by Rachel Ford
Then he took a shower, turning the case over in his mind as he did so. His late night investigative browsing had been productive. He’d dug deeper into the scandal attached to Rick Wynder’s name.
It had been a sentencing scandal, with speculation that he’d created a pipeline to prison in exchange for some kind of financial remuneration.
The prison involved was a privately run facility called Reed Hill Correctional Facility, owned by a parent company called Reed Correctional Services in Missouri. And the numbers didn’t look great for Wynder. Of the cases that he presided over, of those that netted a guilty verdict, ninety-five percent resulted in prison sentences. Of those, seventy percent resulted in stays of six months or longer.
Even for first time offenders. Even for minor crimes. Even when other judges would mete out community service and fines.
The case had been all through the media, even before the attorney general’s office opened an investigation. Owen’s initial reaction had been surprise – surprise that he didn’t remember seeing or hearing anything about it.
But he’d been in the army at the time - overseas at the time. He hadn’t paid much attention to national politics, much less state or local. If he’d heard anything at all about the investigation, it clearly hadn’t made much of an impression.
It did now, though. Wynder had condemned thousands of people to lengthy stays in prison. He’d been notorious for meting out maximum-allowed sentences, even to juvenile offenders tried as adults.
Wynder’s official position was that he was tough on crime, both as a realization of justice and a deterrent against future offense.
The public deserved nothing less, and if people understood that they’d do the time, they would decide against doing the crime. Owen found half a dozen of the judge’s quotes referencing the idea, nearly word for word.
The prevailing unofficial thought was that Wynder had used his position to fill Reed Hill, in exchange for unspecified favors. The most likely candidate, of course, was financial.
Rick Wynder’s own story of his hardscrabble roots fueled that speculation. How did a scholarship kid who had to work multiple jobs to put himself through college wind up a local land baron on a prosecutor’s salary? It didn’t make sense.
And yet, the AG had cleared him. So maybe it did make sense. Maybe Wynder really did just hate crime with an undying passion. Maybe he’d invested his prosecutor’s salary well, and reaped the benefits accordingly. Maybe he’d invested Marsha’s salary too.
Owen didn’t know, but he could feel the pieces coming together in his head. He was close.
He felt instinctively that Rick’s death had something to do with the Reed Hill business, and the suspicion attached to his career – justified or not.
Tanney wasn’t interested, though. Owen met the old man in the hotel lobby after his shower and tried to explain his finds.
Tanney, though, seemed not to hear. He stared bleakly out the glass doors. Then he glanced into the dining room where a continental breakfast had been laid out, even more bleakly.
“Come on,” Owen said. “It can’t be worse than the diner.”
It was. There were hardboiled eggs that were practically rubber, and cereal that was nothing but sugar and food coloring. The waffles had no flavor, and the scrambled eggs looked about as appetizing as cat food.
Owen scooped a little onto his plate and stared at it, almost as dolefully as the old man. They sat there in silence for a while, taking the occasional taste and then harrumphing.
Finally, Owen said, “The diner’s not that far. I can help you get through the snowbanks.”
Tanney snorted. “I don’t need help.”
Owen didn’t argue. He just walked slowly and helped pull Tanney out of the snow when he got stuck. It took almost five minutes to cross the parking lot, but they got there eventually.
The diner had the feel of a ghost town. There were exactly three vehicles in the lot: an SUV painted in the sheriff’s department colors, and two pickup trucks, both a little battered and worn. Those, he figured, belonged to the staff.
Not that he spotted any of them as they stepped inside. The maître de station stood empty, and he spotted no one on the floor – no one but Sheriff Halverson, who was drinking coffee at one of the tables.
A head poked out of the kitchen: one of the waitresses he’d spotted the first time he’d been here. “Be right with you,” she said. “You can take a seat anywhere.” Then she vanished again.
Tanney was shaking visibly beside him, so Owen said, “Come on. Let’s get a seat.”
They headed to a table a few over from the sheriff’s. Tanney started to sit. Owen hesitated, and then moved for Halverson’s table. “Sheriff?”
Halverson glanced up. He’d been studiously avoiding looking their way, but now, of course, he couldn’t keep up the pretense that he hadn’t seen them. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink since yesterday.
He looked like seeing Owen was just about the last thing he wanted to do right now.
“I’m sorry,” Owen said. “I got it wrong. About Judge Wynder, I mean.”
“You don’t say.”
“Whoever killed him, it had nothing to do with the other cases.”
“You don’t say,” he said again.
“I’m sorry,” Owen repeated. “I got it wrong.”
“There’s a reason there’s professionals to handle this kind of thing…”
Owen decided to leave it there. So he nodded and said, “Right. Well, I’ll leave you be.”
Halverson ate his breakfast and ignored Day and Tanney. He might have been a little curter than needed, but between Day and Ted Walters, he’d had his fill of dumbasses who thought they knew how to run an investigation.
That, and the fact that he hadn’t managed to sleep at all the night before. And, on top of two unsolved murders on his plate, a town full of people who wanted answers yesterday, and a press milking the deaths for all they could? Well, he was about at the end of his tether.
He ate his breakfast and headed out to the SUV. He’d left his standard cruiser in the garage today and taken one of the department’s all-wheel drive vehicles. He needed to be able to get around, and it would be hours yet before the highway department finished plowing.
Hell, it’d be days before they cleaned up all the side streets and back roads. He needed to be able to answer any calls, anywhere.
And he needed to be able to get to the next county. He had someone he needed to talk to. He’d been doing some thinking in his sleepless hours, the kind of thinking he would never have done when Rick was alive.
But Rick wasn’t alive. Not anymore. Someone had murdered him, and Marsha too. They’d done that for a reason.
And he was sheriff. He needed to get to the bottom of that reason, even if it meant asking questions Rick wouldn’t have wanted asked.
First, though, he needed to stop by the office. He wanted to check with the front desk to make sure nothing had come up, and grab a thermos full of coffee for the road. The office coffee wasn’t the best in town, but the price was: free.
He had no messages, so he headed to the coffeemaker. He filled his thermos and got a new pot brewing.
He was about to head out when Karen Acker stepped into the breakroom. Karen was the Friday secretary.
Admin, he reminded himself. Secretary was the term they’d used when he started working, but it had fallen out of favor in the intervening decades.
He didn’t know why, exactly. It was the same with the word janitor. You didn’t have janitors anymore. You had custodians.
She was staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he said, drawing his mind back to the present. He decided he needed either coffee or sleep, stat. “What?”
“I said there’s someone here to see you. Roger Lowe.”
“Lowe,” he repeated. “The lawyer?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He sighed but nodded too. “Fine. Send him to my office.”
>
Karen glanced him over. “You okay, Trey?”
“Yup.”
“You sure?”
“Just tired.”
“Did you go home at all last night?”
“Eventually.” She looked like she might fuss, so he added, “Don’t worry. I’m leaving early today.”
“Good. You need to take care of yourself, you know. You working yourself to death isn’t going to do anyone any good.”
He wanted to tell her to tell that to Owen Day, or Ted Walters. But he didn’t bother. He just smiled and nodded.
And, seemingly satisfied, she headed off. He went in the opposite direction, to his office. He settled into his seat and tried to look busy. He wasn’t actually going to start anything, but he figured that with two open murder investigations, he should at least look like he was working. Not just sitting there waiting.
He didn’t have long to wait, though. Roger Lowe appeared in the doorway within the minute – leading with an outstretched hand, behind which sat an overbroad smile.
Lowe was a skinny guy: all neck and arms and legs. And, when he smiled, teeth. He wore an expensive suit. Small town lawyer expensive, anyway…something that probably cost more than Halverson’s entire wardrobe, but that still would have looked provincial next to a more prestigious peer’s.
He gripped Halverson’s hand tightly. “Trey, I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“Any time,” Halverson said. Which was more or less true. Lowe’s was the only law firm in town, which meant their paths crossed frequently. And when it came to lawyers?
Well, Halverson had a rule: keep your friends close, and lawyers closer.
He gestured for the other man to take a seat. “What can I do for you?”
Lowe hesitated, glancing back at the door behind him. Then he shut it and took the offered seat. “I need to ask you a favor.”
“Okay. What can I do for you?” he asked again.
The lawyer shifted in his seat. “I – well, I assume you know the Wynder children are all in town?”
Halverson nodded.
“The reading of the wills is today, provided the weather doesn’t call it off. But I don’t think it will. It’s at two this afternoon.”
“The roads should be clear by then.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you need from me, Roger?”
Lowe sighed, opened his hands and then settled them back on his lap again. “Obviously, I know what is in my clients’ wills. And obviously, I’m not at liberty to divulge those details except to the interested parties, at the appropriate juncture.”
None of which told Halverson a thing. “Okay,” he said, trying to be patient. “But how can I help with that?”
“Like I say, I can’t say much. But I can say, I don’t think everyone who will be there today is going to be happy. I think there will be some surprises. Very pleasant surprises, for some people. Very unpleasant for others.”
“Ah,” Halverson said. “You think there might be trouble from some of the family?”
“No, of course not.” Lowe smiled, then shrugged. “But – well, it’s a very tense time. Grief does unpredictable things to people.”
Halverson nodded. “Okay. It’s at two?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have someone there.”
“You,” Lowe said.
“What?”
“I’d really prefer if it was you.”
“Why? A deputy –”
“I know,” the lawyer interrupted. “Your deputies are all very capable. I know that. But…well, this is a delicate business. If something happens – and I don’t think it will – it might help to have a senior presence on hand. Just seeing you there might ensure nothing happens. You have a history with them. You had a history with Rick and Marsha. You’re working the murder case. That all counts for something.”
“It’s nothing my deputies couldn’t do.”
“Please, Trey. Half an hour – less, if things go well. That’s all I’m asking.”
He massaged the side of his temple absently. “Fine. Fine, I’ll be there.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tanney got a tall stack of pancakes – six flapjacks in a stack. Owen ordered a waffle and scrambled eggs, like the first day. “And coffee, of course.”
The waitress nodded and promised to have it all out as soon as possible. “We’re a little short-staffed at the moment, because of the storm. But we’ll bring it out as soon as we can.”
Tanney laughed at him after she went. “You’re not much into variety, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always get the same thing.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yeah you do. You get waffles every time you’re here.”
He considered and was forced to concede the point. But he did it in a roundabout way. “I’m actually on a mission from my niece, to try one new thing a week. And I already hit my quota.”
Tanney laughed again. “One new thing a week? Don’t be too adventurous.”
“I like waffles.”
“Obviously. But you never want to mix it up some?”
Owen considered again and shrugged. “I get pancakes, sometimes.”
Tanney snorted. “Pancakes are just waffles without the pockets.”
Owen stared at him. “What?”
“You heard me. They’re the same thing. They look a little different, but they’re made of the same stuff. A waffle is nothing more than an oddly shaped pancake. A pancake with butter pockets. That’s what my grandkids say.”
Owen decided not to argue. It was nonsense, of course, but it never paid to argue with someone’s kids or grandkids.
So he didn’t point out that by that reasoning, all food was basically the same. Most breads and cakes contained the same components, and most everything else contained at least some of those ingredients.
Theoretically, one could say a loaf of bread was just a pancake by another shape, or a giant waffle without pockets. Scrambled eggs could be flourless, pan-fried cakes, and pies fruit-filled pancakes. It was nonsense of the first order.
He was lost in those thoughts when the waitress returned with a carafe of coffee and a bowl of sugar packs and creamer servings.
“Here you are, hon.”
He thanked her and poured his coffee. Then he added half and half, and mixed the coffee three times.
Tanney shook his head. “Have you ever tried stirring it two times? Or four?”
Owen frowned at the old man, wondering if he was hungover. He didn’t look it, but something had gotten into him. That was for damned sure.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Three is the right amount of stirring.”
“Says who?”
Owen ignored that.
“Why three?” Tanney persisted. “Why not four, or five even? Hell, why not ten? Ten’s a nice even number. Why go with an odd number?”
With an effort of willpower, Owen refused to rise to the bait – not the slightly jeering tone, or the ridiculous assumptions in the old man’s words. He shifted in his seat and sipped his coffee and said nothing.
“Is there something special about that number? Three…like a three-leafed clover. Some kind of good luck thing or something?”
That, finally, was too much for Owen. “Of course not.”
“Then why three?”
“Because three is the ideal number of stirs. Two is too few. It’s not fully combined. Four is unnecessary: one stir too many. You risk cooling it too quickly with unnecessary stirring.”
Tanney frowned. “So why do you only take three sips before stirring it again?”
“In case there’s separation.”
“Separation?”
“That’s right.”
“Let me guess: three sips is the ideal amount of sipping, too.”
Owen shifted in his seat a second time. There was less science to the sipping and re-mixing than to th
e initial stirs. It was more a compunction than a rational process. But Tanney’s tone sounded too amused, too incredulous, to admit that.
So he said instead, “Does it matter?”
The old man shook his head. “I’m just trying to figure out what makes you tick is all.”
They drank their coffee in silence after that. Tanney watched him. At first, Owen tried to resist the urge to stir every third sip. He lasted an extra sip, but his skin seemed to crawl. His scalp prickled, and he gave in.
Tanney shook his head but said nothing.
Eventually, Halverson left, and then their food came out. “Your pancake with pockets,” Tanney said.
“Don’t forget the flourless pancake,” Owen said, a bit sourly. He didn’t care for the other man’s mood this morning. “If one non-pancake can be a pancake, why not both? Why can’t eggs just be pancakes without the flour?”
Tanney snorted. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Someone is.”
Tanney stared at him. Owen focused on his food and pretended not to notice the other man’s gaze.
“I pissed you off,” Tanney said. “Asking about your stirring and sipping.”
“No you didn’t,” Owen lied.
“I did. I’m sorry. It’s a little weird, that’s all.”
Owen said nothing to this non-apology.
Tanney went on. “I don’t mean weird bad, either. Everyone’s weird. You, me, everyone. You’re a good kind of weird, and I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
Owen shook his head. “Look, it’s fine. Just eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
Tanney nodded. “Okay.”
He felt compelled to add, though, “But pancakes are pancakes, and waffles are waffles. They’re two separate things.”
They were still arguing about what made a pancake and what made a waffle when they finished breakfast. Tanney appealed to the waitress, who laughed and said she could see it his way.
“A pancake with pockets – I like that.”
Owen declared that he wouldn’t be persuaded by argumentum ad populum. Tanney could get the entire restaurant on his side – the entire town, or the entire state for that matter – and he still wouldn’t agree.