Part 3 (1/2)

”Were you working Sat.u.r.day night?” Bates asked.

”Of course I was working Sat.u.r.day night,” he said over his shoulder. ”It's our busiest night of the year.”

”Did you happen to see whether the Laura Mae went out?”

”I filled her up with gas around five that afternoon. She went out around nine that night. I didn't see her come back in, though. I was out here 'til almost two in the morning, but even ol' Turtle has to get a little shut eye now and then.”

”Any idea who was on the boat Sat.u.r.day night?” Bates said.

”I saw three young ladies get out of a white limo just before dark. They got on the boat with Nelson Lips...o...b.. I'm guessing they're the three y'all fished out of the lake the next morning.”

”What makes you say that?” Bates said.

”You're here, ain't ya?”

”Did you get a good look at the girls?”

”Yeah, but I wasn't looking at their faces. They was all blondes, though, 'cause when I saw 'em I started singing, 'Three blonde mice, three blonde mice, see how they bounce, see how they bounce.'”

”Say they were with somebody named Nelson Lips...o...b..” Bates said.

”That's right.”

”How well do you know him?”

”Well enough to know that he's an uppity, rich punk who ain't got sense enough to get in outta the rain. What do y'all know about him?”

Bates looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. ”Never heard of him,” I said.

”Me either,” Bates said. He looked back at Turtle. ”Should we have heard of him?”

Turtle began to laugh, a high-pitched hee hee hee that sounded like a bird in distress. He spat a long stream of tobacco juice toward the water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

”You boys ain't got a clue what you're getting yourselves into. I'm sure you've heard of John Jacob Lips...o...b.. ain't you?”

Bates and I both stopped cold. John Jacob Lips...o...b..was a legend in the community. He was born and raised in Johnson City and had started an investment company in Nashville called Equicorp back in the late eighties. Equicorp grew quickly and went public a short time later, making Lips...o...b..an extremely wealthy man in the process. The rumors around town were that he was worth more than half-a-billion dollars, and judging by the amount of money he gave away, I tended to believe it. John J. Lips...o...b..had funded two libraries, a cancer research center, a pre-natal clinic, a Little League complex, a Pop Warner football field, and dozens of college scholars.h.i.+ps. He was the university's most important benefactor, and donated liberally to every politician in Northeast Tennessee.

”What does he have to do with this?” I said.

”Maybe nothing. Maybe everything,” Turtle said. ”It's his boat.”

”Was he on it Sat.u.r.day night?” Bates said.

”Couldn't say, but I've heard it told that he comes up here every year at Labor Day and goes out for a little rest and relaxation with a few young ladies. Recharging the batteries, I reckon. Pretty sleazy, though, if you ask me, since he named the boat after his wife.”

We finally made it to the building. Turtle stopped just outside the door and began wiping the sweat from his neck and face with a bandana he'd pulled from his pocket.

”Anything else I can do for you boys?” he said.

”You're absolutely certain you saw Nelson Lips...o...b..get on that boat with three blonde girls?” Bates said.

Turtle put his hand over his heart. ”G.o.d as my witness, it was him.” He began wringing the sweat out of the bandana. ”Y'all be careful out there, ya hear?” He turned and disappeared through the door.

As Bates and I walked back toward our vehicles, I felt the breeze pick up. It was coming out of the north, no doubt bringing a cold front along with it. A break in the temperature would be nice, but along with the cool air would come the violent storms of early September.

”I got a bad feeling about this one,” Bates said as I opened the door of my pickup.

”It's just another murder case,” I said. ”We get our proof together and send somebody to prison.”

”It ain't gonna be that simple.” He took his cowboy hat off and began rubbing his fingers through his hair. ”We better put together an airtight case and we better do it quick, because as soon as we start sniffing around John Lips...o...b.. there'll be h.e.l.l to pay. I reckon you better get me some help from the TBI.”

My cell phone rang and I looked at the ID.

”It's Rita calling from the office,” I said. ”Probably a matter of some grave importance. I'll bet you a hundred bucks it's about somebody who wants me to help their grandson or nephew or brother get out of a DUI, or maybe one of the toilets in the office has stopped up.”

”Getting a little cynical, are we?” Bates said.

”Where are you going right now?”

”Thought I'd get me a search warrant and pay a visit to Nelson Lips...o...b.. We've got enough for a warrant, don't we?”

”We need signed affidavits from Erlene and Turtle, but that should be enough.”

”I reckon you're headed back to the office to do some administrating.”

Bates gave me a wry smile. I turned the cell phone off. It felt good to be out, doing some real work for a change.

”To h.e.l.l with the toilets and the DUIs,” I said. ”I'm going with you.”

PART II.

Chapter Seven.

I reluctantly punched the number of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation's local Special Agent in Charge into my cell phone as I drove to Bates's office. Over the years, I'd come to regard Tennessee's most respected law enforcement agency with a sense of trepidation. The agents were largely well-trained and committed, but many of them were egotistical and compet.i.tive, they regarded local cops with an air of disdain, and the upper echelon of the TBI seemed to be more interested in political standing than law enforcement.

Ralph Harmon, the SAIC at the Johnson City field office, was not my idea of a good cop, let alone a cop who should be serving in a supervisory capacity. Harmon was abrasive and c.o.c.ky around his agents, but I'd also seen his brown-nosing act when the TBI bra.s.s came to town. He was a pot-bellied bully whose office walls were covered with photos of a much younger version of him in various military garb, which was something that grated on my nerves. I'd served in the army as a Ranger, had killed men in Grenada, and had seen one of my buddies killed by a rocket-propelled grenade. The memories had haunted me for more than two decades, to the point that I'd gotten rid of every object or photograph that might remind me of my military service. I wasn't ashamed of it; I just didn't want to re-live it, and the fact that Harmon surrounded himself with his own military memorabilia told me that he'd never seen what I'd seen. He simply wanted visitors to his office to admire him because he'd been a soldier, which was fine until I asked him about the photos one day.

I learned that Harmon's father had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and had taught Ralph to fly when Ralph was a just a teenager. At the age of eighteen, he joined the army reserves, became a warrant officer, and spent four years as a weekend warrior. He'd never seen active duty, although the photographs would lead one, especially the unindoctrinated, to conclude otherwise. When I mentioned that the photos might tend to present a false impression, he became angry and ordered me out of his office. As a result, Harmon and I weren't exactly close. But as the district attorney general, I was responsible for ”requesting” the TBI's a.s.sistance when a city or county police force needed help with an investigation.

”I figured you'd be calling,” Harmon said in his clipped tenor when he answered the phone. ”I suppose you need some help with your homicides.”

”Yeah, we do.”

”Bates can't handle it?”

”It might be a little different than he's used to.”