by Celia Aaron
I gave her a slight nod, aware of how close we were, how it would only take one more movement for us to touch.
“I have to talk to him. So you have to let me go.”
“What if he shoots you?”
“If he wanted to shoot me, he would have already done it. He’s got a high-powered rifle, but he didn’t shoot the car. Warning shot.”
“What if he’s just a shit shot?” I couldn’t let her go out there.
“This is my job, Benton. Trust me.” She straightened and cracked open her car door. “Sit tight.”
Like hell I would. I sat up, too, and scanned the woods nearby.
“Mr. Morris,” she called.
“You need to turn around and get on out of here.”
“Winston, stop being a prick,” I yelled. “We need to talk.”
A rough guffaw erupted from behind one of the trees about twenty feet away. “If it’s not the high and mighty Benton Goddamn King.”
“Mr. Morris, I’m Detective Matthews, Azalea PD.” She kept her gun down, hidden behind the door. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t think so.” He moved out from behind the tree.
I barely recognized him. He’d grown a full, shaggy beard and wore camouflage coveralls and a camo ball cap. It was as if he’d aged thirty years in the space of ten.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked toward us. Arabella holstered her gun, but kept her hand near it as she closed her car door. I joined her on the driver’s side.
Winston stepped onto the road, his muddy boots a perfect fit with the rutted surface. “I may not have gotten my law degree.” He spat a stream of dark tobacco juice, several droplets remaining on his unkempt beard. “But I know this is out of your jurisdiction, girl.”
“I’m Detective Matthews. I have a few questions for you about Randall King.”
Though she ignored the “girl” slight, I ached to give Winston a lesson on manners.
“What about that son-of-a-bitch?” His beady eyes narrowed on me. “Did poor old Daddy send you out here?”
“Mr. King was found dead at his office this morning.” Arabella didn’t waste any time.
He shifted his gaze back to Arabella. “Come again?”
“You heard me. During my investigation, I found a stack of threatening letters from you. Care to explain yourself?”
He spat again, the dark liquid perilously close to Arabella’s shoe. She didn’t back down, just pinned him with a direct stare.
“Nothing to explain. He owed me.” He turned to me. “So, I guess that means you owe me now, since he’s dead.”
Arabella snapped her fingers. “Hey, either you talk to me and tell me where you were last night, or I take you in right now on suspicion of murder.”
He glowered and ran his fingers down the leather strap of his gun. “I’m not saying shit. Not to some half-breed whore—”
I reached forward, grabbed him by the beard, and yanked him toward me. He stumbled, the rifle sliding off his shoulder and clattering to the ground as I maneuvered behind him and wrapped my arm around his neck.
“Just like old times, Winnie.” I closed the choke hold by grabbing my wrist and squeezing. “Now you’re going to learn some manners.” He tried to throw an elbow, but I had him pulled in too tight.
We’d done this a hundred times when we were kids. Porter, Winston, and I all rough-housing while our fathers drank, and our mothers shook their heads. Though I’d outgrown the wrestling phase long before Porter and Winston, I still remembered the submission moves, the easy way to beat an opponent without any unruly fists flying.
“Benton!” Arabella held a hand out. “Let him go.”
I squeezed tighter. “Where were you last night?”
“Asshole,” he sputtered and tried to grab for my hair. The stench of body odor nearly bowled me over, but I held tight.
I leaned forward until his forehead pressed to the hood of the cruiser, and then I leaned harder. “Where were you?”
“Benton, you can’t do this.” Arabella didn’t move to stop me, but her tone was icy.
“Not … jurisdiction,” Winston gasped.
“She has reasonable suspicion that you committed a crime.” I bounced his forehead on the metal with a thump. “That means she can arrest you outside of her jurisdiction.” Thump. “Leave the lawyering to me, you halfwit.” Thump.
He gurgled, a line of dark spit leaking from his mouth. “All right, all right!” He gripped my forearm. “I was at the cabin with Vera.”
“Vera Lincoln?” Arabella asked.
Even I’d heard of Vera, Azalea’s priciest prostitute.
“Yes. We have an arrangement. She was here last night. I swear. Ask her.”
I released him and backed off. He sputtered and coughed, his eyes bulging as he turned to me with his hands fisted.
“Not a chance.” Arabella placed her foot on the rifle and rested her hand on the butt of her pistol. “Everyone calm down. Take a breath.”
“You saw what he just did!” Winston pointed at me. “That’s assault! You should arrest him!”
“You’ll have to take that up with the sheriff.”
“The sheriff?” Winston wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.
“Benton is a deputy sheriff. Any disciplinary complaints need to be directed to the sheriff. Not the Azalea PD. As you pointed out—” she smiled, “—this isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“But you saw what—”
“I saw a deputy doing his job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to do mine.” She plucked the rifle from the ground and opened the driver’s side door. “I’ll leave this about a mile up the road against a tree. Come and get it once we’re gone.”
“You can’t take that. The second amendment says it’s my right to have that!”
She sat and closed the door.
“You fucking nig—” His vile word cut off on a yell as I feinted toward him as if I were going for his beard again. He stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, and landed on his ass.
“Stay down, asshole.” I retreated, but didn’t turn my back on him, and eased into the car. For the first time in my life, I wanted to do real, physical damage. Kicking him while he was down seemed like a great idea. The filth that streamed from his mouth demanded it. But we’d gotten what we came for.
Arabella put the cruiser in reverse and backed a ways down the road before doing a three-point turn.
Once Winston disappeared from the rearview, she took a deep breath. “Benton, you can’t do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s not how I run my investigations. And you can’t rise to every taunt that—”
“But he was saying—”
She held up a hand. To my faint horror, it worked. I shut up.
“I’ll tell you just like I tell my daughter. Just because someone says something you don’t like doesn’t mean that you can put your hands on them. You have to keep a level head.”
I turned to her. “Wait. You have a daughter?”
“I do.” Slowing to a stop, she grabbed Winston’s rifle, trotted to a tree near the road, and leaned it there as she promised.
A daughter. I’d been under the impression Arabella was single, especially since she didn’t wear a ring and made no mention of a husband. I ignored the disappointment that made my stomach sink. Did her husband know about Logan? He was a little too over-protective of her, too free with how he touched her.
She returned to her seat, and we braced ourselves for the bumpy ride out to the highway.
“How old is she? Your daughter?”
“Four.” She swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a bathtub. “Once we get back on the highway, I should have enough of a signal to call Logan. He can check with Vera. See if Morris was telling the truth.”
Hint taken. No more questions about her family.
“If you could drop me back at my father’s place, I’d appreciate it.” Or was it my place now? I hadn’t
thought about what happens after. After he was in the ground. After I’d become the eldest living King. The loss tugged me down, memories of my father flashing through my mind. But I couldn’t let nostalgia overcome the need to find his killer. And there was too much to do already.
Breaking the news to Charlotte would be one of the hardest things I’d ever done. She was strong, but not strong enough to withstand this without cracking, maybe even breaking. I hated when she cried, always had. And I would do anything to keep the hurt from her, but there was nothing for it. No way to make the pain disappear. My baby sister—though no longer a baby—would have to suffer right along with Porter and me.
But I wouldn’t wallow in my grief, not when my father’s killer was walking free. After speaking with Charlotte, I needed to get back to the office. I had files to go through. The thought of walking through the front door again drained the blood from my face. It would look the same, feel the same, but the entire place was irrevocably changed. It occurred to me that the body would be gone, but what about everything else? My stomach lurched as I thought about all the blood. My father’s blood. Staining the floor and seeping through the wooden slats, dropping onto the plumbing underneath in crimson dots.
“You okay?”
I swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising. “Fine.”
“Maybe you should call it quits for the day.” Concern colored her tone.
“Not until we know who did this.”
She slowed and stopped, turning to me until I met her gaze. “Logan and I will be working on this case night and day. I’m going to do everything in my power to find the person who killed your father.”
“I appreciate that, but—”
“You need to let us work. And you need to grieve. Make arrangements. Take care of your family.”
Her soft voice was almost enough to wrench away my control. Emotion tried to bubble up, but I tamped it down, pushing and pushing until it was buried inside me. I was practiced at it—hiding any weakness. My father was dead, and the most important thing to me was finding out why. I could grieve later. Alone. And in my own time.
She seemed to have sensed my thoughts, because she sighed and continued the hard slog toward the highway.
Once we hit pavement, she lifted her phone and peered at the screen. With a frown, she gassed it to the top of the next rise, then slowed. Both of our phones went off with a series of dings and notifications.
Mine were automated court notices of filings and scheduling details as well as the first few sets of condolences from the few local lawyers. A text from Porter popped up: “Charlotte’s in town. I sent her to your place so I can meet her there. Come when you can.” God. I didn’t know how I was going to look my little sister in the eye and tell her Dad was dead. The selfish part of me hoped that Porter got there before I did to break the news.
“A restraining order? Against who?” She held the phone to her ear, but I could make out a deep voice on the other end. Had to be Logan. “When?”
I strained to hear what he said, but couldn’t make it out over the hum of the engine. “I’m on my way.” She ended the call. “Looks like your father had a restraining order against an ex-con.”
“What?” I shook my head. “That can’t be right.” My father had never had any trouble. Especially not the sort that warranted a restraining order. And no way he had dealings with a convicted felon.
“Got it five years ago against a violent felon with two murder counts and numerous assaults to his name. Name is Theodore Brand.”
“Never heard of him.” And how could that be? My view of Dad was changing by the second. Secrets. So many secrets. What else didn’t I know? I gave in and ran my fingers through my hair, then yanked at the strands a few times before dropping my hands in my lap.
She flipped on her lights and siren as she burned rubber toward Azalea with a hard look of determination in her eyes. “This could be our guy.”
9
Arabella
I wolfed down what was left of my burger and dialed May Bell on speaker phone. Logan cruised down the highway to the east of town toward the last known address of Theodore Brand.
“You coming home anytime?” May Bell cut right to the heart of the matter, as usual.
“Not for a while. How’s Vivi?”
“Ask her yourself. Hang on. Here, it’s your mommy…” A clatter followed by some muffled sounds, and then, “Hi, Mommy!”
“Hey, baby!” I drained my soft drink. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Her voice still carried a touch of scratchiness. “I painted.”
“Yeah?” I poured all the enthusiasm I had left for the day into my questions. “What did you paint?”
“A rainbow and a dead bat.”
Logan shot me a bemused look.
“A dead bat?”
“Yeah.” Her tone didn’t change from the sweet, high-pitched tinkle. “When you come home?”
“Hopefully soon.”
“Soon?”
“Hopefully.”
“Okay.”
“Listen to Meemaw, okay? Be my good girl.”
“I’m good.” A sneeze rattled down the line.
“Go blow your nose. Love you, baby.”
“Love you.” The call ended after a bit of snuffling.
“She all right?” Logan flipped on the headlights in the deepening gloom.
“Yeah, still has the cold.”
“May Bell on top of everything?”
“As much as she can be.” I stuffed the burger wrapper into the white paper bag and shoved it onto the floorboard.
“What do you make of Benton?” He chewed on his straw.
I shrugged. “He’s stuffy, particular, and oddly good in a jam.”
“Really?” He stopped chewing for a moment, then restarted with extra vigor.
“I don’t think I would have gotten anything out of Morris if it weren’t for him. Not that I agree with his methods.”
“He doesn’t seem like the ‘rough stuff’ type, but I guess I’m wrong on that one.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Benton King had plenty of layers, and only the very topmost one was well-starched and straight-laced. The rest of him was a mystery.
“How do you like him for a suspect?”
“Not at all.” I picked back through the facts I’d gleaned from him and about him. He and his father were on good terms, no money issues at the firm, no personal issues outside of it. Same with his brother, Porter. But I was still going to check their alibis, all the same. “How about you?”
“I don’t like the guy.” He flipped his visor down to combat the low sun on the horizon. “He looks at you too much. And it’s out of more than just professional interest.”
My cheeks warmed, but I cut my eyes at him. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day, and you say plenty of dumb things. Trust me.” I’d felt Benton’s curiosity about me during our ride to and from Morris’s property. But that didn’t mean anything. He was reeling from his father’s death, and I was the one tasked with finding the killer. It made sense for him to want to know more about me, to know whether I was capable.
“Burn. And you’re mad because I’m right.”
I smirked. “You aren’t even right as often as a broken clo—”
My phone rang, Chief Garvey’s name across the screen. Shit, I should have called him already. “Hello, Chief.”
“Where are you two?” His gruff voice was like a bear paw to the face.
“Headed out Highway 45 toward Polktown. We have a possible suspect living on the county line.”
“You need to keep me informed, Arabella. I just went by to speak with Benton. Charlotte was there. She’s not taking the news well. Porter doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, and Benton looked about ready to blow. You need to find the perp and fast.”
“We’re following every lead we ha—”
“What about the firm? All those files of Randall’s. You need to—”
&
nbsp; “Get a warrant. Benton won’t let us touch them until I get a court order.”
“The hell you say?” he barked, making me pull the phone away from my ear.
“He’s claiming privilege on them.”
“What a load of horse shit.”
“I couldn’t agree more. For the time being, we have two suspects—Winston Morris and Theodore Brand. Winston felt disgruntled about his inheritance from his father’s half of the firm. We’ve got threatening letters as proof. But Winston claimed he was with Vera on the night Randall King was killed. Logan spoke to Vera, and his story checks out, though we’ll need to do a little more digging to make sure.”
“What about this Brand character?”
“Randall got a restraining order against Brand about five years ago. The pleadings at the courthouse aren’t clear as to why, except for the boilerplate harassment language that’s in every complaint. Judge Ingles granted it. Everything else was oral argument, and there’s no official record of what was said.”
“That’s it?”
I’d been under the impression that my investigation was moving at a swift clip. Chief Garvey’s tone disputed that impression.
“It’s a start. I still need to get in touch with Pauline about her findings, get the law firm files, and interview Randall’s closest friends.”
“But instead, you’re on a wild goose chase in the country.” His words took a bite out of me. “I’ve got Mayor Baker calling nonstop, and that prick Norcross from the DA’s office wants to know what’s going on, too. Shit.”
“Chief—”
“Talk to this Brand character, then get your ass back here and do your job.” The line went silent, and I dropped the phone in my lap.
“Tough love?” Logan shot me a smirk.
“Shut up.”
“At least he’s back to his usual self, right? Maybe Lina’s getting better.”
Ass chewings weren’t frequent, but they still didn’t feel too good. It was all part of the job, and the buck stopped with me. My investigation, my responsibility.
I retrieved the phone from my lap and dialed Pauline.
“Dr. Monroe.” Her voice was crisp and efficient, just like her.