“He’s well known and doesn’t like his name used,” I said.

“Hmmmm,” the voice said. “Who were you wanting to speak to?”

We were both being cagey. I looked around while my mind raced for the next line. Across the street I saw Orville Ryan standing beside Chinese Red’s body with a cellphone at his ear. Ryan was frowning, like he was stymied.

“Ryan?” I ventured. “Is that you?”

I watched his mouth drop open. His eyes scanned the street until finding me. We stared at one another over sixty feet of concrete. I watched Ryan’s lips move as the phone spoke.

“Hi, Carson. Fancy talking to you.”

“Did I just call your number, Orv?”

“You called Chinese Red’s cell, Carson. It started ringing in his pocket.”

I was putting in my fourteenth nervous pace lap around the forensics lab when Glenn Watkins rushed in with the test results. The implications made the test supersede all others that would occur today.

“No mistake,” Glenn said, snicking the results with a fingernail. “It’s a match. The blood on O’Fong’s shirt and pants is Scaler’s.”

“Scaler paid a black junkie prostitute to work him over?” Harry said.

“Blood doesn’t lie,” Glenn said. “These clothes must have been what O’Fong wore when whipping the Reverend.”

“Lawd, this case is a muthafucker.” Harry budgeted himself two spoken MFs annually and he’d just spent half his budget on Richard Scaler.

“There’s more,” Glenn said. “You know the water found in O’Fong’s digs in the Hoople?”

Harry nodded.

“Sea water. The same composition of sea water found on the floor at Scaler’s death scene. A second indication they were together.”

“But what’s the water mean?” Harry said. “You got any idea, Carson?”

But my mind was elsewhere. Scaler preaching as a child, bible in hand, mouth wide. The adult Scaler charging to and fro on the stage ranting about sin. A model-handsome black prostitute slapping Scaler’s fat ass with leather while the preacher twirled upside-down in red panties.

I started laughing: tears running, gut-lurching, red-faced laughter. Glenn watched open-mouthed.

“What’s wrong, Carson?” Harry asked.

“Scaler beat mousy Mama and it got his engine revved. He called his sex buddy, Chinese Red, and headed to Camp Sonshine for some butt-pluggin’ and whip lovin’. Muhhhh-muh-muuuh,” I moaned orgasmically, spinning in circles, pretending I had a gag in my mouth. “Muuuuh-Muuuuuuh. Muhhhhnnnnnnnnnn.”

I mimicked spitting out the gag. “Case closed,” I announced. “We can all go home.”

Which is exactly what I did. It was one p.m. and I figured I’d done enough. I stopped at the library on the way to pick up books on playing the flute, creating with mosaic, identifying creatures of the woodlands, and Bolivian cooking.

The following morning my still-on television woke me at seven. Though foggy with sleep, I performed my morning rituals, washing down my vites with Ginseng tea and downing a wheatberry salad I’d bought at the health-food store on my way to the library. It appeared I’d purchased eight of them. Despite my sluggishness I felt stress-free and had a leisurely drive to work.

I walked into the detectives’ room. Harry shot me a glance, picked up the ringing phone. I watched him open his desk drawer, scrabble through it, shove papers aside on his desk as I walked up.

“Paper,” he grunted, making the scratchy motion with his fingers.

I pitched him a notepad and he wrote a few lines, saying uh-huh and gimme the name again and finally “I owe you one, Kiet.”

He set the phone down. “That was Kiet Srisai at the Thai restaurant. He’s got a name and place for a guy who might have owned the burned-down house. He’s over in Mississippi, just across the border.”

“I’m not driving all the way over there on my own.” I crossed my hands behind my head. “And you’re not allowed to deal with anything pertaining to the Bailes case. I’ll get the Dauphin Island cops to make the trip.”

Harry shot a look over his shoulder at Tom Mason’s office. Tom was on the phone, turned away. Harry lowered his voice and leaned close.

“I figure if we spend all our time on the way to Sippi and back talking about Scaler, that’s the case I’m on, right?”

Chapter 29

Chakrabandhu Sintapiratpattanasai blinked lizard eyes at me and seemed as puzzled by the English language as I was by his name.

“No understand what you word say.”

We were on a no-name strip of beach in Mississippi, west of Biloxi. The land stretched from the water north for a hundred miles before there was anything that could be charitably called a hill. It was the billiard-table flatness that had allowed Katrina’s storm surge to steamroll the communities for miles inland. Sintapiratpattanasai was a short man, heavy and square, with jet-black hair glistening with pomade. Even though the sun was high, he wore a dark three-piece suit, his tie tight to his thick neck.

I put my badge wallet back in my pocket and tried rephrasing the question. “We’re trying to track down ownership of a piece of property. About a quarter acre that once had a house on it.”

Sintapiratpattanasai frowned. “Ay-ker? Prop-tee?”

I’d seen this act before and so had Harry. He pulled his handcuffs and nodded toward the Crown Vic.

“OK buddy, put out your hands so I can cuff them and let’s take a walk to the car.”

Mr S. startled back three steps, barked, “You from Mobile in Alabama. This Mississippi. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“That solves the language problem,” Harry said.

“We’re not here on any problem relative to you, sir,” I said. “We’re here about a property you own or owned.”

“Where this property?” he challenged.

I gave him the address.

“Own four houses there for years. I rent to fishermen, shrimp fishermen.” He wagged his head. “Tough bidness. Fishermen move when Katrina blow houses down in Alabama. I buy houses here now. Do rent.”

I’d seen Sintapiratpattanasai’s kind before. The archetypical slumlord, he’d buy houses or apartments on the cheap, fill them with poor like rabbits in a warren. Any repairs came late or never.

“What did you do with the house?” Harry asked.

“Sell.”

I heard a roar of heavy motorcycles to the north and craned my head to a pair of riders on Harleys burning hell-for-leather along the road. The bikers seemed to be looking our way.

I turned back to Mr S. “Who did you sell the place to, sir?”

“Man come, say he need place. I sell. This two month back.”

“What was the buyer’s name?”

“I think. I remember in a minute. Or I have written down.”

“Why did he need the place?”

“He like to fish. Not boat, but fish…” Sintapiratpattanasai jigged his hands as if casting a rod. “He was soon retire and fish all day long. Use house for fish house, fix up.” He paused and recalled the moment. “Ten thousan’ dollar, for that place? He either sucker or using somebody else’s money.”

“Did you use a lawyer, anything like that?” Harry asked, trying to find a paper trail. “Or handle the transaction at a bank?”

“Man gave me money, I sign paper saying house his. No big deal need banker. Banker is bullshit, take money to watch you sign paper.”

“You received a check?” I asked.

Sintapiratpattanasai held out his right palm and jabbed it hard with his left forefinger. “Fuck check. Cash money.”

I shot Harry a look. The transaction had all the signs of a street deal. Someone needed the property for a short time, paid for the privilege. But the deal was off the official books. The State would eventually find no taxes were being paid, check into things, but Sintapiratpattanasai had made his money, had a valid receipt, and the buyer had used the property and was long gone.