Free A Witness Above by Andy Straka Page A

for his affair with the bottle, he might have been a decent lawyer—if there were such a thing.
    “You still get along with your ex-wife?” he asked.
    “We're not on each other's Christmas card list, if that's what you mean.”
    “You fly hawks, don't you, like your pal Toronto?”
    “One. A red-tail.”
    “Big bird,” he said. “You boys get off on it when they kill something?”
    How could you explain working with a bird of prey to someone like this? You couldn't—not really. “She has her moments.”
    “Your daughter mention anything to you about having problems? Anything to make you think she'd be usin’ drugs?”
    “Nope.”
    “Well her mama don't seem so surprised.”
    I decided I'd risk probing a little more. “Ferrier mentioned that the drug trade's picked up down this way.”
    He glared at me. “Some.” Now I was stepping on his toes.
    “How are you dealing with it?”
    He waved his hand and suddenly looked tired. “How else? Best we can. Most of these new operators, gangs and whatnot, they're pretty sophisticated. Know how to come and go and all the back roads and places where they can slip across state lines. DEA came in a couple years back and mounted an operation. That made some dent. But it's like the moonshiners. If we brought in enough manpower and equipment to really do the job, people'd start complaining we was running a police state.”
    “Land of the free,” I said.
    He grunted again.
    “So what's your working theory on the Turner murder?”
    “My workin’ theory?” He chuckled. “Simple. What goes around comes around.”
    “It was over drugs then?”
    “Ten to one.”
    “If you don't mind my asking, I assume you have a tape recording of the anonymous tipster.”
    “We do.”
    “Mind if I have a listen to it?”
    He stuck his chin out, thinking it over. “Don't see why not. … You can come by tomorrow and I'll listen to it with you myself.”
    “I'd appreciate that.”
    His face hardened. “But listen, you mess with my case and I'll come down on you so fast it'll make your ears spin.”
    “As long as I can still listen to Frankie Vallie.” Might as well try the humor one more time.
    He still didn't get it. “Shit, I know you're not even tellin’ me half of what you know right now.”
    I said nothing. Silence had to be safe.
    One last grunt, standing to usher me out. “I'll have someone take you back to see your daughter,” he said.
     

8
     
    As jails go, Affalachia County's must have ranked higher than most. The corridor walls were coated with fresh paint. Sterile light shown on a clean concrete floor. The lock-ups themselves enjoyed no air-conditioning, of course, but the usual odor of sweat, urine, and old Jim Beam was missing.
    I waited in a small room used for questioning. No windows, a wooden table, three folding metal chairs. No video camera, I noticed, either. But I couldn't be sure what might be hidden. The light came from a single row of fluorescent fixtures embedded in the ceiling.
    Nicole, led by the same deputy who'd greeted me earlier, baby-stepped into the room clad in a blaze-orange jumpsuit, shackles, and handcuffs. Standing, she was tall, only a couple inches shorter than myself. Gone was the makeup she had worn the last time I had seen her. She looked scared.
    “Daddy,” she said when she saw me. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears.
    I stepped toward her and we hugged. “I'm here, Nickita.
    You doing okay?”
    She didn't answer. She sat down in one of the hardback chairs. The deputy removed the shackles and closed the door behind him as he left.
    “They treating you all right?”
    She nodded, wiping a sniffle with the back of her hand.
    “Can I get you anything, a soda?”
    She stared blankly at the floor. “Maybe a tissue.”
    “No tissues, but will this do?”
    I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, she nodded, and I handed it to her. She dabbed at her cheeks.
    “You sure you're okay?”
    “I'll be all right. Just give me a minute,”