by Jen Blood
“Hey,” he said, rapping on the girl’s window. “We need to talk to you.”
Panic flashed in her eyes. Understandable, since Diggs looked like your garden variety thug after his beat-down at the hands of Big Jimmy Barnel.
“It’s all right,” I said. I glared at Diggs. “You’re not in trouble—we just have a couple questions about Danny.”
“This is his truck,” Diggs said to me. Which explained the psychotic turn he’d taken.
The truck was still running, the window up. I thought for a second the girl might make a run for it. Instead, she nodded.
“He’s in trouble, ain’t he? Somethin’ happened?”
“Just get out of the truck, please,” Juarez said in his best FBI voice. “We can talk inside.”
She turned off the truck and got out. It was only as she was opening the door that I noticed the inverted cross carved into the paint.
“Y’all wait out here,” Casey agreed after a little more back and forth in the front yard. “I’ll open up the garage, and we can talk there. But I can’t stay long—I got work, so whatever you’ve gotta ask me, you best make it quick. I can’t lose this job.”
She was cute—auburn hair, striking eyes. She was too skinny to be considered a babe by any self-respecting teenage boy’s standards, but I expected she’d outgrow that before long. When she did, Casey Clinton would be a knockout.
For now, though, life didn’t look like it was treating her that well. Once we were closer, I noticed a bruise on her right cheek that she’d done her best to hide with concealer. She walked carefully, too, like any unnecessary movement meant serious pain. I exchanged a look with Diggs, and could tell he’d noticed the same thing. I couldn’t get a read on whether Juarez had picked up on it.
The ankle biters I’d seen in the window had emerged from the house while we were talking. The older of the two was maybe eight, the younger no more than four. Casey quickly herded them back inside.
Five minutes later, the garage door rose. Casey reappeared behind it and waved us in. Diggs whistled softly at the set up: a full drum set, a few guitars on stands, a couple of horns in their cases, a synthesizer, and a computer.
“Wow,” Diggs said. “Nice.”
“We all pooled our money for the building,” Casey said. “I knew somebody who was sellin’ it cheap. And we always put money aside for equipment when we get gigs.”
“You play out, then?” Diggs asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Not much around here—we’re not really Justice style, you know? But we been getting a few paying gigs a month around Louisville and Lexington. Danny just got us one down in Nashville, and Rick got us a gig over to the college where he works.”
Now that Diggs had put her a little more at ease, he nodded back toward the driveway. “That truck out there…”
“Is Danny’s,” she finished for him. “He left it here last night. I thought he just went off with some girl, and he’d be back for the truck when they was done. But he left it in my daddy’s spot—that ain’t like him. He knows I catch hell when anybody does that.”
Bruises explained, then.
“Did you have a girl in mind when you figured he’d gone off with someone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Could’a been anybody, knowin’ Danny. He’s not real particular, you know? But…”
“But...?” Juarez prompted.
She looked at Diggs again. “You’re Diggs, huh? He’s got a picture of you—but you’re a little younger in it. Not quite so beat up.”
“It hasn’t been a great couple of days,” Diggs said. Juarez looked frustrated at the apparent aimlessness of the interview, but he held off and let Diggs take lead. “You were about to say something before. About the girl Danny might have gone off with, maybe?”
She hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip.
“If you saw something…” I prompted.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” she said quickly. “I was at work.”
“But your brother or sister saw something,” Juarez guessed.
Casey frowned. “I can’t have you upsettin’ them—Willa’s scared of men, and Dougie’s got no love for suits. I can’t make ‘em talk if they don’t want to.”
“We just need a few minutes,” Diggs said. “Please. This could literally be life or death for Danny. Just let Erin here go in and talk to them.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Me? Why me?”
“You’re not a man, and you’re not in a suit,” he said. “And kids love you.”
“No,” I corrected him. “Kids love you. Dogs love me. Kids spit up on me. Or they cry. Usually, they do both.”
Casey actually smiled for the first time since we’d arrived. “I can’t guarantee they won’t cry, but they’re pretty much past the spittin’ up phase.”
The Clinton trailer was spotless—a hell of a lot cleaner than my place, that was for sure. The kids were parked on the couch watching TV when we came inside. Casey looked at me with a defiant edge to her eyes.
“I know it ain’t much,” she said. “But we get by all right.”
“Clearly,” I said. “You obviously take good care of them.”
“We do okay.” She turned to the kids. “Dougie, turn off the idiot box and get in here. I got somebody wants to talk to you.”
A minute later, two pairs of eyes peered in from the other room. Casey waved them in. I sat at the kitchen table. A box of generic Cheerios was out, alongside two dirty bowls and an empty carton of juice. Casey put everything away while the kids sat down.
“This is Erin. She’s just got a couple questions. I want y’all to tell her whatever you can.”
“You from the State again?” the boy asked me with a frown. “’Cause we’re doing just fine.”
“She’s not from the State,” Casey cut in quickly. “She’s here about Danny.”
“I was wondering if you noticed anything strange last night?” I asked, diving in.
The kids stared at me. The youngest, Willa—a little tow-headed girl with thickly lashed blue eyes—plunged her thumb in her mouth and blinked at me, swinging her feet under the table. Super. I was questioning Cindy Lou Who.
“We’re afraid Danny might be in some trouble,” I continued, undeterred. “If you remember hearing anything, or seeing anyone, it could help him a lot.”
They looked at Casey. She nodded. “Go on—y’all won’t get in trouble. Just say what you saw.”
“Danny was in the garage,” Dougie said after another second’s hesitation. “I went out and he showed me a couple chords—I know I was s’posed to be in bed,” he added, looking at Casey. “I couldn’t sleep a lick, though.”
Casey didn’t look pleased, but she waved him on.
“Me and Danny got to talking,” he continued, “but then we heard somebody comin’. I figured it was either you or daddy, but either way it didn’t mean nothin’ good. So Danny told me to get in the cubby—where we keep the drums?” Casey nodded her understanding. “We figured if it was you, Danny’d just smooth it over before you knew I was there. And if it was daddy…”
“You’d just hide ‘til he got in and passed out,” Casey guessed.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “But it weren’t neither of you. It was some girl.”
“Did you recognize her?” I asked.
“I didn’t get a look at her,” he said slowly, like I was a moron. “I was hiding, remember?”
“Did you recognize her voice?” Casey asked.
“Nah, but it was low—like she was being all slinky like they do on TV. She got Danny to go on outside with her. I figured he’d only be gone a minute… but I heard him start up the truck, and he never come back. I went on back to bed, and I didn’t wake up again ‘til you got home and daddy took—”
Casey stopped him with a killing glare. It was all right: I got the picture.
“Can we back up for a minute? You said you heard him take the truck… but it was in your father’s spot when he got back from
work,” I said to Casey.
She nodded. “He must’ve brought it back after wherever it was he went. After that’s anybody’s guess. All I know is, I got back at one o’clock, Danny’s truck was in the driveway, Danny was nowhere in sight, and my daddy was fit to be tied.”
I turned my attention back to the little boy. “And you say you heard a girl with a low voice talk to Danny, and he took off with her. Is that it? Did Danny say anything to you?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “He said he was pretty sure somebody was following him.”
“You couldn’t have started with that?” Casey demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just remembered,” he said defensively. “He said he just got a feeling. And somebody carved up on his truck.”
“The cross,” I said with a nod. “Do you have any idea who might have done something like that?” I asked Casey.
She shook her head, but I noticed she avoided my eye this time. “Danny’s the kind of guy everybody likes, you know? Especially the girls—but even the guys don’t mind him so much. “
I’d gotten good information from her, but there was still something she was holding back. I pulled a business card from my bag. “Well, if any of you think of anything else, just give me a call, okay?”
At the door, just before we rejoined the guys, I stopped and looked around the house.
“Is it just you and your dad and the kids?” I asked.
“My mama died in a car wreck a couple years back. But we do okay.”
“I’m sure you do. But if you need anything while I’m in town… I mean, you know. To talk or…” I trailed off, not even sure what I was offering. However awkward I may have felt about it, Casey nodded with an unexpectedly shy smile.
“I’ll do that. And could you call when you find out about Danny? He’s a pain in the butt sometimes, but he plays a mean guitar.” A flicker of vulnerability touched her pretty eyes. “It’d be hard to replace him, you know?”
I agreed to keep her in the loop, and we parted ways.
<><><>
When we got to the police station, Agent Blaze had already commandeered a tiny conference room in the back of the building to serve as headquarters. In addition to Diggs and me, there were only the four agents—including Juarez—plus Sheriff Jennings, Deputy Buddy, and a couple of other local cops, everyone gathered around a cheap-looking conference table with a pitcher of water and paper cups in the center. Somehow, Blaze still managed to lend a sort of dramatic, official flair to the whole scene. She pulled Juarez aside as soon as we were there so they could debrief each other, and I think I did a damned good job of ignoring the way her hand lingered on his arm when she led him outside. Or the fact that she was friggin’ gorgeous.
Stupid super agents.
Diggs and I took our seats, and before long Agent Allie took her rightful place at the head of the table. Behind her, there was one of those nifty new computers with the giant screen where you can just slide things around and make them bigger with the touch of a finger. Much cooler than writing on the wall, which is what Diggs and I always did in our meetings. Blaze cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her.
“Our primary focus continues to be locating Reverend Jesup Barnel,” she began. She touched a photo in the corner of the screen, dragging it to the center and enlarging it: Reverend Barnel, in all his glory. “Our last confirmed sighting of Barnel was last night at approximately twenty-three hundred, when he fled the scene after his son, James Barnel, was killed.”
“You make it sound like he was runnin’,” Jennings interrupted. “The man was bleeding, and just watched his boy get gunned down. I asked him what I needed to ask, and then I sent him on home.”
“Another example of fine police work from the Justice brain trust,” Diggs murmured to me.
Diggs doesn’t murmur nearly as quietly as he thinks he does.
Jennings’ eyes flashed, but Blaze shut him down with a look and plowed on.
“Marx, Jameson,” she said to the other two Feebs, “you’ll go with Sheriff Jennings to the Barnel compound. Initial reports have indicated the entire camp has cleared out. We’ll need confirmation, and I’d like you to do a sweep search for any information on Barnel’s plans.”
Marx and Jameson, a nondescript, fair-haired pair wearing standard-issue FBI suits, nodded.
“Has anyone spoken with Jenny Burkett?” Diggs asked. Agent Blaze looked at him blankly. “The wife of the other victim—Roger Burkett. Burkett was alone at his place when we found him, just him and his dog. The wife and the goats were nowhere to be found. She’s the last person to see both Wyatt Durham and her husband alive, as far as we know. There’s no sign of her?”
“She dropped the goats off to Evie Raddick’s place day after Wyatt died,” Sheriff Jennings volunteered. “Then she said she was leaving town.”
“And you didn’t think to stop her?” Diggs asked. “She plays a key role in two homicides.”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” Jennings said. “Jenny Burkett didn’t have anything to do with this. I told her to get out of here while the gettin’ was good.”
“Brilliant move,” Diggs said.
“We all know who done this,” Jennings said. “Danny Durham—”
“Sheriff Jennings, if you don’t mind,” Blaze said coolly. “I’ll handle this. We are currently looking for Jenny Burkett, but so far we haven’t been able to track her down,” she said to Diggs. “Trust me, we recognize the importance of questioning her.”
“Thank you,” Diggs said.
“And now, if I may continue,” the agent said. She brought up a second picture. I sat up in my seat, feeling Diggs tense beside me.
“We’ve received information indicating that this boy is now a person of interest in the Barnel shooting,” she began.
“He didn’t have anything to do with it,” Diggs said.
“The hell he didn’t,” Jennings said. He stood. “A crime was committed last night—two good men were shot in cold blood, and y’all have been treating it like the reverend’s the criminal here. It ain’t right.”
“Sit down, Sheriff Jennings,” Blaze said.
“Yeah, Harvey. Sit down,” Diggs said, cold as ice.
“You keep your mouth shut, boy,” Jennings said. The table separated them, but he looked ready to leap across it, body coiled tight. I eyed the gun in his holster uneasily. “I got fifty people who’ll swear they saw Danny Durham’s truck tearing away from the tent meetin’ last night right after those shots were fired. You know as well as I do the kid’s got a temper. Everybody at his daddy’s funeral heard him threaten the reverend.”
“Because the son of a bitch was preaching the end times while he was trying to bury his father, you idiot!” Diggs said, on his feet now.
“Enough!” Blaze shouted, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Sit the hell down, or I’ll toss both of you in a cell and you can sort it out on your own.”
They faced off for a second more before both men sat. Blaze took a moment, her eyes on both of them, before she continued.
“As I was saying… Danny Durham is currently wanted for questioning in the matter of the Barnel shooting. He was last seen at approximately twenty-two hundred hours, here.” She pulled up a map of Justice, with a red X over Casey Clinton’s house. Another red X marked Miller’s Field, where Barnel’s tent meeting had taken place. “A truck matching Danny’s make and model was seen leaving the Barnel shooting at twenty-three hundred hours. We recovered that truck this morning, and it’s currently being analyzed for evidence. An inverted cross like the one on the previous murder victims—Marty Reynolds, Wyatt Durham, and now Roger Burkett—was found carved on that truck.”
She doled out assignments and dismissed everyone but Diggs, Juarez, and me. Once we were alone, she shut down the computer, sat down, and looked at us.
“Ms. Solomon, I’d like you to ride with Agent Juarez today. We have some members of Barnel’s church that I want
to interview, and it may help to have your perspective on the responses.” In other words, I was being benched. “And Mr. Diggins.” She looked at Diggs with an arched eyebrow. His jaw hardened. Diggs really hates being called Mr. Diggins. “You’ll come with me. I’d like to go back to the Durham house and speak with Danny’s mother, see if there’s anything more we can get there.”
Diggs frowned. “She’s already been questioned—Juarez just talked to her. Trust me, no one there knows anything else.”
“They may not realize they have information,” Blaze said evenly. “This is now a key part of our investigation, whether you like it or not. Since you have a relationship with the family, Mrs. Durham may be more likely to open up to you, which is the only reason I’d like you along with me.”
“Right,” Diggs said shortly. “You’re the boss.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Once that was resolved, we went to our separate corners: Diggs with Agent Blaze, while I followed on Juarez’s heels. There was no mistaking Diggs’ annoyance when he left the station.
I didn’t blame him; I wasn’t all that crazy about being relegated to the sidelines myself.
Chapter Thirteen
DIGGS
Special Agent in Charge Blaze had big, wet brown eyes and that delicately browned skin that always brings to mind hot nights in the tropics. Her dark hair was tied back, but I could tell it would be wild when it was loose—thick and curly and impossible to tame. The kind of hair that drives me nuts in the right situation. This definitely was not that situation.
We were on the road fifteen minutes before Blaze spoke. “Brooding won’t help, you know.”