Hard Row Part 22

"You told me about the guy who tried to steal one of the old lampposts off the town commons and how Dr. Allred ticketed a man who parked at a handicap spot without a tag and then let a three-legged dog run free. I don't remember a tractor."

I briefly recapped. "Diaz took him on at the nursery after he got fired from wherever he stole the tractor and he promised to see that the damages were repaired. I forget if I gave the guy a fine or a suspended sentence. I'd have to look it up. Anyhow, when Faye was telling me about Mayleen's new boyfriend, she said I'd met him and that this Mike Diaz was the one."

"Diaz," Dwight said reflectively. "Why's that name seem familiar?"

"Faye said Mayleen met him when she was working a case back in January."

"That's right. I remember seeing his name on one of the reports she filed. He had some sort of connection to J.D. Rouse's wife." Rouse was a rounder whose freewheeling arrogance had gotten him shot. "So Richards is hooked up with him?"

"According to Faye she is. Remember?" I said smugly. "I told you she was looking different."

"Is this where I have to listen to you brag about feminine intuition?" he groaned.

I laughed.

"So what does your day look like?" he asked. "You gonna be able to cut out before five?"

"Unless something unexpected comes up, this could be a light day. Four of the cases I was supposed to hear today settled yesterday afternoon and I have good vibes about another one, so I may be ready to roll by four. You going to leave on time?"

"I sure hope so. Robert had some seed potatoes left over. It's getting a little late to plant them but-"

"Potatoes? And cabbages yesterday? I thought you were just going to tend a few tomato plants."

"Yeah, but I forgot how little kids love to scratch around and find potatoes."

I patted his arm. "Big kids, too, right?"

He gave a sheepish nod.

Faye Myers was coming on duty when we entered the bas.e.m.e.nt lobby, so I said I'd catch up with him later and stopped to chat. There had been a bad wreck last night, she told me. Two highschool girls killed outright and another in serious condition at Dobbs Memorial Hospital. Alcohol and no seatbelts were thought to be factors.

They were from the eastern part of the county and unknown to me, but I could still imagine the grief their families were feeling today. That sort of news always gives me a catch in my throat until I hear the names and can breathe again, knowing it's not any of my nieces or nephews. Thank G.o.d, it'll be another eight years before we have to worry about Cal behind the wheel of a car. Dwight's already told me that Cal's first car's going to be a big heavy clunker, an old Grand Marquis or a Crown Victoria. He keeps saying that he wants a lot of steel between his son and another car until he's had four or five years of experience. "No way am I handing a sixteen-year-old the keys to a candy-red sports car," he says.

We'll see. I remember the T-Bird I'd wheedled out of Mother and Daddy. The exhilaration of empowerment. Free to hang with my friends, to cruise the streets of Cotton Grove on the weekends, or sneak off to the lake with Portland. I guess my brothers had given them so much grief when they first got wheels that they didn't realize girls would take just as many chances. As long as we met their curfews, we were considered responsible drivers.

Faye leaned closer and I was suddenly awash with a feeling of deja vu as she lowered her voice and said, "I might not ought to be telling this, but Flip said he almost got high himself from the smell of beer in that car when he pulled them out. He says all three could've blown a ten or twelve."

CHAPTER 29.

With ideas of false economy, some farmers employ only about one-half the hired help that is necessary to perform the work in the proper time and manner and by working this force to the utmost, early and late, they endeavor to accomplish all the work for the season at a much less expense than would ordinarily be involved in accomplishing it.

-Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890 DWIGHT BRYANT.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, MARCH 8.

Wearing one of his trademark bow ties-today's had little American flags on a blue background-and a starched blue shirt, Pete Taylor appeared in Dwight's doorway promptly at nine and held it open for his client and a younger woman. "Major Bryant? Detective Richards? This is Mrs. Harris and her daughter, Mrs. Hochmann."

Dwight and Mayleen Richards immediately stood to welcome them.

Mrs. Harris was what kind-hearted people tactfully call a "right good-sized woman." She was easily five-ten, solidly built, with a broad and weathered face and a handshake as strong as most men's. She wore a maroon tailored suit that looked expensive but did little to flatter or hide the extra pounds on her frame. Her wavy hair was cut short and was jet black, except where the roots were showing a lot of salt and not much pepper. Her large hazel eyes were her best feature.

Shrewd eyes, too, thought Dwight as he watched her glance around his office, taking in his awards and commendations, appraising his deputy. Eyes that didn't miss a trick.

Her daughter appeared to be in her late twenties. She was equally tall and big-boned, but so thin as to almost appear gaunt. Unlike her mother, her eyes were an indeterminate color, set deep in their sockets, and her cheekbones stood out in relief. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from her face in a single braid that fell halfway down her back. No jewelry except for a loose gold band on her left hand. Her black pantsuit looked like something that had been bought at a thrift store. Not exactly the picture of a New York heiress now worth at least three million, he thought. More like a nun who had taken a vow of poverty. He remembered what Mrs. Samuelson had said about her concern for the less fortunate since her husband's death.

"Thank you for coming," Dwight said after they were all seated and had declined coffee or tea. He offered condolences to both women and set a mini-recorder on the desk.

"This is strictly informal," he told them, "and any time you want me to turn it off, just ask."

"Now," said Mrs. Harris.

The daughter started to say something, then shrugged and leaned back in her chair.

"As you wish," Dwight said. He switched it off and pulled out a legal pad instead. After noting the day's date, he addressed the younger woman.

"I don't want to upset you, Mrs. Hochmann, but do you know what was done to your father?"

"That he was dismembered and his parts dumped from one end of Ward Dairy Road to the other?" Her eyes filled, but her voice was steady. "Yes. Mr. Taylor says that everything's been found now?"

"All except one arm, I'm afraid."

"I've been in touch with the medical examiner's office," said Pete Taylor. "They'll release his body for burial this afternoon."

"But they won't tell us when he died," Mrs. Harris said. Frustration smoldered in her tone. "All they'll say is sometime between the afternoon of Sunday the nineteenth and Wednesday the twenty-second. That's not good enough, Major Bryant."

"What Mrs. Harris means," Pete Taylor interposed, "is that we don't know whether or not he died before their divorce was final."

"I know," Dwight said. "And I'm sorry you've been left hanging, ma'am. Despite all those forensic programs on television, unless we can find a witness or the killer confesses, there's no way to say with pinpoint accuracy when it happened. I understand you were out on the farm that Monday morning? The twentieth?"

"Yes."

"Did you see him that day?"

"No."

"When did you last see or speak to him?"

"I have no idea. If we needed to communicate, it was either through our attorneys or by email. I don't think we spoke directly to each other in almost a year."

"Yet you went out to the farm where he was staying?"

"Until everything is divided, that farm is as much mine as his and it's my right to see that our workers are properly housed and treated."

"Does that mean Mr. Harris mistreated them?"

"I didn't say that."

"Didn't you?"

She glared at him and clamped her lips tight.

"Who hated him enough to kill him like that?"

"I have no idea."

"Any mistreatment of the workers?"

"Not that I heard anything about and I believe I would have. The crew chief, Juan Santos, knows their rights. Besides, we only keep a skeleton crew during the winter and they're free to hire out as day laborers when things are slow."

"I understand that Harris Farms was cited for an OSHA violation six years ago?"

Her hazel eyes narrowed.

"I believe you were fined a couple of thousand dollars?"

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Who was responsible for the violation? You or Mr. Harris?"

There was no answer and she met his steady gaze without blinking.

Pete Taylor stirred uneasily, but it was the daughter who caved.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Mother! Tell him." She turned to Dwight. "I loved my dad, Major Bryant, even though I hated the way he ran the farms. But OSHA and EPA and yes, law people like you not only let him get away with it, it's as if you almost encouraged him to break the laws."

"Susan!" her mother said sharply.

"No, Mother. I'm through biting my tongue. From now on I'm going to speak the truth. You think I don't know the real cost of growing a bushel of tomatoes? That I don't know how Harris Farms shows such a good profit year after year?"

"Harris Farms sent you to school, miss! Gave you an education that lets you look down on your own parents."

"Not you, Mother." She touched her mother's hand. "Never you. I know you did your best."

She turned back to Dwight. "Growers like my dad cut against the market every way they can. They ignore the warning labels on chemicals, they ignore phony social security numbers, they turn a blind eye to how labor contractors take advantage of their people, and they don't give a d.a.m.n about a migrant's living conditions or whether or not the children are in school. My mother does. When Harris Farms finally got cited, Mother got involved. She checks the paperwork and makes sure everyone's doc.u.mented, she doesn't let little kids work in the fields, and she made Dad get rid of those squalid trailers he had down there in the back fields of the Buckley place. No decent plumbing and no place to wash off the pesticides. My mother-"

"Your mother's a bleeding-heart saint," Mrs. Harris said sarcastically.

"Well, you are, compared to Dad."

"Only because it's cheaper in the long run to do the right thing," her mother said gruffly. "It's all dollars and cents. I don't want us shut down or slapped with a big fine."

"Slapped is the right word," Susan Hochmann told Dwight. "There aren't enough inspectors to check out all the camps and farms and follow a case through the courts, so a slap on the wrist was all they got. A puny two-thousand-dollar fine. Nothing to really hurt."

"You don't know that's where it would stop next time," said Mrs. Harris, "and I don't want to find out. I don't want to wake up and see Harris Farms all over the newspapers and television like Ag-Mart. I don't want anybody making us an example. If playing by the rules or decent plumbing or stoves that work and refrigerators that actually keep food cold can keep us out of court, then it's worth the few extra dollars."

"But your husband felt differently?" Dwight asked.

"He grew up poor. We both did. And we both worked hard in the early days. Out there in the fields rain or shine, whether it was hot or cold, doing what had to be done to plant and plow and stake and harvest. Wouldn't you think he could've remembered what it was like to walk in those shoes? Instead, he griped that I was coddling them. I finally had enough and when that little redheaded b.i.t.c.h let him stick his-"

She caught herself before uttering the crude words that were on the tip of her tongue. "That's when I told him I was through, that I was getting my own lawyer. And d.a.m.ned if he didn't file papers first so that I've had to come to court in Dobbs instead of doing it down in New Bern."

She sat back in her chair and pursed her lips while Dwight made quick notes on the legal pad.

"What about you, Mrs. Hochmann?" he said. "When did you last speak to your father?"

"Valentine's Day," she said promptly. "He didn't like phones, but he always sent me roses and he called that evening."

"Was he worried about anything?"

"Worried that someone was going to ... to-" She could not bring herself to say the words and sat there mutely, shaking her head.

"Mrs. Harris, are you absolutely certain you didn't see your husband on that Monday?"

"I'm certain."

"In fact, you tried to avoid all contact with him, right?"

"Right."

"Yet you went into his house that day and took a shower and left wearing some of his clothes."

"Yes," she said.

Susan Hochmann's head immediately swung around to look at her mother quizzically.

"Would you like to say why?"

Clearly she did not.

"Mother?"

"Oh, for pete's sake, Susan! Don't look at me like that. I did not kill Buck and then go sluice his blood off me. I fell in a stupid mud puddle and wrecked the clothes I was wearing. Of course I went in and took a shower. I knew he wouldn't be there. He was afraid to look me in the eye."

"Why?" asked Mayleen Richards.

Until now, the deputy had sat so quietly that the others had almost forgotten that she was in the room.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Harris.

"Everyone says he was a big man with a short fuse and a strong will. Why was he afraid of you?"