Chapter 13

   As he approached the end, the Judge had been diligent in organizing his affairs. The important records were in his study and easily found.
   They went through his mahogany desk first. One drawer had ten years’ worth of bank statements, all arranged nearly in chronological order. His tax returns were in another. There were thick ledger books filled with entries of the donations he’d made to everybody who’d asked. The largest drawer was filled with letter-size manila files, dozens of them. Files on property taxes. medical records, old deeds and titles, bills to pay, judicial conferences, letters from his doctors, his retirement fund. Ray flipped through the row of files without opening them, except for the bills to pay. There was one—$13.80 to Wayne’s Lawnmower Repair—dated a week earlier.
   “It’s always weird going through the papers of someone who just died,” Harry Rex said. “I feel dirty, like a peeping Tom.”
   “More like a detective looking for clues,” Ray said. He was on one side of the desk, Harry Rex the other, their ties off and sleeves rolled up, with piles of evidence between them. Forrest was his usual helpful self. He’d drained half a six-pack for dessert after lunch, and was now snoring it off in the swing on the front porch. But he was there, instead of lost in one of his patented binges. He had disappeared so many times over the years. If he’d blown off his father’s funeral, no one in Clanton would’ve been surprised. Just another black mark against that crazy Atlee boy, another story to tell.
   In the last drawer they found personal odds and ends—pens, pipes, pictures of the Judge with his cronies at bar conventions, a few photos of Ray and Forrest from years ago, his marriage license, and their mother’s death certificate. In an old, unopened envelope there was her obituary clipped from the Clanton Chronicle, dated October 12, 1969, complete with a photograph. Ray read it and handed it to Harry Rex.
   “Do you remember her?” Ray asked.
   “Yes, I went to her funeral,” he said, looking at it. “She was a pretty lady who didn’t have many friends.”
   “Why not?”
   “She was from the Delta, and most of those folks have a good dose of blue blood. That’s what the Judge wanted in a wife, but it didn’t work too well around here. She thought she was marrying money. Judges didn’t make squat back then, so she had to work hard at being better than everybody else.”
   “You didn’t like her.”
   “Not particularly. She thought I was unpolished.”
   “Imagine that.”
   “I loved your father, Ray, but there weren’t too many tears at her funeral.”
   “Let’s get through one funeral at a time.”
   “Sorry”
   “What was in the will you prepared for him? The last one.”
   Harry Rex laid the obituary on the desk and sat back in his chair. He glanced at the window behind Ray, then spoke softly. “The Judge wanted to set up a trust so that when this place was sold the money would go there. I’d be the trustee and as such I’d have the pleasure of doling out the money to you and him.” He nodded toward the porch. “But his first hundred thousand would be paid back to the estate. That’s how much the Judge figured Forrest owed him.”
   “What a disaster.”
   “I tried to talk him out of it.”
   “Thank God he burned it.”
   “Yes indeed. He knew it was a bad idea, but he was trying to protect Forrest from himself.”
   “We’ve been trying for twenty years.”
   “He thought of everything. He was going to leave it all to you, cut him out completely, but he knew that would only cause friction. Then he got mad because neither of you would ever live here, so he asked me to do a will that gave the house to the church. He never signed it, then Palmer pissed him off over the death penalty and he ditched that idea, said he would have it sold after his death and give the money to charity.” He stretched his arms upward until his spine popped. Harry Rex had had two back surgeries and was seldom comfortable. He continued. “I’m guessing the reason he called you and Forrest home was so the three of you could decide what to do with the estate.”
   “Then why did he do a last-minute will?”
   “We’ll never know, will we? Maybe he got tired of the pain. I suspect he’d grown fond of the morphine, like most folks at the end. Maybe he knew he was about to die.”
   Ray looked into the eyes of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, who’d been gazing sternly on the Judge’s study from the same perch for almost a century. Ray had no doubt that his father had chosen to die on the sofa so that the general could help him through it. The general knew. He knew how and when the Judge died. He knew where the cash came from. He knew who had broken in last night and trashed the office.
   “Did he ever include Claudia in anything?” Ray asked.
   “Never. He could hold a grudge, you know that.”
   “She stopped by this morning.”
   “What’d she want?”
   “I think she was looking for money. She said the Judge had always promised to take care of her, and she wanted to know what was in the will.”
   “Did you tell her?”
   “With pleasure.”
   “She’ll be all right, never worry about that woman. You remember old Walter Sturgis, out from Karraway a dirt contractor for years, tight as a tick?” Harry Rex knew everybody in the county, all thirty thousand souls—blacks, whites, and now the Mexicans.
   “I don’t think so.”
   “He’s rumored to have a half a million bucks in cash, and she’s after it. Got the ole boy wearing golf shirts and eating at the country club. He told his buddies he takes Viagra every day.”
   ‘Attaboy”
   “She’ll break him.”
   Forrest shifted somehow in the porch swing and the chains creaked. They waited a moment, until all was quiet out there. Harry Rex opened a file and said, “Here’s the appraisal. We had it done late last year by a guy from Tupelo, probably the best appraiser in north Mississippi.”
   “How much?”
   “Four hundred thousand.”
   “Sold.”
   “I thought he was high. Of course, the Judge thought the place was worth a million.”
   “Of course.”
   “I figure three hundred is more likely.”
   “We won’t get half that much. What’s the appraisal based on?”
   “It’s right here. Square footage, acreage, charm, comps, the usual.”
   “Give me a comp.”
   Harry Rex flipped through the appraisal. “Here’s one. A house about the same age, same size, thirty acres, on the edge of Holly Springs, sold two years ago for eight hundred grand.”
   “This is not Holly Springs.”
   “No, it’s not.”
   “That’s an antebellum town, with lots of old houses.”
   “You want me to sue the appraiser?”
   “Yeah, let’s go after him. What would you give for this place?”
   “Nothing. You want a beer?”
   “No.”
   Harry Rex lumbered into the kitchen, and returned with a tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “I don’t know why he buys this stuff,” he mumbled, then gulped a fourth of it.
   “Always been his brand.”
   Harry Rex peeked through the blinds and saw nothing but Forrest’s feet hanging off the swing. “I don’t think he’s too worried about his father’s estate.”
   “He’s like Claudia, just wants a check.”
   “Money would kill him.”
   It was reassuring to hear Harry Rex share this belief. Ray waited until he returned to the desk because he wanted to watch his eves carefully. “The Judge earned less than nine thousand dollars last year,” Ray said, looking at a tax return.
   “He was sick,” Harry Rex said, stretching and twisting his substantial back, then sitting down. “But he was hearing cases until this
   “What kind of cases?”
   “All sorts of stuff. We had this Nazi right-wing governor a few years back—“
   “I remember him.”
   “Liked to pray all the time when he campaigned, family values, anti-everything but guns. Turned out he liked the ladies, his wife caught him, big stink, really juicy stuff. The local judges down in Jackson wanted no part of the case for obvious reasons, so they asked the Judge to ride in and referee things.”
   “Did it go to trial?”
   “Oh hell yeah, big ugly trial. The wife had the goods on the governor, who thought he could intimidate the Judge. She got the governor’s house and most of the money. Last I heard he was living above his brother’s garage, with bodyguards, of course.”
   “Did you ever see the old man intimidated?”
   “Never. Not once in thirty years.”
   Harry Rex worked on his beer and Ray looked at another tax return. Things were quiet, and when he heard Forrest snore again, Ray said, “I found some money, Harry Rex.”
   His eyes conveyed nothing. No conspiracy, no surprise, no relief. They didn’t blink and they didn’t stare. He waited, then finally shrugged and said, “How much?”
   “A boxful.” The questions would follow, and Ray had tried to predict them.
   Again Harry Rex waited, then another innocent shrug. “Where?”
   “Over there, in that cabinet behind the sofa. It was cash in a box, over ninety thousand bucks.”
   So far he had not told a lie. He certainly hadn’t given the entire truth, but he wasn’t lying. Not yet.
   “Ninety thousand bucks?” Harry Rex said, a little too loudly and Ray nodded toward the porch.
   “Yes, in one-hundred-dollar bills,” he said in a lower voice. “Any idea where it came from?”
   Harry Rex gulped from the can, then squinted his eyes at the wall and finally said, “Not really.”
   “Gambling? You said he could throw the dice.”
   Another sip. “Yeah, maybe. The casinos opened six or seven years ago, and he and I would go once a week, at least in the beginning.”
   “You stopped?”
   “I wish. Between me and you, I was going all the time. I was gambling so much I didn’t want the Judge to know it, so whenever he and I went I always played it light. Next night, I’d sneak over and lose my ass again.”
   “How much did you lose?”
   “Let’s talk about the Judge.”
   “Okay, did he win?”
   “Usually. On a good night he’d win a coupla thousand.”
   “On a bad night?”
   “Five hundred, that was his limit. If he was losin’, he knew when to quit. That’s the secret to gamblin’, you gotta know when to quit, and you gotta have the guts to walk away. He did. I did not.”
   “Did he go without you?”
   “Yeah, I saw him once. I sneaked over one night and picked a new casino, hell they got fifteen now, and while I was playin’ black-jack things got hot at a craps table not too far away. In the thick of things, I saw Judge Atlee. Had on a baseball cap so folks wouldn’t recognize him. His disguises didn’t always work because I’d hear things around town. A lot of folks go to the casinos and there were sightings.”
   “How often did he go?”
   “Who knows? He answered to no one. I had a client, one of those Higginbotham boys who sell used cars, and he told me he saw old Judge Atlee at the craps table at three o’clock one mornin’ at Treasure Island. So I figured the Judge sneaked over at odd hours so folks wouldn’t see him.”
   Ray did some quick math. If the Judge gambled three times a week for five years and won two thousand dollars every time, his winnings would have been somewhere around one and a half million.
   “Could he have rat-holed ninety thousand?” Ray asked. It sounded like such a small amount.
   “Anything’s possible, but why hide it?”
   “You tell me.”
   They pondered this for a while. Harry Rex finished the beer and lit a cigar. A sluggish ceiling fan above the desk pushed the smoke around. He shot a cloud of exhaust toward the fan and said, “You gotta pay taxes on your winnings, and since he didn’t want anybody to know about his gambling, maybe he just kept it all quiet.”
   “But don’t the casinos require paperwork if you win a certain amount?”
   “I never saw any damned paperwork.”
   “But if you’d won?”
   “Yeah, they do. I had a client who won eleven thousand at the five-dollar slots. They gave him a form ten-ninety-nine, a notice to the lRS.”
   “What about shooting craps?”
   “If you cash in more than ten thousand in chips at one time, then there’s paperwork. Keep it under ten, and there’s nothin’. Same as cash transactions at a bank.”
   “I doubt if the Judge wanted records.”
   “I’m sure he did not.”
   “He never mentioned any cash when y’all were doing his wills?”
   “Never. The money is a secret, Ray. I can’t explain it. I have no idea what he was thinkin’. Surely he knew it would be found.”
   “Right. The question now is what do we do with it.”
   Harry Rex nodded and stuck the cigar in his mouth. Ray leaned back and watched the fan. For a long time they contemplated what to do with the money. Neither wanted to suggest that they simply continue to hide it. Harry Rex decided to fetch another beer. Ray said he’d take one too. As the minutes passed it became obvious that the money would not be discussed again, not that day. In a few weeks, when the estate was opened and an inventory of assets was filled, they could visit the issue again. Or perhaps they would not.
   For two days, Ray had debated whether or not to tell Harry Rex about the cash, not the entire fortune, but just a sample of it. .After doing so, there were more questions than answers.
   Little light had been shed on the money. The Judge enjoyed the dice and was good at gambling, but it seemed unlikely he could have cleared $3.1 million in seven years. And to do so without creating paperwork and leaving a trail seemed impossible.
   Ray returned to the tax records while Harry Rex plowed through the ledgers of donations. “Which CPA are you gonna use?” Ray asked after a long period of silence.
   “There are several.”
   “Not local.”
   “No, I stay away from the guys around here. It’s a small town.”
   ‘‘Looks to me like the records are in good shape,” Ray said, closing a drawer.
   “It’ll be easy, except for the house.”
   “Let’s put it on the market, the sooner the better. It won’t be a quick sell.”
   “What’s the asking price?”
   “Let’s start at three hundred.”
   “Are we spending money to fix it up?”
   “There is no money, Harry Rex.”
   JUST BEFORE dark, Forrest announced he was tired of Clan-ton, tired of death, tired of hanging around a depressing old house he had never particularly cared for, tired of Harry Rex and Ray, and that he was going home to Memphis where wild women and parties were waiting.
   “When are you coming back?” he asked Ray.
   “Two or three weeks.”
   “For probate?”
   “Yes,” Harry Rex answered. “We’ll make a brief appearance before the judge. You’re welcome to be there, but it’s not required.”
   “I don’t do court. Been there enough.”
   The brothers walked down the drive to Forrest’s car. “You okay?” Ray asked, but only because he felt compelled to show concern.
   “I’m fine. See you, Bro,” Forrest said, in a hurry to leave before his brother blurted something stupid. “Call me when you come back,” he said. He started the car and drove away. Ray knew he would pull over somewhere between Clanton and Memphis, either at a joint with a bar and a pool table, or maybe just a beer store where he would buy a case and slug it as he drove. Forrest had survived his father’s funeral in an impressive way, but the pressure had been building. The meltdown would not be pretty.
   Harry Rex was hungry, as usual, and asked if Ray wanted fried catfish. “Not really,” he answered.
   “Good, there’s a new place on the lake.”
   “What’s it called?”
   “Jeter’s Catfish Shack.”
   “You’re kidding.”
   “No, it’s delicious.”
   They dined on an empty deck jutting over a swamp, on the backwaters of the lake. Harry Rex ate catfish twice a week; Ray, once every five years. The cook was heavy on the batter and peanut oil, and Ray knew it would be a long night, for several reasons.
   He slept with a loaded gun in the bed of his old room, upstairs, with the windows and doors locked, and the three garbage bags :ked with money at his feet. With such an arrangement, it was difficult to look around in the dark and conjure up any pleasant childhood memories that would normally be just under the surface. The house had been dark and cold back then, especially after his mother died.
   Instead of reminiscing, he tried to sleep by counting little round black chips, a hundred bucks each, hauled by the Judge from the tables to the cashiers. He counted with imagination and ambition. and he got nowhere near the fortune he was in bed with.

Chapter 14

   The Clanton square had three cafes, two for the whites and one for the blacks. The Tea Shoppe crowd leaned toward banking and law and retail, more of a white-collar bunch, where the chatter was a bit heavier—the stock market, politics, golf. Claude’s, the black diner, had been around for forty years and had the best food.
   The Coffee Shop was favored by the farmers, cops, and factory workers who talked football and bird hunting. Harry Rex preferred it, as did a few other lawyers who liked to eat with the people they represented. It opened at five every morning but Sunday, and was usually crowded by six. Ray parked near it on the square and locked his car. The sun was inching above the hills to the east. He would drive fifteen hours or so and hopefully be home by midnight.
   Harry Rex had a table in the window and a Jackson newspaper that had already been rearranged and folded to the point of being useless to anyone else. “Anything in the news?” Ray asked. There was no television at Maple Run.
   “Not a damned thang,” Harry Rex grumbled with his eyes glued to the editorials. “I’ll send you all the obituaries.” He slid across a crumpled section the size of a paperback. “You wanna read this?”
   “No, I need to go.”
   “You’re eating first?”
   “Yes.”
   “Hey, Dell!” Harry Rex yelled across the cafe. The counter and booths and other tables were crowded with men, only men, all eating and talking.
   “Dell is still here?” Ray asked.
   “She doesn’t age,” Harry Rex said, waving. “Her mother is eighty and her grandmother is a hundred. She’ll be here long after we’re buried.”
   Dell did not appreciate being yelled at. She arrived with a coffeepot and an attitude, which vanished when she realized who Ray was. She hugged him and said, “I haven’t seen you in twenty years.” Then she sat down, clutched his arm, and began saying how sorry she was about the Judge.
   “Wasn’t it a great funeral?” Harry Rex said.
   “I can’t remember a finer one,” she said, as if Ray was supposed to be both comforted and impressed.
   “Thank you,” he said, his eyes watering not from sadness but from the medley of cheap perfumes swirling about her.
   Then she jumped up and said, “What’re y’all eatin’? It’s on the
   Harry Rex decided on pancakes and sausage, for both of them, a tall stack for him, short for Ray. Dell disappeared, a thick cloud of fragrances lingering behind.
   “You got a long drive. Pancakes’11 stick to your ribs.”
   After three days in Clanton, everything was sticking to his ribs. Ray looked forward to some long runs in the countryside around Charlottesville, and to much lighter cuisine. “
   To his great relief, nobody else recognized him. There were no other lawyers in the Coffee Shop at that hour, and no one else who’d known the Judge well enough to attend his funeral. The cops and mechanics were too busy with their jokes and gossip to look around. Remarkably, Dell kept her mouth shut. After the first cup of coffee, Ray relaxed and began to enjoy the waves of conversation and laughter around him.
   Dell was back with enough food for eight; pancakes, a whole hog’s worth of sausage, a tray of hefty biscuits with a bowl of butter, and a bowl of somebody’s homemade jam. Why would anyone need biscuits to eat with pancakes? She patted his shoulder again and said, “And he was such a sweet man.” Then she was gone.
   “Your father was a lot of things,” Harry Rex said, drowning his hotcakes with at least a quart of somebody’s homemade molasses. “But he wasn’t sweet.”
   “No he was not,” Ray agreed. “Did he ever come in here?”
   “Not that I recall. He didn’t eat breakfast, didn’t like crowds, hated small talk, preferred to sleep as late as possible. I don’t think this was his kind of place. For the past nine years, he hasn’t been seen much around the square.”
   “Where’d Dell meet him?”
   “In court. One of her daughters had a baby. The daddy already had a family. A real mess.” He somehow managed to shovel into his mouth a serving of pancakes that would choke a horse. Then a bite of sausage.
   “And of course you were in the middle of it.”
   “Of course. Judge treated her right.” Chomp, chomp.
   Ray felt compelled to take a large bite of his food. With molasses dripping everywhere, he leaned forward and lifted a heavy fork to his mouth.
   “The Judge was a legend, Ray, you know that. Folks around here loved him. He never got less than eighty percent of the vote in Ford County.”
   Ray nodded as he worked on the pancakes. They were hot and buttery, but not particularly tasty.
   “If we spend five thousand bucks on the house,” Harry Rex said without showing food, “then we’ll get it back several times over. It’s a good investment.”
   “Five thousand for what?”
   He wiped his mouth with one long swipe. “Clean the damned thing first. Spray it, wash it, fumigate it, clean the floors and walls and furniture, make it smell better. Then paint the outside and the downstairs. Fix the roof so the ceilings won’t spot. Cut the grass, pull the weeds, just spruce it up. I can find folks around here to do it.” He thrust another serving into his jaws and waited for Ray to respond.
   “There’s only six thousand in the bank,” Ray said.
   Dell dashed by and somehow managed to refill both coffee cups and pat Ray on the shoulder without missing a stride.
   “You got more in that box you found,” Harry Rex said, carving another wedge of pancakes.
   “So we spend it?”
   “I been thinking about it,” he said, gulping coffee. “Fact, Fs up all night thinking about it.”
   ‘And?”
   “Got two issues, one’s important, the other’s not.” A quick bite of modest proportions, then using the knife and fork to help him talk, he continued: “First, where’d it come from? That’s what we want to know, but it ain’t really that important. If he robbed a bank, he’s dead. If he hit the casinos and didn’t pay taxes, he’s dead. If he simply liked the smell of cash and saved it over the years, he’s still dead. You follow?”
   Ray shrugged as if he was waiting for something complicated. Harry Rex used the break in his monologue to eat sausage, then began stabbing the air again: “Second, what are you going to do with it? That’s what’s important. We’re assuming nobody knows about the money, right?”
   Ray nodded and said, “Right. It was hidden.” Ray could hear the windows being rattled. He could see the Blake & Son boxes scattered and crushed.
   He couldn’t help but glance through the window and look at his TT roadster, packed and ready to flee.
   “If you include the money in the estate, half will go to the IRS.”
   “I know that, Harry Rex. What would you do?”
   “I’m not the right person to ask. I’ve been at war with the IRS for eighteen years, and guess who’s winnin’? Not me. Screw ‘em.”
   “That’s your advice as an attorney?”
   “No, as a friend. If you want legal advice, then I will tell you that all assets must be collected and properly inventoried pursuant to the Mississippi Code, as annotated and amended.”
   “Thank you.”
   “I’d take twenty thousand or so, put it in the estate to pay the up-front bills, then wait a long time and give Forrest his half of the rest.”
   “Now, that’s what I call legal advice.”
   “Nope, it’s just common sense.”
   The mystery of the biscuits was solved when Harry Rex attacked them. “How ‘bout a biscuit?” he said, though they were closer to Ray.
   “No thanks.”
   Harry Rex sliced two in half, buttered them, added a thick layer of jam, then, at the last moment, inserted a patty of sausage. “You sure?” . .
   “Yes, I’m sure. Could the money be marked in any way?”
   “Only if it’s ransom or drug money. Don’t reckon Reuben Atlee was into those sorts of things, you?”
   “Okay, spend five thousand.”
   “You’ll be pleased.”
   A small man with matching khaki pants and shirt stopped at the table, and with a warm smile said, “Excuse me, Ray, but I’m Loyd Darling.” He stuck out a hand as he spoke. “I have a farm just east of town.”
   Ray shook his hand and half-stood. Mr. Loyd Darling owned more land than anybody in Ford County. He had once taught Ray in Sunday School. “So good to see you,” Ray said.
   “Keep your seat,” he said, gently shoving Ray down by the shoulder. ‘Just wanted to say how sorry I am about the Judge.”
   “Thank you, Mr. Darling.”
   “There was no finer man than Reuben Atlee. You have my sympathies.”
   Ray just nodded. Harry Rex had stopped eating and appeared to be ready to cry. Then Loyd was gone and breakfast resumed. Harry Rex launched into a war story about IRS abuse. After another bite or two Ray was stuffed, and as he pretended to listen he thought of all the fine folks who so greatly admired his father, all the Loyd Darlings out there who revered the old man.
   What if the cash didn’t come from the casinos? What if a crime had been committed, some secret horrible sting perpetrated by the Judge? Sitting there among the crowd in the Coffee Shop, watching Harry Rex but not listening to him, Ray Atlee made a decision. He vowed to himself that if he ever discovered that the cash now crammed into the trunk of his car had been collected by his father in some manner that was less than ethical, then no one would ever know it. He would not desecrate the stellar reputation of Judge Reuben Atlee.
   He signed a contract with himself, shook hands, made a blood oath, swore to God. Never would anyone know.
   They said good-bye on the sidewalk in front of yet another law office. Harry Rex bear-hugged him, and Ray tried to return the embrace but his arms were pinned to his sides.
   “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Harry Rex said, his eyes moist again.
   “I know, I know.”
   He walked away, shaking his head and fighting back tears. Ray jumped in his Audi and left the square without looking back. Minutes later he was on the edge of town, past the old drive-in where porno had been introduced, past the shoe factory where a strike had been mediated by the Judge. Past everything until he was in the country, away from the traffic, away from the legend. He glanced at his speedometer and realized he was driving almost ninety miles an hour.

   Cops should be avoided, as well as rear-end collisions. The drive was long, but the timing of the arrival in Charlottesville was crucial. Too early and there would be foot traffic on the downtown mall. Too late and the night patrol might see him and ask questions.
   Across the Tennessee line, he stopped for gas and a rest room break. He’d had too much coffee. And too much food. He tried to call Forrest on his cell phone, but there was no answer. He took it as neither good news or bad—with Forrest nothing was predictable.
   Moving again, he kept his speed at fifty-five and the hours began to pass. Ford County faded into another lifetime. Everyone has to be from somewhere, and Clanton was not a bad place to call home. But if he never saw it again, he would not be unhappy.
   Exams were over in a week, graduation the week after, then the summer break. Because he was supposed to be researching and writing. he’d have no classes to teach for the next three months. Which meant he had very little to do at all.
   He would return to Clanton and take the oath as executor of his father’s estate. He would make all the decisions that Harry Rex asked him to make. And he would try to solve the mystery of the money.

Chapter 15

   With ample time to plan his movements, he was not surprised when nothing went right. His arrival time was suitable, 11:20 P.M., Wednesday, May 10. He had hoped to park illegally at the curb, just a few feet from the ground-level door to his apartment, but other drivers had the same idea. The curb had never been so completely blocked with a line of cars, and, to his anxious satisfaction, every one of them had a citation under a windshield wiper.
   He could park in the street while he dashed back and forth, but that would invite trouble. The small lot behind his building had four spaces, one reserved for him, but they locked the gate at eleven.
   So he was forced to use a dark and almost completely abandoned parking garage three blocks away, a large cavernous multilevel that was sold out during the day and eerily empty at night. He’d thought about this alternative off and on for many hours, as he drove north and east and plotted the offensive, and it was the least attractive of all options. It was plan D or E, somewhere way down the list of ways he wanted to transfer the money. He parked on level one, got out with his overnight bag, locked the car, and with great anxiety left it there. He hurried away, eyes darting around as if armed gangs were watching and waiting. His legs and back were stiff from the drive, but he had work to do.
   The apartment looked precisely the same as when he’d left it, which was an odd relief. Thirty-four messages awaited him, no doubt colleagues and friends calling with their sympathies. He would listen later.
   At the bottom of a tiny closet in the hall, under a blanket and a poncho and other things that had been tossed in, as opposed to being placed or stored, he found a red Wimbledon tennis bag that he hadn’t touched in at least two years. Aside from luggage, which he thought would appear too suspicious, it was the largest bag he aid think of.
   If he’d had a gun he would’ve stuck it in his pocket. But crime was rare in Charlottesville, and he preferred to live without weapons. After the episode Sunday in Clanton, he was even more terrified of pistols and such. He’d left the Judge’s guns hidden in a closet at Maple Run.
   With the bag slung over a shoulder, he locked his door on the street and tried his best to walk casually along the downtown mall.
   It was well lit, there was a cop or two always watching, and the pedestrians at this hour were the wayward kids with green hair, an occasional wino, and a few stragglers working their way home. Charlottesville was a quiet town after midnight. A thundershower had passed through not long before his arrival. The streets were wet and the wind was blowing. He passed a young couple walking hand in hand but saw no one else on the way to the garage.
   He’d given some thought to simply hauling the garbage bags themselves, just throwing them over a shoulder like Santa, one at a time, and walking hurriedly from wherever he was parked to his apartment. He could move the money in three trips and cut his exposure on the street. Two things stopped him. First, what if one ripped, and a million bucks hit the pavement? Every thug and wino in town would come out of the alleys, drawn like sharks to blood. Second, the sight of anyone hauling bags of what appeared to be trash into an apartment, as opposed to away from it, might be suspicious enough to attract the attention of the police.
   “What’s in the bag, sir?” a cop might ask.
   “Nothing. Garbage. A million dollars.” No answer seemed correct.
   So the plan was to be patient, take all the time that was necessary, move the loot in small loads, and not worry about how many trips might be required because the least important factor was Ray’s fatigue. He could rest later.
   The terrifying part was the transferring of the money from one bag to another while crouching over his trunk and trying not to look guilty. Fortunately, the garage was deserted. He crammed money into the tennis bag until it would barely zip, then slammed the trunk down, looked around as if he’d just smothered someone, and left.
   Perhaps a third of a garbage bag—three hundred thousand dollars. Much more than enough to get him arrested or knifed.
   Nonchalance was what he desperately wanted, but there was nothing fluid about his steps and movements. Eyes straight ahead, though the eyes wanted to dart up and down, right and left, nothing could be missed. A frightening teenager with studs in his nose stumbled by, stoned out of his wasted mind. Ray walked even faster, not sure if he had the nerves for eight or nine more trips to the parking garage.
   A drunk on a dark bench yelled something unintelligible at him. He lurched forward, then caught himself, and was thankful he had no gun. At that moment, he might’ve shot anything that moved. The cash got heavier with each block, but he made it without incident. He spilled the money onto his bed, locked every door possible, and took another route back to his car.
   During the fifth trip, he was confronted by a deranged old man who jumped from the shadows and demanded, “What the hell are you doing?” He was holding something dark in his hand. Ray assumed it was a weapon with which to slaughter him.
   “Get out of the way,” he said as rudely as possible, but his mouth was dry.
   “You keep going back and forth,” the old man yelled. He stank and his eyes were glowing like a demon’s.
   “Mind your own business.” Ray had never stopped walking, and the old man was in front of him, bouncing along. The village idiot.
   “What’s the problem?” came a clear crisp voice from behind them. Ray stopped and a policeman ambled over, nightstick in hand.
   Ray was all smiles. “Evening, Officer.” He was breathing hard and his face was sweaty.
   “He’s up to something!” the old man yelled. “Keeps going back and forth, back and forth. Goes that way, the bag is empty. Goes that way, the bag is full.”
   “Relax, Gilly,” the cop said, and Ray took a deeper breath. He was horrified that someone had been watching, but relieved because that someone was of Gilly’s ilk. Of all the characters on the mall, Ray had never seen this one.
   “What’s in the bag?” the cop asked.
   It was a dumb question, far into foul territory, and for a split second Ray, the law professor, considered a lecture on stops, searches, seizures, and permissible police questioning. He let it pass, though, and smoothly delivered the prepared line. “I played tennis tonight at Boar’s Head. Got a bad hamstring, so I’m just walking it off. I live over there.” He pointed to his apartment two blocks down.
   The cop turned to Gilly and said, “You can’t be yelling at people, Gilly, I’ve told you that. Does Ted know you’re out?”
   “He’s got something in that bag,” Gilly said, much softer. The cop was leading him away.
   “Yes, it’s cash,” said the cop. “I’m sure the guy’s a bank robber, and you caught him. Good work.”
   “But it’s empty, then it’s full.”
   “Good night, sir,” the officer said over his shoulder.
   “Good night.” And Ray, the wounded tennis player, actually limped for half a block for the benefit of other characters lurking in the darkness. When he dumped the fifth load on his bed, he found a bottle of scotch in his small liquor cabinet and poured a stiff one.
   He waited for two hours, ample time for Gilly to return to Ted, who hopefully could keep him medicated and confined for the rest of the night, and time perhaps for a shift change so a different cop would be walking the beat. Two very long hours, in which he imagined every possible scenario involving his car in the parking garage. Theft, vandalism, fire, towed away by some misguided wrecker, everything imaginable.
   At 3 A.M., he emerged from his apartment wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a navy sweatshirt with VIRGINIA across the chest. He’d ditched the red tennis bag in favor of a battered leather briefcase, one that would not hold as much money but wouldn’t catch the attention of the cop either. He was armed with a steak knife stuck in his belt, under the sweatshirt, ready to be withdrawn in a flash and used on the likes of Gilly or any other assailant. It
   was foolish and he knew it, but he wasn’t himself either and he was quite aware of that. He was dead-tired, sleep-deprived for the third night in a row, just a little tipsy from three scotches, determined to get the money safely hidden, and scared of getting stopped again.
   Even the winos had given up at three in the morning. The downtown streets were deserted. But as he entered the parking jar age, he saw something that terrified him. At the far end of the mall, passing under a street lamp, was a group of five or six black teenagers. They were moving slowly in his general direction, yelling, talking loudly, looking for trouble.
   It would be impossible to make a half-dozen more deliveries without running into them. The final plan was created on the spot.
   Ray cranked the Audi and left the garage. He circled around and stopped in the street next to the cars parked illegally on the curb, close to the door to his apartment. He killed the engine and the lights, opened the trunk, and grabbed the money. Five minutes later, the entire fortune was upstairs, where it belonged.

   At 9 a.m., the phone woke him. It was Harry Rex. “Wake your ass up, boy,” he growled. “How was the trip?”
   Ray swung to the edge of his bed and tried to open his eyes. “Wonderful,” he grunted.
   “I talked to a Realtor yesterday, Baxter Redd, one of the better ones in town. We walked around the place, kicked the tires, you know, whatta mess. Anyway, he wants to stick to the appraised value, four hundred grand, and he thinks we can get at least two-fifty. He gets the usual six percent. You there?”
   “Yeah.”
   “Then say something, okay?”
   “Keep going.”
   “He agrees we need to spend some dough to fix it up, a little paint, a little floor wax, a good bonfire would help. He recommended a cleaning service. You there?”
   “Yes.” Harry Rex had been up for hours, no doubt refueled with another feast of pancakes, biscuits, and sausage.
   “Anyway, I’ve already hired a painter and a roofer. We’ll need an infusion of capital pretty soon.”
   “I’ll be back in two weeks, Harry Rex, can’t it wait?”
   “Sure. You hungover?”
   “No, just tired.”
   “Well, get your ass in gear, it’s after nine there.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Speaking of hangovers,” he said, his voice suddenly lower, his words softer, “Forrest called me last night.”
   Ray stood and arched his back. “This can’t be good,” he said.
   “No, it’s not. He’s tanked, couldn’t tell if it was booze or drugs, probably both. Whatever he’s on, there’s plenty of it. He was so mellow I thought he was falling asleep, then he’d fire up and cuss me.”
   “What did he want?”
   “Money. Not now, he says, claims he’s not broke, but he’s concerned about the house and the estate and wants to make sure you don’t screw him.”
   “Screw him?”
   “He was bombed, Ray, so you can’t hold it against him. But he -aid some pretty bad things.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “I’m tellin’ you so you’ll know, but please don’t get upset. I doubt he’ll remember it this mornin’.”
   “Go ahead, Harry Rex.”
   “He said the Judge always favored you and that’s why he made you the executor of his estate, that you’ve always gotten more out of the old man, that it’s my job to watch you and protect his interests in the estate because you’ll try to screw him out of the money, and so on.”
   “That didn’t take long, did it? We’ve hardly got him in the ground.”
   “No.”
   “I’m not surprised.”
   “Keep your guard up. He’s on a binge and he might call you with the same crap.”
   “I’ve heard it before, Harry Rex. His problems are not his fault. Somebody’s always out to get him. Typical addict.”
   “He thinks the house is worth a million bucks, and said it’s my job to get that much for it. Otherwise, he might have to hire his own lawyer, blah, blah, blah. It didn’t bother me. Again, he was blitzed.”
   “He’s pitiful.”
   “He is indeed, but he’ll bottom out and sober up in a week or so. Then I’ll cuss him. We’ll be fine.”
   “Sorry, Harry Rex.”
   “It’s part of my job. Just one of the joys of practicin’ law.”
   Ray fixed a pot of coffee, a strong Italian blend he was quite attached to and had missed sorely in Clanton. The first cup was almost gone before his brain woke up.
   Any trouble with Forrest would run its course. In spite of his many problems, he was basically harmless. Harry Rex would handle the estate and there would be an equal division of everything left over. In a year or so, Forrest would get a check for more money than he had ever seen.
   The image of a cleaning service turned loose at Maple Run bothered him for a while. He could see a dozen women buzzing around like ants, happy with so much to clean. What if they stumbled upon another treasure trove fiendishly left behind by the Judge? Mattresses stuffed with cash? Closets filled with loot? But it wasn’t possible. Ray had pored over every inch of the house. You find three million bucks tucked away and you get motivated to pry under every board. He’d even clawed his way through spiderwebs in the basement, a dungeon no cleaning lady-would enter.
   He poured another cup of strong coffee and walked to his bedroom, where he sat in a chair and stared at the piles of cash. Now what?
   Through the blur of the last four days, he had concentrated only on getting the money to the spot where it was now located. Now he had to plan the next step, and he had very few ideas. It had to be hidden and protected, he knew that much for sure.

Chapter 16

   There was a large floral arrangement in the center of his desk, with a sympathy card signed by all fourteen students in his antitrust class. Each had written a small paragraph of condolences, and he read them all. Beside the flowers was a stack of cards from his colleagues on the faculty.
   Word spread fast that he was back, and throughout the morning the same colleagues dropped by with a quick hello, welcome back, sorry about your loss. For the most part the faculty was a close group. They could bicker with the best of them on the trivial issues of campus politics, but they were quick to circle the wagons in times of need. Ray was very happy to see them. Alex Duffman’s wife sent a platter of her infamous chocolate brownies, each weighing a pound and proven to add three more to your waist. Naomi Kraig brought a small collection of roses she’d picked from her garden.
   Late in the morning Carl Mirk stopped by and closed the door. Ray’s closest friend on the faculty, his journey to the law school had been remarkably similar. They were the same age, and both had fathers who were small-town judges who’d ruled their lit-de counties for decades. Carl’s father was still on the bench, and still holding a grudge because his son did not return to practice law in the family firm. It appeared, though, that the grudge was fading with the years, whereas Judge Atlee apparently carried his to his death.
   “Tell me about it,” Carl said. Before long he would make the same trip back to his hometown in northern Ohio.
   Ray began with the peaceful house, too peaceful, he recalled now. He described the scene when he found the Judge.
   “You found him dead?” Carl asked. The narrative continued, then, “You think he speeded things up a bit?”
   “I hope so. He was in a lot of pain.”
   “Wow.”
   The story unfolded in great detail, as Ray remembered things he had not thought about since last Sunday. The words poured forth, the telling became therapeutic. Carl was an excellent listener.
   Forrest and Harry Rex were colorfully described. “We don’t have characters like that in Ohio,” Carl said. When they told their small-town stories, usually to colleagues from the cities, they stretched the facts and the characters became larger. Not so with Forrest and Harry Rex. The truth was sufficiently colorful.
   The wake, the funeral, the burial. When Ray closed with “Taps” and the lowering of the casket, both had moist eyes. Carl bounced to his feet and said, “What a great way to go. I’m sorry.”
   “Just glad it’s over.”
   “Welcome back. Let’s do lunch tomorrow.”
   “What’s tomorrow?”
   “Friday”
   “Lunch it is.”
   For his noon antitrust class, Ray ordered pizzas from a carry-out and ate them outside in the courtyard with his students. Thirteen of the fourteen were there. Eight would be graduating in two weeks. The students were more concerned about Ray and the death of his father than about their final exams. He knew that would change quickly. -
   When the pizza was gone, he dismissed them and they scattered. Kaley lingered behind, as she had been doing in the past months. There was a rigid no-fly zone between faculty and students, and Ray Atlee was not about to venture into it. He was much too content with his job to risk it fooling around with a student. In two weeks, though, Kaley would no longer be a student, but a graduate, and thus not covered by the rules. The flirting had picked up a bit—a serious question after class, a drop-in at his office to get a missed assignment, and always that smile with the eyes that lingered for just a second too long.
   She was an average student with a lovely face and a rear-end that stopped traffic. She had played field hockey and lacrosse at Brown and kept a lean athletic figure. She was twenty-eight, a widow with no kids and loads of money she’d received from the company that made the glider her deceased husband had been flying when it cracked up a few miles off the coast at Cape Cod. They found him in sixty feet of water, still strapped in, both wings snapped in two. Ray had researched the accident report online.
   He’d also found the court file in Rhode Island where she had sued. The settlement gave her four million up front and five hundred thousand a year for the next twenty years. He had kept this information to himself.
   After chasing the boys for the first two years of law school, >he was now chasing the men. Ray knew of at least two other law professors who were getting the same lingering routine as he. One just happened to be married. Evidently, all were as wary as Ray.
   They strolled into the front entrance of the law school, chatting aimlessly about the final exam. She was easing closer with each flirtation, warming up to the zone, the only one who knew where ate might be headed with this.
   “I’d like to go flying sometime,” she announced.
   Anything but flying. Ray thought of her young husband and his horrible death, and for a second could think of nothing to say. Finally, with a smile he said, “Buy a ticket.”
   “No, no, with you, in a small plane. Let’s fly somewhere.”
   “Anyplace in particular?”
   “Just buzz around for a while. I’m thinking of taking lessons.”
   “I was thinking of something more traditional, maybe lunch or dinner, after you graduate.” She had stepped closer, so that anyone who walked by at that moment would have no doubt that they, student and professor, were discussing illicit activity.
   “I graduate in fourteen days,” she said, as if she might not be able to wait that long before they hopped in the sack.
   “Then I’ll ask you to dinner in fifteen days.”
   “No, let’s break the rule now, while I’m still a student. Let’s have dinner before I graduate.”
   He almost said yes. “Afraid not. The law is the law. We’re here because we respect it.”
   “Oh yes. It’s so easy to forget. But we have a date?”
   “No, we will have a date.”
   She flashed another smile and walked away. He tried mightily not to admire her exit, but it was impossible.

   The rented van came from a moving company north of town, sixty dollars a day. He tried for a half-day rate because he would need it only for a few hours, but sixty it was. He drove it exactly four tenths of a mile and stopped at Chaney’s Self-Storage, a sprawling arrangement of new cinder-block rectangles surrounded by chain link and shiny new razor wire. Video cameras on light poles watched his every move as he parked and walked into the office.
   Plenty of space was available. A ten-by-ten bay was forty-eight dollars a month, no heating, no air, a roll-down door, and plenty of lighting.
   “Is it fireproof?” Ray asked.
   “Absolutely,” said Mrs. Chaney herself, fighting off the smoke from the cigarette stuck between her lips as she filled in forms. “Nothing but concrete block.” Everything was safe at Chaney’s. They featured electronic surveillance, she explained, as she waved at four monitors on a shelf to her left. On a shelf to her right was a small television wherein folks were yelling and fighting, a Springer-style gabfest that was now a brawl. Ray knew which shelf received the most attention.
   “Twenty-four-hour guards,” she said, still doing the paperwork. “Gate’s locked at all times. Never had a break-in, and if one happens then we got all kinds of insurance. Sign right here. Fourteen B.”
   Insurance on three million bucks, Ray said to himself as he scribbled his name. He paid cash for six months and took the keys to 14B.
   He was back two hours later with six new storage boxes, a pile of old clothes, and a stick or two of worthless furniture he’d picked up at a flea market downtown for authenticity. He parked in the alley in front of 14B and worked quickly to unload and store his junk.
   The cash was stuffed into forty-two-ounce freezer bags, zipped tight to keep air and water out, fifty-three in all. The freezer bags were arranged in the bottoms of the six storage boxes, then carefully covered with papers and files and research notes that Ray had until very recently deemed useful. Now his meticulous files served a much higher calling. A few old paperbacks were thrown in for good measure.
   If, by chance, a thief penetrated 14B, he would probably abandon it after a cursory look into the boxes. The money was well hidden and as well protected as possible. Short of a safety deposit box in a bank, Ray could think of no better place to secure the money.
   What would ultimately become of the money was a mystery that grew by the day. The fact that it was now safely tucked away in Virginia provided little comfort, contrary to what he had hoped.
   He watched the boxes and the other junk for a while, not really anxious to leave. He vowed to himself that he would not stop by every day to check on things, but as soon as the vow was made he began to doubt it.
   He secured the roll-down door with a new padlock. As he drove away, the guard was awake, the video cameras scanning, the gate locked.

   Fog Newton was worrying about the weather. He had a student-pilot on a cross-country to Lynchburg and back, and thunderstorms were moving in quickly, according to radar. The clouds had not been expected, and no weather had been forecast during the student’s preflight briefing.
   “How many hours does he have?” Ray asked.
   “Thirty-one,” Fog said gravely. Certainly not enough experience to handle thunderstorms. There were no airports between Charlottesville and Lynchburg, only mountains.
   “You’re not flying, are you?” Fog asked.
   “I want to.”
   “Forget it. This storm is coming together quickly. Let’s go watch it.”
   Nothing frightened an instructor more than a student up in heavy weather. Each cross-country training flight had to be carefully planned—route, time, fuel, weather, secondary airports, and emergency procedures. And each flight had to be approved in writing by the instructor. Fog had once grounded Ray because there was a slight chance of icing at five thousand feet, on a perfectly clear day.
   They walked through the hangar to the ramp where a Lear was parking and shutting down its engines. To the west beyond the foothills was the first hint of clouds. The wind had picked up noticeably. “Ten to fifteen knots, gusting,” Fog said. “A direct cross-wind.” Ray would not want to attempt a landing in such conditions.
   Behind the Lear was a Bonanza taxiing to the ramp, and as it got closer Ray noticed that it was the one he’d been coveting for the past two months. “There’s your plane,” Fog said.
   “I wish,” Ray said.
   The Bonanza parked and shut down near them, and when the ramp was quiet again Fog said, “I hear he’s cut the price.”
   “How much?”
   “Somewhere around four twenty-five. Four-fifty was a little steep.”
   The owner, traveling alone, crawled out and pulled his bags from the rear. Fog was gazing at the sky and glancing at his watch. Ray kept his eyes on the Bonanza, where the owner was locking the door and putting it to rest.
   “Let’s take it for a spin,” Ray said.
   “The Bonanza?”
   “Sure. What’s the rent?”
   “It’s negotiable. I know the guy pretty well.”
   “Let’s get it for a day, fly up to Atlantic City, then back.”
   Fog forgot about the approaching clouds and the rookie student. He turned and looked at Ray. “You’re serious?”
   “Why not? Sounds like fun.”
   Aside from flying and poker, Fog had few other interests. “When?”
   “Saturday. Day after tomorrow. Leave early, come back late.”
   Fog was suddenly deep in thought. He glanced at his watch, looked once more to the west, then to the south. Dick Docker yelled from a window, “Yankee Tango is ten miles out.”
   “Thank God,” Fog mumbled to himself and visibly relaxed. He and Ray walked to the Bonanza for a closer look. “Saturday, huh?” Fog said.
   “Yep, all day”
   “I’ll catch the owner. I’m sure we can work a deal.” The winds relented for a moment and Yankee Tango landed
   with little effort. Fog relaxed even more and managed a smile.
   “Didn’t know you liked the action,” he said as they walked across the ramp.
   “Just a little blackjack, nothing serious,” Ray said.

Chapter 17

   The solitude of a late Friday morning was broken by the doorbell. Ray had slept late, still trying to shake off the fatigue from the trip home. Three newspapers and four coffees later he was almost fully awake.
   It was a FedEx box from Harry Rex, and it was filled with letters from admirers and newspaper clippings. Ray spread them on the dining table and began with the articles. The Clanton Chronicle ran a front-page piece on Wednesday that featured a dignified photo of Reuben Atlee, complete with black robe and gavel. The picture was at least twenty years old. The Judge’s hair was thicker and darker, and he filled out the robe. The headline read.


Judge Reuben Atlee Dead at 79

   There were three stories on the front page. One was a flowery obituary. One was a collection of comments from his friends. The third was a tribute to the Judge and his amazing gift of charity.
   The Ford County Times likewise had a picture, one taken just a few years earlier. In it Judge Atlee was sitting on his front porch holding his pipe, looking much older but offering a rare smile. He wore a cardigan and looked like a grandfather. The reporter had cajoled him into a feature with the ruse of chatting about the Civil War and Nathan Bedford Forrest. There was the hint of a book in the works, one about the general and the men from Ford County who’d fought with him.
   The Atlee sons were barely mentioned in the stories about their father. Referring to one would require referring to the other, and most folks in Clanton wanted to avoid the subject of Forrest. It was painfully obvious that the sons were not a part of their father’s life.
   But we could’ve been, Ray said to himself. It was the father who’d chosen early on to have limited involvement with the sons, not the other way around. This wonderful old man who’d given so much to so many had had so little time for his own family.
   The stories and photos made him sad, which was frustrating because he had not planned to be sad this Friday. He had held up quite well since discovering his father’s body five days earlier. In moments of grief and sorrow, he had dug deep and found the strength to bite his lip and push forward without breaking down. The passage of time and the distance to Clanton had helped immensely, and now from nowhere had come the saddest reminders yet.
   The letters had been collected by Harry Rex from the Judge’s post office box in Clanton, from the courthouse, and from the mail-box at Maple Run. Some were addressed to Ray and Forrest and some to the family of Judge Atlee. There were lengthy letters from lawyers who’d practiced before the great man and had been inspired by his passion for the law. There were cards of sympathy from people who, for one reason or another, had appeared before Judge Atlee in a divorce, or adoption, or juvenile matter, and his fairness had changed their lives. There were notes from people all over the state—sitting judges, old law school pals, politicians Judge Atlee had helped over the years, and friends who wanted to pass along their sympathies and fond memories.
   The largest batch came from those who had received the Judge’s charity. The letters were long and heartfelt, and all the same. Judge Atlee had quietly sent money that was desperately needed, and in many cases it had made a dramatic change in the life of someone.
   How could a man so generous die with more than three million dollars hidden below his bookshelves? He certainly buried more than he gave away. Perhaps Alzheimer’s had crept into his life, or some other affliction that had gone undetected. Had he slipped toward insanity? The easy answer was that the old man had simply gone nuts, but how many crazy people could put together that kind of money?
   After reading twenty or so letters and cards, Ray took a break. He walked to the small balcony overlooking the downtown mall and watched the pedestrians below. His father had never seen Charlottesville, and though Ray was certain he had asked him to visit, he could not remember a specific invitation. They had never traveled anywhere together. There were so many things they could have done.
   The Judge had always talked of seeing Gettysburg, Antietam, Bull Run, Chancellorsville, and Appomatox, and he would have done so had Ray shown an interest. But Ray cared nothing for the refighting of an old war, and he had always changed the subject.
   The guilt hit hard, and he couldn’t shake it. What a selfish ass he’d been.
   There was a lovely card from Claudia. She thanked Ray for talking to her and expressing his forgiveness. She had loved his father for years and would carry her grief to her grave. Please call me, she begged, then signed off with hugs and kisses. And she’s got her current boyfriend on Viagra, according to Harry Rex.
   The nostalgic journey home came to an abrupt halt with a simple anonymous card that froze his pulse and sent goose bumps down the backs of both legs.
   The only pink envelope in the pile contained a card with the words “With Sympathy” on the outside. Taped to the inside was a small square piece of paper with a typed message that read: “It would be a mistake to spend the money. The IRS is a phone call away.” The envelope had been postmarked in Clanton on Wednesday, the day after the funeral, and was addressed to the family of Judge Atlee at Maple Run.
   Ray placed it aside while he scanned the other cards and letters. They were all the same at this point, and he’d read enough. The pink one sat there like a loaded gun, waiting for him to return to it.
   He repeated the threat on the balcony as he grasped the railing and tried to analyze things. He mumbled the words in the kitchen as he fixed more coffee. He’d left the note on the table so he could see it from any part of his rambling den.
   Back on the balcony he watched the foot traffic pick up as noon approached, and anyone who glanced up was a person who might know about the money. Bury a fortune, then realize you’re hiding it from someone, and your imagination can get crazy.
   The money didn’t belong to him, and it was certainly enough to get him stalked, followed, watched, reported, even hurt.
   Then he laughed at his own paranoia. I will not live like this, he said, and went to take a shower.
   Whoever it was knew exactly where the Judge had hidden the money. Make a list, Ray told himself as he sat on the edge of his bed, naked, with water dripping onto the floor. The felon who cut the lawn once a week. Perhaps he was a smooth talker who’d befriended the Judge and spent time in the house. Entry was easy. When the Judge sneaked off to the casinos, maybe the grass cutter slinked through the house, pilfering.
   Claudia would be at the top of the list. Ray could easily see her easing over to Maple Run whenever the Judge beckoned. You don’t sleep with a woman for years then cut her off without a replacement. Their lives had been so connected it was easy to imagine their romance continuing. No one had been closer to Reuben Atlee than Claudia. If anyone knew where the money came from, it was her.
   If she wanted a key to the house, she could’ve had one, though a key was not necessary. Her visit on the morning of the funeral could’ve been for surveillance and not sympathy, though she’d played it well. Tough, smart, savvy, calloused, and old but not too old. For fifteen minutes he dwelt on Claudia and convinced himself that she was the one tracking the money.
   Two other names came to mind, but Ray could not add them to the list. The first was Harry Rex, and as soon as he mumbled the name he felt ashamed. The other was Forrest, and it too was a ridiculous idea. Forrest had not been inside the house for nine years. Assuming, just for the sake of argument, that he somehow had known about the money, he would never have left it. Give Forrest three million in cash and he would’ve done serious damage to himself and those around him.
   The list took great effort but there was little to show for it. He wanted to go for a quick run, but instead stuffed some old clothes into two pillowcases, then drove to Chaney’s, where he unloaded them into 14B. Nothing had been touched, the boxes were just as he’d left them the day before. The money was still well hidden. As he loitered there, not wanting to leave until the last second, he was hit with the thought that perhaps he was creating a trail. Obviously, someone knew he had taken it from the Judge’s study. For that kind of money, private investigators could be hired to follow Ray.
   They could follow him from Clanton to Charlottesville, from his apartment to Chaney’s Self-Storage.
   He cursed himself for being so negligent. Think, man! The money doesn’t belong to you!
   He locked up 14B as tightly as possible. Driving across town to meet Carl for lunch, he glanced at his mirrors and watched other drivers, and after five minutes of this he laughed at himself and vowed that he would not live like wounded prey.
   Let them have the damned money! One less thing to worry about. Break into 14B and haul it away. Wouldn’t affect his life in the least. No sir.

Chapter 18

   The estimated flying time to Atlantic City was eighty-five minutes in the Bonanza, which was exactly thirty-five minutes faster than the Cessna Ray had been renting. Early Saturday morning he and Fog did a thorough preflight under the intrusive and often obnoxious supervision of Dick Docker and Charlie Yates, who walked around the Bonanza with their tall Styrofoam cups of bad coffee as if they were flying instead of just watching. They had no students that morning, but the gossip around the airport was that Ray was buying the Bonanza and they had to see things for themselves. Hangar gossip was as reliable as coffee shop rumors.
   “How much does he want now?” Docker asked in the general direction of Fog Newton, who was crouched under a wing draining a fuel sump, checking for water and dirt in the tanks.
   “He’s down to four-ten,” Fog said, with an air of importance because he was in charge of this flight, not them.
   “Still too high,” Yates said.
   “You gonna make an offer?” Docker said to Ray.
   “Mind your own business,” Ray shot back without looking. He was checking the engine oil.
   “This is our business,” Yates said, and they all laughed.
   In spite of the unsolicited help, the preflight was completed without a problem. Fog climbed in first and buckled himself into the left seat. Ray followed in the right, and when he pulled the door hard and latched it and put on the headset he knew he had found the perfect flying machine. The two-hundred-horsepower engine started smoothly. Fog slowly went through the gauges, instruments, and radios, and when they finished a pre-takeoff checklist he called the tower. He would get it airborne, then turn it over to Ray.
   The wind was light and the clouds were high and scattered, almost a perfect day for flying. They lifted off the runway at seventy miles per hour, retracted the landing gear, and climbed eight hundred feet per minute until they reached their assigned cruising altitude of six thousand feet. By then, Ray had the controls and Fog was explaining the autopilot, the radar weather, the traffic collision avoidance system. “She’s loaded,” Fog said more than once.
   Fog had flown Marine fighters for one career, but for the past ten years he’d been relegated to the little Cessnas in which he’d taught Ray and a thousand others to fly. A Bonanza was the Porsche of single engines, and Fog was delighted for the rare chance to fly one. The route assigned by air traffic control took them just south and east of Washington, away from the busy airspace around Dulles and Reagan National. Thirty miles away and more than a mile up, they could see the dome of the Capitol, then they were over the Chesapeake with the skyline of Baltimore in the distance. The bay was beautiful, but the inside of the airplane was far more interesting. Ray was flying it himself without the help of the autopilot. He maintained a course, kept the assigned altitude, talked to Washington control, and listened to Fog chat incessantly about the performance ratings and features of the Bonanza. :
   Both pilots wanted the flight to last for hours, but Atlantic City was soon ahead. Ray descended to four thousand feet, then to three thousand, and then switched to the approach frequency. With the runway in sight, Fog took the controls and they glided to a soft touchdown. Taxiing to the general aviation ramp, they passed two rows of small Cessnas and Ray couldn’t help but think that those days were behind him. Pilots were always searching for the next plane, and Ray had found his.

   Fog’s favorite casino was the Rio, on the boardwalk with several others. They agreed to meet for lunch in a second-floor cafeteria, then quickly lost each other. Each wanted to keep his gambling private. Ray wandered among the slots and scoped out the tables. It was Saturday and the Rio was busy. He circled around and eased up on the poker tables. Fog was in a crowd around a table, lost in his cards with a stack of chips under his hands.
   Ray had five thousand dollars in his pocket—fifty of the hundred-dollar bills picked at random from the stash he’d hauled back from Clanton. His only goal that day was to drop the money in the casinos along the boardwalk and make certain it was not counterfeit, not marked, not traceable in any way. After his visit to Tunica last Monday night, he was fairly certain the money was for real.
   Now he almost hoped it was marked. If so, then maybe the FBI would track him down and tell him where the money came from. He’d done nothing wrong. The guilty party was dead. Bring on the feds.
   He found an empty chair at a blackjack table and laid five bills down for chips. “Greens,” he said like a veteran gambler.
   “Changing five hundred,” the dealer said, barely looking up.
   “Change it,” came the reply from a pit boss. The tables were busy. Slots were ringing in the background. A crap game was hot off in the distance, men were yelling at the dice.
   The dealer picked up the bills as Ray froze for a second. The other players watched with detached admiration. All were playing five– and ten-dollar chips. Amateurs.
   The dealer stuffed the Judge’s bills, all perfectly valid, into the money box and counted twenty twenty-five-dollar green chips for Ray, who lost half of them in the first fifteen minutes and left to find some ice cream. Down two hundred fifty and not the least bit worried about it.
   He ventured near the crap tables and watched the confusion. He could not imagine his father mastering such a complicated game. Where did one learn to shoot dice in Ford County, Mississippi?
   According to a thin little gambling guide he’d picked up in a bookstore, a basic wager is a come-bet, and when he mustered the courage he wedged his way between two other gamblers and placed the remaining ten chips on the pass line. The dice rolled twelve, the money was scraped away by the dealer, and Ray left the Rio to visit the Princess next door.
   Inside, the casinos were all the same. Old folks staring hopelessly at the slots. Just enough coins rattling in the trays to keep them hooked. Blackjack tables crowded with subdued players slugging free beer and whiskey. Serious gamblers packed around the crap tables hollering at the dice. A few Asians playing roulette. Cocktail waitresses in silly costumes showing skin and hauling drinks.
   He picked out a blackjack table and repeated the procedure. His next five bills passed the dealer’s inspection. Ray bet a hundred dollars on the first hand, but instead of quickly losing his money, he began winning.
   He had too much untested cash in his pocket to waste time accumulating chips, so when he’d doubled his money, he pulled out ten more bills and asked for hundred-dollar chips. The dealer informed the pit boss, who offered a gapped smile, and said, “Good luck.” An hour later, he left the table with twenty-two chips.
   Next on his tour was the Forum, an older-looking establishment with an odor of stale cigarette smoke partially masked by cheap disinfectant. The crowd was older too because, as he soon realized, the Forum’s specialty was quarter slots and those over sixty-five got a free breakfast, lunch, or dinner, take your pick. The cocktail waitresses were on the downhill side of forty and had given up the notion of showing flesh. They hustled about in what appeared to be track suits with matching sneakers.
   The limit at blackjack was ten dollars a hand. The dealer hesitated when he saw Ray’s cash hit the table, and he held the first bill up to the light as if he’d finally caught a counterfeiter. The pit boss inspected it too, and Ray was rehearsing his lines about procuring that particular bill down the street at the Rio. “Cash it,” said the pit boss, and the moment passed. He lost three hundred dollars in an hour.

   Fog claimed to be breaking the casino when they met for a quick sandwich. Ray was down a hundred dollars, but like all gamblers lied and said he was up slightly. They agreed to leave at 5 P.M. and fly back to Charlottesville.
   The last of Ray’s cash was converted to chips at a fifty-dollar table in Canyon Casino, the newest of those on the boardwalk. He played for a while but soon grew tired of cards and went to the sports bar, where he sipped a soda and watched boxing from Vegas. The five thousand he brought to Atlantic City had been thoroughly flushed through the system. He would leave with forty-seven hundred, and a wide trail. He had been filmed and photographed in seven casinos. At two of them he had filled in paperwork when cashing in chips at the cashiers’ windows. At two others he had used his credit cards to make small withdrawals, just to leave more evidence behind.
   If the Judge’s cash was traceable, then they would know who he was and where to find him.
   Fog was quiet as they rode back to the airport. His luck had turned south during the afternoon. “Lost a couple hundred,” he finally admitted, but his demeanor suggested he’d lost much more.
   “You?” he asked.
   “I had a good afternoon,” Ray said. “Won enough to pay for the charter.”
   “That’s not bad.”
   “Don’t suppose I could pay for it in cash, could I?”
   “Cash is still legal,” Fog said, perking up a bit.
   “Then cash it is.”
   During the preflight, Fog asked if Ray wanted to fly in the left seat. “We’ll call it a lesson,” he said. The prospect of a cash transaction had raised his spirits.
   Behind two commuter flights, Ray taxied the Bonanza into position and waited for traffic to clear. Under the close eye of Fog, he began the takeoff roll, accelerated to seventy miles per hour, then lifted smoothly into the air. The turbocharged engine seemed twice as powerful as the Cessna’s. They climbed with little effort to seventy-five hundred feet and were soon on top of the world.

   Dick Docker was napping in the Cockpit when Ray and Fog walked in to log the trip and turn in headsets. He jumped to attention and made his way to the counter. “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” he mumbled, half-asleep, as he pulled paperwork from a drawer.
   “We broke the casino,” Ray said.
   Fog had disappeared down into the study room of the flight school.
   “Gee, I never heard that before.”
   Ray was flipping through the logbook.
   “You paying now?” Dick asked, scribbling numbers.
   “Yes, and I want the cash discount.”
   “Didn’t know we had one.”
   “You do now. It’s ten percent.”
   “We can do that. Yep, it’s the old cash discount.” He figured again, then said, “Total’s thirteen hundred and twenty bucks.”
   Ray was counting money from his wad of bills. “I don’t carry twenties. Here’s thirteen.” As Dick was recounting the money, he said, “Some guy came poking around today, said he wanted to take lessons and somehow your name came up.”
   “Who was he?”
   “Never saw him before.”
   “Why was my name used?”
   “It was kinda weird. I was giving him the spiel about costs and such, and out of the blue he asked if you owned an airplane. Said he knew you from someplace.”
   Ray had both hands on the counter. “Did you get his name?”
   “I asked. Dolph something or other, wasn’t real clear. Started acting suspicious and finally left. I watched him. He stopped by your car in the parking lot, walked around it like he might break in or something, then left. You know a Dolph?”
   “I’ve never known a Dolph.”
   “Me neither. I’ve never heard of a Dolph. Like I said, it was weird.”
   “What’d he look like?”
   “Fiftyish, small, thin, head full of gray hair slicked back, dark eyes like a Greek or something, used-car-salesman type, pointed-toe boots.”
   Ray was shaking his head. Not a clue.
   “Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Ray asked.
   “Thought he was a customer.”
   “Since when are you nice to your customers?”
   “You buying the Bonanza?”
   “Nope. Just dreaming.”
   Fog was back and they congratulated each other on a wonderful trip, promised to do it again, the usual. Driving away, Ray watched every car and every turn.
   They were following him.

Chapter 19

   A week passed, a week without FBI or Treasury agents knocking on his door with badges and questions about bad money tracked down in Atlantic City, a week with no sign of Dolph or anyone else following him, a week of the normal routine of running five miles in the morning and being a law professor after that.
   He flew the Bonanza three times, each a lesson with Fog at his right elbow, and each lesson paid for on the spot with cash. “Casino money,” he said with a grin, and it wasn’t a lie. Fog was anxious to return to Atlantic City to reclaim his lost assets. Ray had no interest, but it wasn’t a bad idea. He could boast of another good day at the tables and keep paying cash for his flying lessons.
   The money was now in 37F—14B was still rented to Ray Atlee, and it still held the old clothes and the cheap furniture; 37F was rented to NDY Ventures, named in honor of the three flight instructors at Docker’s. Ray’s name was nowhere on the paperwork for 37F. He leased it for three months, in cash.
   “I want this confidential,” he’d said to Mrs. Chancy.
   “Everything’s confidential around here. We get all types.” She gave him a conspiratorial look as if to say, “I don’t care what you’re hiding. Just pay me.”
   He’d moved it one box at a time, hauling it at night, under the cover of darkness, with a security guard watching from a distance. Storage space 37F was identical to 14B, and when the six boxes were safely tucked away he had vowed once again to leave it alone and not stop by every day. It had never occurred to him that hauling around three million bucks could be such a chore.
   Harry Rex had not called. He’d sent another overnight package with more of the same letters of sympathy and such. Ray was compelled to read them all, or least scan them just in case there was a second cryptic note. There was not.
   Exams came and went and after graduation the law school would be quiet for the summer. Ray said good-bye to his students, all but Kaley, who, after her last exam, informed Ray she had decided to stay in Charlottesville through the summer. She pressed him again for a pregraduation rendezvous of some sort. Just for the hell of it.
   “We are waiting until you are no longer a student,” Ray said, holding his ground but wanting to yield. They were in his office with the door open.
   “That’s a few days away,” she said.
   “Yes it is.”
   “Then let’s pick a date.”
   “No, let’s graduate first, then we’ll pick a date.”
   She left him with the same lingering smile and look, and Ray knew that she was trouble. Carl Mirk caught him gazing down the hall as she walked away in very tight jeans. “Not bad,” Carl said.
   Ray was slightly embarrassed, but kept watching anyway. “She’s after me,” he said.
   “You’re not alone. Be careful.”
   They were standing in the hallway next to the door to Ray’s office. Carl handed him an odd-looking envelope and said, “Thought you’d get a kick out of this.”
   “What is it?”
   “It’s an invitation to the Buzzard Ball.”
   “The what?” Ray was pulling out the invitation.
   “The first ever Buzzard Ball, probably the last too. It’s a black-tie gala to benefit the preservation of bird life in the Piedmont. Look at the hosts.”
   Ray read it slowly. “Vicki and Lew Rodowski cordially invite you to ...”
   “The Liquidator is now saving our birds. Touching, huh?”
   “Five thousand bucks a couple!”
   “I think that’s a record for Charlottesville. It was sent to the Dean. He’s on the A list, we are not. Even his wife was shocked at the price.”
   “Suzie’s shockproof, isn’t she?”
   “Or so we thought. They want two hundred couples. They’ll raise a million or so and show everybody how it’s done. That’s the plan anyway. Suzie says they’ll be lucky to get thirty couples.”
   “She’s not going?”
   “No, and the Dean is very relieved. He thinks it’s the first black-tie shindig they’ll miss in the last ten years.”
   “Music by the Drifters?” Ray said as he scanned the rest of the invitation.
   “That’ll cost him fifty grand.”
   “What a fool.”
   “That’s Charlottesville. Some clown bails out from Wall Street, gets a new wife, buys a big horse farm, starts throwing money around, and wants to be the big man in a small town.”
   “Well, I’m not going.”
   “You’re not invited. Keep it.”
   Carl was off, and Ray returned to his desk, invitation in hand. He put his feet on his desk, closed his eyes, and began daydreaming. He could see Kaley in a slinky black dress with no back at all, slits up past her thighs, very low V-neck, drop-dead gorgeous, thirteen years younger than Vicki, a helluva lot fitter, out there on the dance floor with Ray, who was not a bad dancer himself, bobbing and jerking to the Motown rhythms of the Drifters, while everybody watched and whispered, “Who’s that?”
   And in response Vicki would be forced to drag old Lew out onto the floor, Lew in his designer tux, which could not hide his dumpy little belly; Lew with shrubs of bright gray hair above his ears; Lew the old goat trying to buy respect by saving the birds; Lew with the arthritic back and slow feet who moves like a dump truck; Lew proud of his trophy wife in her million-dollar dress, which reveals too much of her magnificently starved bones.
   Ray and Kaley would look much better, dance much better, and, well, what would all that prove?
   A nice scene to visit, but give it up. Now that he had the money he wouldn’t waste it on nonsense like that.

   The drive to Washington was only two hours, and more than half of it was fairly scenic and enjoyable. But his preferred method of travel had changed. He and Fog flew the Bonanza for thirty-eight minutes to Reagan National, where they were reluctantly allowed to land, even with a preapproved slot. Ray jumped in a taxi and fifteen minutes later was at the Treasury Department on Pennsylvania Avenue.
   A colleague at the law school had a brother-in-law with some clout in Treasury. Phone calls had been made, and Mr. Oliver Talbert welcomed Professor Atlee into his rather comfortable office in the BEP, Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The professor was doing research on a vaguely defined project and needed less than an hour of someone’s time. Talbert was not the brother-in-law, but he was asked to fill in.
   They began with the topic of counterfeiting, and in broad strokes Talbert laid out the current problems, almost all blamed on technology—primarily inkjet printers and computer-generated counterfeit currency. He had samples of some of the best imitations. With a magnifier, he pointed out the flaws—the lack of detail in Ben Franklin’s forehead, the missing thin thread lines running through the design background, the bleeding ink in the serial numbers. “This is very good stuff,” he said. “And counterfeiters are getting better.”
   “Where’d you find this?” Ray asked, though the question was completely irrelevant. Talbert looked at the tag on the back of the display board. “Mexico,” he said, and that was all.
   To outpace the counterfeiters, Treasury was investing heavily in its own technology. Printers that gave the bills an almost holographic effect, watermarks, color-shifting inks, fine line printing patterns, enlarged off-center portraits, and scanners that could spot a fake in less than a second. The most effective method so far was one that had not yet been used. Simply change the color of the money. Go from green to blue to yellow then to pink. Gather up the old, flood the banks with the new, and the counterfeiters could not catch up, at least not in Talbert’s opinion. “But Congress won’t allow it,” he said, shaking his head.
   Tracing real money was Ray’s primary concern, and they eventually got around to it. Money is not actually marked, Talbert explained, for obvious reasons. If the crook could look at the bills and see markings, then the sting would fall apart. Marking simply meant recording serial numbers, once a very tedious task because it was done manually. He told a kidnapping and ransom story. The cash arrived just minutes before the drop was planned. Two dozen FBI agents worked furiously to write down the serial numbers of the hundred-dollar bills. “The ransom was a million bucks,” he was saying, “and they simply ran out of time. Got about eighty thousand recorded, but it was enough. They caught the kidnappers a month later with some of the marked bills, and that broke the case.”
   But a new scanner had made the job much easier. It photographs ten bills at a time, one hundred in forty seconds.
   “Once the serial numbers are recorded, how do you find the money?” Ray asked, taking notes on a yellow legal pad. Would Talbert have expected anything else?
   “Two ways. First, if you find the crook with the money, you simply put two and two together and nail him. That’s how the DEA and FBI catch drug dealers. Bust a street dealer, cut him a deal, give him twenty thousand in marked bills to buy coke from his supplier, then catch the bigger fish holding the government’s money.”
   “What if you don’t catch the crook?” Ray asked, and in doing so could not help but think of his departed father.
   “That’s the second way, and it’s much more difficult. Once the money is lifted out of circulation by the Federal Reserve, a sample of it is routinely scanned. If a marked bill is found, it can be traced back to the bank that submitted it. By then it’s too late. Occasionally, a person with marked money will use it in one general location over a period of time, and we’ve caught a few crooks that way.”
   “Sounds like a long shot.”
   “Very much so,” Talbert admitted.
   “I read a story a few years ago about some duck hunters who stumbled across a wrecked airplane, a small one,” Ray said casually. The tale had been rehearsed. “There was some cash on board, seems like it was almost a million bucks. They figured it was drug money, so they kept it. Turns out it they were right, the money was marked, and it soon surfaced in their small town.”
   “I think I remember that,” Talbert said.
   I must be good, thought Ray. “My question is this: could they, or could anyone else who finds money, simply submit it to the FBI or DEA or Treasury and have it scanned to see if it was marked, and if so, where it came from?”
   Talbert scratched his cheek with a bony finger and contemplated the question, then shrugged and said, “I don’t see why they couldn’t. The problem, though, is obvious. They would run the risk of losing the money.”
   “I’m sure it’s not a common occurrence,” Ray said, and they both laughed.
   Talbert had a story about a judge in Chicago who was skimming from the lawyers, small sums, five hundred and a thousand bucks a pop, to get cases moved up the docket, and for friendly rulings. He’d done it for years before the FBI got a tip. They busted some of the lawyers and convinced them to play along. Serial numbers were taken from the bills, and during the two-year operation three hundred fifty thousand was sneaked across the bench into the judge’s sticky fingers. When the raid happened, the money had vanished. Someone tipped the judge. The FBI eventually found the money in the judge’s brother’s garage in Arizona, and everybody went to jail.
   Ray caught himself squirming. Was it a coincidence, or was Talbert trying to tell him something? But as the narrative unfolded he relaxed and tried to enjoy it, close as it was. Talbert knew nothing about Ray’s father.
   Riding in a cab back to the airport, Ray did the math on his legal pad. For a judge like the one in Chicago, it would take eighteen years, stealing at the rate of a hundred seventy-five thousand a year, to accumulate three million. And that was Chicago, with a hundred courts and thousands of wealthy lawyers handling cases worth much more than the ones in north Mississippi. The judicial system there was an industry where things could slip through, heads could be turned, wheels greased. In Judge Atlee’s world a handful of people did everything, and if money was offered or taken folks would know about it. Three million dollars could not be taken from the 25th Chancery District because there wasn’t that much in the system to begin with.
   He decided that one more trip to Atlantic City was necessary. He would take even more cash and flush it through the system. A final test. He had to be certain the Judge’s money wasn’t marked.
   Fog would be thrilled.

Chapter 20

   When Vicki fled and moved in with the Liquidator, a professor friend recommended Axel Sullivan as a divorce specialist. Axel proved to be a fine lawyer, but there wasn’t much he could do on the legal front. Vicki was gone, she wasn’t coming back, and she didn’t want anything from Ray. Axel supervised the paperwork, recommended a good shrink, and did a commendable job of getting Ray through the ordeal. According to Axel, the best private investigator in town was Corey Crawford, a black ex-cop who’d pulled time for a beating.
   Crawford’s office was above a bar his brother owned near the campus. It was a nice bar, with a menu and unpainted windows, live music on the weekends, no unseemly traffic other than a bookie who worked the college crowd. But Ray parked three blocks away just the same. He did not want to be seen entering the premises. A sign that read


Crawford Investigations

   pointed to stairs on one side of the building.
   There was no secretary, or at least none was present. He was ten minutes early but Crawford was waiting. He was in his late thirties with a shaved head and handsome face, no smile whatsoever. He was tall and lean and his expensive clothes were well fitted. A large pistol was strapped to his waist in a black leather holster.
   “I think I’m being followed,” Ray began.
   “This is not a divorce?” They were on opposite sides of a small table in a small office that overlooked the street.
   “No.”
   “Who would want to follow you?”
   He had rehearsed a story about family trouble back in Mississippi, a dead father, some inheritances that may or may not happen, jealous siblings, a rather vague tale that Crawford seemed to buy none of. Before he could ask questions, Ray told him about Dolph at the airport and gave him his description.
   “Sounds like Rusty Wattle,” Crawford said.
   ‘And who’s that?”
   “Private eye from Richmond, not very good. Does some work around here. Based on what you’ve said, I don’t think your family would hire someone from Charlottesville. It’s a small town.”
   The name of Rusty Wattle was duly recorded and locked away forever in Ray’s memory.
   “Is there a chance that these bad guys back in Mississippi would want you to know that you’re being followed?” Crawford asked.
   Ray looked completely baffled, so Crawford continued. “Sometimes we get hired to intimidate, to frighten. Sounds like Wattle or whoever it was wanted your buddies at the airport to give you a good description. Maybe he left a trail.”
   “I guess it’s possible.”
   “What do you want me to do?”
   “Determine if someone is following me. If so, who is it, and who’s paying for it.”
   “The first two might be easy. The third might be impossible.”
   “Let’s give it a try.”
   Crawford opened a thin file. “I charge a hundred bucks an hour,” he said, his eyes staring right through Ray’s, looking for indecision. “Plus expenses. And a retainer of two thousand.”
   “I prefer to deal in cash,” Ray said, staring right back. “If that’s acceptable.”
   The first hint of a smile. “In my business, cash is always preferred.”
   Crawford filled in some blanks in a contract.
   “Would they tap my phones, stuff like that?” Ray asked.
   “We’ll search everything. Get another cell phone, digital, and don’t register it in your name. Most of our correspondence will be by cell phone.”
   “What a surprise,” Ray mumbled, taking the contract, scanning it, then signing.
   Crawford put it back in the file and returned to his notepad. “For the first week, we’ll coordinate your movements. Everything will be planned. Go about your normal routine, just give us notice so we can have people in place.”
   I’ll have a traffic jam behind me, Ray thought. “It’s a pretty dull life,” Ray said. “I jog, I go to work, sometimes I go fly an airplane, I go home, alone, no family.”
   “Other places
   “Sometimes I do lunch, dinner, not a breakfast guy though.”
   “You’re putting me to sleep,” Crawford said and almost smiled. “Women?”
   “I wish. Maybe a prospect or two, nothing serious. If you find one, give her my name.”
   “These bad guys in Mississippi, they’re looking for something. What is it?”
   “It’s an old family with lots of stuff handed down. Jewelry, rare books, crystal, and silver.” It sounded natural and this time Craw-ford bought it.
   “Now we’re getting somewhere. And you have possession of the family heirloom?”
   “That’s right.”
   “It’s here?”
   “Tucked away in Chaney’s Self-Storage, on Berkshire Road.”
   “What’s it worth?”
   “Not nearly as much as my relatives think.”
   “Gimme a ballpark.”
   “Half a million, on the high side.”
   “And you have a legitimate claim to it?”
   “Let’s say the answer is yes. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to give you the family history, which could take the next eight hours and give us both a migraine.”
   “Fair enough.”
   Crawford finished a lengthy paragraph and was ready to wrap things up. “When can you get a new cell phone?”
   “I’ll go now.”
   “Great. And when can we check your apartment?”
   “Anytime.”
   Three hours later, Crawford and a sidekick he called Booty finished what was known as a sweep. Ray’s phones were clear, no taps or bugs. The air vents hid no secret cameras. In the cramped attic they found no receivers or monitors hidden behind boxes.
   “You’re clean,” Crawford said as he left.
   He didn’t feel very clean as he sat on his balcony. You open up your life to complete strangers, albeit some selected and paid by you, and you feel compromised.
   The phone was ringing.

   Forrest sounded sober—strong voice, clear words. As soon as he said “Hello, Bro,” Ray listened to see what kind of shape he was in. It was instinctive now, after years of phone calls at all hours, from all places, many of which he, Forrest, never remembered. He said he was fine, which meant he was sober and clean, no booze or drugs, but he did not say for how long. Ray was not about to ask.
   Before either could mention the Judge or his estate or the house or Harry Rex, Forrest blurted out, “I got a new racket.”
   “Tell me about it,” Ray said, settling into his recliner. The voice on the other end was full of excitement. Ray had plenty of time to listen.
   “Ever heard of Benalatofix?”
   “No.”
   “Me neither. The nickname is Skinny Ben. Ring a bell?”
   “No, sorry.”
   “It’s a diet pill put out by a company called Luray Products, out of California, a big private outfit that no one’s ever heard of. For the last five years doctors have been prescribing Skinny Bens like crazy because the drug works. It’s not for the woman who needs to drop twenty pounds, but it does wonders for the really obese, talking linebackers, defensive ends. You there?”
   “I’m listening.”
   “Trouble is, after a year or two these poor women develop leaky heart valves. Tens of thousands of them have been treated, and Luray is getting sued like crazy in California and Florida. Food and Drug stepped in eight months ago, and last month Luray yanked Skinny Bens off the market.”
   “Where, exactly, do you come in, Forrest?”
   “I am now a medical screener.”
   “And what does a medical screener do?”
   “Thanks for asking. Today, for example, I was in ‘a hotel suite in Dyersburg, Tennessee, helping these hefty darlings on to a treadmill. The doctor, paid by the lawyers who pay me, checks their heart capacity, and if they’re not up to snuff, guess what?”
   “You have a new client.”
   “Absolutely. Signed up forty today.”
   “What’s the average case worth?”
   “About ten thousand bucks. The lawyers I’m now working with have eight hundred cases. That’s eight million bucks, the lawyers get half, the women get screwed again. Welcome to the world of mass torts.”
   “What’s in it for you?”
   “A base salary, a bonus for new clients, and a piece of the back end. There could be a half a million cases out there, so we’re scrambling to round them up.”
   “That’s five billion dollars in claims.”
   “Luray’s got eight in cash. Every plaintiff’s lawyer in the country is talking about Skinny Bens.”
   “Aren’t there some ethical problems?”
   “There are no ethics anymore, Bro. You’re in la-la land. Ethics are only for people like you to teach to students who’ll never use them. I hate to be the one to break it to you.”
   “I’ve heard it before.”
   “Anyway, I’m mining for gold. Just thought you’d want to know.”
   “That’s good to hear.”
   “Is anybody up there doing Skinny Bens?”
   “Not to my knowledge.”
   “Keep your eyes open. These lawyers are teaming up with other lawyers around the country. That’s how mass tort stuff works, as I’m learning. The more cases you have in a class, the bigger the settlement.”
   “I’ll put out the word.”
   “See you, Bro.”
   “Be careful, Forrest.”

   The next call came shortly after 2:30 A.M., and like every call at such an hour the phone seemed to ring forever, both during sleep and afterward. Ray finally managed to grab it and switch on a light.
   “Ray, this is Harry Rex, sorry to call.”
   “What is it?” he said, knowing too well that it was not good.
   “Forrest. I’ve spent the last hour talking to him and some nurse at Baptist Hospital in Memphis. They’ve got him there, I think with a broken nose.”
   “Back up, Harry Rex.”
   “He went to a bar, got drunk, got in a fight, the usual. Looks like he picked on the wrong guy, now he’s getting his face stitched up. They want to keep him overnight. I had to talk to the staff there and guarantee payment. I also asked them not to give him painkillers and drugs. They have no idea who they’ve got there.”
   “I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this, Harry Rex.”
   “I’ve been here before, and I don’t mind. But he’s crazy, Ray. He started again about the estate and how he’s getting screwed out of his rightful share, all that crap. I know he’s drunk and all, but he just won’t leave it alone.”
   “I talked to him five hours ago. He was fine.”
   “Well, he must’ve been headed for the bar. They finally had to sedate him to reset his nose, otherwise it would’ve been impossible. I’m just worried about all the drugs and stuff. What a mess.”
   “I’m sorry, Harry Rex,” Ray said again because he could think of nothing else to say. There was a pause as Ray tried to collect his thoughts. “He was fine, just a few hours ago, clean, sober, seemed so anyway.”
   “Did he call you?” Harry Rex asked.
   “Yeah, he was excited about a new job.”
   “That Skinny Ben crap?”
   “Yeah, is it a real job?”
   “I think so. There are a bunch of lawyers down here chasing those cases. Quantity’s crucial. They hire guys like Forrest to go out and round ‘em up.”
   “They ought to be disbarred.”
   “Half of us should. I think you need to come home. The sooner we can open the estate the sooner we can get Forrest calmed down. I hate these accusations.”
   “Do you have a court date?”
   “We can do it Wednesday of next week. I think you ought to stay for a few days.”
   “I was planning on it. Book it, I’ll be there.”
   “I’ll notify Forrest in a day or so, try to catch him sober.”
   “Sorry, Harry Rex.”
   Not surprisingly, Ray couldn’t sleep. He was reading a biography when his new cell phone rang. Had to be a wrong number. “Hello,” he said suspiciously.
   “Why are you awake?” asked the deep voice of Corey Crawford.
   “Because my phone keeps ringing. Where are you?”
   “We’re watching. You okay?”
   “I’m fine. It’s almost four in the morning. You guys ever sleep?”
   “We nap a lot. I’d keep the lights out if I were you.”
   “Thank you. Anybody else watching my lights?”
   “Not yet.”
   “That’s good.”
   “Just checking in.”
   Ray turned off the lights in the front of his apartment and retreated to his bedroom, where he read with aid of a small lamp. Sleep was made even more difficult with the knowledge that he was being billed a hundred dollars an hour through the night.
   It’s a wise investment, he kept telling himself.
   At exactly 5 A.M. he sneaked down his hallway as if someone on the ground down there might see him, and he brewed coffee in the dark. Waiting for the first cup, he called Crawford, who, not surprisingly, sounded groggy. i
   “I’m brewing coffee, you want some?” Ray asked.
   “Not a good idea, but thanks.”
   “Look, I’m flying to Atlantic City this afternoon. You got a pen:
   “Yeah, let’s have it.”
   “I’m leaving from general aviation in a white Beech Bonanza, tail number eight-one-five-romeo, at three P.M., with a flight instructor named Fog Newton. We’ll stay tonight at the Canyon Casino, and return around noon tomorrow. I’ll leave my car at the airport, locked as usual. Anything else?”
   “You want us in Atlantic City?”
   “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll move around a lot up there and try to watch my rear.”

Chapter 21

   The consortium was put together by one of Dick Docker’s flying buddies. It was built around two local ophthalmologists who had clinics in West Virginia. Both had just learned to fly and needed to shuttle back and forth at a faster pace. Docker’s pal was a pension consultant who needed the Bonanza for about twelve hours a month. A fourth partner would get the deal off the ground. Each would put up $50,000 for a quarter interest, then sign a bank loan for the balance of the purchase price, which was currently at $390,000 and not likely to move lower. The note was spread over six years and would cost each partner $890 per month.
   That was about eleven hours in a Cessna for Pilot Atlee.
   On the plus side, there was depreciation and potential charter business when the partners were not using the plane. On the negative, there were hangar fees, fuel, maintenance, and a list that seemed to go on too long. Unsaid by the pal of Dick Docker, and also very much on the negative side, was the possibility of getting into business with three strangers, two of whom were doctors.
   But Ray had $50,000, and he could swing $890 a month, and he wanted desperately to own the airplane that he secretly considered to be his.
   Bonanzas held their value, according to a rather persuasive report that was attached to the proposal. Demand had remained high in the used-aircraft market. The Beech safety record was second only to Cessna and practically as strong. Ray carried the consortium deal around with him for two days, reading it at the office, in his apartment, at the lunch counter. The other three partners were in. Just sign his name in four places, and he would own the Bonanza.
   The day before he left for Mississippi, he studied the deal for the last time, said to hell with everything else, and signed the papers.

   If the bad guys were watching him, they were doing an excellent job of covering their tracks. After six days of trying to find the surveillance, Corey Crawford was of the opinion that there was nobody back there. Ray paid him thirty-eight hundred in cash and promised to call if he got suspicious again.
   Under the guise of storing more junk, he went to Chaney’s Self-Storage every day to check on the money. He hauled in boxes filled with anything he could find around his apartment. Both 14B and 37F were slowly taking on the appearance of an old attic.
   The day before he left town, he went to the front office and asked Mrs. Chaney if someone had vacated 18R. Yes, two days ago.
   “I’d like to rent it,” he said.
   “That makes three,” she said.
   “I’m going to need the space.”
   “Why don’t you just rent one of our larger units?”
   “Maybe later. For now, I’ll use the three small ones.”
   It really didn’t matter to her. He rented 18R in the name of Newton Aviation and paid cash for a six-month lease. When he was certain no one was watching, he moved the money out of 37F and into 18R, where new boxes were waiting. They were made of aluminum-coated vinyl and guaranteed to resist fire up to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. They were also waterproof, and they locked. The money fit into five of them. For good measure, Ray threw some old quilts and blankets and clothes over the boxes so things would look a little more normal. He wasn’t sure whom he was trying to impress with the randomness of his little room, but he felt better when it looked disheveled.
   A lot of what he was doing these days was for the benefit of someone else. A different route from his apartment to the law school. A new jogging trail. A different coffee bar. A new downtown bookstore to browse through. And always with an eye for the unusual, an eye in the rearview mirror, a quick turnaround when he walked or jogged, a peek through shelves after he entered a shop. Someone was back there, he could feel it.
   He had decided to have dinner with Kaley before he went South for a while, and before she technically became a former student. Exams were over, what was the harm? She would be around for the summer and he was determined to pursue her, with great caution. Caution because that’s what every female got from him. Caution because he thought he saw potential in this one.
   But the first phone call to her number was a disaster. A male voice answered, a younger voice, Ray thought, and whoever he was, he wasn’t too pleased that Ray had called. When Kaley got on the phone she was abrupt. Ray asked if he could call at a better time. She said no, she’d ring him back.
   He waited three days then wrote her off, something he could do as easily as flipping the calendar to the next month.
   So he departed Charlottesville with nothing left undone. With Fog in the Bonanza, he flew four hours to Memphis, where he rented a car and went to look for Forrest.
   His first and only visit to the home of Ellie Crum had been for the same purpose as this one. Forrest had cracked up, disappeared, and his family was curious as to whether he might be dead or thrown in jail somewhere. The Judge was still presiding back then, and life was normal, including the hunt for Forrest. Of course the Judge had been too busy to search for his youngest son, and why should he when Ray could do it?
   The house was an old Victorian in midtown Memphis, a hand-me-down from Ellie’s father, who’d once been prosperous. Not much else was inherited. Forrest had been attracted to the notion of trust funds and real family money, but after fifteen years he’d given up hope. In the early days of the arrangement he had lived in the main bedroom. Now his quarters were in the basement. Others lived in the house too, all rumored to be struggling artists in need of refuge.
   Ray parked by the curb in the street. The shrubs needed trimming and the roof was old, but the house was aging nicely. Forrest painted it every October, always in a dazzling color scheme he and Ellie would argue over for a year. Now it was a pale blue trimmed with reds and oranges. Forrest said he’d painted it teal one year.
   A young woman with snow-white skin and black hair greeted him at the door with a rude, “Yes?”
   Ray was looking at her through a screen. Behind her the house was dark and eerie, same as last time. “Is Ellie in?” Ray asked, as rudely as possible.
   “She’s busy. Who’s calling?”
   “I’m Ray Atlee, Forrest’s brother.”
   “Who?”
   “Forrest, he lives in the basement.”
   “Oh, that Forrest.” She disappeared and Ray heard voices somewhere in the back of the house.
   Ellie was wearing a bedsheet, white with streaks and spots of clay and water and slits for her head and arms. She was drying her hands on a dirty dish towel and looked frustrated that her work had been interrupted. “Hello, Ray,” she said like an old friend and opened the door.
   “Hello, Ellie.” He followed her through the foyer and into the living room.
   “Trudy, bring us some tea, will you?” she called out. Wherever Trudy was, she didn’t answer. The walls of the room were covered with a collection of the wackiest pots and vases Ray had ever seen. Forrest said she sculpted ten hours a day and couldn’t give the stuff away. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. They sat across a small glass table from each other. The table was unevenly mounted on three phallic cylinders, each a different shade of blue. Ray was afraid to touch it.
   “Thank you,” he said stiffly. No calls, no cards, no letters, no flowers, not one word of sympathy uttered until now, in this happenstance meeting. An opera could barely be heard in the background.
   “I guess you’re looking for Forrest,” she said.
   “Yes.”
   “I haven’t seen him lately. He lives in the basement, you know, comes and goes like an old tomcat. I sent a girl down this morning to have a look—she said she thinks he’s been gone for a week or so. The bed hasn’t been made in five years.”
   “That’s more than I wanted to know.”
   “And he hasn’t called.”
   Trudy arrived with the tea tray, another of Ellie’s hideous creations. And the cups were mismatched little pots with large handles. “Cream and sugar?” she asked, pouring and stirring.
   ‘Just sugar.”
   She handed him his brew and he took it with both hands. Dropping it would’ve crushed a foot.
   “How is he?” Ray asked when Trudy was gone.
   “He’s drunk, he’s sober, he’s Forrest.”
   “Drugs?”
   “Don’t go there. You don’t want to know.”
   “You’re right,” Ray said and tried to sip his tea. It was peach-flavored something and one drop was enough. “He was in a fight the other night, did you know about it? I think he broke his nose.”
   “It’s been broken before. Why do men get drunk and beat up each other?” It was an excellent question and Ray had no answer. She gulped her tea and closed her eyes to savor it. Many years ago, Ellie Crum had been a lovely woman. But now, in her late forties, she had stopped trying.
   “You don’t care for him, do you?” Ray asked.
   “Of course I do.”
   “No, really?”
   “Is it important?”
   “He’s my brother. No one else cares about him.”
   “We had great sex in the early years, then we just lost interest. I got fat, now I’m too involved with my work.”
   Ray glanced around the room.
   “And besides, there’s always sex,” she said, nodding to the door from which Trudy had come and gone.
   “Forrest is a friend, Ray. I suppose I love him, at some level. But he’s also an addict who seems determined to always be an addict. After a point, you get frustrated.”
   “I know. Believe me, I know.”
   “And I think he’s one of the rare ones. He’s strong enough to pick himself up at the last possible moment.”
   “But not strong enough to kick it.”
   “Exactly. I kicked it, Ray, fifteen years ago. Addicts are tough on each other. That’s why he’s in the basement.”
   He’s probably happier down there, Ray thought. He thanked her for the tea and the time, and she walked him to the door. She was still standing there, behind the screen, when he raced away.

Chapter 22

   The estate of Reuben Vincent Atlee was opened for probate in the courtroom where he had presided for thirty-two years. High on the oak-paneled wall behind the bench, a grim-faced Judge Atlee looked down upon the proceedings from between the Stars and Stripes and the state flag of Mississippi. It was the same portrait they had placed near his coffin during the courthouse wake three weeks earlier. Now it was back where it belonged, in a place where it would undoubtedly hang forever.
   The man who had ended his career, and sent him into exile and seclusion at Maple Run, was Mike Farr from Holly Springs. He’d been reelected once and according to Harry Rex was doing a credible job. Chancellor Farr reviewed the petition for letters of administration, and he studied the one-page will attached to the filings.
   The courtroom was busy with lawyers and clerks milling about, filing papers and chatting with clients. It was a day set aside for uncontested matters and quick motions. Ray sat in the front row while Harry Rex was at the bench, Whispering back and forth with Chancellor Farr. Next to Ray was Forrest, who, other than the faded bruises under his eyes, looked as normal as possible. He had insisted that he would not be present when probate was opened, but a tongue-lashing from Harry Rex had persuaded him otherwise.—He’d finally come home to Ellie’s, the usual return from the streets without a word to anyone about where he’d been or what he’d been up to. No one wanted to know. There was no mention of a job, so Ray was assuming his brief career as a medical screener for the Skinny Ben lawyers was over.
   Every five minutes, a lawyer would crouch in the aisle, stick out a hand, and tell Ray what a fine man his father had been. Of course Ray was supposed to know all of them because they knew him. No one spoke to Forrest.
   Harry Rex motioned for Ray to join them at the bench. Chancellor Farr greeted him warmly. “Your father was a fine man and a great judge,” he said, leaning down.
   “Thank you,” Ray replied. Then why, during the campaign, did you say he was too old and out of touch? Ray wanted to ask. It had been nine years earlier and seemed like fifty. With the passing of his father, everything in Ford County was now decades older.
   “You teach law?” Chancellor Farr asked. :
   “Yes, at the University of Virginia.”
   He nodded his approval and asked, “All the heirs are present?”
   “Yes sir,” answered Ray. “It’s just my brother, Forrest, and myself”
   “And both of you have read this one-page document that purports to be the last will and testament of Reuben Atlee?”
   “Yes sir.”
   “And there is no objection to this will being probated?”
   “No sir”
   “Very well. Pursuant to this will, I will appoint you as the executor of your late father’s estate. Notice to creditors will be filed today and published in a local paper. I’ll waive the bond. Inventory and accounting will be due pursuant to the statute.”
   Ray had heard his father utter those same instructions a hundred times. He glanced up at Judge Farr.
   “Anything further, Mr. Vonner?”
   “No, Your Honor.”
   “I’m very sorry, Mr. Atlee,” he said.
   “Thank you, Your Honor.”
   For lunch they went to Claude’s and ordered fried catfish. Ray had been back for two days and he could already feel his arteries choking. Forrest had little to say. He was not clean and his system was polluted.
   Ray’s plans were vague. He wanted to visit some friends around the state, he said. There was no hurry to return to Virginia. Forrest left them after lunch, said he was going to back to Memphis.
   “Will you be at Ellie’s?” Ray asked.
   “Maybe” was his only reply.

   Ray was sitting on the porch, waiting for Claudia when she arrived promptly at 5 P.M. He met her beside her car where she stopped and looked at the Realtor’s For Sale sign in the front yard, near the street.
   “Do you have to sell it?” she asked.
   “Either that or give it away. How are you?”
   “I’m fine, Ray.” They managed to hug with just the minimum of contact. She was dressed for the occasion in slacks, loafers, a checkered blouse, and a straw hat, as if she’d just stepped from the garden. The lips were red, the mascara perfect. Ray had never seen her when she wasn’t properly turned out.
   “I’m so glad you called,” she said as they slowly walked up the drive to the house.
   “We went to court today, opened the estate.” •
   “I’m sorry, must’ve been tough on you.”
   “It wasn’t too bad. I met Judge Farr.”
   “Did you like him?”
   “Nice enough, I guess, in spite of the history.”
   He took her arm and led her up the steps, though Claudia was fit and could climb hills, in spite of the two packs a day. “I remember when he was fresh out of law school,” she said. “Didn’t know a plaintiff from a defendant. Reuben could’ve won that race, you know, if I’d been around.”
   “Let’s sit here,” Ray said, pointing to two rockers.
   “You’ve cleaned up the place,” she said, admiring the porch.
   “It’s all Harry Rex. He’s hired painters, roofers, a cleaning service. They had to sandblast the dust off the furniture, but you can breathe now.”
   “Mind if I smoke?” she said.
   “No.” It didn’t matter. She was smoking regardless.
   “I’m so happy you called,” she said again, then lit a cigarette.
   “I have tea and coffee,” Ray said.
   “Ice tea, please, lemon and sugar,” she said, and crossed her legs. She was perched in the rocker like a queen, waiting for her tea.
   Ray recalled the tight dresses and long legs of many years ago as she sat just below the bench, scribbling elegantly away in her shorthand while every lawyer in the courtroom watched.
   They talked about the weather, as folks do in the South when there’s a gap in the conversation, or when there’s nothing else to talk about. She smoked and smiled a lot, truly happy to be remembered by Ray. She was clinging. He was trying to solve a mystery.
   They talked about Forrest and Harry Rex, two loaded topics, and when she’d been there for half an hour Ray finally got to the point. “We’ve found some money, Claudia,” he said, and let the words hang in the air. She absorbed them, analyzed them, and proceeded cautiously. “Where?”
   It was an excellent question. Found where, as in the bank with records and such? Found where, as in stuffed in the mattress with no trail?
   “In his study, cash. Left behind for some reason.”
   “How much?” she asked, but not too quickly.
   “A hundred thousand.” He watched her face and eyes closely. Surprise registered, but not shock. He had a script so he pressed on. “His records are meticulous, checks written, deposits, ledgers with every expense, and this money seems to have no source.”
   “He never kept a lot of cash,” she said slowly.
   “That’s what I remember too. I have no idea where it came from, do you?”
   “None,” she said with no doubts whatsoever. “The Judge didn’t deal in cash. Period. Everything went through the First National Bank. He was on the board for a long time, remember?”
   “Yes, very well. Did he have anything on the side?”
   “Such as?”
   “I’m asking you, Claudia, you knew him better than anyone. And you knew his business.”
   “He was completely devoted to his work. To him, being a chancellor was a great calling, and he worked very hard at it. He had no time for anything else.” .
   “Including his family,” Ray said, then immediately wished he had not.
   “He loved his boys, Ray, but he was from a different generation.”
   “Let’s stay away from that.”
   “Let’s.”
   They took a break and each regrouped. Neither wanted to dwell on the family. The money had their attention. A car eased down the street and seemed to pause just long enough for the occupants to see the For Sale sign and take a long look at the house. One look was enough because it sped away.
   “Did you know he was gambling?” Ray asked.
   “The Judge? No.”
   “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Harry Rex took him to the casinos once a week for a while. Seems as if the Judge had a knack for it and Harry Rex did not.”
   “You hear rumors, especially about the lawyers. Several of them have gotten into trouble over there.”
   “But you’ve heard nothing about the Judge?”
   “No. I still don’t believe it.”
   “The money came from somewhere, Claudia. And something tells me it was dirty, otherwise he would have included it with the rest of his assets.”
   “And if he won at gambling he would have considered that dirty, don’t you think?” Indeed, she knew the Judge better than anyone.
   “Yes, and you?”
   “Sounds like Reuben Atlee to me.”
   They finished that round of conversation and took a break, both rocking gently in the cool shade of the front porch, as if time had stopped, neither bothered by the silence. Porch-sitting allowed great lapses while thoughts were gathered, or while there was no thinking at all.
   Finally Ray, still plodding through an unwritten script, mustered the courage to ask the toughest question of the day. “I need to know something, Claudia, and please be honest.”
   “I’m always honest. It’s one of my faults.”
   “I have never questioned my father’s integrity.”
   “Nor should you now.”
   “Help me out here, okay.”
   “Go on.”
   “Was there anything on the side—a little extra from a lawyer, a slice of the pie from a litigant, a nice backhander as the Brits like to say?”
   “Absolutely not.”
   “I’m throwing darts, Claudia, hoping to hit something. You don’t just find a hundred thousand dollars in nice crisp bills tucked away on a shelf. When he died he had six thousand dollars in the bank. Why keep a hundred buried?”
   “He was the most ethical man in the world.”
   “I believe that.”
   “Then stop talking about bribes and such.”
   “Gladly”
   She lit another cigarette and he left to fill up the tea glasses. When he returned to the porch Claudia was deep in thought, her gaze stretching far beyond the street. They rocked for a while.
   Finally, he said, “I think the Judge would want you to have some of it.”
   “Oh you do?”
   “Yes. We’ll need some of it now to finish fixing up the place, probably twenty-five thousand or so. What if you, me, and Forrest split the remainder?”
   “Twenty-five each?”
   “Yep. What do you think?”
   “You’re not running it through the estate?” she asked. She knew the law better than Harry Rex.
   “Why bother? It’s cash, nobody knows about it, and if we report it then half will go for taxes.”
   “And how would you explain it?” she asked, as always, one step ahead. They used to say that Claudia would have the case decided before the lawyers began their opening statements.
   And the woman loved money. Clothes, perfume, always a late-model car, and all these things from a poorly paid court reporter. If she was drawing a state pension, it couldn’t be much.
   “It cannot be explained,” Ray said.
   “If it’s from gambling, then you’ll have to go back and amend his tax returns for the past years,” she said, quickly on board. “What a mess.”
   “A real mess.”
   The mess was quietly put to rest. No one would ever know about her share of the money.
   “We had a case once,” she said, gazing across the front lawn.
   “Over in Tippah County, thirty years ago. A man named Childers owned a scrap yard. He died with no will.” A pause, a long drag on the cigarette. “Had a bunch of kids, and they found money hidden all over the place, in his office, in his attic, in a utility shed behind his house, in his fireplace. It was a regular Easter egg hunt. Once they’d scoured every inch of the place, they counted it up and it was about two hundred thousand dollars. This, from a man who wouldn’t pay his phone bill and wore the same pair of overalls for ten years.” Another pause, another long puff. She could tell these stories forever. “Half the kids wanted to split the money and run, the other half wanted to tell the lawyer and include the money in the probate. Word leaked out, the family got scared, and the money got added to the old man’s estate. The kids fought bitterly. Five years later all the money was gone—half to the government, half to the lawyers.”
   She stopped, and Ray waited for the resolution. “What’s the point?” he asked.
   “The Judge said it was a shame, said the kids should’ve kept the money quiet and split it. After all, it was the property of their father.”
   “Sounds fair to me.”
   “He hated inheritance taxes. Why should the government get a large portion of your wealth just because you die? I heard him grumble about it for years.”
   Ray took an envelope from behind his rocker and handed it to her. “That’s twenty-five thousand in cash.”
   She stared at it, then looked at him in disbelief.
   “Take it,” he said, inching it closer to her. “No one will ever know.”
   She took it and for a second was unable to speak. Her eyes watered, and for Claudia that meant serious emotions were at work. “Thank you,” she whispered, and clutched the money even tighter.

   Long after she left, Ray sat in the same chair, rocking in the darkness, quite pleased with himself for eliminating Claudia as a suspect. Her ready acceptance of twenty-five thousand dollars was convincing proof that she knew nothing of the much larger fortune. But there was no suspect to take her place on the list.