The Quiet Game by Greg Iles Page A

woman cuts in. “A no- count no-good. He stole all our money and went back to Chicago.”
    â€œHe was very expensive,” Althea concedes. “And he said the same thing the first detective told us. The pertinent records had been destroyed and there was nothing to find.”
    â€œNAACP say the same thing,” Georgia adds with venom. “They don’t care about my baby none. He wasn’t a big enough name. They cry about Martin and Medgar every year, got white folks makin’ movies about Medgar. But my baby Del in the ground and nobody care. Nobody.”
    â€œExcept you,” Althea says quietly. “When I walked out in my driveway this morning and picked up that paper—when I read what you said—I cried. I cried like I haven’t cried in thirty years.”
    Dad raises his eyebrows and sends me one of his telepathic messages: You opened your damn mouth. See what it’s got you.
    â€œI still gots some money, Mr. Penn,” Georgia says, clutching at a black vinyl handbag the size of a small suitcase.
    I envision a tidal wave of one-dollar bills spilling out of the purse, like money at a crack bust, but Mrs. Payton has clutched the bag only to emphasize her statement. I cannot let this go any further.
    â€œLadies, I appreciate your thanks, but I don’t deserve them. As I said in the paper, I’m here for a vacation. I’m no longer involved in any criminal matters. What happened to your husband and son was a terrible tragedy, but I suspect that what the detectives told you is true. This crime happened thirty years ago. Nowadays, if the police don’t solve a homicide in the first forty-eight hours, they know they probably never will.”
    â€œBut sometimes they do,” Althea says doggedly. “I’ve read about murder cases that were solved years after the fact.”
    â€œThat’s true, but it’s rare. In all my years with the Houston D.A.’s office, we only had a couple of cases like that.”
    â€œBut you had them.”
    â€œYes. But what we had more of—a hundred times more of—was distraught relatives pleading with us to reopen old cases. Murder is a terrible thing, and no one knows that better than you. The repercussions reverberate through generations.”
    â€œBut there’s no statue of limitations on murder. Is there?”
    Statue of limitations. I see no point in correcting her grammar; I’ve heard attorneys make the same mistake. Like congressmen referring to nucular war. “Everything hinges on evidence,” I explain. “Has any new evidence come to light?”
    Her desolate look is answer enough.
    â€œThat’s what we were hoping you could do,” Althea says. “Look back over what the police did. Maybe they missed something. Maybe they buried something. I read in a book that sixty percent of the Natchez police force was Klan back then. God knows what they did or didn’t do. You might even get a book out of it. There’s a lot nobody knows about those times. About what Del was doing for his people.”
    I fight the urge to glance at my parents for assistance. “I’m actually in the middle of a book now, and I’m behind. I—”
    â€œI’ve read your books,” Althea breaks in. “All of them. In paperback, of course. I read them on the late shift, when the babies are resting well.”
    I never know what to say in these moments. If you say, Did you like them? you’re putting the person on the spot. But what else can you say?
    â€œI liked the first one the best,” Althea offers. “I liked the others too, but I couldn’t help feeling. . . .”
    â€œBe honest,” I urge her, dreading what will follow.
    â€œI always felt that your gift was bigger than the stories you were telling. I don’t mean to be critical. But that first book was so real. I just think if you really understood what happened to Del,