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  He could hear most of the talk inside the room. He knew Charlie’s voice, and Pastor’s. Then there was a woman’s voice he’d never heard. Then a second man’s voice. He felt his stomach clench when he heard it, but he couldn’t place it. Who was that? Malachi trusted his instincts enough to know the recoil of his body meant something, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where he’d heard that voice. And the men weren’t talking much. The women were carrying the conversation.

  Malachi waited a few more minutes, then heard the scraping of chairs and murmurs of goodbye. He crossed the hall and stood in front of a utility closet so it looked like he was coming out of it.

  The man walking out of Charlie’s room was from the right side of the tracks, Malachi knew at once. But he’d seen him on the wrong side. It took but one look at those black curls and blue eyes, and Malachi knew exactly where he’d seen him before.

  And Malachi didn’t want him anywhere near Miz Charlie.

  The young man looked directly at Malachi, but Malachi knew there was no danger of recognition. His kind did not pay attention to Malachi’s kind. And indeed, the young man’s eyes flicked away as he put his arm around a woman. They walked to the elevators without looking back.

  The cop knocked on Charlie’s door to let Pastor Liam know they had another visitor. But when he turned around, Malachi was sliding the Christmas tree cake onto the nurse’s station and leaving by the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Branigan was well rested when she arrived at work on Monday morning. She knew she’d made the right decision to take Sunday off. Well, at least until she had to spend the evening writing the homelessness story for Christmas Eve. But when she wrote in her pajamas, it didn’t feel so much like work.

  Despite the damp chill from an early morning fog, she felt energized, as she always did when a challenging story presented itself. She’d never voice this, but she couldn’t wait to delve further into the deaths of Janie Rose and Maylene. Somehow their deaths seemed more personal than usual. Presumably that was because of Charlie’s proximity to Janie Rose. As for Maylene, Branigan wasn’t sure why she cared so much. Maybe it was that she suspected the girl’s bravado had hidden fear and loneliness.

  She put her hand out to push the heavy glass door at The Rambler entrance, when she heard someone say her name. She turned, but all she could see was unrelenting gray mist. She shivered. A man’s figure emerged near the corner of the building.

  “Malachi,” she said, shifting her satchel in order to shake his hand. “What brings you here?”

  “It’s Miz Charlie,” he said. “Someone in Miz Charlie’s room last night.”

  Branigan was instantly alert. “Who?”

  “She’s all right,” Malachi said hastily, sensing Branigan’s anxiety. “Pastor Liam, he was there too.”

  Branigan relaxed, and waited for Malachi to continue.

  “I stopped in last night to see Miz Charlie and Pastor Liam, to take her a cake I know she like. But I heard voices in the room, so I din go in. I thought I heard the man’s voice before, but I coulden figure out where. Then he walked out.”

  Branigan waited, unspeaking, knowing there would be a point; Malachi rarely talked this much.

  “I seen him last winter. He was with a bunch of college boys out rehabbing.”

  Branigan looked at him blankly. “Rehabbing?”

  “You know, when a gang come in and beat up a homeless dude. Like they be ‘rehabbing’ a crack head.”

  Branigan stared at him in horror. “What? Does that really happen?”

  “Yeah. It be all over the Internet sometime. It jump up in Gramblin’ ever’ few years… Last winter,” Malachi continued, “sometime after Christmas is all I ’member – about twelve or fifteen college boys came under the bridge where Max Brody stay. You ’member his tent?”

  “How could I not?” Max Brody had been involved in the ugliness of last summer.

  “Well, they found him passed out and beat the crap outta him.”

  “How did I not know this?” Branigan asked.

  Malachi shrugged. “Ain’t nobody reporting it to the po-lice, thas for sure.”

  “But did Max go to the hospital?”

  “Don’ know. Even if he did, he prob’bly din say what happen.”

  “How do you know they were college boys?”

  “They use’ly aren’t,” Malachi said. “They use’ly be gang members gettin’ ’nitiated, or cracker high school kids. But on this night, we heard noise on the side of the tracks where Max stay.”

  Branigan nodded. Malachi’s Tent City was separated from Max’s former encampment by a large hill topped by railroad tracks.

  “Slick and Vesuvius and me and a couple of the womens run over to see what the noise was. We had flashlights. That’s how I seen this dude who come to Charlie’s room. He was waving a likker bottle and yellin’, ‘Rehab him, gentlemen! Rehab him! Make him a ornery robby.’ Or somethin’ like that.”

  “What’s an ‘ornery robby’?”

  “Don’ know.”

  “That still doesn’t make them college kids.”

  “Some of ’em had on sweatshirts from Rutherford Lee and other schools. And some of ’em had on shirts with those Greek letters. Miz Branigan, I worked ’roun colleges. They were college kids.”

  Branigan drew in a deep breath. “I don’t even know what to say. This is horrifying.”

  Malachi shrugged. “It happens. I want you to know ’cause this guy hanging round Miz Charlie.”

  “You didn’t get a name?”

  “No, but Pastor Liam know.”

  “It’s okay if I tell him, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Well, Malachi, thank you for telling me.”

  “And, Miz Branigan. Somethin’ else.”

  She waited.

  “Somebody broke in Miz Janie Rose apartment down at Athens.”

  Branigan’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? Police scanner?”

  “Nah. I rode down to take a look. Thought there might be somethin’ in her place somebody was after. If they was, somebody done took it.”

  “You could tell someone had been in her apartment?”

  “Yeah, it was all tore up.”

  “Surely the police have searched it. It was probably them.”

  “Ain’t no po-lice tear up a place like that.”

  Branigan had more questions, but Malachi was already walking away, disappearing into the gray of early morning.

  It was indeed all hands on deck in the newsroom. Branigan walked in to find publisher and executive editor Tan Grambling already there, along with city editor Bert Feldspar and Style editor Julie Ames, reporters Jody Manson, Marjorie Gulledge, Harley Barnett and Lou Ann Gillespie. Even business writer Art Whittaker.

  Bert was passing around a box of bagels and cream cheese, while Julie poured coffee. One good thing about all the layoffs was that it meant room for a coffee bar and dorm-size refrigerator in the newsroom – something that wasn’t possible in years past.

  “I can’t be the last one in,” said Branigan. “The sun’s not even up.”

  “Yep,” said Bert. “You are. Six reporters. Full court press.” He glanced at Tan. “You wanna start?”

  Everyone was gathered around Bert’s desk in rolling chairs or perched on nearby desks, not bothering with a conference room. No phones rang this early.

  “No, I want you to quarterback this,” Tan answered. Sheesh, thought Branigan, catching Marjorie’s eye. Can you guys trot out any more sports clichés? She wisely stayed silent.

  “Okay, then.” Bert rubbed his hands together, a gesture Branigan had seen Tan-4 make numerous times. “Two college girls killed within a week. Different MOs, obviously. But there are similarities. Both came from wealthy families. Both attended Rutherford Le
e.”

  The reporters looked up expectantly. They respected Bert’s organizational skills.

  “Jody, you camp out with law enforcement – state patrol on the wreck and Grambling police here in town. Update online with everything they have. Nothing is too small.

  “Lou Ann, you take Gainesville. Who was Maylene Ayers? Why was she living on the street? What went wrong? That may be the strangest part of all this. Call Branigan if you need back-up.

  “Harley, you take Ralph Batson. Who is he? Hometown, education, prison records, the works. How did he meet Maylene? See if Jody can help you get inside the jail for an interview.

  “Marjorie, I want you to use your contacts from last summer to talk to people in that homeless camp about Ralph and Maylene. Did they fight? Was she frequently beat up? What did people hear?

  “Branigan, hammer Charlie Delaney about that wreck. Does she remember anything more? And stay on the Rutherford Lee angle. Did the victims’ paths cross while they were there? Why did they leave school?

  “Art, can you check into the Carltons’ background in Philadelphia? Look into the finances of Shaner Steel. Is it possible Janie Rose was targeted because of her dad? Maybe it was a kidnap attempt gone bad.

  “Lou Ann, ask the financial questions about Maylene too, though it seems pretty remote. But the Ayerses do have money.”

  He swiveled back to Art. “Are there any connections – financially, business-wise – between the Ayers and Carlton families? Probably not, but let’s rule it out.”

  Bert stopped for a moment, jotted down a few notes. He rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved head. “Actually, now that I’m saying it out loud, was that wreck a kidnapping attempt gone bad?”

  Branigan glanced at her colleagues and saw them pondering the possibility. She hadn’t considered it, but it made sense.

  Bert continued, “Was the driver trying to force the girls off the road to grab one of them? Then one of them died and he fled?”

  Marjorie spoke up in her raspy smoker’s voice. “Kidnapping points to the Carlton girl because of her family’s money. But since we don’t know that for sure, should we look at Charlie Delaney as a potential victim too? There was no way of knowing that someone would survive that wreck.”

  Bert turned to Tan-4. “What do you think?”

  “Branigan, you’re closest to the Delaneys,” Tan-4 responded. “Is that possible?”

  “Well, the police have a guard on Charlie’s hospital room,” she said, not adding that she’d had a hand in it. “I think that’s more in case someone thought she saw something. But yeah, I guess anything is possible.”

  Bert nodded. “So yes, Marjorie. Keep an open mind. Could one of the Delaneys have angered someone enough to make their daughter a target?” He looked at his watch. “Any more questions? Comments? Concerns?”

  “Is everybody writing?” Jody asked. “Or are we feeding someone?”

  Bert glanced around. “I want Marjorie and Branigan taking the lead on the profiles, you on the police angle. But it’ll depend on what everyone comes up with. If Lou Ann or Harley comes up with something especially good on Maylene or Ralph, we may have them write it. We’ll see.”

  Hearing nothing more, Bert dismissed them with final instructions. “Let’s meet or call in at three and see what everybody’s got for tomorrow’s paper. Meantime, call or email me when you’re ready to post. I’ll coordinate all the online stuff. Julie will be handling all other stories, at least for today. Are we good? I want a slam dunk.”

  Branigan stopped by Art Whittaker’s desk. With his khaki slacks and bow tie, he was the best dressed man in the newsroom – which wasn’t saying much. She motioned for Jody to join them, then relayed Malachi’s claim that Janie Rose Carlton’s apartment had been ransacked.

  Art looked puzzled. “What could a nineteen-year-old have that’s worth killing over? This doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  “I don’t know either,” Branigan admitted. She filled the men in about the luggage at the crash scene that might have been searched as well. “If the hearse driver was looking for something in their luggage, that takes kidnapping off the table.”

  She then told Art about a colleague of Janie Rose’s father who had visited her at Rutherford Lee the previous winter. “Finding him might be a place to start.”

  “Got a name? A description?”

  “First name is Roy. No last name, but a pretty distinctive description. It’s in my notes. I’ll email it to you to make sure I don’t leave anything out.”

  Jody jumped in. “I’m thinking we need to share the information about Janie Rose’s apartment with the cops. Any problem with that?”

  Branigan shook her head. “Fine with me. In fact, it might help to know if someone searched it before or after the crash.”

  Art turned to his laptop to begin a search on Shaner Steel. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he promised.

  Branigan walked to her desk, flipped through her notes and emailed Emma Ratcliffe’s description of Roy to Art. She sat for a moment, drinking coffee and planning her calls. The first one went to Liam. He sounded groggy.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay. The doctor will be by in a minute anyway.”

  “You’re with Charlie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the young man who visited her last night?”

  “The boyfriend of her old soccer buddy, Maggie Fielding. Jones Rinehart, I think his name was. Yeah, that sounds right.”

  “Malachi came to my office this morning and told me that Jones fellow was involved in beating a homeless man last year. He called it ‘rehabbing’.”

  “My Lord! Was Malachi up here? I didn’t see him.”

  “Yeah, he was. But have you ever heard of that? Rehabbing?”

  “Yeah. But not by college boys.”

  “I’ve never heard you mention it.”

  “Well, it comes in spurts. Two summers ago there was a bunch of stuff on the Internet about homeless people in other cities being paid to fight each other. Then videos of masked teenagers rolling homeless men, sometimes as gang initiations. Then sure enough, it happened here. Some of the guys told me about it, but they wouldn’t report it to the police. So I invited the police to Jericho Road, and they sat down with our guys. They assured them they’d take any reports seriously.”

  “Did they make an arrest?”

  “Not that I know of. Everything kind of quieted down after that. But Brani, go back to this Jones fellow. You’re saying he was involved in rehabbing?”

  “According to Malachi. Not two summers ago, but more recently.”

  “Tell me what Malachi said exactly.”

  “He said it was sometime last winter, after Christmas. That twelve or fifteen college boys – and he was adamant they were college boys – beat up Max Brody in the camp under the Garner Bridge. Malachi and some people from his side of the railroad tracks heard the commotion and witnessed it. Malachi said that guy in Charlie’s room was waving around a liquor bottle and yelling, ‘Rehab him, rehab him!’ And something I didn’t understand: something about being an ’ornery robby’?”

  Liam’s voice rose an octave. “Malachi said that?” There was silence on his end for a moment. “Could he have been trying to say ‘an honorary Robie’?”

  “Yeah, I guess. What’s it mean?”

  “It’s Jones’s fraternity. Rho Beta Iota. They call themselves the Robies.”

  Now Branigan and Liam were both silent. Finally she spoke. “Liam, it was a gang initiation, wasn’t it? Only an upscale gang.”

  Liam sighed. “Yeah, sounds like it.”

  Branigan’s next call would have surprised her editors. But over the years, she’d found that her sometimes offbeat way of looking at things paid off. Ira Powers picked up on the fourth ring. He might be slow getting to t
he phone, but Branigan knew he’d be awake.

  “Granddaddy, I need a huge favor.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Can you invite Sylvia Eckhart to your house? Today?”

  “I suppose so.” He didn’t ask why, which was one of the many reasons Branigan adored him. “Do you want Rudelle and Marisol to rustle up lunch?”

  “No, I don’t want them to go to that much trouble. Coffee and Marisol’s muffins would be great. I’d like to pick both of your brains about the Honor Council. It’ll save me time if I can get you together.”

  “You know we can’t speak about specific cases for the paper?”

  “I know. This will be background.”

  “Very well. What time do you want me to invite her?”

  “As soon as possible. I imagine she’s grading exams this week, right? See if she can take a break.”

  “She lives two streets over. She could probably do that. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got a time.”

  “Thank you so much, Granddaddy. I think some of those frat kids of yours may be worse than you suspect.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Tears leaked out of Charlie’s blackened eye, which was only now fading to a yellowish green. At least the swelling was down. But her back was aching from the enforced bed rest, and the leg inside the cast itched. In a word, she was miserable.

  Plus, there were those dreams. Or rather the one dream. She wasn’t really sure if she was awake or asleep – the pain meds made everything hazy – but she kept envisioning the minutes before the wreck.

  In the dream, she looked from Janie Rose’s frozen face to the black window of the hearse. She was trying so hard to see behind that glass. There were moments when she almost could. Not a face exactly, but something on top of the face. A fedora? A scarf? A hijab? Okay, now she was being officially silly.

  But then her eyes flew open. It wasn’t an answer, but it was something. Chan stirred in the chair beside her bed, put down his book and stood to stretch. “Why, Miss Charlotte, I do believe you’re awake.”

  “Imagine yourself the subject of a withering look,” she said. “And call Aunt Branigan.”