IN THE SOLITUDE OF MARTHA’S HOSPITAL ROOM, my mind drifted back to that summer day when a sixteen-year-old neighborhood bully named Jimmy Lassiter pulled a switchblade and tried to rob us. I was fourteen at the time and Martha was ten. Without hesitation, she snatched up a broken chunk of brick and hurled it, permanently blinding him in his right eye, and scarring me internally for the rest of my life. Coward!
Why couldn’t I be more like my sister?
As I watched over her and prayed for her life, I promised God that night that if he’d let Martha live, no matter how badly she was injured, I’d take care of her for the rest of her life if needed. I hadn’t kept many promises I’d made to God, but that was one promise I did intend to keep.
When Martha finally did emerge from her coma and I realized how much rehabilitation she was going to need, I went back to New York City, packed up my Tribeca photography studio, and hauled it down to Wilmington so I could help with her recovery.
After four months in the hospital, she moved back home with Mom and Dad and things got easier. In addition to helping with Martha, I set up a studio downtown and got involved in the local theatre. That was three years ago.
The events of that night at the warehouse cost Martha a kidney and left her paralyzed from the waist down. She’s gotten used to the pain, the limitations, and the prognosis of a future alone, but I don’t think she’ll ever get over not being able to have children.
Although the police had a solid set of fingerprints and even some DNA evidence, the case still had yet to be solved three years later. Two more girls had turned up floating in the river and another two disappeared without a trace. The police feared they had a serial killer on their hands and—although confined to a wheelchair—finding the owners of those fingerprints had become the focus of Martha’s life.
And mine, too.
I wanted her to go with me. I told her we’d go anywhere she wanted, but until this thing was resolved, she wouldn’t leave—and neither could I. I was her legs.
When the police exhausted their leads, Martha talked Sam Jones into giving her detailed copies of the three sets of fingerprints they’d found in the warehouse. She ordered a fingerprint kit along with computer hardware and software on the Internet, and read every book she could find on how to collect, store, and interpret them. She became an expert.
I pushed her around town and took her places she couldn’t go on her own so she could secretly lift drinking glasses, forks, and knives from seedy bars and restaurants from which to get fingerprints to scan at home.
Her scrapbook grew to contain more than seven hundred prints cataloged with notes identifying where they came from, when, and to whom they belonged—or most likely belonged. She even took to getting possible suspects to help her with her wheelchair just so she could get their prints off the handles.
That’s all she had to go on. That and the name “Jack.” But that’s all she needed. She’d never give up, and had started to make some people very nervous.
Then she found something.
I had stopped by to pick her up for another outing and leaned in her bedroom door. “How’d we do, Babe?” I asked.
She was comparing two images of fingerprints on her computer screen. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a short ponytail exposing her freckled forehead and thick Brooke Shields eyebrows. Through frameless eyeglasses resting on the end of her nose, she squinted at the screen. “I think we can finally rule out Jackie…Wilkes,” she said. The lisp in her speech was now gone and the hesitations were waning. I stepped in and kissed the top of her head.
“Good. Maybe we can move on to someplace else. Mickey’s is starting to give me the creeps.”
“But…take a look at this,” she said rolling her wheelchair to the side.
Leaning forward, I examined the images on the screen. “What?”
“See that faded print to the right of the dark one?”
“Got it.”
“Now compare that to this one.” She touched a few keys on the keyboard and the image on the screen changed. “This is number three from the warehouse, the one they found on the window sill.” I looked back and forth between the prints. There was a scar in the shape of a slanted cross in them that seemed to match.
“Jesus! What was this on?” I asked.
“A cigarette butt. Do you know what…this means?”
“Print this out. We need to show it to Sam.”
“It means the man was there.”
“You’re getting close, Babe.”
“We have to go back.”
Mickey’s Pub and Rib House was a fancy name for a trashy hole-in-the-wall that probably hadn’t served a rack of ribs since sometime back in the ‘80s. Patrons consisted mostly of bums off the docks, drifters, and drug addicts. The only regulars seemed to be the girls that hung out there shifting from lap to lap looking for enough money for a fix.
“I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I won’t be free until at least four and I don’t think it’s a good idea to be there after dark.”
Mom leaned in the door. Pearl—as she was known to her friends at church—was Bette Davis in a size 16 dress with a southern drawl and a hint of white fuzz along the sides of her chin. It was her heavy, sad eyes that did it.
“You had dinner, Richie? How about some black beans and rice?”
It was tempting, but I was not in the mood for another round with my father so I lied. “Thanks, but yes I have and I swear I can’t eat another bite.”
“You ought not to let the things your daddy says bother you, Richie. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He just doesn’t know how to say things right.”
I didn’t reply. It was an argument nobody wins. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Babe.” I squeezed Martha’s shoulder and kissed Mom on the way out.
The next day we stopped first by Sam Jones’s office and showed him the printout. I, truthfully, was relieved when he told us to stay away from Mickey’s—that they’d had a complaint that we were driving away his business. Sam said he’d stop in and see what he could find out.
But Martha didn’t want to turn it loose. She wanted to at least watch the place for awhile and get photographs of those coming and going. I wanted to do like Sam said, to stay away, but I was ready for this thing to be over, too. With Dad constantly snapping at my heels reminding me of why I left Wilmington in the first place, I’d decided that just as soon as this case was wrapped up—as well as the play I was directing—I was out of there. Martha or no Martha, I was leaving. New York. Atlanta. Cleveland. Anywhere, but Wilmington. A place with a good theatre community. Everyone needs a hobby. Mine is directing theatre. It would be my career if I could figure out how to earn a living doing it.
With the Azalea Festival only days away, the streets downtown were ablaze with blooming azaleas and dogwoods. As we headed for my studio to get camera equipment, Martha was quiet, lost in deep thought, then broke her silence.
“Sister Hazel’s going to be at the…festival Sunday,” she said gazing out at the street decorations.
“What does she do?”
“It’s a rock band I…saw once.” Her voice was heavy, thoughtful.
“Oh? I figured you to be more of the Carrie Underwood type.”
“They were at Lincoln Theatre in Raleigh.”
“Oh yeah?”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and drew a deep breath. “It was at that concert that Todd asked me…to marry him.”
“Oh, Babe. I’m sorry.”
She turned her face away and wiped her nose with a tissue. Marrying Todd had been her dream since high school. After the accident, he stopped by only once. We rode the rest of the way to my studio in silence where I picked up a digital Nikon, a high-powered telephoto lens, and a pair of binoculars.
“Can we go to the beach this weekend?” she asked as I turned off Market Street and headed into the older part of the city near the docks.
“It’ll have to be early on Sunday.”
“That’s okay. It’s been three years since I’ve seen the ocean.”
“It hasn’t changed.”
She didn’t laugh.
The neighborhood we drove through hadn’t changed since we were kids either. Even the posters plastered on all the vacant buildings announcing the Cole Brothers Circus was coming to town looked the same. As we drove along, the trees thinned, the streets got dirtier, and the color faded to gray.
We pulled around to the back of a row of abandoned stores across from Mickey’s and parked behind a hollowed-out brick shell of a building with the doors and windows missing.
I eased her wheelchair through the rubble to a spot inside from where we could watch the comings and goings at Mickey’s. I clamped a bracket on an exposed water pipe to steady the camera and zoomed in on the entrance to the bar.
A short time later, a pair of city detectives walked into Mickey’s and during the next five minutes, I photographed close to twenty patrons as the place emptied out. Martha watched through the binoculars while I captured images as fast as the camera would go.
Neither of us heard the two come up behind us until one spoke.
“What the hell do we have going on here?”
THE LAST THING I EXPECTED was to be accosted by a couple of women. One was blond with dark eyebrows, the other had dark hair piled high in a bee-hive with a tattoo on her neck—some kind of Chinese symbol. They wore jeans, t-shirts with the sleeves and midriff area ripped off, and metal studs in both their navels and lips—like many of the women you’d run into at Walmart. I saw Martha’s hand moving slowly toward her cell phone.I cleared my throat. “We’re working undercover here. You’d better run along if you don’t want to get in trouble.”The blond smacked a wad of gum and pointed a finger at Martha. “Just keep your hands where we can see them, Sweetie. And you—” She looked at me. "What did Sam Jones tell you, Baimbridge?"Sam Jones? “He—told us to stay away.”“Right. And he don’t like it when you don’t listen.”“We…just&mda
"MISTER BAIMBRIDGE?”The woman at the back door held a black umbrella against her shoulder and struggled to keep her balance as she braced herself against a mighty gust of wind. She looked to be in her early twenties.“Yes?”“My name is Ashleigh Matthews. I live in Dr. Hardesty’s pool house next door. May I come inside for a minute?”There was a pained look on her face that reminded me of the loneliness I often felt. The kind of loneliness that gnaws a hole in your chest, steals your youth, and makes you vulnerable.“Sure. Of course. Please come in.” I parted the door just enough to allow her to get past me without letting in the whole storm.“Thanks,” she exhaled dashing past me. As I closed the door, I caught sight of Mrs. Winslow gazing at me from a window. I gave her a two-finger salute and flipped on the kitchen lights.“I’m sorry to impose on you on
"STOP!” I shouted.Ashleigh looked up, her hands frozen on the last button.“I’m sorry, Ashleigh. Call me drunk. Call me stupid. Call me whatever you want. I’m as red-blooded as any male and you’re the best-looking woman I’ve had in this house ever! But you just don’t need to be doing that. Please, just call the studio in the morning and make an appointment.”Her gaze remained locked on me even as another heavy branch fell on the deck. Her shirt lay open exposing her bra. It was tempting. God, was it tempting!I turned away. “Please, Ashleigh.” The telephone rang and broke the impasse. I reached for it immediately. “Hello?”It was Mom. “Richie, can you run over and help your dad move Martha’s bed?”I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath. “Move it where, Mom?”“Is something wrong?”“No, nothi
I GRIPPED THE DOORKNOB, turned it slowly, and pushed the door open. Except for a pair of white stockings from mid-thigh down, Ashleigh was stark naked. She lay amid a mountain of pillows with her arms thrown back over her head and her legs cocked outward at the knees. Half a dozen lighted candles scented the room and provided the only light. The sight of her took my breath away. She looked like a movie star—Julia Roberts in person, naked.My internal control system changed gears and my movements slowed.She raised a Polaroid camera high and giggled. “Take my picture, Mr. Photographer.”I snickered. “You’re not going to get much of a picture with that thing.”“I don’t care. I just want to see what it looks like.”I sipped my drink, set it on the dresser, took the camera, and stepped back. My heart thumped hard in my chest as I framed her in the viewer. She puckered her lips and cut her eyes at me
BUMBLING TO MY FEET, I stumbled into the house, groped the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, swallowed three capsules, and downed a full glass of water. Weaving my way to the den, I flopped onto the couch and passed out again. My sleep interfused with images of Ashleigh. Ashleigh straddling me laughing and flirting, her beads pressing against my neck. Ashleigh in white thigh-high stockings with snakes crawling all over her naked body. Ashleigh’s lips against mine. Ashleigh biting a hole in my cheek.At 6:30 a.m., I awoke trembling. My clothes were still wet and every inch of my body ached. The last thing I could remember was passing out on Ashleigh’s bed. God, what must she think of me?I tripped up the stairs, toppled into the shower, and stripped away my clothes. There were scratches on the back of my right hand. I wondered how I’d gotten them, how I’d gotten home, and if I’d made a fool of myself doing it. I turned the water on a
I LED SAM AND THE POLICEMEN into the kitchen as Sam introduced the two with him—a skinny white man named Melrose with the wide lip-less mouth of a lizard, and Crabby Staten, an older black man with gray sideburns and a thick scar across his nose. The heavy-set one, Staten, stood next to me with his arms folded like a nightclub bouncer. Lizard Lips set a black satchel on the breakfast table and stepped closer. Jones fished a small writing pad and mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket. “What’s going on, Sam?” I asked. “Something happen to Ashleigh?” “When did you see her last?” he asked, flipping through the pages of the notepad. I felt as if all three of them were watching me a little too intensely. The muscles in my neck knotted as I considered the reaction I’d get from my answer. “Last night.” That struck a chord and all three of them shifted in unison—like dancers in a Broadway production. Jones widened his stance as he made a note on his pad. Staten adju
THE NEXT MORNING I was dressed and downtown by 7:30. Like my mood, the weather had turned cold and blustery—not the best for Azalea Festival Week. I pulled my collar up against my neck for the short walk to Tripp’s Ham and Eggs still stunned by the events of the night before. Inside, I tracked to the same table with the same five other guys I join for breakfast most every morning.Sappy Talton was doing his customarily splendid job of getting our waitress Sheila flustered and confused. Sappy and I had been best friends since eighth grade when we stole a pack of Lucky Strikes and a can of Miller’s Beer from Smith’s IGA, which started a summer of wildness that cemented our friendship forever.A burst of laughter spread through the group as I took a seat. That’s what I like about these guys. They’re relaxed and fun to be around. No heavy burdens allowed.Besides Sappy, there was Fred Gorman, a salt and pepper-haired fish
ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT for the rest of the morning was Joe’s admonitions and how he’d acted. My creativity was gone and I couldn’t concentrate. I made it through my first appointment on pure instinct. My eleven o’clock was an on-site conference with the younger sister of a girl I dated back in high school. Pulling into the parking lot of the Deagan Dance Center a few minutes early, I parked next to a black Mazda van lettered with the school’s logo. I’d driven by this place thousands of times, but had never paid much attention to it. The grounds were well-kept and framed with gigantic oak trees budding with new life and dripping with long strands of Spanish moss.I entered a spacious lobby plastered with dance-related posters, informational signs, photographs, and three large TV monitors high on one wall each showing a different empty classroom. Long wooden benches lined three sides of the lobby, and there was a receptionist center