“I wanted to give you a heads-up. Last night, Sanford got a call from the assistant director. He wants us to start an investigation into the sheriff’s office. To see if we can find any issues with how the case was managed. Issues that may have contributed to the shooting.”
“That figures,” she said, shaking her head in frustration. “Shouldn’t surprise us, though.”
He looked around. “It’s going to be a witch hunt. I think someone’s got it in for the sheriff.”
Rachel thought about the commission meeting and said, “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around at the moment. Anything else?”
“Sanford says we need to take a hard look at your involvement. What role you may have had in pushing for Dylan Gifford’s arrest without consulting the SBI special agent assigned to the case.”
“Kind of puts you in a tricky spot, doesn’t it?”
He stared at his hands folded on the table but didn’t answer. Just as Rachel had suspected, he was searching for reassurance, but she wasn’t in the mood to give it.
The server dropped off a cup of coffee and said, “Your pie should be out in just a minute, hon.”
When she walked away, Rachel asked, “Any word on the meth lab?”
Jensen cleared his throat and said, “I talked to one of our informants who says he knows Kevin Gifford. Says he’s bought from him in the past.”
“And?”
He looked around again. “It’s nothing. A tiny operation. So small . . . it’s no wonder we’ve never heard of it. They have a little travel trailer up in the woods on some property that belongs to one of Kevin’s friends. Actually belongs to the kid’s father, but regardless, they only cook once every three months or so. If that. My informant says there’s about five of them working together. But he could only name three, and he says he only bought from them when he was having supply issues. Says all their regular buyers are small time.”
“How small?”
“Barely more than personal use.”
Rachel sighed. “So what’s your next move?”
“We take down the lab.” He grabbed four packets of sugar from the caddy at the end of the table, tore them open, and dumped them into his coffee all at once. “I just spent an hour on a conference call with Sanford and two guys from Special Services. You wouldn’t believe what we’re planning to put on these kids. Surveillance teams, undercover agents . . . I’ll tell ya, no matter how small their operation may be, the media’s going to treat them like rock stars when we get through with them.”
“You just told me they don’t make more than a handful of meth four times a year.”
“That’s true,” he said. “Can’t deny that. But Sanford thinks they’re trying to expand. He thinks they might have hooked up with an outlaw biker group operating north of Asheville. Apparently, they’ve been known to finance smaller operations like Kevin’s. Oh . . . and those shell casings we picked up last night . . . five-point-five-six. The exact type of ammunition you’d need if you were planning to ambush someone with an AR-15. Know who happens to have one of those registered in his name?”
“Kevin?”
“You got it.”
“We had him in custody at the time of the shooting.”
“You’ve never lent anything to a friend before?”
Rachel rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “You really think Kevin would conspire to take out his own brother?”
“People do crazy things for money.”
She studied him for a moment and said, “You’re a good soldier, Mike.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Rachel.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
* * *
Braddock sat next to Curtis on a bench in the front row. Ahead and to his right, Pritchard stood behind a lectern, sweating and answering questions with a shaky voice. The chairman had closed the meeting to the public, so the rest of the aisles were empty.
The other commissioners had taken turns asking about the shooting. The tone had remained civil until Lawton Jones had started his barrage. He wanted to know why Pritchard had ignored his warnings about the threat posed by motorcycle gangs. Why he had not consulted with the SBI before arresting Dylan Gifford. Why he hadn’t asked for their assistance on the raid, and why he had asked for his cousin’s help instead. Had he deliberately kept them out of the loop so he could claim full credit for the arrest?
Pritchard did a good job of keeping his cool. Braddock was impressed. It wasn’t until Jones asked his last question that he saw his boss’s anger flare.
“Does it even bother you, Sheriff, that two of your deputies have died on your watch?”
“I swear to God, Lawton,” Pritchard growled, “I’m gonna walk up there and beat your miserable fat ass, you sorry—”
“Sheriff Pritchard!” the chairman shouted.
Pritchard gripped the edges of the lectern and looked away. The muscles in his jaw worked as he gnashed his teeth. Braddock felt sorry for him, even a little responsible. Maybe he shouldn’t have insisted on hiring Rachel in the first place. They could have just waited for the SBI to take the case over and avoided all this mess. And maybe Fisher and Howard would still be alive.
* * *
After she left the diner, Rachel took a walk through town, stopping in the middle of the Everly Street Bridge to watch the river rush by beneath her. She thought about everything Jensen had said and felt a surge of frustration. Sanford was all but obsessed with Kevin Gifford’s meth operation, and Jensen was going along with it, even though there wasn’t a shred of evidence linking it to McGrath or Coughlan. At least, none that they had found.
She wondered if she was being closed-minded. After all, it had only been a few days. Perhaps there was a connection yet to be discovered. Maybe Jensen was doing the right thing by falling in line behind his boss. If so, then she had been too hard on him.
She looked up, spun slowly in a circle, and took in the town. There wasn’t much to see. Braddock had said there were only two thousand residents, and Dillard City was the largest in the county. People in this area knew each other. They knew details about each other’s personal lives, their secrets. Rachel had only been there since Wednesday, but Shipley had said the whole town already knew about her and Braddock.
Shipley had also said that she knew Coughlan. Had known him for years and could never believe that he would be involved in making or selling drugs. “I’d sooner believe the sheriff was a crack dealer,” she had said. It just didn’t make sense.
* * *
A half hour later, Rachel arrived at the office. She went inside looking for Braddock but couldn’t find him. In the bullpen, Pratt was at her desk, staring blankly at a report. When Rachel approached, she looked up with puffy red eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Tina,” Rachel said in a soft voice. “Do you know if Danny’s still at the courthouse?”
Pratt shook her head. “He and Sheriff Pritchard went to go meet up with those SBI agents. They’re going back to all the crime scenes to look at”—she shrugged—“whatever it is they want to look at.”
“I see. Thanks.” Rachel stepped away, took out her phone, and called Braddock. It only rang twice before it went to voice mail, which told her that he had pressed ignore to dismiss her call. She felt a pang of rejection.
“He mentioned you might be coming by to write a report about your involvement in the case,” Pratt said and tipped her head toward the conference room. “The files are in there on the table, if you want to get started.”
“Oh . . . Yeah,” she said, trying to hide her embarrassment. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I needed. Thanks again.”
She went in and sat down at the table, opened her briefcase, and took out her laptop. As it powered up, she found herself fixating on the fact that Braddock had not asked her to join them. He hadn’t even called to tell her what he was doing. It was one thing if Sanford, or even Pritchard, had wanted to exclude her, but to be sidelined by Braddock was something else entirely. She
hated feeling the sting that came with that thought.
When she couldn’t force it out of her mind, the sadness turned to anger. She opened the files, took out her Steno pad, and started reviewing her notes. It would take her a few hours to finish her report, and she would stay for a few more in case there were any questions about it. Then she would say good-bye and treat herself to a nice dinner, maybe a few drinks, and a good night’s sleep. In the morning, she would get up and get on the road. It was time to go home.
42
Bishop peeked around the tree and saw the man step out of the back door of the American Shooters Gun Shop and Range.
After nine years in the Marine Corps, a back injury had left the man with a medical discharge, a slight limp, and little else to do but sell guns to civilians. Most of the customers had taken to calling him Gunny, which he seemed to like, even though he had never earned the rank of gunnery sergeant. His wife addressed him as staff sergeant when she was feeling playful, and he seemed to like that too.
Staff Sergeant Mark Newfield. Target number three.
It was a clear afternoon, and the sun was shining directly in Newfield’s face as he crossed the back lot—just as Bishop had planned it. Newfield was on his lunch break, heading to the shady spot where he always parked his car. When he stepped out of the direct sunlight, Bishop took his chance before Newfield’s eyes had time to adjust. “Hey there, Gunny,” he said.
“Hey,” Newfield said, digging in his pocket for his keys and straining to see the person who had called his name.
Bishop raised the .45 and fired. Newfield grunted and coughed and staggered. He fell against his car door and struggled to draw a breath. And Bishop fired again. And again. And Newfield dropped face first to the pavement.
Bishop laid the gun at the base of the broad oak tree he had chosen to hide him from the security camera near the back door and started jogging. The best thing about using a stolen gun was that it could be left at the scene. There was nothing at all tying it to Bishop. It was a shame to leave the sound suppressor, though. Bishop had made it himself, and it had performed quite well. The shots were still pretty loud for anyone standing nearby, but they sounded more like small firecrackers than .45-caliber rounds. The customers and the other clerks in the gun store, buffered by layers of sound-dampening insulation meant to keep the noise from the range to a minimum, probably hadn’t heard a thing.
Bishop made it through the grove in a few seconds, emerging at the eastern edge of the Haywood Mall’s expansive parking lot. He slowed to a walk as he hit the asphalt. Kept his stride even and controlled his breathing as he removed his gloves and stuffed them into his pockets. He slowed a bit more as he pretended to check his phone. Anyone who happened to see him wouldn’t say that he looked like he was in a hurry. When he got to the Juke, he slid in, started it, and drove away as if he had just finished a day of shopping. He even had a new shirt in a Dillard’s bag sitting in the passenger seat, just in case.
Three down, Bishop thought as he turned out of the lot and headed north.
There was no reason he couldn’t finish in the next couple of days. Months of planning, preparing, and studying his targets were paying off. The hiccup with Gifford had required a little course correction, but he was back on track. He smiled as he crossed the border into North Carolina.
One to go.
43
Braddock came into the conference room as Rachel was putting the finishing touches on her report. He stood just inside the doorway, waiting for her to look up. She kept her eyes on the screen and pretended not to notice him. After a minute, he said, “Hey, I just wanted to let you know I’m back if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He approached the table. “We’re trying to plan a memorial service for Shane and Melissa. It’ll probably be on Tuesday. You think you could hang around till then?”
“No,” she said flatly. An instant later, she regretted it, glanced up, and said, “I was planning to go home tomorrow, but I can come back, if you think it’s a good idea.”
“It’s up to you.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, wanted for something more to say. “Ted and I just took Sanford and Jensen back through all the crime scenes. Felt like a waste of time, really.”
“Is that why you didn’t want me to go along?”
He didn’t answer, let her work for another minute, then said, “Apparently, the shell casings they found last night look like they might have come from an AR-15.”
“Hmm. I bet Kevin owns one of those.”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, he does.”
“Sounds like case closed.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, but she kept her attention focused on her computer.
“I guess you want to be left alone,” he said.
He stood and started to leave, stopped at the door, then closed it and said, “How did you expect me to handle this, Rachel?”
She looked at him. “Handle what?”
“Us. What did you expect me to do?”
“Are you sure you want to get into this right now?”
“Might as well.”
He was getting angry. She closed her laptop and stared at the table, afraid of what she might say if she were forced to answer.
“Did you want me to fall for you and then just sit here and wave good-bye as you leave to go back home? Or did you want to try to have some kind of long-distance relationship? ’Cause that’s not gonna work unless you’re willing to move here at some point in the near future. I’m sure as hell not going back to Raleigh.”
“I don’t know what I wanted,” she said. “I know I didn’t want it to end like it did this morning. But I’m a big girl. I can live with that. What really bothers me is that I feel like I’m being shunned, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because you blame me for Shane and Melissa.”
He sat down again, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Of course I don’t blame you. We all wanted to move on Gifford. We made that decision together.”
“And we were right,” she said, indignation creeping into her voice.
“Rachel—”
“We were right, Danny.”
“Stop saying that.” He glared at her. “Two of my people are dead. We ignored what Jerry Hood told us, and it got them killed.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Sanford and Jensen think—”
“I know what Sanford and Jensen think!” she yelled. “They’re wrong.”
He stood up, said, “Good-bye, Rachel,” and walked out the door.
* * *
Rachel finished her report and e-mailed it to Braddock and Pritchard. Then she stormed out of the building, got in the Camry, and sped out of the parking lot. She considered packing up and going home right then, but she had promised to stay around until morning. There was always the chance that Pritchard or Braddock might need her to come in and discuss her report. She had given them until 10:00 AM, then she would be gone.
As she pulled up to Shipley’s, she saw a white DCPD Explorer sitting in the driveway. She parked next to it and went inside. In the salon off to the left of the entry hall, Chief Miller was sitting in one of the armchairs that flanked the fireplace. Shipley came out of the kitchen with a smile, clasped her hands together, and said, “Well hello there, Miss Rachel. How has your day been?”
Rachel replied with a weary smile. “Could’ve been better.”
Shipley’s face formed an exaggerated frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She stepped close, glanced into the salon, and whispered, “Have you met Chief Miller?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but he insisted on waiting for you. He’s been sitting in there for almost forty minutes now. Said it was real important that he talk to you.”
“Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Shipley.”
Miller stood up as Rachel walked in to greet him. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Carver.”
; “What can I do for you, Chief?”
“I just wanted to have a quick chat with you before you left town.” He sat back down and beckoned her to take the other armchair. When she was seated, he asked, “Have you ever lived in a small town like this before?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I moved here from Atlanta about eighteen years ago,” he said. “I love it. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Everyone gets along”—he rocked his head from side to side—“for the most part, anyway. Coming from a big city, that was a nice change. And it was safe. At least until a few days ago. I’m sure you can imagine how much of a shock this whole episode has been for this community.”
Rachel nodded solemnly.
“Did you know that the Gifford boys and I are somewhat related?”
She tilted her head with curiosity. “No, I didn’t. How so?”
“My wife’s cousin is married to their uncle.”
“I see. Did you know Dylan very well?”
“Not really. But I tried to keep tabs on the boy. Did my best to make sure he was staying out of trouble. Now I hear he and Kevin might have been mixed up with a bunch of drug dealers out of Asheville.”
“That’s one theory,” she said.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She shrugged. “It’s in the SBI’s hands now. Doesn’t really matter what I think.”
“Well, I don’t buy it.” He studied her for a long moment, then said, “I take it you’ve met Lawton Jones?”
“I have.”
“Would it surprise you to know that he happens to share the SBI’s opinion about this case? That the Gifford boys have somehow partnered up with a big-time biker gang to expand their little meth-making operation?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” she said, recalling the night she met Jones.
Miller leaned forward in his chair, hesitated for a second, then said, “I’m going to be straight with you, Miss Carver. I think Lawton went to Justin Sanford and sold him on the idea. And I think Sanford is going along with it so Lawton doesn’t kill him in the media. They’re playing politics with this case. And did you know that Sanford helped spearhead the SBI’s antidrug initiative in this area? How good do you think it’ll make him look if he can figure out a way to pin these murders on a meth ring?”
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