Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Exhaustion felt like a seven-ton elephant sitting on Dudley’s chest. After they left the Little Rock Police Station, they discussed getting some rest and waiting until the next day to find Maxey Cayson’s witness, but he never confessed. Urgency drove them forward.

Jack took the wheel as they drove into downtown Little Rock in search of Sleuter’s Bar. “Do you think he killed your brother?”

“I wanted it to be him so badly I could tell you I think he was lying, and we could drag him down to Memphis and sweat a confession out of him. But I don’t think he did it?”

“Me, either.” Jack glanced at him. “Did you notice his shoes?”

“Yeah. Size eight, nine at the most. He wouldn’t have left that big shoe track outside Laura’s house. I think the man who killed Charlie came back to kill her and do what he said. Finish the job.”

“Which means he was probably a professional assassin for hire.”

“I agree. The odds we’ll ever find him just went to zero.” Dudley thought of the deadliest hitman in the world, a Brazilian named Julio Santana, who killed a documented four hundred ninety-two people before he was captured.

Jack turned into a district lit with neon signs. “The only flaw in our theory that a hitman killed Charlie is why ?”

“I can tell you this. My brother never did a single thing in his life that would make him the target of a paid killer. Everybody loved Charlie.”

The bar came into sight, and they both fell silent. There were in a sleazy part of town where the dregs of society hung out on street corners buying illegal drugs, and those not on the streets were hanging over one of the bars that line the street, getting drunk enough to forget the sorry lives they led.

Jack found a parking spot two blocks from Sleuter’s Bar. They were likely to have their hubcaps stolen while they were inside. They didn’t have to worry about being the target of a mugging. Jack’s size, alone, would have been enough deterrent. Add Dudley’s refrigerator figure and formidable face, and the customers gave the two a wide berth as they walked into the bar.

The music from a jukebox was too loud, the air was blue with smoke, and there was no telling who would be lurking in the haze.

They approached the bar together and flashed their badges. The bartender blanched but kept on polishing glasses.

“We’re looking for a girl who works here,” Jack said. “Goes by the name of Bitsy. Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t want no trouble.”

Dudley leaned in. “Neither do we. Answer the question, and we’re good.”

“That’s Bitsy Jenkins. She just finished her shift. She might still be in the dressing room back there, changing into street clothes. Tell her Stanley sent you.”

The door from the bar led into a dim narrow hallway lit by a lone bulb suspended from the ceiling. It stank of smoke and stale sweat. A skinny young woman with long legs clad in jeans and thin hair tortured by peroxide and curling irons emerged from a doorway at the end of the hallway. She glanced at their direction then hurried toward the exit.

“Bitsy Jenkins!” Jack’s voice boomed like a cannon shot in the tight space, and she halted, quivering like a rabbit. “I’m Detective Jack Jackson, and this is my partner, Detective Dudley Stephens. We just want to talk.”

She nodded then led them into a cluttered dressing room where a sleazy red satin blouse and a black skirt with barely enough material to cover the subject hung on a wooden rack.

“I’m sorry. There’s not much room to sit.”

“That’s okay.” Dudley felt sorry for her. She was just a down-on-her-luck girl with an unfortunate connection to the wrong man. “We’ll stand.”

“You don’t mind if I do?” She waited for his nod, then raked off a pile of magazines and almost collapsed into a hard wooden chair.

The array of glossy magazines scattered on the floor told their own story of a girl longing for the glamour they promised if only she would follow their rules. Dudley hated towering over her. Imagining the heartbreak of seeing one of his own daughters in her position, he backed up and perched on the edge of a dressing table.

“Bitsy, do you know a Maxey Cayson?” he said.

“Yes. He comes here a lot.”

“What’s your relationship with him?”

Her pursed lips looked like a pink bow his youngest daughter wore in her hair.

“This is not a trick question.” He softened his voice. “We just need you to be honest with us.”

She blew out a breath. “Okay. I hang out with him from time to time, but it’s nothing serious. He’s kind’a fun, but he has a drug problem. I don’t want another druggie in my life, permanent like.”

“That’s smart. You stick to that and find yourself a responsible man who will treat you right.”

Jack couldn’t hide his smile. He’d seen Dudley do this too many times. Dish out fatherly advice to broken and hurting young women who could be his own daughter, grown up and needy.

Dudley led her back to the day of the murder and asked if she was with Maxey Cayson that day.

“Yes. I went to his apartment after my shift at the bar.”

“What time did you leave his apartment?”

“I usually leave early in the morning. I’d been with him a couple of times, and that’s what I always do.”

Dudley’s pulse kicked up. That would still give Cayson enough time to drive down and kill Charlie that afternoon. The shoe print outside Laura’s house could have come from an intruder totally unrelated to the murder.

The theory was a stretch, and he knew it. He was so desperate he was grasping at straws. Not a smart thing for a detective to do.

Jack spotted his uncertainty and stepped smoothly into the breach. “Bitsy, can you tell us exactly how long you were with Maxey Cayson that day?”

“I don’t want to get him in more trouble.” She chewed her bottom lip. “The thing is, he got up before me and started doing lines of coke. By the time I got out of bed, he was passed out on the floor. I thought he was dead.” She covered her face with hands and bent double, heaving.

“Take your time,” Jack said.

“Okay.” She sniffed, then sat up straight and looked them in the eye. “I was there with him all day, making sure he didn’t die.”

“Can you be specific about the time?”

“See, the thing is, I would’ve been in trouble with the law if I was seen in the apartment of a dead man. So I called the bar to say I was sick and couldn’t come in to work.” She sighed, as if telling what happened was a relief. “I didn’t leave Maxey Cayson that day until six o’clock in the evening.”