Lion's Den
Many many thanks to Jim for doing this with me. He keeps pushing the envelope. Thanks, Jim!--Maer
Tuesday, 02 Aug 2011
Adams County Sheriff Office
Natchez MS
1225hrs, local time
Irina DiSanti parked her car in the South Wall Street lot and walked into the Sheriff's office a few minutes early. She held an accordion folder of copies she'd made of the Agency’s case files, enough to make it look like they were legit and gainfully employed investigating things other than the murder string the Sheriff was pursuing. The same murder string she and her friends had been ordered to resolve by the vampire Prince of Natchez. A detail she had to keep the Sheriff in the dark about. And given what she'd seen in the wee hours of August first, she very much wanted to keep Sheriff John Midnight from Sheriff Chuck Mayfield's door. She genuinely liked Mayfield and would rather have the man alive and disappointed with her, than have him dead with his death on her soul. Thus necessitating the packet of half-truths and outright lies she currently held in her hands.
She smiled at the desk sergeant as she pushed through the doors. Deputy Buddy Frank smiled back. Irina had learned about the bank robbery that saw him wounded, from reading through back issues of the Natchez Democrat. His shoulder was still in a sling, a Velcro job that kept his elbow bent at a 90-degree angle. Which explained his manning the front desk as she checked in. As she had a week before, she sat down in the lobby and waited for the Sheriff to call her into his office.
Chuck Mayfield came out of his office and smiled at the DiSanti woman sitting in the lobby. "Come on back; I only got a few minutes, but I was hoping you'd stop by soon," he said. Back in his office, he took a seat behind his desk, and held his coffee cup in both hands.
"I hope you got good news, 'cause all the news I got is bad," he said. "I think the killer returned to the scene of the crime like out of a bad novel," he said, almost laughing. "This morning, we found evidence that someone was in the Murphrey house; dug up yard, smeared mirrors so that the symbols are gone... Like everything in the house was picked up and sat back down." He shrugged.
"I doubt it was the original killers," he said. "Totally different MO. Probably just some curiosity seekers." Spinning in his chair, he picked up the coffee carafe, and gestured with it. "You came to see me, you got something, I take it? Want coffee?"
"I'd love some, thanks," Irina said. "Black, no sugar." She might pay for it later but right now she wanted him busy doing something other than noticing her reaction to the news. Dammit. Did we touch anything? Did I even think to warn anyone else not to touch anything? Did we leave prints? Shoe impressions? Trace evidence? Shit, what the hell was I thinking? Spooling up the movie in her head, Irina replayed the events of the evening and realized that it was a good chance prints had been left on the scene—Zadie's on the mirrors, possibly shoe prints in the soft dug up earth on the perimeter, possibly a few here and there on the carpet. And of course, anything Irina herself had touched in her foray for evidence. Books on the shelves, drawer pulls, doorknobs. Like a fuckin' rookie. Instead of your gun you should have packed booties and gloves. You could have carried enough for everybody. She heard Mayfield's footsteps approaching and schooled her expression to give nothing but gratitude away.
"Here ya go, Ms. DiSanti," Mayfield said. "Black as sin, hot as hell, bitter as an ex-wife, if you'll excuse the expression." He took his seat, and pulled out a yellow legal pad. "So, any insight into what case or cases Franklin Agency is working?"
Irina sipped her coffee and found the description accurate. She blew on it to cool it for a second bracing sip, then set it aside.
"I've spent the week going through their files and found no evidence that they’re working the murder string as you'd asked." True: they'd only just picked up the case, as it were, and to date nothing of their work had been recorded. And it never will be. At least, not officially. "So that removes that from the table. Their fees are kind to those in need, no evidence of gouging. As PIs they can choose which cases they take up, unlike public servants." Also true: the police and the Sheriff's department had to serve the needs of the public as a whole, whereas private investigators were hired to represent the needs of the private individual. Irina handed the accordion folder over, glad to have it leave her hands. "I've copied a few of their old cases to give you an idea of their forte. It's pretty plain vanilla. Records searches. Missing items. Deadbeats." Half-truth, if one discounted the supernatural angle of the same. "No divorce or infidelity cases yet, but give it time. They've only just set up shop, a failing marriage is a touchy subject, and I understand Yankees take some warming up to. And this Yankee owes you an apology."
Irina leaned back in her chair and it took no effort to look embarrassed.
"As you know, I was a cop and a detective. I didn't get as far as I did by being laidback and trusting. I got where I was by being a suspicious bitch about everyone and everything. That and paranoia were part of my edge. Being off the force for three years hasn't dulled it much. If anything, it sharpened it, because it has nothing to apply itself to. It made me undeservedly suspicious of a legitimate job offer, however unconventional, and I came in here with a fire in my gut over nothing. I owe you an apology, sir. Especially if I got your hopes up over the Franklin Agency. I know the murder string is nothing to blow off. There's a serial killer on the loose. People are scared and they need to know you're doing everything you can to keep them safe. But the Franklin Agency isn't the guilty party, sir. You'll have to look elsewhere."
It was the truth, closely shaved, and Irina prayed Mayfield wouldn’t see how thin it was.
Mayfield nodded, and then shrugged. "Well, I guess I was just going on prejudice and paranoia," he said with a sigh. "The whole bunch over at Longwood are still suspicious, though. Nothing weird about them to you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, I think I know who was over at Murphrey's house, at least," he said, half turning his chair to look out the window. "One mystery solved, but it leads to even more questions. That's the way of it, ain't it?" he asked, still scanning the street in front of the sheriff's office.
He's baiting you, DiSanti. Irina recognized at least two interrogation ploys in Mayfield's reply. One, by eliciting an off-the-record comment on persons of interest, he was hoping she'd slip and give him something he could use. Two, ditto by mentioning the crime scene. She would have to be especially careful with that one. She couldn't let on she'd been there but neither could she refrain from inquiring. She'd jumped all over the case on less information in her initial meeting with Mayfield and for her to say nothing now would strike him as out-of-character … and send him looking her way.
Okay. By the numbers …
"Longwood, sir? I'm sorry but I can’t say I've been yet. I've spent my time here in the Agency's downtown office." She nodded at the accordion file. "As for crime scene, my guess would be it's curiosity seekers like you said. I've seen it back home, sir. Damned ghouls and souvenir takers. Once we had someone sneak in and steal the deceased's fingernail polish. Another time, it was underwear. I kid you not. There's people out there with a serious kink on when it comes to stuff like this. Was anything taken?"
"Oh, nothing taken," he said, spinning around to face Irina again. "We got an information call this morning." He spun the yellow legal pad around. "Concerned citizen, Eliza Beauchamps, called to say her nieces were out there. Informed that election contributions would result from not dusting for prints, no follow up, no charges against the girls."
With a shrug, Mayfield gave the legal pad to Irina. The notes gave the names of the two girls, fairly complete description of what was done at the house: yard dug up, mirrors wiped, books shifted, and general sifting of evidence.
"I don't want you to think I can be bought, but the woman has power locally," he said, almost apologetically. "So, I could risk my career to get trespassing charges against little spoiled brats, or I can forget to notice the scene has been altered."
"One more thing, though," he said. "She said something about friends there. That part checked out. Zadie Calhoun's prints showed up on the mirrors before I got the idea to stop the dusting. Eliza had said she'd been there, along with some other girls. Girls that had hired Franklin Agency to provide protection and get them to the site."
Shaking his head, looking down, he concluded, "It don't matter where or when, rich kids are nothing but trouble. And the parents and relatives make sure they never pay for it." He leaned forward across the desk, and said very quietly, "think you can get me a client list for Franklin Agency?"
Oh shit. Eliza told him we were there? Dammit.
Irina swept the list and committed it to memory, then widened her eyes and puffed her cheeks like a person confronted with a tricky but academic problem. Which this most certainly wasn't. She shook her head and answered truthfully.
"Not legally, no, sir." She paused as if wrestling with something distasteful, which was true. "Sir, I know Ms. Beauchamps is influential but—crap, there's no way I can put this delicately so I'll just say it: how do you know her nieces were telling the truth? How do you know if Ms. Beauchamps checked their stories first before telling you? They're kids. Rich. Maybe spoiled. They were doing something stupid and wrong and they got scared they'd get caught. So they looked around and decided some damn Yankees would be the perfect patsies to take the fall for what they were doing. Again, I don't want to put you in hot water over this." Mister, you have no idea how much. "But I would like to check the Agency's financials to see if the kids' claims hold up. If they hired the Agency to do this, then there'd be a record of it somewhere. Money in the bank. Something traceable. Unlike the charity cases on file, these kids would have the wherewithal to pay for their services and the Agency would have no qualms about charging them for it. If they took the job. The Agency is an investigatory agency, sir, not a private security firm. They're detectives, not bodyguards. Seems to me that the kids pointing their fingers missed that telling detail in their story. And if I were still a cop, I'd call them on it."
Irina took a sip of her cooling coffee, its bitterness no match for the bile hovering at the back of her throat. God, I hate this cloak-and-dagger shit. It's why I never tried out for Undercover.
"As for the client list, who are you looking for? It might help me if I knew the specifics."
With a sigh, Mayfield stood up and walked over to the door. "You're right, you're right," he said. "My inner good ole boy wants to find some way to pin this on a Yankee. Hell, whoever DID this seems to want to pin it on a Yankee, too. I got an appointment with the County Commissioners in a half hour, but," he paused, and smiled sheepishly. "I promised I wouldn't look into it so close. As a favor, would you look into what those girls were doing?"
Waving his hands, like he was wiping the bribe away, he continued, "I know you're looking to buy a house somewhere, and I could put in a word with local realtors to give you the 'local' price. Ain't no bribe, just a helpin' hand in exchange for all the help you've given."
Aaannnnnd … the pull back. You’re still on the hook, DiSanti, but play along.
"Politics. A necessary evil. I understand, sir," she said sympathetically. Politics wasn't something she relished dealing with and her old career had had its share of it. "On the matter of the house hunting, that's an extremely generous offer, Sheriff. I don't know what to say." She did, actually, but had to balance the expediency of acceptance with the safety of refusal. She didn't want to be beholden to him over something not professionally relevant—it smacked of corruption. He said it himself. Though it wasn’t intended as a bribe, it would be perceived as such. If the powers that be should ever get wind of it, the appearance of wrongdoing was as good as its actual commission. However, to reject his offer out of hand would be churlish and also make him suspect she knew she was being played. "I hate to be any more bother than I have already, but if I could get the names of your realtor friends I would be grateful to call on them if I find I need help."
There. That should sidestep the sticky. Irina stood, held out her hand for a shake, and told him from the heart:
"Thank you, sir. You've been more than kind to this damned Yankee and she won't soon forget it."
She gave him a smile and a nod and pushed through the front doors into the light and heat of Natchez. It was only when she’d driven out of sight that she let loose the breath she’d been holding. Jesus Christ, DiSanti, what is it with you and lion's dens? You seriously need to get a better hobby. Sheriff Chuck Mayfield was not going to go away. She would have to keep him in the loop and keep him safe, yet not betray the Masque. Or violate any orders from the Prince. So what are you going to do when the Prince says Mayfield has to die? You gonna turn him over to Gramma Willi for some tea and chocolate chip death cookies?
Which only led her back to the fact that the Sheriff had Zadie’s prints from the scene. To recognize them, that meant her prints were on file with the department … or someone saw her enter Doc’s house and/or knew she’d been there. If the former, Irina prayed Natchez was as strapped for resources as Mayfield had hinted. If so, those prints might still be on cards and not a computer database. The cards could be stolen and destroyed and the Sheriff would have no way to prove she’d been there. If on a database, she had the suspicion Marcus could whistle up a really proficient hacker who could wipe them clean off IAFIS. If Zadie had been ratted out by a witness or someone in the know, however, the situation just got a little bit trickier. That meant putting Eliza Beauchamps on the suspect list and that, Irina knew, upped the ante into nosebleed territory.
She turned her car north on Wall and drove for the Agency. Three minutes later saw her pulling into her assigned parking spot off the loading dock and punching in the passcode to get inside. Once in the common room, she locked up and started the coffee maker going. She needed to think. As the coffee brewed and the aroma filled the room, Irina booted up her laptop, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.
Return to The DiSanti Files
Return to Natchez By Night
Return to Timeline
Return to Adventure Log
