And I’d give that to you right now if you ask.”
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got people to see.”
He gave her a kiss and pressed a slip of paper in her hand. He hurried down the hall, giving her a terse wave as the elevator swallowed him. She put her fingers to her lips, about to blow him a kiss, but he was gone before she could float the gesture his way.
She looked down at the paper. It was James Whitmore’s phone number. Beneath it, in Mitchell’s neat, obsessive-compulsive writing, was written: “Sweet dreams, Jooolia.”
CHAPTER TEN
Julia met James Whitmore at the hotel bar. She picked him out immediately. He'd told her to look for the man who didn't belong, and that would be him. Whitmore sat on a stool, three hundred pounds, his bald head reflecting the neon beer signs. His face was wrinkled with great folds of ebony skin, but his eyes were clear. He was drinking milk, and a milk mustache contrasted with his broad lips. He nodded at her in the bar mirror as she sat beside him.
"Mr. Whitmore?"
"My, haven't you grown up," he said.
She realized he must be comparing her to the four-year-old Julia, the one whose father disappeared one autumn night long ago.
"Thank you for coming down. I know you don't owe me anything, and you probably had plans for the evening."
"A drink with a pretty lady? Sounds like a plan to me."
The bartender came, and she ordered a gin gimlet. The strong bite of the alcohol kicked away some of the day's accumulated weariness. "I know Mitchell Austin talked to you about my father's case, but I was hoping you might remember something he overlooked."
"Doubtful," Whitmore said. "Lots of people owe him favors. If he asks for something, he usually gets it. You with him?"
"Excuse me?"
"You his girlfriend? Wife? Or, what do they call it now, significant other?"
"We're engaged," she said, taking a second, larger swallow of the gimlet. "Could you please go over the case for me? Just one more time, and I promise I'll leave you alone."
"Not much to add. I wasn't the lead, that was Lieutenant Snead. I was just part of the investigating team. You've seen the case files and the incident report. We put out an APB, sent photos to the FBI and the state agencies, dug into his background to see if anybody had a grudge."
He looked down at her. "We talked to you, too, of course. But you were so confused, you didn't know what happened. My, you were cute. We felt so sorry for you, losing your Dad like that. And the deep cuts on your belly, from the broken window in your room. You must have tried to crawl out."
"The reports said that, besides the broken window, there was no evidence of forced entry and nothing was taken."
"As far as we can tell. Of course, he might have had a million dollars in a paper sack, for all we know."
"He was a high school teacher."
Whitmore looked at her over his glass of milk. "Some people don't like to hear bad stuff about people they thought they knew. What about you?"
"Try me," she said. "I've probably imagined worse things than you can come up with."
He smiled, eliminating the fierceness that would otherwise show in his bold features. "I suppose you have. Well, he could have been into drugs, maybe he was dealing. Couldn't find anybody who dealt with him, but it's not exactly the kind of information you volunteer to the police just to be a good citizen."
The night's band was setting up on the stage at one end of the room. A stringy-haired teenager plugged in a guitar, one of the legion of fast-fingered guitarists that wandered through Memphis on their way to nowhere. Julia had watched them all her life, marveled at the endless power that dreams held on people, dreams that let them lie to themselves about the odds of making it. Or of being happy.
Whitmore's bulbous eyes took in the scene. "Your father was pretty white-bread plain, as far as we could tell. Could be that he tried real hard to make it look that way. Wouldn't be the first."
"No plane
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got people to see.”
He gave her a kiss and pressed a slip of paper in her hand. He hurried down the hall, giving her a terse wave as the elevator swallowed him. She put her fingers to her lips, about to blow him a kiss, but he was gone before she could float the gesture his way.
She looked down at the paper. It was James Whitmore’s phone number. Beneath it, in Mitchell’s neat, obsessive-compulsive writing, was written: “Sweet dreams, Jooolia.”
CHAPTER TEN
Julia met James Whitmore at the hotel bar. She picked him out immediately. He'd told her to look for the man who didn't belong, and that would be him. Whitmore sat on a stool, three hundred pounds, his bald head reflecting the neon beer signs. His face was wrinkled with great folds of ebony skin, but his eyes were clear. He was drinking milk, and a milk mustache contrasted with his broad lips. He nodded at her in the bar mirror as she sat beside him.
"Mr. Whitmore?"
"My, haven't you grown up," he said.
She realized he must be comparing her to the four-year-old Julia, the one whose father disappeared one autumn night long ago.
"Thank you for coming down. I know you don't owe me anything, and you probably had plans for the evening."
"A drink with a pretty lady? Sounds like a plan to me."
The bartender came, and she ordered a gin gimlet. The strong bite of the alcohol kicked away some of the day's accumulated weariness. "I know Mitchell Austin talked to you about my father's case, but I was hoping you might remember something he overlooked."
"Doubtful," Whitmore said. "Lots of people owe him favors. If he asks for something, he usually gets it. You with him?"
"Excuse me?"
"You his girlfriend? Wife? Or, what do they call it now, significant other?"
"We're engaged," she said, taking a second, larger swallow of the gimlet. "Could you please go over the case for me? Just one more time, and I promise I'll leave you alone."
"Not much to add. I wasn't the lead, that was Lieutenant Snead. I was just part of the investigating team. You've seen the case files and the incident report. We put out an APB, sent photos to the FBI and the state agencies, dug into his background to see if anybody had a grudge."
He looked down at her. "We talked to you, too, of course. But you were so confused, you didn't know what happened. My, you were cute. We felt so sorry for you, losing your Dad like that. And the deep cuts on your belly, from the broken window in your room. You must have tried to crawl out."
"The reports said that, besides the broken window, there was no evidence of forced entry and nothing was taken."
"As far as we can tell. Of course, he might have had a million dollars in a paper sack, for all we know."
"He was a high school teacher."
Whitmore looked at her over his glass of milk. "Some people don't like to hear bad stuff about people they thought they knew. What about you?"
"Try me," she said. "I've probably imagined worse things than you can come up with."
He smiled, eliminating the fierceness that would otherwise show in his bold features. "I suppose you have. Well, he could have been into drugs, maybe he was dealing. Couldn't find anybody who dealt with him, but it's not exactly the kind of information you volunteer to the police just to be a good citizen."
The night's band was setting up on the stage at one end of the room. A stringy-haired teenager plugged in a guitar, one of the legion of fast-fingered guitarists that wandered through Memphis on their way to nowhere. Julia had watched them all her life, marveled at the endless power that dreams held on people, dreams that let them lie to themselves about the odds of making it. Or of being happy.
Whitmore's bulbous eyes took in the scene. "Your father was pretty white-bread plain, as far as we could tell. Could be that he tried real hard to make it look that way. Wouldn't be the first."
"No plane
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