Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 27

Ezerville, Mississippi

NED BETTERTON LOOKED BOTH WAYS, THEN CROSSED the wide and dusty expanse of Main Street, a white paper bag in one hand and two cans of diet soda in the other. A beat-up Chevy Impala was idling at the curb outside Della’s Launderette. Walking around its hood, Betterton got into the passenger seat. A short and muscular man sat behind the wheel. He wore dark glasses and a faded baseball cap.

“Hey, Jack,” said Betterton.

“Hey, yourself,” came the reply.

Betterton handed the man a soda, then fished inside the paper bag, bringing out a sandwich wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Crawfish po’boy with rémoulade, hold the lettuce. Just like you ordered.” He passed it over to the driver, then reached into the bag again and brought out his own lunch: a massive meatball Parmesan sandwich.

“Thanks,” said his companion.

“No problem.” Betterton took a bite of his sandwich. He was famished. “What’s the latest with our boys in blue?” he mumbled through the meatballs.

“Pogie’s chewing everybody out again.”

“Again? What’s eating the chief this time?”

“Maybe his midnight ass is acting up.”

Betterton chuckled, took another bite. Midnight ass was cop lingo for “hemorrhoids,” an all-too-common complaint among officers who sat in cars for hours at a time.

“So,” Betterton said. “What can you tell me about the Brodie killings?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. I bought you lunch.”

“I said, thanks. A free lunch isn’t worth a pink slip.”

“That’s not going to happen. You know I’d never write anything that could come back to haunt you. I just want to know the real dope.”

The man named Jack scowled. “Just because we used to be neighbors, you think you can hit me up for all your leads.”

Betterton tried to look hurt. “Come on, that’s not true. You’re my friend, you want me to turn in a good story.”

“You’re my friend — you should think more of keeping me out of hot water. Besides, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Betterton took another bite. “Bull.”

“It’s basically true. The thing’s too big for us, they’ve brought in the state boys, even a homicide squad all the way from Jackson. We’ve been cut out.”

The journalist thought a moment. “Look, all I know is that the husband and wife — the couple I interviewed not so long ago — were brutally murdered. You’ve got to have more information than that.”

The man behind the wheel sighed. “They know it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken. And they know it wasn’t anybody local.”

“How do they know that?” Betterton mumbled through a huge bite of meatball.

“Because nobody local would do this.” The man reached into a folder at the side of his seat, pulled out an eight-by-ten color glossy, and handed it over. “And I didn’t show this to you.”

Betterton took a look at the scene-of-crime photo. The color drained from his face. His chewing slowed, then stopped. And then, quite deliberately, he opened the car door and spat the mouthful into the gutter.

The driver shook his head. “Nice.”

Betterton handed the photo back without looking at it again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily.

“Get the idea?”

“Oh, my God,” Betterton repeated. His mighty hunger had vanished.

“Now you know all I know,” the cop said, finishing his po’boy and licking his fingers. “Oh, except one thing — we don’t have anything even remotely like a lead on this. The crime scene was clean. A professional job the likes of which we just don’t see around here.”

Betterton didn’t reply.

The man glanced over, eyed the half-eaten remains of the meatball sandwich. “You going to eat that?”