The Milk Wagon Page 4

  Now Birdy leaned forward. “Paid straight to me from the United States government.”

  Tom shut the door, sat down, and listened as Birdy laid it all out for him.

  * * *

  Nearly two years to the date of Birdy’s and Charlotte’s visit, Tom watched a breaking news report showing Birdy being cuffed and stuffed into a police cruiser after his pharmacy got raided by the FBI. For a brief time, Birdy took the position – quite publicly – that he intended to prove his innocence in a court of law. He hired a big, toothy lawyer out of Jackson with a penchant for expensive suits and press conferences. On the day his indictment was unsealed, Birdy didn’t appear at the federal courthouse for a mandatory hearing, leading the magistrate to issue a warrant for his arrest. When the police arrived at his house, they found Joe Birdsall dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Tom’s personal situation was as bad, if not worse, than Birdy’s, but he couldn’t imagine what it would take for a man to even think about doing such a thing.

  After Birdy died, things started happening to Tom that at first seemed innocuous. A few phone calls where the person calling remained silent after Tom picked up. Missing mail. A broken window at the pharmacy. It was not until Tom came home to find his door unlocked and opened that he started to get uncomfortable, and he became downright nervous when he realized someone had been tailing him on the way home from work. Rehashing it all made Tom even more anxious, and he fumbled in his pocket for another Xanax. He knew he had taken too many already, but he had to calm his nerves. He popped two just for good measure, and as he waited for another layer of fog to set in, a movement in the woods distracted him. He sat up and waved one more time for Marty, but still got no response. He thought he might have seen a lens flare and stared for another second or two, but when no one came out, he climbed in his car, slid in his Tears for Fears CD, and backed out. A sudden lurch of his vehicle snapped him out of his daydreaming.

  “What the hell?” Tom said, looking in his rearview mirror. “Today of all days, some son of a bitch rear-ends me,” he said under his breath as he threw his car in park, unlatched his seatbelt and stepped out. As he walked to the back to inspect the damage, he noticed the driver of the truck start to get out. He hadn’t even realized anyone had been behind him.

  “I hope you have insurance,” Tom said, fuming and glancing at his bumper, “because –” he froze, and the burn he felt just a second before morphed into something darker as the man now walking his way came into focus. Tom put a shaky hand out in front as the man raised his arm. “Wait, let me explain. You don’t understand, I wasn’t going to talk. I –”

  A Sig Sauer P-250 fitted with a screw-on absorption silencer fired, putting three bullets in a tight triangular pattern through Tom’s forehead. He dropped into a heap on the shoulder, and the shooter holstered his weapon. He stepped over the body and performed a cursory search of the vehicle. Finding no documents, tapes, or things of interest, he picked up the spent shells and left the scene, being careful to avoid any patches of dirt on the pavement that could be used to match up his tire tracks.

  The entire encounter had taken less than a minute. After a slow loop around the premises to make sure no one else was around, the shooter made his way to the Triplett-Day cafe, where he ordered a plate of beignets and a small chocolate milk.

  At eight a.m. sharp he walked outside to the pay phone by the Coke machine and dropped in a coin. When the prompt from the beeper on the receiving end chimed, he entered a code, hung up the phone, and walked out to his truck.

  The message had been delivered.

  There would be no further statements from Tom Chrestman.

  Chapter 8

  Kathryn watched through her office window and let herself breathe when a car finally drove through the gate and parked two spaces down from hers. The make and model of the brown sedan that pulled in told her it was probably the lawyer’s, and based upon its condition, it also told her he worked full time as a criminal defense attorney – and not a very good one at that. She craned her neck to see if she could get a look at Tom, and was especially interested in how he was carrying himself, but when the lawyer got out, lit a cigarette, and locked the door, a revelation hit Kathryn as swift and powerful as a slap across the face.

  Tom Chrestman was not with him.

  Out of habit, Kathryn smoothed her blouse with her hands, which were starting to sweat. A hangnail she had been biting snagged on a pleat in the silk, but she didn’t notice. What if she had been fooled again? What if it had all been a ruse? What if he had never intended to come back all along?

  She looked back outside. The lawyer was leaning against the car, his elbows resting on the hood, overseeing the parking lot. He wasn’t nervous, but he didn’t look very happy either. That was no surprise, though. Most defense lawyers didn’t look very happy. He looked at his watch, snubbed his butt out and walked toward the building.

  Nine o’clock came and went. Thirty more minutes of Kathryn making awkward small talk with him clicked by. Nothing. Tom’s lawyer looked even worse in person, and the acrid smell of smoke on his clothes and breath were too much – even from across the room, so Kathryn pretended to turn back to her work. Thankfully, he got the hint and left just before ten. He left a card, and told Kathryn to call him if Tom showed up. He also promised to let her know as soon as he found out anything, but Kathryn could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t exactly hopeful. On the way out, he turned at the door and said that in his entire career, he only had a few of his clients skip town, and was certainly disappointed to now count Tom as one of them.

  By the time he pulled off, she had cycled through everything from pissed off to panicked, and now found herself reluctantly having to face the music. It was time to inform the troops, and she wasn’t quite sure how to spin this one. She pulled the file and started a pot of Maxwell House, but the phone rang in her office before she could pour her first cup.

  “Hello.”

  “Gulfport Police Department calling for Agent Kathryn Cooper.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Please hold while I connect you to Chief Papania.”

  Kathryn stood up a little straighter and cleared her throat. The last time she spoke to Rick Papania was at a first responders’ breakfast hosted by the Kiwanis Club a few weeks prior. He was divorced, she had never been married, and she swore she picked up a flirt or two while making small talk in the buffet line. She had given that encounter more thought than it deserved, but she couldn’t help herself. This call was a pleasant diversion, and for no apparent reason, she fixed her hair while she waited.

  “Morning Chief,” she said when she heard the line click, wondering if she was being too formal.

  “Morning Agent – uh, Kathryn.”

  “It’s not every day I get a call from the man in charge, and I know it’s not just so you can hear my beautiful voice.” She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She could not have said anything more cheesy, but before she could recover, he responded.

  “Well, it’s not every day I have to deal with a homicide first thing in the morning.”

  “A homicide?” Murders happened in Gulfport, but they were few and far between, and usually involved a drug deal gone bad or a domestic dispute – almost none of them involving her department. She certainly never received a heads up from the locals while the body was still warm.

  “Yeah, so, I called you because I wanted to speak to you personally – before the word gets out and your phone starts ringing off the hook.”

  “The word?”

  “Do you remember a fellow named Tom Chrestman? If memory serves me, at one time he was one of the suspects in the big money laundering case you’ve been working on.”

  Kathryn’s stomach dropped. “Yes.”

  “One of my officers radioed in to me a few minutes ago that they found his body this morning.”

  “His
body?” She took a seat. “Where?”

  “Archie Park.”

  “You said homicide, and not suicide, right?” Kathryn grabbed her pad and started scribbling notes. “You sure?”

  “Hard to commit suicide by shooting yourself three times.”

  After making another entry, she spun her pen in her fingers and tapped the paper. “This morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “You been to the scene yet?”

  “Heading that way shortly.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Make sure no one touches anything until I have taken a look.”

  “If you say so. I’ll let my boys know. And uh, Kathryn –”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s going to be a lot of press about this. If it gets to be too much or if I can help you out with anything don’t be a stranger okay?”

  “You got it. See you in a few minutes.”

  Anything? At least the day didn’t turn out to be a total shit show. Kathryn grabbed her keys, her weapon and her lipstick and headed out the door.

  Chapter 9

  Her Crown Victoria couldn’t get her there quick enough. She even used the siren, a rarity for her, and when she arrived, Rick was waiting next to a taped off area.

  “Here you go,” he said, pointing. “A jogger came up on the body just after eight during her morning run.”

  “I imagine she had quite a shock,” Kathryn said, taking her first look at the victim. She walked near his head and leaned over to try to get a visual on the exit wound. She had to step over his legs, which had buckled under him when he fell. His right arm was extended above his head, Saturday Night Fever-style, and his face was locked in that ghastly open-mouthed death mask she had seen so many times before – like he was trying to get one more word in before he crossed over. It was sure enough a homicide.

  She always felt bad when she showed up in the time frame between the murder and the notification of next of kin. Right now, someone out there – spouse, parent, child, whoever – was carrying on with their day, blissfully unaware that their lives had been forever altered in the most horrifying way imaginable. It was unusual for Kathryn to have known one of the corpses she was called to investigate, and it was especially hard to see Tom, lying there with the back half of his skull blown off. His was definitely not a “good killing” – the term those in law enforcement privately gave to those individuals whose demise could only be considered a positive. Tom was no saint, but from what she gathered, this man could have contributed something to the world.

  “Shells?”

  “Nope.”

  “Prints?”

  “Nothing. Not even tire marks,” he said, squatting down and surveying the parking area.

  “What about the jogger – the lady? Anything from her?”

  “Nothing. Had a Walkman on. Didn’t hear a thing. She lives just a few blocks from here and I have a team at her house right now.” He stood up and pulled his pen out of his front pocket. “You talked to this fellow once before already, right?”

  “Several months ago.”

  “Anything stand out to you? Demeanor-wise, I mean?”

  “Um, it was pretty standard. Background stuff, you know.”

  “Did you ever get the impression he was in danger?”

  Kathryn thought about just how much she should let on. The feeling she got the first time was that Tom had not come forward with all of the pertinent information, which she had intended to address when they met again. Since he was dead now, Kathryn really had no reason to keep what she knew under wraps. Plus, it was Rick Papania who was doing the asking, after all, so, of course, she would tell him.

  “Actually,” she said, standing, “I think he believed he was.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He was on his way in this morning for a second round. His lawyer said he was acting real squirrely. Talking big about working out a deal – and fast. He thought he needed protection.”

  Papania rubbed his mustache. “I would say he was right.”

  “You think?” Kathryn knew he was right but she wanted a concurring opinion before she said anything – and she hoped Rick would be the one to provide it.

  “I do.” He squinted his eyes and looked back down at the body as the coroner pulled the sheet over it. “This was no ordinary murder, Kat.” Rick Papania had never called her ‘Kat’ before. She tried to remain focused.

  “No?”

  “No,” he said, and ran his fingers through his hair – another move Kat could not ignore. “This was a hit.”

  Chapter 10

  His daddy had told him time and time again not to go by himself early in the morning or late at night. He said bad people sometimes sleep there. But Archie Park served as a resting place for migrating birds, and the day before when he was riding the John Deere with the yellow seat, Marty Deen had seen warblers flying in and out. He didn’t have any drawings of a warbler, and he wanted one for his show. Since they would be heading further south soon, he thought – just this once – it would be okay, so he took off at the crack of dawn, happy to have the morning ahead of him. He didn’t have to be at work until ten.

  Marty had just settled down at his favorite spot just inside the woods, when he saw his friend Tommy pull into the parking lot and wave to him when he got out. Marty wondered how Tommy even knew he was there. He wanted to wave back, but if anyone told his daddy he was out there this early, he would surely take his binoculars away – and maybe his bike.

  His bike.

  That’s how Tommy knew Marty was there in the woods. Marty left it out front by the trail post like he always did. He thought about getting it and craned his neck to look out. Then he saw something he hadn’t seen before – a blue pickup truck parked behind the dugout near the girls’ softball field.

  Marty also knew not to talk to strangers, so he surely wasn’t going to come out now. He looked back at Tommy, who had quit waving by then, and watched as Tommy threw rocks at one of the garbage cans. Marty wished he wouldn’t do that because some of those rocks get into the grass and when they do, the lawnmower sometimes slings them out super-fast. It was dangerous. Could break a window or even hit someone on the swings. Eventually, Tommy quit, and when he did, Marty eased back down and tried to relax.

  He heard a ruffle overhead and turned his binoculars high up towards one of the pin oaks. He spotted a big male with a puffed-out golden chest, and it was even more beautiful once he got it into focus. Marty hoped the bird would preen or spread his wings so he could get a good look at the feathers, but as soon as Marty propped his elbow on his knee to steady his arms, a thump coming from near the play area got his attention. Marty looked towards the noise and saw the pickup truck had run smack into Tommy’s car, and boy was Tommy mad.

  Then Marty saw the man get out. He was holding a gun.

  Marty had never seen a real gun before, so he flopped down on his belly and put the binoculars to his eyes. His hands and face were sweaty, but he was able to focus on Tommy and that man. As soon as he did, the gun jerked and made a weird noise. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t totally silent, either.

  Then just like that, his friend Tommy fell over on the ground.

  That man must have been one of those bad people his daddy told him about, and Marty wondered if the man heard the binoculars bounce off the root in front of him when Marty dropped them after the shot was fired. Now Marty really wished he had pulled his bike in. If Tommy saw the bike, the bad man surely had seen it, too, and would be coming for Marty next. Marty put his fingers in his mouth and started rocking back and forth. If that man shot Tommy, he would surely shoot Marty. He squeezed his eyes closed and waited. He could feel tears running down his cheeks and dripping on his legs.

  But the man didn’t come. Marty jumped when he heard a door close, and when he looked up, he saw the truck drive off. Marty waited and counted to
be sure the man was gone. Once Marty hit fifteen Mississippis, he snatched his bike, threw his binoculars and sack over his shoulders, and pedaled as fast as he could down the backwoods trail that led home.

  He didn’t stop or check behind him until he wheeled up to the garage his dad had turned into his apartment. He kept his Millennium Falcon key ring under the mat out front, and once he opened the door, he yanked his bike inside, locked it back, and then threw himself on his bed, burying his face in his pillow so no one could hear him cry.

  No matter how hard he tried, Marty couldn’t erase what he had seen. Over and over in his head, he kept replaying that man walking to Tommy and shooting him. Every time he closed his eyes, the gun went off. It scared him, but he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let his daddy know where he had been. He couldn’t even go outside. What if that man had seen Marty and followed him?

  The thought that the man might be tracking him made him nervous all over again. He sneaked up to the window and peeked out but didn’t see anything unusual. He checked the lock on the handle and unhitched and rehitched the chain to make sure it was secure. He paced for a bit, looked back out the window one more time, and drank some water.

  He climbed in bed, pulled his New Orleans Saints bedspread up high just below his chin, and watched the door. He wished he could turn back time like Superman. He wished he had never left his room. He wished he would’ve listened to his daddy, because his daddy was right.

  There were bad people out at Archie Park early in the morning.

  Really, really, bad people.

  Chapter 11

  “This truck needs a name,” Hop said from the back seat, slurping his drink before throwing his head back and letting out an epic, multi-pitched burp. It was Friday night, a month and change into the semester, and Nate was taking me, Hop, and Mark to his house to play pool. We were ready to chill out after having just suffered through the first round of exams, and we were finally feeling a bit better now that our bellies were full after tearing up some Burger King. The back-to-school fifty-nine cent special was still in play, and collectively, we destroyed nine cheeseburgers, two large orders of onion rings, two orders of fries, and four Dr. Peppers. For good measure, Mark topped it off with one of their cardboard apple pies, and soon we were all paying for our gluttony.