Smoke and Mirrors

17

“I ain’t did nothin’,” the surly young man said when Brad and Winter came into the interrogation room.

“I haven’t accused you of anything, Alphonse,” Brad said. The file folders under his arm caught Alphonse’s attention briefly.

“And you better not. I got my rights, and I know a lawyer. Gone sue you and make me a rich man.”

Alphonse Jefferson was taller than his grandmother. His almond-shaped eyes were an unnaturally light gray, and he had mocha skin with freckles running like a stream of rusty BBs across the bridge of his nose. His lips parted to reveal teeth that were large and even, each one capped with gold-plated snap-ons. His black velvet running suit had burgundy stripes up the pant legs and sleeves of the jacket, which was unzipped to show his hairless chest.

“You can say it. You know.” He plucked his lapels. “I look good in black.”

“How do you think you’ll look in prison dress whites?” Brad asked him.

“Me in prison?” Alphonse barked laughter at the ceiling. “Aw, man. That’s all you know? You ain’t charging me, then I’m on jus’ walk on out of here and get on back to the bid’ness of doing my bid’ness. You dig?”

Brad placed the file on the table in front of him. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Uh-uh. I’ll be talking to you through the Johnny Cocoh-ran legal firm. Case you missed it, it was him that got O.J. off.”

“Johnny’s dead. You sure you want to go that route?” Brad asked.

Alphonse placed his hands flat on the table. “I don’t gots to answer no questions. ’Bout what?”

“About Sherry Adams.”

Alphonse turned his attention from Brad and glared up at Winter, who stood arms crossed with his back against the concrete block wall, looking down at Alphonse.

“What about her?” he asked suspiciously.

“You’ve been harassing her, Alphonse.”

“Who told you that? Them fools are all a bunch of no-count lying player haters, ’cause I’m a smooth dude. What I said was, ‘If she had some of what I got, she would be ruint for everybody else.’ You dig?”

“I have your Army records,” Brad said, opening a folder and pointing to the faxed pages he’d received before the interview. “They kicked you out for possession of marijuana. At least that was the straw that broke the mule’s back. They obviously didn’t want you bringing down the average IQ of the armed forces.”

“Those fools got they heads up they asses. Always tellin’ a brother what to do. Racist haters.”

“It looks like you were deficient in every possible area. Your whole short career was a stack of inadequacy, petty criminality, and impulsive behavior. These records say you shot a rifle like a girl. Except all of the girls in the Army could shoot better than you.”

“I can shoot a fly off your lily-white butt from far as you can see.”

“And you stalk women who see you for the loser you are. Can’t let that go, can you?”

“Sherry Adams’s full a’ herself, prissy ass be-otch. I ain’t never laid a hand on her. Ain’t no crime wanting to change a girl’s mind. She just needs to come around and see what she’s missing.”

Brad opened the folder and tossed a picture of Sherry Adams’s ruined head onto the table so Alphonse could see it. He stared down at it and frowned, looking away. “What that is?”

“That was Sherry Adams.”

“Naw, it ain’t! You lying!”

Winter understood why Alphonse didn’t recognize her. The bullet had literally exploded her head, and the result looked like pizza topped with almost human features, torn and splattered on the bricks. Her black hair was reduced to tufts forming a border around the skin that remained.

“Somebody shot her, Alphonse. Maybe somebody that can shoot from as far away as you say you can. Where were you this morning between six and seven?”

“What?!” Alphonse looked down at the picture, lowered his head, and vomited into his lap.

Brad put the picture back into the folder and rolled his eyes at Winter.

Winter shook his head slowly.

“I ain’t do that!” Alphonse managed to yell, flecks of bile on his chin. “Lord is my witness, it wasn’t me did it. I was sleepin’ in my car up by Bugger’s place. I ain’t never capped nobody. I wouldn’t shoot that girl! I liked her.”

“I know, Alphonse,” Brad said, standing. “You wouldn’t know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of. Get out of my building before I lock you up for littering.”

Back in the office, Winter said, “Tell me about Leigh Gardner.”

“Leigh’s family’s been in the cotton-farming business here since the county was cleared from cypress swamps. Her grandfather and her father grew their land holdings into the three thousand acres you saw, probably another three in woodland, and some other scattered acreage she leases to other planters. Leigh is strictly a cotton and soybean farmer. She learned from her father, studied agriculture at Mississippi State and she knows her business. Her old man was a tough-as-nails businessman and an old-school planter. She runs the place the same way.”

“Husband?”

“Divorced. She married a jerk named Jacob Gardner whose law practice consisted of spending her money. She kicked him out five years ago. He went over to Oxford and set up a private practice, and got in trouble year after that for misappropriating his clients’ funds. Leigh paid back the stolen money to keep him out of jail for the kids’ sakes. He was disbarred anyway. He comes around periodically when he needs something and I’ve heard Leigh gives him an allowance so he doesn’t starve. He used to be able to charm the pants off a nun. Now, not so much.”

“I think you should investigate him,” Winter said.

“What for? The killer was a pro.”

“Doesn’t take a professional killer to hire one.”

“He wouldn’t have any reason to have Sherry killed.”

“Maybe Sherry wasn’t the target.”

“Who would be?” Brad asked.

“If anything happened to Leigh Gardner, who would benefit?” Winter asked.

“The kids. Leigh wouldn’t leave Jacob a ten-dollar bill.”

“Maybe not. But who do you suppose would be their guardian if Leigh Gardner was dead?”

Brad sat up. “The killer shot her babysitter. Leigh wasn’t even in the area. What are you thinking?”

“Maybe the killer didn’t know that.”