Bootlegger’s Daughter

4 all my rowdy friends have settled down

North Carolina houses our State Bureau of Investigation in what used to be a school for the blind on Old Garner Road south of Raleigh. Some of us don’t let the agents forget it either.

When I showed up in his office without an appointment just before five that Friday afternoon, Special Agent Terry Wilson leaned back in his swivel chair, put that canary-feathered grin on his big ugly face and drawled, “Well, looky who’s here! You want to hear something fu

“Naah. Dogcatcher.” I tried to look serious, but a matching grin spread over my own face. Terry does that to me every time. Even when I used to get furious with him, I couldn’t stay furious. He’d cut those hazel eyes at me, the tip of his long nose would twitch and I’d laugh before I could help it.

There was a moment about six years ago when I seriously considered marrying Terry just because life with him could have been so damn much fun. The moment passed, since three things stood between us and the altar at Sweetwater Missionary Baptist: one, he was working narcotics undercover at the time and, as his first two wives had already learned, undercover agents don’t make good husbands; two, he’d made it clear that his son, Stanton, would always come first; and three, I’d made it just as clear I wouldn’t take second place for anybody or anything-not to Stanton, whom I actually liked, and certainly not to his job.

So we stayed buddies, and though we no longer partied together, we did still go fishing occasionally. In fact, the large-mouth bass mounted on the wall opposite his desk came out of one of my Daddy’s lakes. Stanton and I were both in the boat the day Terry pulled it in. Only eight pounds, but he was using ten-pound test, so it’d been a classic battle between man and fish. There’d been other, bigger bass, but that was the day we acknowledged our moment had passed and I sometimes wondered if that was the real reason he’d mounted this particular fish. Of course, at the time, he said it was because its big mouth reminded him of me.

Looking at him now, I suddenly realized it’d been over a year since we’d gone fishing together. His flat brown hair had thi

“How far’d you have to chase him for those ugly suspenders?” I teased even though they matched his maroon tie and actually looked rather sharp against the white cotton.

“He was right behind the good-looking gal you took that raggedy old blouse off of,” Terry gri

I helped myself to the chair in front of his executive-size desk.

Except for one or two papers, the broad top itself was quite tidy for someone in charge of MUST, the SBI’s Murder Unsolved Task Force. In fact, the whole office was strangely bare of excess books and papers, as if the real work must surely be done elsewhere, not in this roomy, stripped-down office with spring sunlight blazing through the two tall windows onto the clean white rug. Nothing was piled on the two matching sand-colored file cabinets. A narrow white Parsons table beside Terry’s desk held a laptop and a printer and nothing else. The bulletin board over the table was only one layer deep, and there were even a few open spaces between an up-to-date wanted poster and some cryptic memos to himself.

His tackle box was always just that neat. No broken lures, no flutter of leaders, weights, or feathers.

On the opposite wall, the head-high bookcase was empty except for a row of looseleaf notebooks on the bottom shelf and some framed pictures of Stanton on the top shelf. He’d be about fifteen now, and of the three of us, he’d changed most of all, if the pictures were any indication-a young man all of a sudden and not a little kid anymore.

“ Stanton ’s getting handsomer all the time,” I said, picking up the wood-framed photograph on his desk. When Terry started to beam, I added, “Must take after his mother.”

“Like hell! Everybody says he’s me all over again.”

“What’s he up to these days?” I asked, truly wanting to know. I liked Stanton from the begi

“Doing real good. Plays shortstop on the varsity baseball team. Carrying a good solid B, too,” he bragged.

I put the picture back on his desk. “Starting to break a few hearts?”

The tip of his nose twitched. “Like I told you-he’s me all over again.”

“You wish!”

We talked trash a few minutes more before I broached Janie Whitehead’s murder and explained why I was asking.

“That was before my time,” Terry said, and without sitting up, he stretched across to snag a slim folder from the rack neatly aligned with the far edge of his desk. “I believe Scotty Underhill worked that case.”

He leafed through the eight or nine sheets in the file folder. From where I sat, I couldn’t make out specific words, but it looked like a condensed printout of all the unsolved cases assigned to Terry’s MUST team: names, dates, a one- or two-sentence description of each case and some comment as to any solvability factors.

“When was the last time it was worked?” I asked.

“Seven years ago,” he murmured, still reading.

The MUST force was developed only four years earlier.

“You didn’t rework it when you took over?”

“Oh, come on, Deborah,” he said. “I’ve got eight men and over two hundred cases. Janie Whitehead’s murder was thoroughly worked at the begi

I vaguely remembered a flurry of hushed talk around Cotton Grove in the spring of 1983, but I hadn’t paid it much mind, especially since it died down almost as soon as it began. “And no suspects either time?”

Terry closed the folder and replaced it in the rack. “Now you know well and good I wouldn’t name names if we had any, which, as a matter of fact, we don’t. You can ask Scotty yourself if you want.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet him at six. Want to come along?”

Miss Molly’s Bar and Grill on South Wilmington Street hadn’t changed all that much since I was last there with Terry. A few more neon beer brands had been added to the already crowded walls and I saw that Spot had finally found him that old blue guitar he’d been looking for last time we talked about his collection of neon signs. He hadn’t taken Little Richard and Elvis off the jukebox, but Randy Travis and Reba McEntire were there now, too.

Spot acted glad to see me.

“The usual,” Terry said as we passed the bar.

“You still drinking gin and tonics?” Spot asked me.

“Yeah, only make it a virgin,” I told him. “I’ve got to drive to Makely tonight.”

“Getting old, kid?” Terry needled.

“Getting cautious. All I need’s a headline in the Dobbs Ledger: ‘Judicial Candidate Cited for DWI.’ ”

We headed back to the big round table at the rear, which had always been populated by law people. That hadn’t changed much either.

I recognized two homicide detectives from the Raleigh PD, a couple of SBI arson investigators, and someone from the attorney general’s office, all males if no longer all white. We’d barely reached the table when a familiar whiff of musky perfume overtook me and I felt light fingers on my shoulder.