The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [40]
“Shit,” Angela said as she hung up the phone. She stared at the North Carolina map on the wall of her office for a few moments, gnawing at a fingernail. She was seated behind the desk in her office.
“Anything?” Keller said. He came in and sat in one of the wooden chairs in front of the desk.
Angela shook her head. “Internal Affairs has the whole thing locked down tight. My usual contacts either don’t know anything or won’t tell me.”
“Told you. It’s a whitewash. They’re trying to cover up for Wesson. And Jones is the sacrificial lamb.”
Angela shrugged. “Sorry, Keller. Not much more I can do. You able to get in touch with Jones?”
He shook his head. “She’s either not home or screening her calls. I left a couple of messages, but…”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Keller nodded. “Probably. She’s caught enough flak by being associated with me. But I’m the only witness. I need to let her know that I can help her out.”
“Keller,” Angela said. “Maybe she wants to take the fall, you ever think of that?”
Keller shook his head stubbornly. “No way. I don’t buy it.” He got up and walked to the office door. He leaned against the jamb. The firm’s tiny waiting room had a plate glass window that fronted the street. Keller stared for a few moments through the large gilt letters that read “H & H BAIL BONDS”. Finally, he said, “Wesson’s funeral is this afternoon. She’ll probably be there.”
“No,” Angela said. “No way. Keller, those guys will probably shoot you on sight.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Angela threw up her hands. “Jesus. You never give up, do you?”
“It’s why you hired me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Eddie Wesson was buried on a hot, humid summer afternoon, surrounded by fellow officers in dress uniforms complete with gold braid and white gloves. Keller could see the crowd through the bars of the cemetery’s heavy wrought-iron fence. He sat in his rental car across the street from the gates of the cemetery. A line of cars and pickup trucks stretched along the curbside, dominated by a long black limousine directly in front of the gates. A TV van idled nearby, its antenna raised and pointed towards the station feeding the hunger of the newsroom for more news, faster. A trim young brunette in an expensive-looking blouse stood by the van, holding a microphone down by her side. A cameraman and sound technician lounged against the van with the loose-limbed slouch of soldiers after a long patrol. The woman jumped as shots cracked out, muffled in the heavy, humid air. It looked like they were giving Wesson the full treatment, complete with salute. The technicians knew the signal and hoisted their gear into action positions as the reporter adjusted her earpiece. Keller drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.
People began filing out the front gate, most in dress uniforms. An gray-haired cop with more braid than most was immediately taken aside by the reporter, who stuck her microphone in his face. The older man’s reply was brief. Keller picked out the widow by her black dress and the folded flag she carried across her chest with one hand. She held the hand of a bewildered looking little girl with the other. An older couple stood to either side of her, ready to offer support. The rest of the cops broke up into smaller groups and milled around on the pavement talking to each other. They didn’t actually ignore the widow, but no one made a direct attempt to talk to her as she and the child got into a long black limousine. Their only connection to her had just been put into the ground. She was no part of their world any more. The camera lens tracked them into the darkness of the vehicle’s interior. Then Keller saw Marie.
She was dressed like the rest of them, in her formal blues. She was again wearing her dark glasses. She walked up to a small knot of officers who were chatting about something, as nonchalantly as if the funeral had never happened. All conversation, however, ceased as Marie walked up. They stood in their circle, not looking at her or at each