The Devil's Punchbowl

CHAPTER 53

Shad speaks over his shoulder as he ushers me in. “Why was one of our most distinguished selectmen drunk in the middle of the day?”

I glance briefly around the district attorney’s office. He has a huge, antique desk pilfered from one of the historic buildings owned by the city-three-quarters the size of a billiards table. The wall behind him is covered with diplomas and plaques, while the one to my right almost bulges from the weight of framed photographs: Shadrach Johnson’s Wall of Respect. In most of the pictures, Shad stands beside the nationally famous black politicians and celebrities who visited Natchez during his 1996 mayoral campaign against Wiley Warren. Fewer than half of those figures returned to the city two years ago when Shad ran against me during the special election. Apparently, during the interim, they’d learned that Shad was primarily interested in advancing the cause of Shad Johnson, and no one else, no matter what color they might be. Many politicians share this illness, of course, but Shad has a particularly virulent strain of it.

“Did you come in to look at the pictures?” Shad asks.

I turn and look deep into his eyes. “Caitlin Masters was kidnapped last night. She was taken by Jonathan Sands and Seamus Quinn. Paul Labry just informed me that if I do nothing against Sands for thirty-six hours, they’ll return her to me unharmed.”

Shad’s eyes go wide, then narrow slowly. “Labry works for Sands?”

“You thought you were the only one?”

The district attorney jabs his forefinger at me. “That’s slander.”

“Sue me. Why aren’t you advising me to call the FBI, Shad?”

He looks toward his window, then back at me. “If that’s what you wanted to do, you’d already have done it. What are you really doing here, Cage? What do you want from me?”

“That’s a long list, buddy. I want to know why you soft-pedaled the murder of Tim Jessup. Why you misappropriated evidence and withheld facts critical to the investigation from the police chief. Why you’re not pushing to find out what happened to a computer programmer named Ben Li, who was also probably murdered. But I already know the answer, don’t I?”

“I don’t know anything about that. Any of it. Those are police matters.”

“The night Tim died, you made a point of telling me you were the chief law enforcement officer of the city. So why does your police chief think the last thing you want him to do is make progress on any of these investigations?”

Shad folds his hands together and leans back in his chair. “Chief Logan and I don’t always see eye to eye. That’s no secret.”

I stand and put my hands on his desk, then lean over him. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Right now, Jonathan Sands thinks I have a certain item that Tim Jessup stole from the Magnolia Queen. A USB thumb drive. But you know I don’t have it. Don’t you?”

The district attorney’s face remains impassive. Shad is good in a courtroom, and he’d be a hell of a poker player, though I hear he prefers bridge. While he ponders my statement, I glance over at his Wall of Respect. One photograph draws my attention. It shows a huge boar hog, probably five or six hundred pounds, hanging by its hind legs from a hoist. Shad stands on one side of the hog, while on the other, wearing a bright orange jersey with the number 88 on it, stands a tall black man with a hunting rifle lying across his muscular forearms.

“I didn’t know you were a hunter, Shad. I thought bridge was your game. Or the odd set of tennis.”

Johnson regards me with silent hatred.

“Is that Darius Jones?” I ask. “The wide receiver for San Antonio?”

“You know it is.”

“Was that photo taken around here?”

Shad shifts in his seat. “On DeSalle Island. Hunting camp.”

DeSalle Island lies farther downriver than we paddled last night, almost to Angola Prison, but it’s exactly the kind of remote spot in which Sands has been holding his dogfights.

“I think I’ve got the picture,” I say quietly. “Darius win any money on the dogs?”

“On the what?”

I give Shad a knowing look. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Darius has got it to lose, right? Long as he doesn’t get caught.”

“You’re wearing out your welcome, Cage. I don’t know anything about any computer drive.”

I lean farther over the desk, into Shad’s personal space. “I know you have it. You’re the only person who could. You had Tim’s cell phone. You heard the voice memo he made before he died. And somehow you got into the morgue-or got someone to go in there for you-and you got that drive. You want to dig into dead men’s asses for fun and profit, that’s your business. But I need that drive. If I don’t have something to trade for Caitlin, they’re going to kill her. Do you read me, Shad?”

The district attorney remains stone-faced.

“I think I know where you are on this,” I say, trying to help him along. “You think that drive is your ace in the hole, if everything goes to hell. I don’t know how badly compromised you are, or what Sands has on you. But you need to figure out which side you’re on. Because if you give me that drive now, I’ll make sure you stay out of trouble when the wheels come off of this deal.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shad says evenly. “But even if I did, you don’t have the power to offer anybody any kind of deal-certainly not immunity from prosecution. I’m the DA, Cage, and I could jail you for assault right now, based on what I saw five minutes ago.”

I want to snatch Shad up from his chair and bang his head against the desk, but that’s not going to get me the drive. I’d find myself in the county jail in short order, and it’s right across the street.

“Shad, there’s a federal investigation going on in this county, and my guess is you don’t know a thing about it. Or if you do, you only know enough to make your asshole pucker. When the feds don’t tell you they’re on your turf, it’s bad news for you. So, I repeat, you need to decide which side you’re on. And the best way to prove you’re on the right one is to give me that drive.”

Shad gives me a tired smile. “I think we’re done here.”

I make no move to leave or even straighten up. “After I leave, you might be tempted to destroy that drive. I could see the logic of it, from your point of view. But that would be a mistake. You’re going to need a friend when this blows up. And if Caitlin dies because you didn’t give it to me, I’ll hound you right into Parchman, I swear to God. You’ll have a cell right next to Sands.”

There’s a sudden rush of heavy footsteps outside, and then someone pounds on Shad’s door. I jump to my feet and open the door, expecting to see Paul Labry making another plea for forgiveness. But it’s Mitch Catton, a deputy from the sheriff’s department, and he’s breathing hard.

“What is it, Deputy?” Shad asks calmly.

“Paul Labry was just killed in a car accident!”

“What?”

“He hit a bridge abutment. Must have been doing seventy, at least.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” I ask.

“Nope. One-car accident. There was an empty bottle of vodka in the car too. Sally, over to the clerk’s office, told me Mr. Labry’d been hanging around here all during lunch. Said he smelled like a liquor cabinet.”

I look down at Shad, my eyes filled with foreboding.

“Thank you, Mitch,” Shad says. “Mayor Cage and I need to finish our conversation.”

“Okay, sorry. I just figured you’d want to know. I mean, is there anything special we should do because it’s a selectman?”

“No, just follow your normal procedures.”

Catton stares at us in puzzlement for a few seconds, then shuts the door and bangs down the stairs.

“This town is under siege,” I say softly. “And the biggest threat always comes from within. Don’t kid yourself that you can come out of this clean. Not without me. I don’t know if Paul committed sui cide or if they killed him, but when this is all over, there’s going to be a reckoning. Pick your side, Shad. Fast. That thumb drive is your only get-out-of-jail-free card. You know how to reach me.”

“Get out of my office.”

I hold up my forefinger and point at him, my eyes burning, then turn and go.