SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Page 8

  King decided that he should stick to his strategy of asking neutral questions rather than trying to push Purdy. The only leverage he would have on the old man would be to somehow convince him that coming forward on his own would make it easier on his children and grandchildren. But that might push Purdy into committing suicide.

  "Where in the park did the lynching take place?" King asked.

  "On an island in the marsh. You familiar with that Park?"

  "No. Never been there."

  "It has the second largest marshland in the state after the Everglades. The killers took Harrison out in a boat. They, were clearly familiar with the place, otherwise they'd never have found it. Not in a million years."

  "How did you find it?"

  "Anonymous caller. Told us how to find it. Back then we didn't have any way to ID the caller. Saying it's an island is a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a patch of dry land. But there was a cabin and a dock - illegally built on government land, by the way. They hung him on a pole."

  "Did you recover any physical evidence?"

  "I left it for the FBI. I didn't set foot on that island before they got there. No way those bunglers were going to make me their patsy. Sure enough, they lost it all coming back - got caught in a storm or something. Luckily, they had photographs taken of the crime scene. I only went out there after they were done with it.

  "Did Harrison have any known enemies?"

  "Everyone has enemies, Detective. Even old people like me."

  This was obviously an invitation to ask Purdy who his enemies were, but King decided to ignore it. "Did anyone find any evidence that Harrison was gay? Or that he was involved in a violent sexual relationship?"

  "No way," Purdy said scornfully. "Once the Feds came in, no one looked. We weren't permitted to look. Anyhoo, that would have required the cooperation of the black community. No way was that going to happen."

  "So you're convinced the Klan had no reason to want him dead."

  Purdy shook his head. "No way. He was a successful businessman. A first rate mechanic - hell, I think there were more white people who took their cars to him than blacks. Harrison wanted to make money and no one feared a black man who wanted to get rich." Purdy drew on his cigar and then exhaled slowly. "As long as he knew his place."

  "His place?"

  "You want me to be frank, don't you, Detective King?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. No point in denying the way it was back then. In 1950, segregation of the races was the cornerstone of the Florida State Constitution. It was the law of this State with a capital L. Was it racist? Damned straight it was. But it was the law, Mr. King. No use pretending otherwise. I took an oath to defend the federal constitution and the state constitution when I was sworn in as sheriff. That meant defending segregation with a capital S. That meant arresting any black person who refused to go to the back of the bus, or who drank from a white-only water fountain, or who crossed a bridge to the peninsula and walked on the white-only beach. My point is, Mr. King, that the KKK had nothing to fear from Harrison. He wasn't trying to change the law. He may have been a member of the NAACP. So what? The law was written in stone - the federal and state Constitution. The Klan saw themselves as defending the Constitution. Harrison wanted to expand his business and make more money. Plain and simple. The Klan didn't care about Harrison. He was their ideal Negro, far as they were concerned. He was working within the system and thriving in it. Hell, the Klan probably liked Harrison because he proved that segregation worked, that it was possible for the colored to succeed and become successful businessmen under separate but equal."

  Purdy puffed his cigar and shook his head. "No sir, wasn't the Klan that killed Harrison. Had to involve sex. Gay sex."

  Bullshit, King thought. You're trying to run away from this thing. But there's nowhere to run, sheriff. No one gets out alive.

  "But after the Feds left, you never got beyond the theory?"

  "Could not. No way, no how. No black person would talk to me - on or off the record. Once the Feds got down here and convinced everyone it had to be the Klan. You see, Hoover was a genius at exploiting race hatred for his own benefit. He never had to solve any crimes, racial or otherwise in the South. As you know, not a single person has ever been arrested, let alone tried and convicted for a lynching in the State of Florida, even though we rank right up there with Mississippi and Georgia in the number of lynchings, all black men, of course. No, all Hoover had to do was send in his G-men, stoke up the fires of race hatred and get lots of publicity from the New York Times and other Northeast liberal South-hating newspapers, then pull his men back to D.C. and blame it all on Southern racists - lawmen like me who had sworn to uphold the law. To uphold segregation. If Hoover had lived in Russia they would have taken him out and shot him in the middle of the night. But this being America, they waited until he was dead and then those Washington cowards killed his reputation. While Hoover was alive the politicians were afraid to take a shit for fear there was a camera in their toilet! Like it mattered to Hoover once he was dead and gone!"

  Listening to Purdy, his voice soft and gentle as the breeze off the lake, King was baffled. After all these years, Purdy may have come to believe the story he had told King. Whatever the truth, there was still no point in confronting Purdy with Ryan's accusations about the crime scene - that it was Purdy who had destroyed it. Purdy, he decided, was not going to tell him anything remotely close to the truth. Not today, not ever. It was time to leave.

  "I should be going," King said, getting up. "I thank you for your time, Bob."

  "Pshaw! It's I who should thank you." Purdy stood up. "Once you retire, the only people who want to hear about your life are your grandchildren, and that's only for a few years. When you get to be as old as I am, and you're alone, you end up talking to yourself. So, I'm happy for the company."

  Purdy held out his hand and King shook it. Is he laughing behind those eyes? King wondered. Is it that he knows that I know that he murdered Harrison and he knows there's no way anyone can ever prove it? Or, has he convinced himself that what he told me is the truth? Or, is he terrified that some way, somehow, the truth will come out?

  "I'll walk you out," Purdy said.

  King followed him back through the house. Purdy stood in the driveway as King went to his car. He remained there, watching as King drove away.

  Chapter Ten

  King circled the lake weighing Purdy's version of events following the murder of John Harrison fifty years ago. Many times in his career he had jousted with cold blooded killers in an attempt to elicit a confession. Even in the face of overwhelming proof to the contrary, many of them had maintained their innocence because they could not face family members with the truth.

  If I were Purdy, I'd try to live out my few remaining years without admitting to my daughters that I was involved in a lynching.

  He drove back through town, stopping for an expresso and a blueberry scone at a coffee place on the main street. A tall black woman in her teens took his order from behind the cash register, her baseball cap and apron displaying the corporate logo. What would she say if I told her about John Harrison, that the old white guy who may have lynched him is living just a couple of minutes away? Afterwards, he strolled up one side of the street and then back down the other, ducking into galleries whose walls were hung with paintings that ranged from pastoral Florida landscapes to modern geometric color charts. He found the crafts to be much more interesting. Evidently, Mount Dora had attracted a group of artisans who were considered world class; the group had purchased an abandoned theater dating from the turn of the century and converted it into a workspace. King was not only struck by the quality of their work, but also the extraordinarily high prices they were asking. This, King thought, was the new Orlando metro area - a tourist haven built by the entertainment industry that viewed the past as an irrelevant nuisance except when it could be reshaped into escapist fantasy.

  King liked driving on the old two-lane sta
te roads as opposed to the interstate. It took twice as long, but he never tired of north Florida's unique landscape, changing from rural ranch land and pine scrub to emerald green Kentucky-like grass surrounded by white fence, to what King thought of as deep-south fishing camp locales.

  A half hour from Mount Dora, driving northeast, the highway passed by lakes dotted with small fishing camps packed with trailers and outboard motor boats. Clustered near the camps were motels made up of cabins flanked by gas stations or diners. King could sense people staring at him - it was still unusual for a lone black man to drive through here in a new BMW.

  Motorcycle riders began passing him, some in groups or pairs, and a few solo riders, all heading east. From what he could see, almost all were white men, and try as they might to disguise themselves, it was easy to pick out the ones who were middle aged professionals seeking a brief escape from their day jobs. The real road warriors were much harder looking, their faces showing the wear and tear of their nomadic lives.

  It was late in the afternoon when King pulled into a fishing-camp seafood place that Sands had told him about years ago. Sands had learned of it from a high school classmate, now a psychologist, who worked in St. Augustine, but lived on a nearby lake where he spent his free time fishing and tinkering with motorcycles. Well known among locals, the restaurant, which had been purposely built to look ramshackle, had not suffered the effects of exposure in the media or travel books. He was not surprised to see a triple row of motorcycles parked in the lot - if anyone knew where to find the best cheap eats it was the bikers.

  While it looked decrepit from the outside, it was immediately obvious that the ramshackle exterior was merely a façade for a well-run business. King was greeted by a pretty young woman who gave him a choice of sitting outside on the dock or inside the screened dining room. He chose the screened dining room, as he knew the mosquitoes would soon start biting.

  He ordered one of the house specialties, grilled grouper, with hush puppies and fries along with a light beer, then went to the rest room. When he returned to his table he found a basket of fresh baked bread, his beer, and a cell phone. A moment after he sat down the phone rang and he picked it up.

  "So," the voice said, "is Purdy our guy?"

  The accent was local, not deep southern.

  "Is this Rebel or Plessy?" King asked.

  "What do you think?"

  "You tell me."

  "Take your pick."

  "What can I do for you, Rebel?"

  "For starters, answer my question."

  "You want me to talk to you here, in the dining room?"

  "Just stay put. You see anyone else sitting near you?"

  King glanced about. The server had given him a table that was at the opposite end of the dining room from any other diners. He felt like an idiot for not having picked up on this.

  "Answer is, I don't know."

  "When will you know?"

  "Don't know that either."

  "You don't know much, do you?"

  King heard the silent boy at the end of the sentence. He wanted to hit back, but stopped himself. The best way to draw out information was by using the soft touch.

  "I'm as frustrated as you are - don't you think I want to get the killer?"

  "Boo-hoo. I'm drowning in tears. You got anything for me?"

  "Nothing that will stand up in court."

  "We ain't in court."

  "That's not what Plessy said in his note. He said he's the judge and I'm on the prosecution team."

  "Did he now? Well, be that as it may, you best not tarry, Mister. If you got something, we want to know about it."

  "You think Purdy is dumb enough to tell me anything important? He says he tried to catch the killer, but the FBI screwed up the crime scene."

  "No surprise there. You didn't buy that crap, did you?"

  "It's possible. The way he tells it, Hoover's guys didn't want the crime solved. He claims he had a theory he couldn't pursue, thanks to their incompetence."

  "So, what's his big theory?"

  "Sex crime - Harrison was gay."

  Rebel's high pitched laugh, almost a squeal, came through the receiver. "What a crock!" he yelled. "Purdy be damned! What a bullshit artist! Sounds like you got us our man."

  King felt a wave of anxiety roll up through his gut. He's going to go there and kill him unless you talk him out of it.

  "Wait just a minute. I never said that. Don't jump to that conclusion. You could be wrong."

  "Even if I am, it's just one less asshole sheriff in the world, right? Oh, and leave the phone on the table when you go."

  To King's horror, the phone went dead. Using his own cell, he dialed Bob Purdy's number.

  Picking up after a couple of rings, Purdy said, "You must have thought of something real important you forgot to ask."

  "How'd you know it was me?"

  "I don't get many calls, Mr. King. And the ones I do get, from my children mostly, always come on Sunday morning. Easier for all of us that way."

  "I'm calling to warn you, Sheriff. I was followed from your place. I just got a call from one of the two men who put me into this thing. He thinks you killed Harrison and he's threatening to kill you."

  "He'd be going me a favor."

  "This is not a joke, Sheriff. You have to take this guy seriously - he's a bomb maker, and a good one."

  "Even better. I'll never know what hit me."

  "Stop talking like that, Bob. These guys will be caught. Can you stay with one of your daughters in the meantime?"

  "No can do. I'm not exposing them to these fruit flies. Besides, I can defend myself best right here on my own home turf."

  "I'm only talking about a week or two - a month at most."

  "Naw. When my day comes, I won't run and hide. But I thank you, Mr. King, for warning me."

  "If you see anything suspicious, you call me, day or night."

  From the other end came a spate of harsh laughter. "I'll do that, Mr. King. That's just what I'll do. You have a good day, now. And don't you worry about me. I've dealt with lots of scumbags and I'm still here."

  Purdy ended the call.

  King signaled for the server and she came over to his table.

  "I have an emergency. Can you make my order to go?"

  "No problem."

  Following Rebel's direction, he left the phone on the table and returned to the front of the restaurant. When his server brought him the order, now neatly packaged to go, she said, "It's taken care of."

  "By who?"

  The server shrugged and smiled.

  Once he was back in his car, King called Sands and filled him in on what had just happened.

  "We've got to come up with something that will keep these maniacs at bay," King said.

  "Is there any point in going back to Tom Ryan?"

  "Not really. I can't see him being involved in a cover-up."

  "That leaves only one person."

  "Karen Smith. And she told me she never wants to see or hear from me again. She meant it."

  "Understood. But she's way too frightened of the killers. There has to be a name behind her fear."

  Sands could be right, King reflected. Smith would not have been so terrified unless she knew something, possibly even the name of the killer. It didn't matter whether she had obtained it from her mother. Just knowing the name was enough to put her and her family in jeopardy.

  "I'll give it another try. But I doubt she'll even agree to talk to me."

  "Call me either way," Sands said. "I'll call Baggett and the AG's office and tell them to get some protection around Purdy."

  King started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He knew where he could hook up with the interstate. He would take it to straight to the Orlando airport. There were so many flights each hour to New York that he could be back in Queens in time to see Smith that night, or at worst, tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  He landed at JFK at six that evening. He had arranged for a car
service to pick him up and take him directly to Karen Smith's home, a semi-detached Tudor surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges in a middle class black neighborhood. The driver waited for him as he got out and walked to the door.

  King rang the bell. The door was opened by a handsome youth; the son, King guessed, who was named for John Harrison.

  "Can I help you?" the youth asked.

  "Is Karen home?"

  "Can I ask who wants to see her?"

  "My name's Ty King. You must be John." The youth nodded without smiling. "I spoke to her a few days ago at work. If she's home, could you please ask her if she'll speak to me again."

  "Excuse me, I'll be right back."

  The youth closed the door. A minute passed and King wondered if Smith intended to just ignore him. He decided not to ring the bell again. If Smith wouldn't see him, so be it.

  King heard footsteps and the door opened. Smith's son met King's eyes. "She said to tell you she has nothing more to say to you."

  Remembering that Smith had purposely kept her son from knowing anything about his uncle's lynching, King chose his next words carefully.

  "I understand. Look, I apologize for being a pest, but could you just tell her it will only involve five minutes of her time. Then I'll leave, and I'll never bother her again - that's a promise."

  "I'll ask her," the taciturn youth said, shutting the door again.

  A couple more minutes passed before King heard footsteps and the door was opened again, this time by Karen Smith. She was dressed casually in jeans, a denim shirt, and athletic shoes.

  "Come in, Mr. King," she said, her voice weary.

  "Thank you, Ms. Smith."