21 Porter Hayes

Deacon Malone had Reverend Hightower's routine down cold, enough that he could take an extra minute or two to stop off at a Dixie Queen on Airways for coffee and egg with bacon sandwiches before parking on a residential street in Orange Mound. Hayes had let Malone drive his Mercedes that morning so he could take the photos of Hightower's comings and goings from the home of one of his girlfriends, a woman named Constance who was married to Hightower's assistant pastor. "The man has no shame," Malone said. "Anointing the husband one minute and laying his hands on his wife the next. I never seen a man with a more restless pecker."

"A what?"

"Haven't you seen those commercials about people having that restless leg syndrome?" Malone said, unwrapping his sandwich from the foil. "This man got himself a restless pecker."

The men laughed. Porter picked up one of the coffees, tore open a single sugar, and stirred it in. The house was a simple one-level brick box with a tall spiked wrought-iron fence topping a brick border wall. Behind the open gate, the reverend's black Escalade was parked big and bold behind an older green Accord. The license plate read TRUSGOD.

"I don't see why we need more pictures," Malone said, half his mouth full. "He'll just say he was giving the good news to Miss Constance this fine morning. And you know damn well Lady Hightower don't give a damn."

"Might matter to the reverend," Hayes said. "I'd say he'll be highly invested in keeping the truth from Constance's husband."

"And why's that?"

"Oh," Hayes said, blowing the steam off his coffee. "Didn't I tell you? See, this Constance woman is married to a fella named Vontre Hubbard. And you've got to understand that Mr. Hubbard didn't get to be in the ministry by accident."

"All right," Malone said, laughing. "All right then. Go ahead."

"Mr. Vontre Hubbard studied the good book down in Parchman after choking out his daddy over a matter of twenty dollars," Hayes said in his deep preacher voice. "Vontre claimed it was just an accident, his hands just slipped around his daddy's old throat before he lifted his ass off the floor and broke his neck."

"Off the damn floor?" Deacon said, taking another bite, and shaking his head. "Must be a big man."

"Funny you ask, Deacon," Hayes said. "Only about six foot six and three fifty."

"Got damn."

"Yep," Hayes said. "Just about the right size to make the Rev come to Jesus and make right with those old women. The difference between justice and compensation."

"Heard you say that a time or two," Malone said. "If the preacher got charged, he'd just lawyer up. Drag this thing out longer than those women got."

Porter drank some coffee and they watched the house. They'd parked next to a big oak and behind two other vehicles, a decent buffer in case anyone was watching them from the house.

"Still don't know how a man that little satisfying six different women," Malone said.

"Five."

"Only five?"

"Way the Lady Hightower came on to me, I don't think they got much going on," Hayes said. "Seems like a strictly financial relationship."

"Maybe an opportunity for you?"

"For five minutes of pleasure?" he said. "Hell, no."

"That all you got, Porter Hayes?" Malone said. "Five minutes? Seems like you could give that woman at least ten minutes of your valuable time."

"Maybe," he said. "But then I'd be just like all the rest of them. I wouldn't do it. And you wouldn't, either."

"Shiiiit."

"She stole from two nice old ladies," Hayes said. "Drained their life savings. Used their money to buy designer dresses, high heel shoes, and fancy-ass perfume. Why? Someone like that doesn't feel a goddamn thing."

"Woman like that could make me feel a lot," Malone said. "Woman got more curves on her than the International Raceway. Known you a long while, Porter Hayes. You're a hell of a detective, but I know you ain't no saint. Don't tell me I finally got you coming back to the Cross."

"It ain't religion."

"Then what is it?"

"I guess I'm trying to respect myself more," he said. "I've done some things over the years I'm not proud of. Ran a little wild after Genevieve died. Partying and drinking all that mess. Shit. You know that story. You the one got me out of the mess, young man."

"Not so young anymore."

"Funny how that works."

Reverend Hightower walked out in a blue tracksuit, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses as if the big-ass Escalade and the TRUSGOD plate didn't give him away. Miss Constance was nowhere to be seen as he shut the door behind him. Porter mashed the button on his camera, catching frame after frame of the reverend's cocky-ass walk. Hightower looked up the road and lifted his chin to get a better look down the street before he hustled for the keys out of his pocket, jumping behind the wheel and backing out fast. Must've been a glint off that camera lens.

"You want to follow him?" Malone said.

"Naw," Hayes said. "I think we got all we need."

Porter set down his camera on the floorboard and was about to reach for his coffee when his phone buzzed.

"You taking the day off?" Darlene asked. "Or are you planning on showing your pretty face at the office?"

"Apologize if my detective work is interfering with your schedule."

"More stuff from Sawyer hot off the fax," she said. "Even though we're not getting paid, I know you'll want to check this out."

"More on Dean McKellar?"

"I don't rightly know, Porter," Darlene said. "I can't make heads nor tails of what I'm seeing. Looks like your old client up and married a dead man."

Hayes's office had grown warm and muggy, a cool breeze shooting through the open window a welcome change, rattling the paperwork on his desk. He used his Showboats mug to keep the fax sheets from the Cortland Standard and Syracuse Post from flying away, obits and news items about the death of Dean Russell McKellar on January 4, 1992.

Army veteran McKellar, 26, was decorated twice for his service during the Persian Gulf War. State troopers say he lost control of his GMC Yukon on I-81 after hitting a patch of ice. The vehicle then struck a tree, according to reports, killing McKellar on impact at about 1 a.m. His mother, Dorothy McKellar, said her son was an avid hunter and fisherman and a member of Memorial Baptist Church...

Hayes picked up the phone and dialed 411 and asked for Cortland, New York. There was only one D. McKellar listed in the area and he scribbled the number on one of the obits. The phone rang several times before a woman picked up. He asked for Dorothy McKellar and he heard the woman say, "Mom, it's for you."

He wanted to stop the younger woman but soon got, "This is Mrs. McKellar."

"Mrs. McKellar," he said. "My name's Porter Hayes. I'm a private investigator in Memphis, Tennessee. I know it's been a long time, and your son's death still has to be filled with a lot of pain for you, but Dean's name came up in a current investigation."

"Mr. Hayes," she said, "my son died eighteen years ago. Thank you."

The line went dead. Darlene walked in, closed one of the windows, and snatched the empty coffee mug off his desk. He called the number back. After another long series of rings, the younger woman picked up. Darlene returned and set down a mug of hot coffee, steam rising from the lip.

"I don't know who you are or what you want, but calling about my dead brother is about as low as it gets."

"Ma'am," Porter said. "Ma'am. Let me stop you right there. I'm not calling to inflict more pain on y'all. I'm calling because I believe an individual down here might be currently using Dean's identity."

"This sounds like a scam," the woman said. "Who the hell is this?"

"Did your brother have friends in Memphis?"

"No."

"Was he involved in any type of military contracting service after the first Gulf War?"

The woman let out a long breath. And then she sighed. "No," she said. "My brother did his time in the army and had just graduated from Syracuse. He wanted to go to Manhattan and work in finance. I don't know why you're asking me all these questions. I really need to go."

"Ma'am," Hayes said, "if you'll do me a favor, I'm going to give you the number of a woman named Lantana Jones who's a sergeant with the Memphis Police Department. You can call her and she'll be able to vouch for me."

"How about I just call the Memphis police on my own?" she said. "And ask who you really are?"

"Even better," Hayes said. "Let me leave you with my phone number."

Thirty minutes later, the woman called back. The real Dean McKellar's sister's name was Beth. This time she was polite and understanding right until she said, "Okay, now. Just what in the hell is going on, Mr. Hayes?"

"I need you to verify a Social Security number that I've gotten from my client."

"You mind me asking who is your client?"

"Mrs. Dean Russell McKellar."

"You've got to be shitting me."

"I shit you not, Beth."

He heard Beth and her mom go back and forth and then Beth picked up the phone again and said she had it, waiting for Porter to call out the nine numbers.

Porter spoke slowly and carefully.

"Son of a bitch," she said. "How's that even happen? This person just stole my brother's identity and is living it up in Memphis. Who is this asshole?"

"I'm working on it."

Porter looked through the doorframe to Darlene where she'd been listening in and nodded at her. He picked up the phone by the cradle and walked over by the window, the cord trailing behind him. "I'm going to send y'all a photograph of the man using your brother's identity. Can you give me a good address?"

"You think we know him?"

"I don't know," Hayes said. "But at this point, nothing about this case makes a lick of sense."