“My ID tells me a former prosecutor is calling,” Norcross says.
“How are you?”
“Fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. You?”
“Can’t complain. Listen, first off, I want to tell you I’m sorry you had to witness the little meltdown in Mooney’s office.”
“Sorry? Are you kidding? That was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen in my life. You’ve got some set of balls on you, Counselor.”
“I’ve heard that before, and every time I hear it, it’s because I’ve done something stupid.”
“Well, between you, me, and the fly on the wall, I thought what you did was right. No way we could have made a case on what we had. Harmon was just trying to shake things up.”
“Harmon? You mean it wasn’t Mooney’s idea?”
“It was Harmon’s. He strong-armed Anita and me into doing it. He’s getting a lot of pressure from Nashville on this case.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. Listen, I need to talk to Anita. She won’t pick up when I call. I’ve left her a few messages, but she hasn’t returned the calls.”
“I know,” Norcross says. “She’s a little freaked out by what happened with you. I think she wishes she’d told Harmon the same thing you told Mooney.”
“Are you with her? You guys working tonight?”
“Nah, we knocked off about an hour ago. Not much going on, to tell you the truth.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She isn’t exactly a party girl. My guess is she’s at her place.”
“Mind telling me where that might be?”
“You’re going to show up unannounced?”
“Maybe. I have something on my mind that’s been bothering me. I want to talk to her.”
Norcross is silent for a few seconds.
“Sure, why not? Just don’t tell her where you got the address, okay?”
“I won’t, as long as you don’t call her and tell her I’m coming.”
“Deal,” Norcross says, and he gives me Anita’s address.
I leave Caroline a note and get in my truck. The address Norcross has given me is a new condominium complex called Pointe 24, across the Bristol Highway from Winged Deer Park. The buildings sit high on a ridge above Boone Lake, just a few miles from my place. I pull in and find her condo without any problem. She answers the door a few seconds after I ring the bell.
“Sorry to show up out of the blue like this, but I’d like to talk to you,” I say.
She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a frayed blue hoodie with “Memphis State” written across the front. The light from the lamppost outside her door catches her green eyes, and they sparkle. I’m worried she’ll shut the door in my face, but she smiles.
“Come in.”
I follow her through a foyer highlighted by a chandelier and immediately notice the smell of incense-jasmine, maybe. There’s a stairwell on the left and a kitchen with an island and stainless-steel appliances to the right. She leads me into a den dominated by a bookshelf that covers half the wall to my right. It goes from floor to ceiling and is full. The other half of the wall is covered by an upright piano. The tastefully decorated room is warmly lit by a lamp in the corner. Classical music is playing softly. There are framed photographs on a couple of small tables and more on the walls. I notice there is no television.
“Sit, please,” Anita says, motioning to a couch.
“Have you read all of these books?”
“I have. I’ve read most of them twice.”
“What do you like best?”
“I lean toward the classics, but I get a kick out of some of the genre fiction. Especially cop stuff.”
“Do you have a favorite writer?”
“Dozens of them. Did you come over here to ask me about my tastes in literature?”
“I came to tell you something, but to be honest, I’m feeling a little awkward.”
“Would you like a glass of wine? Maybe that would help. I’ve already had one myself, but after the past couple of weeks, I wouldn’t mind another.”
I drank two beers with Bates, but it’s been more than an hour. I don’t think a glass of wine will put my blood-alcohol level over the legal limit, but the last thing I want to do is catch a buzz and start blathering. The room is so cozy, though. So warm. And she’s so damned easy to look at.
“Sure, a glass of wine would be nice.”
“I’m drinking Chablis. Do you like Chablis?”
“I have no idea. Not much of a connoisseur, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She goes to the kitchen, and I wander around the room and look at some of the photos. Most of them are of a handsome black man. In a couple of the photos, the man is young, wearing the uniform of the United States Air Force. I notice silver bars on his collar. He’s a captain. In another photo, he’s older, wearing a police officer’s uniform.
“Is this your father?” I ask when Anita comes back into the room.
“Yes. He just retired from the Memphis Police Department. He worked there for more than thirty years.”
“And your mother? Is this her?” I point to a photo of a middle-aged woman sitting on a porch swing.
“That’s my grandmother. My mother left us when I was very young.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s all right. It was difficult at the time, but I learned to deal with it. I didn’t hear from her until I graduated from law school. Turned out she didn’t go any farther than Collierville. She was living with a man there. My father never divorced her, though. I think he still loves her.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She was lonely, I suppose. My father worked all the time. He thought he was doing what he was supposed to do. It’s all he’s ever known.”
Anita walks back over to her chair and sits down. I take a sip of wine. It’s warm going down my throat.
“How do you like it?” Anita says.
“Excellent.”
“Do you like Chopin?” She waves her hand slightly. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“I like classical music in small doses. I’m more of a rhythm and blues guy.”
“So what did you come to tell me?”
I take another sip of the wine and look at her. I’ve been struggling with this for weeks now. Before I start to talk, I raise the glass to my lips and take a long swallow. I set the glass on the table, rest my elbows on my knees, and fold my hands.
“I saw Tommy Miller the morning Judge Green was killed. I found him sleeping downstairs on a couch at my house before I left for work. I didn’t really think anything about it at the time. I thought he probably just didn’t want to go home the night they buried his dad. But later, after I found out what had happened to the judge and after I talked to you at the crime scene, I guess I should have told you.”
She’s holding the wineglass under her nose with both hands, gently swirling the liquid and breathing in deeply.
“Now you’ve told me,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t really change anything, does it?”
“There’s more. I found out later that the clothes he was wearing when he woke up smelled like gasoline. He had what seemed to be a reasonable explanation at the time, so I didn’t say anything to anyone.”
“What was his explanation?”
“He was drunk, and he spilled gas on himself when he stopped at a station.”
“That should be easy enough to verify, provided we can ask him which station he went to.”
“You’ll have to find him first.”
“Did he tell you all of this?”
“No. I haven’t talked to him. It’s all secondhand.”
“And what became of this clothing?” Anita says.
“I’m not sure. I think it might have been destroyed.”
“Intentionally destroyed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“By whom?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it could potentially harm someone I love very much.”
“Your son?”
“Someone I love very much. That’s all I’ll say.”
Anita leans forward, the wineglass still dangling from her slender fingers.
“You realize you’re telling me you may very well be guilty of a crime, Counselor. And this person you love so much, he or she could be guilty of a crime as well.”