Honor Code Read online

  In one piece.

  Robbins pushed the thought aside and considered the vet’s set up. The police occasionally boarded an animal they need to hang onto, but Lewis didn’t have the facilities to store the dog’s body.

  Wonder how the guys at the morgue feel about dogs?

  He opened the door to return to the waiting area. DaNeal stood beside the Cat Woman, reaching for the carrier. He made his routine assessment of the woman. Caucasian, mid-fifties. Stick thin, hair from-a-bottle red.

  Cat Woman turned as he stepped forward. “What is the status of Mr. Beason’s case?” she asked.

  He was used to nosy people. “He’s missing. Do you have information that could help us locate him?”

  “He’s of no interest to me. It sounds as if his past finally caught up to him.” With that pronouncement she swept into the vet’s inner room.

  Robbins took an automatic step, then stopped and turned to DaNeal, who watched, wide-eyed. “What’s her name?”

  “That’s Dr. McKinley.”

  “Is she a vet?”

  DaNeal’s dark hair bounced around her face as she shook her head. “She doctors people, but I don’t think I’d want her doctoring me. Mr. Beason’s a nice man.”

  “I don’t think I’d want her doctoring me either.” Robbins watched the door swing closed. Questioning her was probably pointless. She seemed the kind who’d throw confidentiality over everything. Still…

  “Do you have contact information for her?”

  Chapter 3

  Robbins dropped the receiver back into the cradle and checked off another relative who hadn’t heard from their father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. He hoped the evening news report generated more tips about the old man’s—or his car’s—location. He turned pages in the leather-bound address book, searching for another name from his contact list. At last he found the youngest daughter—currently living in Camden according to the long list of crossed out address and phone numbers. He tapped in the digits and once again explained why a Newberry, SC detective was calling.

  “No, we don’t have any evidence of a crime”—other than the dead dog—“but a neighbor asked us to check on him and we found he was not at his residence. At his age, he’s considered a vulnerable adult. We issued a missing person alert.”

  “My father hasn’t been vulnerable for a day in his life.”

  The guy was pushing eighty. That equaled vulnerable in Robbins’ book.

  “That busybody next door reported it, didn’t she?”

  The icy tone of her voice grated across Robbins’ ear. “If you hear from your father, please let us know. The missing person file will stay open until he’s located.”

  “Really officer, I appreciate the non-discriminatory effort to find him, but this is a complete waste of time. I’m sure he’s off enjoying himself somewhere. Why weren’t you this eager to investigate when my mother died?”

  Silence.

  He let it grow for a bit. What was she asking? “Your mother?” Robbins prompted.

  “He killed her. None of you people would do a thing about it.”

  Robbins scrubbed a hand over his face. What the hell? “Your father killed your mother?”

  “Yes.” Her tone added, Finally. Someone gets it.

  “You reported this.”

  “Of course. She was ill, but she could’ve lived a long time if he hadn’t decided to play God. I don’t know if it was the money or he was tired of taking care of her or what he was thinking. But one day she had hope for a future and the next day she was dead.”

  Fuck.

  “I’m not aware of the particulars of the case. Was an autopsy performed? An investigation?”

  “His doctor covered up everything and you people wouldn’t listen.” She was angry now. A volcano ready to erupt. “He could’ve smothered her with a pillow or overdosed her with morphine. God knows he kept her doped up.”

  How angry was she? Mad enough to lash out at her father? To take matters into her own hands?

  “She was fine when I visited her. She perked right up, asked about my job.”

  Robbins jotted Gloria Beason Washington’s name on his note pad and added a few question marks. He wanted to ask how often she visited, and for how long. He’d seen older people put on a good front for visiting kids. Instead he said, “Like I said, I’m not familiar with the case, but either of those circumstances would’ve shown up in an autopsy.”

  “You’re just like the rest of them. My psychiatrist said I should accept that I can’t change the past. That I should concentrate on finding my own resolution. You’ve heard of Dr. McKinley? She’s a leading innovator in grief management and family reconciliation.”

  Cat Woman. No wonder she reacted to the Beason name.

  “Obviously I couldn’t reconcile things, so I solved it my way.”

  Robbins’ hand tightened around the receiver. Solved it? Did she do something to her father? Years of practice kept his tone level. “That helped? How do you feel about your dad now?”

  “I have no intention of discussing my personal feelings with you. When you’re serious about investigating my mother’s death—and I won’t hold my breath—you can call me.”

  With that, the daughter hung up.

  Robbins was still staring at the phone, trying to decide if the daughter’s claims were a lead or a shit pit he didn’t want to crawl through when Jerry Jordan came through the door carrying a greasy bag from Bojangles. Tall and gangly, the kid wore khakis and a navy blue blazer. He looked like a nerdy prep instead of a detective.

  Jordan dumped the food on his desk and said, “A couple of the neighbors mentioned a car leaving around four AM, but no one heard a dog barking.”

  “Why didn’t the dog bark?” Robbins laced his fingers behind his head and studied the ceiling. “Either the neighbors’ hearing’s gone or the dog didn’t bark because she recognized whoever entered the house.”

  “Or they slept right through it.”

  “Maybe. Old people are usually light sleepers.”

  Jordan roamed the squad room, nearly bouncing on his toes with enthusiasm. “What’s our theory? Think Beason left on his own?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. The dog. The ransacked house.” He left out the daughter’s accusations for now.

  “Old man like him. Not the most likely kidnapping target.” Jordan moved to the white-board where they’d listed the known chronology and points of contact.

  “For that community, Beason had money. He owned an electronics shop downtown. The big box stores and a throw-it-away-instead-of-fix-it world shut him down a while ago.” Robbins opened the Bojangles sack. Chicken sandwich and dirty fries. He fished a few fries out of the packet. Sharon might not want him to die of lung cancer, but she hadn’t started in on a heart attack.

  Yet.

  “Some of these dirt bags will kill you for a dollar if they need a fix bad enough. But the dog would’ve barked at a druggie.” He bit into the fries. They had enough pepper to kick start his taste buds.

  “I heard burglars will throw a dog drug-laced meat so it doesn’t bark.”

  Robbins unwrapped his sandwich—a Cajun Filet. Was it as simple as a burglary turned ugly? “That implies planning. I don’t see it. Someone went through Beason’s house on a rampage.”

  Then again, he hadn’t seen anything that looked like a baseball bat. “The missing wallet makes me wonder if Beason left on his own.”

  Like the daughter said.

  “Because?” Jordan dropped into his chair and dove into his food.

  “If you’re being hustled or dragged out the door, you don’t usually say, ‘scuse me, I need to grab my wallet.”

  Jordan chewed on that along with his sandwich. “If someone broke in and cleaned out the wallet—the cash and credit cards—they’d have dumped the wallet. What if they forced him into the car to hit an ATM for more cash?”

  “Could be. Did you find a bank statement in that mess of paper?”

  “Fi
rst Community.”

  “Makes sense the guy would choose a local instead of one of the big, national banks. Let’s get some paper ready for them. Drop it off first thing tomorrow and pull the security tapes for the ATM.”

  Jordan scribbled on a note pad. “I’ll make the warrant broader and watch for current activity on the account. It could lead us right to him.”

  Robbins hid a grin behind a few more fries. The kid might be worthwhile after all.

  “You want me to stay with this tonight or get back on those car prowls? I also have the vandalism at the cemetery. Some kids spray-painted the outside wall.” Jordan finished his sandwich, crumpled the paper and lobbed it at the trash. The wad tapped the rim but tumbled into the can. “Score.”

  “Lucky shot. Work the car prowl tonight, and see if anything comes up on the cemetery tagging. The chief’s catching heat over both of those. He wants some visibility there. I’m going to check one more thing before I head home.”

  Robbins rummaged through records for a while. He didn’t find anything on Beason, but he finally found the daughter’s complaint. There was no paperwork, no file, but he recognized the patrol officer’s name. He dialed a number.

  “Carl Moses.”

  Moses had recently moved to Columbia, taking a sergeant’s position in the larger agency. “Hey, it’s Robbins. I got a question for you. Maybe a theoretical.”

  “I do love the theater.”

  “You and the drag queens. Listen, I’m working a report on an old man who maybe wandered off. The neighbor thinks maybe he got dragged off, but I just talked to a family member who thought he might be taking a sabbatical from the rest of his life.”

  “It happens.”

  “Well, she was… You remember a case, not so much a case as a call from about a year ago.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It happened right before you left. Old lady died and the daughter claimed the dad killed her.”

  Silence, but it was the kind of silence that said Moses was thinking about it.

  “I kinda remember, ‘cause it ain’t your usual call. About all I remember is everybody thought the daughter was over-reacting. Having hysterics ‘cause her mama died.”

  “All I found was the initial complaint. Any follow-up?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Beason has family in Columbia. Let me know if you run across him or his gold Caddy.”

  “Will do.”

  Robbins hung up the phone and stretched. He’d done all he could tonight. The old man wasn’t senile or diabetic or anything. Normally, in a situation like this, they’d call the BOLO and the guy would eventually turn up—usually after a week at the beach or in Sin City. The captain had let him run with it today. Robbins had made an issue about the dog—something similar might’ve happened to the old guy—but probably the captain knew the old man was black and figured pushing to find Beason helped the department’s image.

  Robbins could give a shit about the PR. His efforts today had been for Miz Rose.

  Twenty minutes later, Robbins turned into his own street. Like his neighbors’ houses, the brick ranch style house sat on an acre of ground. His, however, was the place with the crummy looking yard.

  Why had he ever thought that much land was a good idea? With the kids grown and out of the house, cutting all that grass and trimming the hedges were back on his Honey-Do list. And Sharon stayed pissed off because the chore stayed on the list instead of getting done.

  He pulled into his driveway. Maybe he should buy a cow or a goat. Let it eat the grass all summer, then they’d eat the meat all winter.

  He could hear Sharon’s reaction to piles of cowshit all over the place.

  He sighed. How was he supposed to plan to mow the lawn when he couldn’t even plan what time he’d get home from work?

  His headlights caught the roll cart—placed right where it blocked the entrance to his side of the garage.

  Damn.

  Today had been trash day. The garbage truck wouldn’t be around again until next week. There sat the bin, full, because he forgot to roll the cart out to the street.

  A flush of anger tightened his chest. Sharon had pushed the cart in front of the garage door so he couldn’t miss it. If she could move it there, why couldn’t she roll it to the curb?

  He popped the car door, left the engine running and dragged the bin over beside his pickup. He’d have to haul the bags to the dump.

  Sometime.

  He returned to the car, groaning a bit as he eased inside. He was too old for fourteen-hour workdays. He’d have to let the kid take on more of the leg work. Except Jordan was so green, he didn’t know where to start without someone telling him every step to take.

  Chapter 4

  Robbins looked across Miz Rose’s breakfast table at the toddler.

  Cute kid.

  Tasha cut her eyes and smiled, a natural flirt.

  Her daddy’s gonna need a shotgun when this one gets older, he thought—then remembered she didn’t have a daddy.

  Daintily pinching the Cheerio between forefinger and thumb, Tasha offered him a cereal circle. Mouth open, he lowered his head. She dropped the Cheerio inside. He kissed her fingers in return, a loud smack that drew laughter.

  “Don’t you be encouraging her,” Miz Rose said. “Tasha, you eat that cereal. And use yore spoon.”

  The child jammed the spoon into the bowl, spilling more cereal onto the highchair tray, then lifted the mounded spoon toward her mouth.

  “That’s right.” Miz Rose turned back to the sink and tackled the older kids’ breakfast dishes. Sunlight reflected off the glass beads in her hair. Overnight, she’d braided her hair into a bunch of cornrows, a sure sign she was worried.

  Robbins sipped his coffee, watching both Tasha and her. Two months ago, when he and Child Services dropped the toddler off with Miz Rose, the kid had been a clingy, weepy mess. “Tasha seems happy.”

  “She just need to be where folks ain’t angry.”

  “Don’t we all?” Robbins considered the mood at home. The tension level there needed to drop below an “orange” threat level, but how was he supposed to change Sharon’s attitude?

  “Most peoples forget to think about the other person,” Miz Rose said.

  Robbins sat back. The woman had an eerie ability to say things that mirrored his thoughts.

  Miz Rose had a point, though. How often did he consider Sharon’s feelings?

  What would make her happy? Other than him taking out the trash and cutting the grass? He slurped more coffee. To be fair, how much of the tension in the house was his fault?

  Miz Rose dried her hands and stepped across the kitchen. The place—the house and the furniture—was old and worn, but other than the area right around the highchair, it was clean. She wiped Tasha’s grubby face and hands, then plucked the toddler from the high chair and kissed her chubby cheek.

  Tasha leaned into Miz Rose, molding against her body, stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked—the picture of contentment.

  “I ‘spect you didn’t come over here for my coffee or to check on this chil’. You hear anything about George Beason?”

  “We have a BOLO—Be On the Look Out—issued. The TV people ran a picture of him and the car last night. A lot of calls came in overnight. We’ll find him.”

  “You want more coffee?”

  “Please.” He gratefully accepted the refill. It had been a late night.

  He waited until she returned the pot to the counter. “I know you told Ellis you didn’t see anyone over at Beason’s house the other night. The night he went missing. But what about earlier in the week? Anybody hanging around? Stranger in the neighborhood?”

  Miz Rose moved to the playpen in the corner of the kitchen and deposited Tasha inside it. She handed the child a toy, then returned to the breakfast table. “I tol’ you about that house down to the corner? The people coming and going?”

  He nodded. He’d passed the tip to the
Drug Task Force.

  “Every now and then, you get some banger drive up and down the street, showing out. Flashing guns or cash.” She cocked her head, thinking. “I did see one fella earlier this week. A hard man. I ain’t just talking muscle. There be something in his face made those young punks step back.”

  Huh.

  “You get a good look at him?”

  “Not too tall. Same size as me. Wearin’ blue-jeans and one of them sweatshirts with a hood.”

  Robbins pulled out a notebook. “Age? Hair color? Race? Any of that?”

  “He black. ‘ Bout thirty. He bald, but look like he be shaving his head like the toughs doing now.”

  “Think you could work with our sketch guy? The Faces program?”

  “Like they do on TV? I could try. You think he might be the one run off with George?”

  There was no sense in alarming her—she had enough to worry about with the gangs taking over the next block. “We’d want to talk to him. See what he knows. Like we did with you and his neighbors. I called most of Beason’s family. They haven’t seen him, but I’m having a hard time finding a couple of them. The middle daughter. You have any idea where she might be?”

  “She dead.”

  Hard to return a phone call from the afterlife.

  Miz Rose picked up a cloth and wiped the highchair tray. “Latoya be in school with me. Leastwise ‘til she drop out. She be into crack. I heard she do whatever she thought needed doing to get her next high.”

  “Vicious cycle.”

  “Uh-huh. Never was sure who the daddy was, but she had three babies. Poor little ones never had a chance to be nothing but wild childs.”

  “Know where they are?”

  She shook her head. The beads woven into the cornrows clicked a musical tune. “They come ‘round. George give them a place to stay and clean up. Food. Then they gone again. The oldest one, Akeem, he stay with George a while. Seem to steady the boy. He finish school and join the army just in time to go fight Mr. Bush’s war. ‘Bout broke George’s heart when that boy got kilt.”