The Best of Evil

  Her tirade was slowly building steam, and more troublesome, it was fueled by truth. The hours had been long, and she’d borne the brunt of it.

  “Hold on,” I said, trying to do damage control.

  “Hold on?”

  “Please. Just gimme a couple more minutes. Can we talk about it then?”

  Silence.

  Golden and beautiful at first, the silence started to worry me a bit. Had I pushed too far? Then, with the sound of water running in the sink and dishes clanking, I was reassured of Brianne’s presence. She was pouting. I made a mental note to pick up something special on the way to her place tonight.

  Into the search box, I typed the words: “Meriwether Lewis. Whip. Riding Crop. Spanish Gold.”

  Although the combination of terms brought up interesting results, one particular item stood out. Might seem like a small thing, but in light of everything else, it was significant.

  In St. Louis, the Jefferson Memorial’s collection displays a number of Lewis’s belongings, including a watch that was discovered in a New Orleans pawnshop. The watch, as well as a diary, a revolver, and a compass, were donated to the memorial by one of Lewis’s relatives—the great-great-grandson of Lewis’s sister, Jane Lewis Anderson.

  Jane Lewis Anderson … Dianne Lewis Black.

  Could it be true? Mom’s name was more than a coincidence?

  I became a man convinced. From childhood horror to recent robbery and murder, the weight was too much to carry. I took a breath, set down this pack of denial, and allowed myself to look over the items inside. No matter how much the truth hurt, I needed to understand; I couldn’t keep tying up these issues and throwing them over my shoulder.

  Let’s see where this leads.

  I scrolled further down the page of search results. There was more, of course. Much more. With time running short, however, I highlighted the sections of interest and sent them to my printer. The ancient machine shook to life and started spitting out sheets of information.

  “Almost done, Brianne. One more minute.”

  “Fine. No big rush.”

  Her calm tone reassured me that things would be okay.

  “Be right there.” I gathered the papers, folded them in half, and slipped them into my apron’s front pouch. Rounding the kitchen corner, I found her with her back turned. “Brianne, you’re an angel. Okay. Your turn off the clock.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I thought you were anxious to go. Farmers’ Market, all that.”

  “You said you love calzone.” She faced me.

  “Yeah. Sounds great.”

  “You also kissed me.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Yeah?”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  I shifted my weight. My gaze brushed over her lips, then I looked past her into the dining area, where Mrs. Thompson was at her regular seat and a student was bobbing his head to iPod tunes.

  “Uh. You’re right, Brianne. That was a mistake.”

  She mouthed the words “a mistake,” then pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

  Relieved to see we were on the same page, I said, “So are we still on? We can be mature adults, right? Have dinner. Keep it platonic. Enjoy getting to know each other better as friends. If, of course, you can forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?”

  “For a stupid kiss.”

  Her voice rose in volume and pitch, and she paid no attention to my gestures to keep it down. “Aramis, how can you be so blind? You already seem to have a habit of leaving me behind. Every day it’s the same. Obviously your own company is so engaging that I would only be in the way at dinner, no matter how platonic you think it could be. What was I thinking? Yes, you’re cute. I even thought you were nice and”—she barked out a laugh—“sensitive.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “You want calzone, Aramis?” She threw down a wet rag, and a loud splaattt sounded throughout the shop. “Make it yourself.”

  “I can’t cook.”

  “Then I guess you’ll starve, leaving me with one less thing to worry about.”

  “Which one? Me or the calzone?”

  As usual, it was an ill-timed attempt to get a laugh.

  Brianne tore the hair tie from her blond locks, then turned and marched out the front door.

  Before it swung closed, Samantha Rosewood stepped through. She looked professional in a tailored burgundy suit with an ivory silk blouse underneath. The place responded to her presence. Heads turned. The polished wood and brass seemed to gleam a bit brighter.

  “Is everything under control?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wasn’t that Brianne? She seemed upset.”

  “Personal issues. Sammie, I’m glad to see you. You look … fantabulous. What’re you up to? Here to check on my questionable operation?”

  “Actually,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I don’t come often enough to enjoy this fine establishment. I’ve made arrangements to meet someone here for lunch.”

  “You and who?”

  “Johnny Ray.”

  “Oh.”

  On the scale of gleaming good cheer, the mahogany and brass dropped back down a notch.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pushing seven o’clock, I ran through the closing procedures. Some say the shop should stay open later on Fridays, but in Nashville’s West End the options for weekend entertainment exceed the draw of a modest espresso shop.

  Plus, I have a life. Or so I like to believe.

  “Sir? We’re closing the doors in one minute. Can I take that mug for you?”

  “Do you always rush your customers like this?” The man looked up from his notebook computer, his face made bitter by the screen’s pale glow. “This is the second or third time in the last five minutes that you’ve made an issue of this.”

  “I apologize, but—”

  “I’m the customer. You can’t tell me to leave.”

  I hooked the mug with a finger. “I’m the manager. It’s time to lock my doors. I still have things to do, especially since my employee never returned from her lunch break.”

  “Lunch? That was hours ago.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmm. Hardly surprising.” The man clicked his computer shut and strolled out slowly enough to prove he was doing so on his own terms.

  I try not to stereotype. Honestly. Yet with hospitals and medical clinics throughout this district, I could guarantee the guy was a pharmaceutical rep. A very well-paid drug dealer with a big expense account. Nice clothes and car to go with it.

  What a day.

  Breakfast kicked it off with Johnny’s and Uncle Wyatt’s family secrets. Lunch consisted of me staying as busy as possible, trying to ignore the banter between my brother and Ms. Rosewood. Dinner …

  Well, there was no dinner. I’d smacked those plans down hard.

  At least the undercover boys would be in for a long, dull night.

  With the shop door locked and the lights turned low, I sat on a stool and perused the pages I’d printed earlier. I was surprised by the number of sites dedicated to the life of unfortunate Governor Lewis. Most of them documented his accomplishments on the Lewis and Clark expedition; others detailed the events surrounding his untimely and mysterious death; conspiracy theories ranged from “worth consideration” to “who thinks up this nonsense?”

  I made a list.

  General James Wilkinson …

  It’s well-documented that Wilkinson received from the king of Spain tens of thousands of dollars for his betrayals—often in gold. Andrew Jackson was so incensed by these shenanigans that he challenged Wilkinson to a duel and called him a “double traitor.” With sly ease, Wilkinson avoided such confrontations.

  Governor Meriwether Lewis …

  Lewis kept record of Wilkinson’s suspicious activities and even brought them to the president’s attention as early as 1804. With new gossip circulating, Lewis headed from his outpost in St. Louis to the hall
s of power, carrying two trunks of personal belongings and documents. A man with a mission.

  Agent James Neelly …

  Less understood—but certainly conspicuous in retrospect—was Neelly’s entrance on the scene in late September of 1809. He was a personal appointee of General Wilkinson.

  Was he sent to keep an eye on Lewis? To steal his papers? Or to end his life?

  At Chickasaw Bluffs near Memphis, where the Wolf River runs into the mighty Mississippi, Neelly joined Lewis and his servant. He acted as their escort from Fort Pickering to the perilous Natchez Trace. The morning after they crossed the Tennessee River, Neelly told them to go ahead to Grinder’s Stand while he went after two packhorses that he claimed had been spooked during the previous night’s thunderstorm.

  The horses were carrying some of Meriwether Lewis’s sealed pouches.

  The next day Lewis was dead, but it wasn’t until the following week that Agent Neelly reported it, calling it a suicide.

  Lewis’s artifacts …

  There are quite a few still floating around.

  Transcripts from the PBS show History Detectives include an episode with a Minnesota man who stumbled upon an exquisitely crafted cane, which he believed to be a Lewis family heirloom.

  The Oregon Historical Society’s site mentions a collection of artifacts that belonged to Lewis, including a branding iron with U.S. Capt. M. Lewis engraved on it. The brand was found among rocks on the north shore of the Columbia River.

  I could find no site, however, documenting a whip—bullwhip, horsewhip, or otherwise—though Lewis’s journals did mention an Indian giving a horse “the whip.” Lewis, being an accomplished horseman, was known to use riding crops.

  Maybe Lewis owned a riding crop with markings that indicated the location of buried riches.

  The more I mulled it over, the more plausible the idea seemed.

  A quarter after eight. Would the detective be at the West Precinct?

  I found his card and dialed. He answered on the second ring.

  “Investigations Unit, Detective Reginald Meade.”

  “Reginald? As in Reggie?”

  “Reginald. As in Detective. Who am I speaking with?”

  “This is Aramis. Dude, you work some long hours, don’t you?”

  “I was packing up and heading home just as you called.”

  “To see your wife and kid …”

  “They’re the reason I do this job.” His voice was stern. “That’s what it’s all about for me, trying to make this world a safer place.”

  “I admire that, Detective. You’re certainly the best cop I know.”

  “Until this Rasputin Rapist is behind bars, that’s a matter of debate. But we may have our man. We had an incident at Brianne Douglas’s place not too long ago. Guess you hadn’t made it over for dinner yet.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. We took your homeless friend into custody.”

  “Freddy C? Tell me you’re joking.”

  “An undercover officer caught him moving toward the back corner of Brianne’s building, confronted him, and took him down with a Taser.”

  “He’s a harmless old guy!”

  “He was armed. It was fully within the officer’s rights.”

  “Armed with what? A recycled Pepsi can?”

  “You’re not being objective. The truth requires us to lay aside assumptions and prejudices. You’re a case in point.”

  “Huh?”

  “You realize, Aramis, that you’ve been a suspect—considering your presence at the party with Jessica Tyner and the hair specimen found on your property.”

  Yes, all along I’d guessed this. But to hear it said aloud? Considering my past troubles with the law, it made me a bit jumpy.

  “Do I believe you’re guilty?” Meade continued. “Down in my gut? No. It does create a measure of caution on my part, however. You know the license plate you had me run? Guess whose name came up. Parole Officer Leroy Parker.”

  “As I suspected.”

  “I spoke with him and found out he’s been investigating you on his own, concerned that you had something to do with Darrell Michaels’s murder.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “But it’s one of the options I need to consider.”

  Were my suspicions of Parker misplaced?

  “Considering Freddy C,” Detective Meade said, “he’s on camera, caught in your parking lot the day you discovered the handkerchief was missing. Did he plant the hair, trying to set you up? Was he trying to scare you so you’d take future threats against Ms. Douglas seriously? I’m still chewing on these questions.”

  I was doing the same. This could explain Freddy’s nervous behavior in the past week. Was he a man with a guilty conscience, bearing secrets from Chicago? I thought again about his name.

  C for Chicago. C for Custodian. What about … C for Child Molester?

  Was he a predator hoping to get caught? To be saved from himself?

  “Would you like me to tell you what he was carrying, Aramis?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “A pair of scissors. Inevitably, they get nicked and dulled by use, and they’re often stained by adhesive and other residues. Within forty-eight hours, the lab should be able to determine if the blades match the incision patterns on Ms. Tyner’s hair.”

  “Brianne? Are you alone?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s me,” I said into the phone. “Aramis.”

  “I know who it is, but I … Will you forgive me for walking out on you?”

  “I deserved it.”

  “You did. It was still wrong of me, considering it’s my job. Or was my job.”

  “It’s a new day tomorrow,” I said. “A clean slate.”

  “You were right about not mixing work and relationships.”

  “It makes things tough.”

  “It’s been tough enough running the shop on my own,” she said.

  “Ouch.” I laughed out loud. “Seriously, Brianne, you’ve been great. I want you to stay, as long as you promise not to run out again.”

  “Wait a second. You need me to stay, don’t you?”

  “That’s why I hire employees.”

  “What is it this time? Where’re you going tomorrow?”

  “Listen. There’s always stuff to get done.”

  “Are you meeting that detective?”

  “Detective Meade.”

  “I knew it.”

  The tone of her voice planted a small doubt that rolled through my head and got stuck, like a pebble in the grooved tread of a shoe. Why should she care about my dealings with the police? Bringing her back might not be such a good idea after all. I could see us repeating the pattern—her age and our chemistry.

  What had come over me anyway? I’d planted a hard kiss on her lips, in my shop.

  Samantha Rosewood, investor and dining partner, would object on all sorts of levels—and she would be justified on every one of them.

  Unless, of course, the objection involved Sammie’s personal feelings for me. In that case, Sammie could forget about it. She’d sacrificed her classy facade the moment I saw her getting all giggly around my brother.

  Talented and nice? I’d give Johnny that much.

  Good-looking? Say it with me: “fake tan.”

  “Aramis,” Brianne said, “I’m worried. You know they found a guy outside my apartment. I think it was that homeless guy who comes into Black’s sometimes. I’ve got undercover cops sitting outside as we speak. Detective Meade knows you were coming for dinner and said they’ll stay until you get here.”

  “But I thought … the way I acted …”

  “Let’s just forget what happened this afternoon and start fresh. Like you said, a clean slate. But no need to wait until tomorrow. You and me, with food and candlelight. Friends, keeping each other company on a Friday night.”

  “Friends,” I said. “I’ll be over in a few.”

  Bad idea? Probably. When it
comes to women, I don’t always row my boat with both oars.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Enter,” said Brianne, “if you dare.”

  “Funny.”

  “Turn and wave good-bye to the gentleman in the unmarked car.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that’s unmarked.”

  She giggled at her own joke, but as soon as she said it, I knew which one she meant. It was parked beneath a streetlight, the cabin in shadow.

  I waved. Brianne laughed.

  As the car pulled out, the window lowered, and the driver gave us a sly salute.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Okay,” Brianne urged. “Let’s get to the calzone. It’s already nine thirty.”

  “It’s Friday. The night is young.”

  “Please tell me you won’t be making comments like that the whole time you’re here. Just friends—that was our agreement.”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “You know it.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  The condominium was spacious, efficient, and orderly. The living room and dining room joined somewhere in the middle, with a long marble bar separating them from the kitchen. The cabinets were teak, with spring hinges on the doors and gliding drawers. The appliances gleamed black and silver, with a hanging rack for pots and pans.

  “Beautiful place.”

  “Glad you noticed.”

  “All this on an espresso-shop paycheck?”

  Her face darkened. “I didn’t have a lot growing up. I swore never to live that way again, so I started pinching pennies, saving up till I could buy the best or nothing at all.”

  I looked around. “I can see what you mean. Very stylish.”

  “Thanks.” She handed me a lighter. “Can you get the candles?”

  While I circled the table, Brianne hit a button on a remote, and Andrea Bocelli’s rich voice seeped into the air. White plates sat sparkling on black cotton place mats. Stemware reflected the flames as each candle leaped to life. Brianne moved around the bar and slipped on oven mitts, so I dropped the lighter into my pocket. I’d hand it back when she was finished.