Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

West Memphis

Following the lead Brenda Martin gave them, Dudley and Jack drove back to Charlie’s neighborhood. Jack had put out the call that the team questioning the neighbors again should inquire about a car with an Arkansas license plate. But they were going straight to the source.

Dudley’s heart constricted when he came in sight of his brother’s house. Charlie would never walk through the front door again and grab him in a bear hug. As he parked in the driveway, he felt as if he was missing the best half of himself.

Laura’s car was gone, and she didn’t answer the doorbell. She didn’t have a cell phone. For that matter, neither did Charlie. He’d said they were intrusive, and he didn’t care whether he was trendy or even up-to-date. He just wanted to live his life and be left alone except by those he loved.

But if he’d had a cell phone he might have managed to call for help. He might be alive today.

Dudley shoved the thought aside. Playing what if was a surefire way to lose sight of the goal: catch his brother’s killer.

“There’s no point in waiting for Mrs. Stephens,” Jack said. “If she can spend four hours getting groceries, she’s not a woman who’s in a hurry to come home.”

“There’s a service station on the corner that Charlie used all the time. Let’s check it out.”

Cars were lined up in front of the gas tanks, their impatient drivers waiting to pump gas. The parking spaces in front of Big Bend Food and Gas were all filled. Dudley had to park around back beside a garbage dumpster.

The day had heated up, and the hot, bright sun made the sky feel like a burning blue bowl over their heads. He and Jack donned aviator sunglasses. When they walked through the door, they had cop written all over them. The shop bell tinkled and heads swiveled their way. Most people gave them a mere passing glance, but the ones who had heard about what happened at the neighboring house stared and then shuffled closer, hoping to hear some little tidbit that would make them even more grateful the bloody massacre had occurred at Charlie’s house and not theirs.

There was only one employee visible in the store, a harried young man around twenty-four, checking out a line of disgruntled customers lined up all the way to the rack of Hershey’s chocolate bars. His scowl announced he was having a bad day. When Dudley and Jack approached, he snapped. “You’ll have to wait your turn like everybody else.”

Dudley lost it. “I don’t think so.” He moved in fast and close, his badge in his hand. “You want to rethink that?”

The young man’s hands shot into the air. “I didn’t do it. I’m not the one taking money from the till.”

Dudley was not in the mood to make this punk feel better. If money was missing from the till and the culprit hadn’t been found, it was best to let the young man sweat a while. “Where’s the owner?”

His cheeks blazing, he nodded toward a hallway in the back. “In his office.”

“Keep your hands clean,” Dudley growled, then headed that way with Jack keeping pace.

The office door was open. They flashed their badges, and a man whose girth showed his partiality for the chocolate doughnuts in an open box on his desk motioned them in. A plaque on his desk read JW Cartright .

“Mr. Cartright, Charlie Stephens was a customer of yours,” Dudley said.

“Call me JW. I’ve seen you here with him. You’re his brother, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He was a good man. It’s a nightmare what happened over at his house. The whole neighborhood is spooked.”

As always, the grapevine was alive and well in this small southern community. Though the larger metropolitan area lay just east of them, their proximity to the river— Memphis’ western boundary—and the abundant trees protecting the houses gave them the feeling of being set apart from the city, safe from the crime that lurked in the shadows just waiting for an opportunity to wreak havoc.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I can tell you exactly.” Though a rather antiquated computer sat on the table to his right, JW rifled through a stack of receipts. “This past Monday.”

Four days ago . Dudley and Jack exchanged glances. The man from Arkansas came earlier.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Just the usual. ‘Hey, how’er you doing,’ that kind of thing.”

Jack leaned forward. “Did he seem worried or upset about anything?”

“No.” JW leaned back in his swivel chair and rocked a time or two, then came upright and steepled his fingers together. “But I can tell you when he was. On Friday of last week.”

Dudley had a gut feeling he was going to finally discover the identity of the killer in his brother’s garage. “What happened?”

“This feller driving an old black 1990 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with Arkansas license plates was in here paying for gas when Charlie came roaring in here, grabbed him by the collar, and spun him around so fast it left my head spinning. He said, ‘If you ever come near my wife again, I’ll kill you,’ then he walked out and drove off.”

“Was Laura with him?”

“Yes. She was standing at the door, watching.”

“Do you have the man’s name?”

“Naw. He paid cash. Seemed anxious to get his gas and leave.”

“Can you describe him?”

JW’s description could have been that of a thousand men you’d pass on the street without even glancing twice. Medium height and weight, a bit of brown hair showing beneath a Razorbacks football cap, jeans and a green jersey that looked new. No distinguishing features or marks.

Dudley thanked JW and left his card. “If you think of anything else that might help, let me know.”

The staggering discovery felt like a punch in the gut. “You drive, Jack.” He slid into the passenger side. “I can’t believe Laura kept something like this from us.”

“Maybe she was too scared,” Jack offered. “Most people who suffer major trauma don’t think clearly. Especially just hours after it happens.”

“He might be her hitman. She’s been acting like she’s covering up something.”

“Dudley, you can’t trust what you think you saw.”

Jack turned the car in the direction of the police station. Good, bad, or horrible, they would soon find out.