disappearance?”
This time the scowl remained planted on his face. “Only the one call, demanding a million in cash.” The woman’s sobs grew louder, and her husband reached up to pat the hand she laid on his shoulder.
“And the police are not involved?”
A firm shake of the head. “No. Given my position in the community, I’d prefer to handle this matter privately.”
“Of course.” An avid outdoorsman, true to his Cherokee heritage, Carson had no interest in antiques or other furnishings, yet even his untrained eye knew that the library in which they sat was the work of a well-funded interior designer — as was the rest of the manor that had once overseen the whole Norfleet family estate.
Now the home lay in the midst of an exclusive subdivision, dwarfing the expensive houses crammed into modest-sized lots. Carson knew from research that his client had bought the old home for half a million and tripled his investment within three years, according to the latest property tax assessment. Both the bluebloods and the nouveau riche alike would raise eyebrows if they knew what kind of man had purchased this piece of Memphis history and joined their polite society.
“What can you tell me about your daughter and the missing money?” Carson asked.
The man’s frown deepened, and he clenched his hands. Then he paused to collect himself. He turned to his wife. “Darling, why don’t you see after some coffee?” He glanced over at Carson with thinly veiled disdain. “Or maybe you’d rather have whiskey?”
A tiny muscle twitched at the back of Carson’s jaw, but his expression remained neutral. “Coffee, please,” he said in a soft voice to the raven-haired woman with gentle brown eyes. She nodded and left the room. As she passed through the doorway, she used a fist to stifle her sobs. When Carson returned his attention to his client, an edge clipped his words: “I don’t drink.”
Carson’s eyes bored into those of his newest employer. After several tense seconds, while the older man struggled with his ego, common sense prevailed and he offered an almost-contrite smile. “Sorry. That was poor manners.”
“Agreed.” Carson’s hooded expression warned of the consequences that a subsequent lapse in manners would incur. “You were telling me about your daughter’s disappearance.”
Carson leaned back into the leather armchair as his client started speaking. He studied the man’s face as he committed the information to memory — notes could leave a trail. Just as he had scanned the land and vegetation as a boy — and later as a member of the elite Shadow Wolves in search of drug smugglers — he watched and measured each nuance of every expression, searching for signs of deception or evasion.
For the next two hours, his attention never wavered from the man before him. He extracted the details leading up to his client’s employment of James Hicks, a Navy SEAL with a dishonorable discharge — the man who was now demanding one million dollars. Carson mentally recorded key facts from the sailor’s personnel file. He also gathered information about Buddy Martin, his client’s accountant.
After receiving the phone call, the businessman had contacted Buddy, his friend and confidant of more than twenty years. Since then the accountant had failed to answer repeated calls to his home, office, and cell phones, and Carson’s client feared the worst.
“Why go after Buddy?” Carson asked.
“It could be as simple as the fact that he kept a sizable petty cash fund for me at his office.”
“How sizable?”
“A quarter-million, give or take.”
Carson studied the man’s face for several seconds. “But there’s more than petty cash involved, isn’t there?”
“I’ve noticed that funds have started disappearing from my various business interests.”
“You think Buddy’s in on this?”
“It pains me, but I can’t trust anyone at this point.”
Carson’s client had been given forty-eight hours, now down to twenty-eight, to turn over the money, or he would lose everything: his daughter, his reputation, his social status. The life that he had carefully built would be destroyed.
Carson maneuvered the Dodge Charger through the maze of East Memphis streets, guided by the robotic female voice of the global positioning system mounted on the windshield. Tara had laughed when he bought the device two years ago, chiding him for relying on technology, rather than the innate skills cultivated by his people over generations.
It was a matter of efficiency. Even allowing for the occasional error — when the gadget directed him to make an illegal left, for instance — his GPS had saved him countless hours plotting and memorizing the lay of the land in every city he worked.
As it wasn’t yet 3 o’clock, Carson easily found a spot near the SEAL’s apartment. He removed the Glock 17 from the space between the seat and armrest. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his Wranglers, where it was hidden beneath the hip-length leather jacket, and exited his car. After scanning the area for residents or visitors, Carson removed the gun when he reached the shared foyer.