The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (12 page)

“Let me guess. You’re the reporter who messed up our crime scene and jeopardized our case. We’ve heard all about you. Are you the man with the strung-out name? John-Riley-Hubbard.”

“I don’t know if I’m jeopardizing anything, but I’m Hubbard.”

She nodded. “I’m Special Agent Lisa Longinotti with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you like to step into the sheriff’s office for a moment?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then I’d love to.” He held out his arm toward the door, allowing her to go first.

Agent Longinotti opened the door and strode through, making an oversized announcement as if she was a magician preparing the audience for the unexpected rabbit. “Look who I found wandering about.”

Hubbard made a tentative entrance, uncertain of the rabbit’s duties on stage.

Sgt. Connors bolted up from his chair as if he’d been goosed. His hand shot forward, pointing at Hubbard. “That’s him,” Connors said. “He’s that son-of-a-bitch Hubbard.
He’s
responsible for this mess.”

The agents in shirt sleeves sprang from their chairs, looking as if they wanted to tackle Hubbard. Fortunately, they waited for instructions from the man behind the desk.

There were too many people in the room to focus on them all, so Hubbard turned to the middle-aged agent. “Hi, welcome to Hayslip, Arkansas. We’re glad you’re here.”

“That’s on the sign coming into town,” Connors said.

“It bears repeating,” Hubbard said.

The senior agent let his pen drop on the pad. He leaned back in his chair and sized up Hubbard. The agent let the tension build and do its work on Hubbard, like solvent on a rusted bolt. The older man was good. So skilled at this interrogation tactic, it took a moment for Hubbard to find his bearings. Why was his act so familiar? Hubbard looked down at his work boots and sighed quietly. The man behind the desk played the game well, but R. J. Hubbard wrote the book.

“You’re the reporter with three names,” the agent said. “I was expecting someone more ominous from your description.” He glanced at Connors, and then returned his focus to Hubbard. Putting great emphasis on each name, he said, “John-Riley-Hubbard, I am Thomas-Antonio-Eduardo-Ramirez, Special Agent-in-Charge for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Hubbard was silent, but it seemed like Ramirez wanted a response before proceeding. “I like your names. You beat me by one.”

Ramirez ignored Hubbard’s comment. “Under the tenets of the Patriot Act, I can put you in jail right now, without charges, and keep you there for as long as I want.”

Connors eased up beside Agent Ramirez like they were co-captains of the team. He broke into a grin so wide; it was like the Arkansas Lottery had called his number.

Ramirez looked at one of the agents standing behind Hubbard. “Agent Ryan, contact the Little Rock office and see how long it will take them to get prisoner transport to come to Hayslip.”

Connors beamed broadly and looked like he wanted to dance a jig.

There was a momentary hesitation in the voice coming from behind Hubbard. “Y—Yes, sir.” Hubbard turned around to watch the agent leave. He glanced at Toil and Eddie, their expression of horror was unmoving, locked in place like the hardened ash forms of faces uncovered at Pompeii.

“How does the Patriot Act apply? Are you saying that the Arab kid was a terrorist? Or that he was killed by terrorists?”

Ramirez head went backward slightly, as if he was surprised by the pushback. He leaned forward. “I ask the questions. You answer them.”

Hubbard realized that he needed to dial back any perception that he was challenging Ramirez’s authority. “Yes, sir. Fair enough.”

Hubbard’s prepared for his role in the coming drama. It would be challenging, Ramirez was experienced. Hubbard’s advantage was that Ramirez had no time to prepare. And his subordinates, as demonstrated by Agent Ryan’s momentary hesitation, were inexperienced.

Ramirez’s instruction to get prisoner transport was bullshit.

Longinotti walked to a chair to the right of the desk and sat down. Connors had made a move for it, but stopped when Longinotti grabbed it. He remained standing behind Ramirez, arms folded, smirking.

Hubbard looked down at the floor, his mind hoping for the best outcome possible.
Please don’t tell Connors to leave. Please don’t tell Connors to leave. Please don’t tell Connors—

“Have a seat,” Ramirez said, indicating that he wanted Hubbard to sit in the worn oak chair at the front of the desk.

Hubbard sat down.

Longinotti was relegated to the sidelines for this, but she was more troubling for Hubbard than Ramirez. She seemed to size him up quite differently from her boss. Her expression was set, and her eyes narrowed into a laser-like focus. Hubbard prayed she had the good sense not to interrupt her agent-in-charge boss.

Ramirez leaned back into his chair, appearing confident and relaxed. “Well, for a reporter at a small town weekly newspaper you seem to be quite dedicated to your job. Up and at ’em quite early in the morning, are you?”

Hubbard’s eyes flashed toward the trooper and his head tilted in a nod so subtle it was almost subliminal. He hoped it looked like Connors had communicated through an expression visible only to Hubbard, perhaps encouragement. He needed for this to last for a moment longer before Connors exploded in outrage. He returned his focus to Ramirez.

“I’m a farmer. I get an early start every morning,” Hubbard said.

“But yesterday morning, how did you know a body had been discovered in Shanty Town?”

Connors shifted forward in his seat causing the old chair to creak.

Hubbard pretended to be distracted by the squeak. A slight furrow in his forehead appeared, a trace of a grimace, trying to convey the idea that he was concerned that Connors might be reacting nervously to the interrogation, giving them both away. His face returned to the innocent expression that a child assumes when he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Longinotti looked away from Hubbard for the first time and leaned back to check out Sgt. Connors.

“Police scanner.” Hubbard turned to Connors. “Cal, tell them a police scanner can pick up the state police.”

Connors seemed startled by the stupid question. “Yeah, of course it can. Everyone knows that.”

Hubbard was pleased by his support. “Thanks. See?” he said, in as warm a voice he could create.

Connors scowled.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Three Names,” Ramirez said. “You’ve got someone local here that’s feeding you information about the crime. We’re going to close up that leak. Close it up, permanently.”

Hubbard eyes grew wide in faux fear. He stared at one of Connor’s shirt buttons then looked at Ramirez. “P—Please I have a daughter. If you think we’re working together—”

“We?” Ramirez said. His eyebrows rose in showy curiosity. The reporter wouldn’t be hard to break.

“Well, I thought that’s what you meant. Didn’t you?
Are you playing me?
What do you already know?” Hubbard acted like a desperate man and tried to appear like he was struggling to not look at Connors for guidance.

Hubbard’s eyes flashed in the direction of Toil, still sitting, but sweating profusely. The sheriff looked like he was trapped in a sauna fully clothed. Fortunately, Hubbard and Connors were the two lead players in this drama and had the focus of the audience.

“I really don’t want to lock you up,” Ramirez said. “I didn’t know you had a daughter. How old is she?”

“Ten,” he said. “She needs her dad.”

“I have a daughter, too. Tell me who told you about the murder and you’ll be home tonight.”

“I’m not working with anyone. If you think Cal and I are . . .”

Connors had been rocking back and forth on his feet like a tea kettle in a cartoon. He boiled over. “It’s a lie.”

Hubbard looked at Connors like he was an ally. He nodded vigorously. “Damn straight it’s a lie,” he told Ramirez, nodding at Connors. “We both categorically deny it. I consider Calvin a friend, a good friend. But he never gave me any information about the Arab’s murder that morning.”

“That’s another lie,” Connors bellowed. His denial felt as strong as a gale-force wind.

Hubbard’s face became concerned by Connors admission.

Connors realized that his outburst worked against him. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“Small towns, I hate them all.” Ramirez said. “Everybody’s somebody’s cousin. I’ll never get to the bottom of this and you’re all wasting my time. Connors, get out of here. We’ll be out there in a minute.”

“But . . .” Connors said, wanting to begin a renewed defense of his innocence.

“Out. Right now. Ramirez pointed at the door. “Not another word or I’ll call your captain to complain about your professionalism.”

Connors seemed struck by fear. A complaint by the FBI’s Special Agent-in-Charge to his boss would probably join a long list of existing grievances. Connors trudged for the exit.

Ramirez pointed to the remaining agents. “The sheriff and deputy will show you every entrance to this building. I want them all secured.”

Toil, Eddie, and the remaining agents headed out the rear exit. When the office door closed, Ramirez turned back to Hubbard. “Look Riley, or Riley John. I’m going to give you a break because you have a daughter. I know you’re going to write something for the local paper, but don’t get in our way again. And, of course, if you find out anything about the murder, I expect you to inform us. This is a federal investigation. Understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, to show you how easy it can be to work with me,” Ramirez pointed to a file on top of a side table and nodded at Longinotti. “We’re going to provide you with a photo of the victim for your paper before it’s released to any other media outlet. You can tell your editor that your paper is the first to receive it. We’ll be releasing it a little later to everyone else.”

The advance release didn’t make much difference to a weekly newspaper, but Mrs. Welsh would be pleased that the FBI acknowledged her paper’s importance to the community.

“Thank you,” Hubbard said.

Longinotti seemed to have problems handing over the photo to Hubbard. “But sir, I thought—”

Ramirez appeared irritated by her tentative objection. “Get it.”

Longinotti got up and went to retrieve the folder.

Ramirez turned back to Hubbard. “All we have now is the Arab’s driver’s license photo, but were trying to track down other images.”

Longinotti handed him a small envelope from the folder. She also handed him a card. “Here’s my business card. Send me an e-mail and I’ll get the Little Rock office to send you a digital copy.”

“Thanks,” Hubbard said, and began to open the clasp on the small yellow packet.

“We’ve got to get to work. Let’s go.” Ramirez reached for his coat on the back of the chair and headed for the front door. He stopped at the door to deliver one final threat. “I’m telling you once. No more unofficial releases of information under strict penalty of federal law. You were lucky this time. Next time, it’ll be different.” Ramirez exited.

Hubbard looked at the photo. As Ramirez had said, it was Amir’s driver’s license photo, the same one that Toil showed Hubbard at the ditch. In the photo, Amir, wearing a yellow polo shirt, stared directly into the camera . . .
with no trace of a smile
.

They had doctored the photo, transforming the Arab into a close, but not exact replica of the student. Amir didn’t look like Amir anymore.

Hubbard felt his brow creased in confusion, and quickly tried to hide his reaction. He returned the photo to the envelope. He looked up and met Longinotti’s intense gaze with as blank a face as he could manage.

She met his eyes directly. He might not have been able to disguise his reaction, but she couldn’t hide the thoughts behind her concerned expression either—she knew that Hubbard realized the photo had been altered.

After an uncomfortable moment, she left the office in Ramirez’s wake.

Hubbard was now alone in the office and sighed in relief. The hallway door sprang open, and Sheriff Toil and Eddie burst into the room, still unsettled by the confrontation.

Toil was breathing hard; one hand was on his chest. His other hand wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Oh man, I thought they were going to send you to Guantanamo Bay. What happened?”

Hubbard shrugged. “Ramirez told me to be quiet about the case under penalty of law.”

Eddie grinned. “Us too,” he said.

Hubbard smiled back. It was as if they all had been inducted into a secret club. He looked at his watch. Emily would be home within minutes.

This was going to be a day to remember.

12

T
HE
S
URPRISING
M
RS.
E
SPINOZA

T
EN MINUTES BEFORE HIS EX-WIFE
was scheduled to drop Emily off, Hubbard parked his truck at the side of his house. By the time it became twenty minutes after one p.m., he was pacing nervously on his front porch. His ex-wife was frequently late, and he tried not to read more into her tardiness than necessary. But still, he could never be certain about anything that involved the ex-Mrs. Hubbard.

From the porch, he heard Anne’s Honda Accord turn off the dirt road onto the farm’s gravel driveway. Hubbard waited expectantly, and a moment later he saw the sedan as it rounded the row of pine trees. The car left the farm’s driveway after another thirty yards, and parked on his lawn facing the porch.

Thanks,
he thought. His lawn needed some new tire ruts. No matter what she did, and he knew it would be galling, he couldn’t lose sight of the goal—Emily at home.

Hubbard tried to see what was going on in her vehicle. Bright sunlight reflected blue skies and white clouds on the glass, obscuring the car’s interior. He could tell Anne was sitting behind the wheel, but there was a stranger in the passenger seat. Emily had to be in the back seat.

The couple seemed to be having an argument. He remembered many such lively conversations with her. He became impatient waiting for them to resolve their conflict and stepped off the porch.

Anne’s door opened, followed by Emily’s. The trunk lock was released and the lid popped up.

Emily didn’t have her usual smiling face, her bottom lip was pressing against the upper one as if she were steeling herself for a vaccination shot. She marched toward the house, dodging Hubbard’s outstretched arms. “I hate you,” she said to Hubbard, and went inside, letting the screen door slam behind her, venting her ten-year-old fury.

Hubbard cleared his throat and turned to Anne who was carrying a child’s suitcase. It was a very small bag, considering she was to be here for at least the summer.

Hubbard pointed at the pink suitcase. “Is that all of Emily’s things you brought?” He tried his best to make the question sound light, happy, and free from frustration. As if bringing none of her clothes was an inspired idea.

Anne produced a smile that managed to show a remarkable number of white teeth. At one time, he thought she had a great smile. Now her bared mouth looked like an alligator’s grin.

“She’s growing so much; I thought you’d probably want to buy her a new wardrobe that fit her. I’m keeping the rest of her stuff at home. A young girl needs the reassurance of having a secure home with her mama.”

“Yes, of course. I see what you mean. It makes perfect sense. Um . . . Why is Emily so upset?”

“Children can always tell, can’t they? They have a remarkable sense about people. They can see into the dark troubled soul of an adult and just—
know
.” Anne made a gesture toward Hubbard as if he was the example that illustrated her point.

Hubbard took a deep breath, releasing his tension. He turned back to her car, trying to see through the reflections on the windshield to the man still inside.

“Why doesn’t your friend get out? I’d like to meet him.”
And give him my condolences
.

“Oh, no. I’m not making that mistake again. You end up destroying all my relationships.”

Hubbard’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “How do I—”

“Don’t play innocent with me. As soon as any of my men meet you, everything starts to fall apart. They say they don’t think you’re as bad as I told them: You’re not a monster, they say—ha! Then they begin to think there’s something wrong with me. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Hubbard paused to make a measured reply. “I don’t think meeting me is the reason they’d think something’s wrong with—”

“Well, what else could it be? Now let’s talk about child support.”

“I thought you would pay me the same amount I was—”

“Oh, no. I’m not doing this to make things worse for me.” Anne pointed at the farmhouse. “I can go in there and drag Emily back to her loving home.” She took a step toward Hubbard’s front door.

Hubbard reached out for her. “No, no, no, you’d don’t have to pay any child support. I got it. No problem.”

“In fact, I was thinking your payments would just continue.” Anne looked at Hubbard intently.

Hubbard was stunned. “I—I don’t have that kind of money . . . You know that.”

“I figured you’d pull a stunt like that . . . Okay, I’ll carry you for a while, but we’ll talk about it again at the end of summer.”

Hubbard’s mood soared. It was the first time Anne had hinted Emily’s stay might continue past summer. “Sure . . . sure.” He reminded himself to keep his mouth shut. He made a gesture toward her car and its occupant. “I’m happy things are going so well for you.”

Anne put her hand on Hubbard’s arm, squeezing his bicep. “He’s just as strong as you are. Maybe stronger.”

An indistinct noise came from the car. It was muted, like a dull thump.

Hubbard glanced at the mirror-like windshield and pulled his arm away from her. “What’re you doing?”

“My man can be very jealous . . . and he’s not afraid to fight for me. Maybe if you’d fought for me more we’d still be . . .” She shrugged her shoulders.

Hubbard only thought his reply.
I never fought for you. You just caused a lot of fights.

Her face became a portrait of pity mixed with sorrow. “A woman wants a man who’s willing to die for her. You’ll never understand us, will you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Anne smiled at his admission. “Okay. I’m off. Jay and I are going to use this time to explore our love, our passion. I’ve never known a love like this—ever. I’ve just outgrown you.”

Hubbard nodded. “You do seem taller. I wish you both the best.”

Anne sashayed back to her car and stopped at the door, glancing back at Hubbard, he assumed, to see if his eyes were on her ass. She flashed her smile-of-many-teeth in farewell. In a moment, Anne and her barely visible man were behind the trees and on the road for home.

Hubbard remained on the lawn, trying to decompress from the encounter. His ex-wife could be a walking public service announcement on the dangers of excess drinking.

Inside the house, Hubbard climbed the stairs carrying Emily’s pink suitcase. He had a fair amount of trepidation about Emily’s mood. He didn’t know what Emily was told about her sudden return to Hayslip, but apparently the news was not meeting with her approval.

Emily was sitting on her bed, her back against the headboard, her arms folded across her chest. Her braided ponytail draped over her shoulder with a purple bow at its end. She stared at her fluorescent purple canvas shoes, clicking her toes together absentmindedly.

Hubbard set her suitcase on the floor and sat beside her. “I’m so glad you’re here—”

“All my friends are in Little Rock.”

Hubbard nodded. “I understand. It’s rough to leave your friends. But the good news is that you have friends here, too. You always see them when Mom lets you come down for a visit.”

“But everybody’s got
school
friends. I won’t fit into a group at school coming in this late. Even if I make friends, Mom will pull me out at the end of summer and take me back to Little Rock—until she gets a new boyfriend and then I’ll be back here again. I don’t want to have to make new friends every time mom changes men. It’s not fair.”

“No, you’re right. It’s not fair. Would it help if you were here fulltime?”

“Mom won’t let you.”

“We’ll see if we can work it out. I have an idea and sometimes I can be pretty persuasive.”

Emily looked at him like she wasn’t convinced. “What if you get a new woman?”

“I’d only date a woman that you approved of. And I’d marry her, too. So there would be no more new women for you to worry about after that.”

Emily looked like she was considering what he had just said. “Do I get to approve of her? Mama doesn’t let me do that with her men. They just show up in the morning at breakfast. I don’t like any of them. You promise I get to vote?”

Hubbard winced when he heard about his daughter’s breakfast discoveries. He held out his hand to make a bargain. “Deal?”

Emily examined his face then examined his hand. She spit on her right hand to make their agreement contractually binding. “Deal.”

Hubbard spit on his own hand. This had become serious. Where did his daughter learn to negotiate like that? What did he just agree to in a bout of guilt?

They shook hands in silence.

“In the meantime, I need your help to get Mrs. Espinoza all settled in.”

“Who’s Mrs. Espinoza?”

“Well, she’s a nice lady who will be working here for a while and helping me take care of things. I need you to show her how we like things: The kinds of cookies we like, the things we love to snack on, our favorite games—that sort of thing.

“Don’t you know my favorite cookie?”

“Well, I sure do, but Mrs. Espinoza doesn’t.”

Emily eyed him suspiciously. “Okay, daddy, what’s my favorite cookie?”

Hubbard froze. He should know this.

Emily saw him hesitate. “Mama knows my favorite cookie.”

“Well, so do I. You like uh, . . . daddy cookies.”

“Daddy cookies? What’re daddy cookies?”

“They’re like gingerbread men expect they’re thinner, younger and better looking—and they’re made of chocolate—lots and lots of chocolate.”

Emily burst out laughing. “Oh, daddy! You’re so silly. Can she really make daddy cookies? Are those real?”

“When you’re sitting down with a plate of daddy cookies and milk, you can tell me if you think they’re real or not.”

Hubbard heard a vehicle’s wheels crunch down his gravel drive. He stood and looked out Emily’s bedroom window. An older Chevy truck, white with some rust, came around the pines. It drove down the driveway and followed the recent tire tracks made by Anne’s car onto the grass. He sighed.

He pointed out the window. “Look she’s here.”

Emily hopped off the bed and ran to the window. No one had gotten out of the truck.

“I don’t see her.”

“Well, she’s probably getting her things together. Some older women carry stuff like medicine, mints, and handkerchiefs in their purse. Her brother drove her here.”

“Is she a nice lady?”

“Well, I haven’t met her. But I bet she loves kids. Now remember, we’ve got to be gentle with her, no roughhousing. Neither of us can climb on top of her. Okay?”

“Okay,” Emily said, laughing again.

“But you can still climb on me. Hop on my back and let’s go welcome Mrs. Espinoza.”

By the time that Hubbard and Emily came outside, the truck’s passenger door was open. A Latino teenager with eyeglasses, wearing a white neck brace, was standing beside it. The boy was speaking with someone inside the vehicle, but turned toward them when he heard the screen door slam. His head jerked backward when he spotted Hubbard. He grimaced in pain and brought his hand to his neck. One eyebrow arched as he examined Hubbard with obvious disdain.

Hubbard let Emily slide off his back and crossed to the driver’s side of the truck. Another Latino man, older than the teenager, was in the driver’s seat. He also seemed unpleasantly surprised by Hubbard and viewed him with apparent reservations, one eyebrow arched in distrust.

Did the two men come alone? Where was Mrs. Espinoza? As he neared the truck, he saw a small figure sliding off the truck’s bench seat on the opposite side of the truck.

The Latino driver spoke English without an accent. He sounded as if he thought he had made a wrong turn. “Is this the Hubbard place? The home of the nephew of Mr. R.J. Hubbard?”

Hubbard tried his half-smile to ease the man’s obvious nervousness. “Yes, you found us. I’m John Riley Hubbard.”

“I’m Luis Espinoza. I—I work for your uncle.”

“Oh, I thought I recognized you,” Hubbard said. The man’s discomfort seemed to increase. “Were you able to bring . . . um . . . your aunt? Grandmother?

Emily was talking to a young girl on the other side of the truck. R.J. was right. His daughter had a natural gift for languages and spoke easily with her. Emily’s Spanish was fluid, without any grating stops and starts.

“Aunt?” Luis snorted. “Maria is my sister.”

Hubbard nodded. “I see. Will she be able to come today?”

“She’s here,” Luis said, tilting his head at the passenger side of the truck.

Hubbard took a step to his left, ignoring the angry teenager with the injured neck, who was still staring daggers at him, and focused on the female visiting with Emily. She must be older than he thought, obeying some alternate rules of aging. “Mrs. Espinoza?” The young woman straightened to face him.

Hubbard sucked in some air and he took an involuntary step back. She was no one’s idea of a grandmother. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown that made you forget watery blue eyes. Long eyelashes formed magnificent frames around those wonderful orbs.

Fortunately, Luis began to blather, allowing Hubbard time to recover from the surprise. “This is my sister Maria. She doesn’t speak English . . . I told her that English would be more useful to learn. But what can you tell a woman?” There was more, something about “good with children” and “taught school” and other sentences that just floated in the air like lost balloons.