by Claire Booth
‘I had a feeling y’all might come and ask me that,’ he finally said, without turning back toward Hank. ‘And I’m going to have to say no.’
Hank barely stopped his mouth from falling open. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, giving himself time to get over his surprise.
‘And why is that?’
‘I don’t want to know. If he was my son. He was … he was what he was to me, and I don’t need to put any further label on it.’ He nodded firmly, as if the conversation were over. It wasn’t.
‘Now, Mr Gunner … I respect how you feel, but there’s more than just a personal concern involved here. We need to know for the investigation. We’re trying to figure out who killed him.’
He gave the singer his I-expect-you-to-be-a-good-citizen-and-cooperate look. Euford turned and looked him full on.
‘If he was my kid, and didn’t tell me … why? Did he decide I wasn’t worthy? Was he, like, tryin’ me out?’ Euford stared at him like he expected an answer. Hank felt his officious expression melt off his face.
‘And if he wasn’t my son and was gonna tell me that he was, then it was a con. And I don’t want to know that the last four years of my life was a lie. So either way turns out bad for me, you see, and I think I got enough bad right now. I’m gonna keep things the way they were. So I don’t want to know.’
How could someone argue with that? But he had to. He gently explained again. Euford, not gently, again declined. Hank sat back in the voluminous couch. It was time to take a break. He asked to see Patrick’s room again. That the old man readily agreed to. Hank went upstairs and searched it again, finding what he expected – nothing new. It gave them both a breather, though. Because when he returned downstairs, Hank intended to keep at it. But it wouldn’t hurt to talk about something else first.
‘Tell me again about Entertainment Enterprises,’ he said, after getting them both bottles of organic lemonade out of the fridge.
The company was financing his show. It had paid for the renovation of the Country Song Theater and was footing the bill for the house rental. He would get paid a straight salary – four grand a week, with eight weeks off a year. It was the first steady, guaranteed paycheck he’d had in fifty-two years.
That, Hank calculated, was more than one hundred and seventy-five thousand a year. Which went a long way in southern Missouri, especially when your room and board were already taken care of.
‘Who approached whom?’ Hank asked.
Euford raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet you went to college, didn’t ya?’
Hank grinned. ‘Well, I got no talent with a guitar.’
Euford barked a laugh. ‘Fair enough.’ He swigged at his lemonade. ‘Patrick and me’d been talking about it. Getting off the road all together. But I still need to make a living. After that goddamn bastard manager stole four years’ worth of earnings.’
‘That doesn’t answer who approached … did Entertainment Enterprises come to you, or did you go to them?’
‘They came to us,’ Euford said, with the hint of a smile that Hank was coming to realize meant he was thinking of Patrick. ‘He was so excited. Said it was the perfect solution. Branson. And it is – a town that draws just the kind of folk who’d want to come and see me.’
Hank’s scalp pricked. ‘And you hadn’t tried to come here, to Branson, before that? Hadn’t thought of it before that offer?’
‘Just that one appearance. I’d always thought of it as a dumping ground for performers at the end of their careers. But after the offer came in, I looked into it, and that’s not the case.’
Hank made some vague noises that he hoped sounded like agreement and asked who Euford’d met from the company.
‘Oh, everything was done through Ms Gillam. She’s right on top of things.’
Of course she was. Her perfectly manicured fingers seemed to touch everything in this case. Hank tried to press past her. But Euford had no names, no contacts, no anything from Entertainment Enterprises beyond a home and a job. Which for him was clearly enough. He had no reason to push for more information.
Hank would have to go back to Gillam. Which made the lemonade in his stomach churn. He cleared away the empty bottles, then he thanked the old singer for his time – and followed it with a warning.
‘I’m going to have to get a warrant for your DNA, sir. I understand your position, but my investigation has to take precedence.’
Euford managed a small, sad smile. ‘There you are with your college words again.’ He shook Hank’s hand and started for the door. Hank watched him carefully as he limped out of the great room. How infirm was he really? Could he have made it up a flight of stairs at an apartment complex? With a knife? Because if it had been a con, and the old man found out about it …
They buried Isaiah Barton at ten in the morning. Sheila stood off to the side of the chairs set up at the graveside. The crowd was much smaller than the one that filled the Baptist church earlier. To say goodbye. His brother Jeremiah had spoken – about their childhood, about Isaiah’s impish sense of humor, about his friendship with Gabe. About the unknowable ways of the Lord.
She hadn’t planned to continue onto the cemetery, but after the service Mrs Barton had approached and asked her to. So now she stood under a tree and watched a coffin gently descend into the ground. Edith Barton sank to her knees as it disappeared and let out a strangled wail as her husband scattered dirt in the hole. Sheila couldn’t even imagine.
The pastor said a final prayer and everyone began to slowly move toward the line of vehicles along the drive. Sheila moved quickly ahead and opened the car door for Mrs Barton, who was managing to walk only with the support of her husband and son. She stopped as she was getting into the car and held out her hand.
‘Thank you for coming, ma’am. It means so much for the sheriffs to do that. You all take such good care of us.’ She patted Sheila’s arm and got into the backseat. Sheila softly closed the door and watched them drive off, sadly glad that she was the one left standing there.
Hank would not have survived this.
THIRTY-TWO
‘How do you know about illegal activity if you can’t even tell me which apartment?’ Sam was trying to keep his voice calm.
‘Don’t you snap at me, young man. I was very clear on the phone. There is illegal activity downstairs.’ Ms Vandeed waved at the stairwell.
Sam took a deep breath. ‘Fine. How about what kind of illegal activity? That would be super helpful, ma’am.’
She wobbled out onto the walkway-balcony and peered over the edge.
‘Well, there’s lotsa comings and goings. Over that way.’ She jabbed a very short finger down toward the side of the building that housed the apartment of Brenna Cassidy – not that he remembered her specifically or anything.
He stood up straighter and hooked his thumbs onto his duty belt, glad that this time he was dressed officially. And that he was armed. Not that he’d use it, but still.
‘People coming and going,’ she repeated. ‘Making way too much noise late at night. Laughing. Loud music.’
Sam rubbed at his head, the stubble scratching reassuringly at his palm. ‘Was this for a lot of nights, or just one?’
‘Just one. Last night. And this morning, there was an empty beer bottle down in the parking lot.’
Someone had a party. Which, he had no doubt, was something completely outlawed in Ms Vandeed’s little universe. He thought about explaining how it worked in the real world, but looked at her pursed lips and decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead, he told her that he’d go downstairs and look into it. That got a curt nod.
He was about to flee when he thought of something. ‘Have you seen that black car again? The one that the … the tenant in 213 got rides in?’
She shook her head. ‘And I haven’t seen him neither. Not since last week.’
Not surprising, since he was dead.
‘I did see someone come upstairs, though. Lookin’ at 213 – the murder apartment.’ She
shuddered, looking over at the yellow crime-scene tape stretched taut across the door. ‘He stared at it a bit and then left.’
Now that was actually interesting, he thought. He asked for a description. ‘A scruffy boy with a beat-up backpack,’ she said. ‘’Bout sixteen maybe. Short brown hair. Stocky and a little stupid looking.’ Sam winced. This lady had no filter.
‘Did he look like he was a …’ Sam searched for the right word, ‘… a looky-loo? Somebody who just wanted to see a murder spot?’
Mrs Vandeed tried to put her hands on her hips, but her arms didn’t reach quite that far. She grabbed the balcony railing instead.
‘Now, that’s actually a good question, sonny. I don’t think so. There’s been a few of them, and they just come by and point and giggle.’ Her tone made plain what she thought of that, and for once, Sam had to agree with her. ‘But this boy, he looked like he was gonna cry. But he looked confused, too. Then he just turned around and left.’ She hadn’t seen which direction he’d gone. ‘Whatdaya think I’m a busybody or something? I’m not watching people all the time.’
Yeah, right. He thanked her and fled down the stairs. He found the offending beer bottle on the curb outside Brenna Cassidy’s apartment. Well, he had told Ms Bitty Jean that he’d investigate. He smoothed down his shirt and knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately. She stood there in a blue-and-gold uniform, car keys in her hand. Her hair was up in one of those twisty knot things that he loved and— he felt his cheeks flush.
‘Oh. Hi. You’re the officer from before.’
She stopped, waiting. He should probably say something.
‘Hi. Yes. That’s me. I was just, um, looking into a complaint about noise and—’
‘Are you kidding me? It was that old bat, wasn’t it?’
Sam nodded. ‘She was referring to last night?’ He held up the beer bottle.
‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I thought I’d gotten them all.’ Now she was the one turning red. She snatched it out of his hand and disappeared inside. He heard a loud clank as it probably hit the full recycling bin, and she showed up in the doorway again. ‘I sure wasn’t meaning to litter. And all I had was a couple friends from the shop over last night for a little get-together. Maybe five people. And no one else complained. Not even the manager dude. It wasn’t that loud.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Sam said, raising his hands up slightly in what he hoped was a reassuring yet authoritative manner. ‘The lady upstairs does seem to … overreact a little.’
‘Yeah. She’s always yelling at somebody around here for something. And then she’s got the nerve to ask me for free coffee.’ Brenna crossed her arms and scowled.
That was why that blue-and-gold uniform looked familiar. ‘You work at Donorae’s Coffee?’
‘Yeah. And we’re not allowed to give out free coffee.’ She raised an accusing eyebrow.
Sam’s face turned so red it might have gone off the edge into purple. He was glad he couldn’t see it, and he wished to heck that she couldn’t either.
‘That’s … that’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t asking for free coffee. Not at all. No way. I just finally recognized your uniform. I went in there the other day for the first time. It’s good coffee. Not that I’m asking for any.’ He finished the last sentence quickly and stood there lamely, wishing he could slink off and go die of shame in his car.
Brenna’s rigid posture softened. ‘Geez, I’m sorry. That old bat has me so irked I’m thinking everybody’s out to get something from me now.’ She slowly held out her hand. Sam shook it and felt the heat in his cheeks drain away. ‘I really just want to get out of here and into a house. Where I can have friends over and nobody’ll hassle me for it. And now, well, because of that, too.’ She glanced up toward the murder apartment.
Sam told her that he’d keep her updated on the investigation, and if she had any questions – or saw that black car again – she should call him. He handed her his card, and she tucked it into her purse and stepped outside, locking the door behind her. Should he walk her to her car? Before he could decide, she skipped down the short sidewalk and slid into a little red Toyota hatchback. She whipped out of the parking space, saw him watching and slowed to a crawl as she left the parking lot. That gave her time for a wave and a smile in his direction as she pulled away. Well, that’s better than nothing, he thought. He headed for his cruiser with a bounce in his step, pretending not to hear the yelling coming at him from the balcony.
The waitress seated them at a table by the window. Hank expected no less, seeing as Nina DeRosia was in uniform. Restaurants always liked to show off law enforcement to customers. He, on the other hand, was in his standard jeans and button-down shirt. Right now, that was about the only thing he liked about being the boss. Setting his own dress code. They ordered and Nina pulled out a file folder as the young woman walked away with the menus.
‘You didn’t have to meet me halfway. I would have come all the way down to Branson,’ she said.
‘That’s all right. It’s good for me to get out of the county every once in a while.’
She smiled and pulled out a sheaf of paper. ‘There’s not much to report so far. That make and model of sedan has no history of factory defects or anything like that.’
He nodded and sipped his coffee. His own far-from-definitive googling had indicated as much, but it was good to have it confirmed. He hesitated a moment and then asked about that sedan specifically, praying for a different answer than the one Speedy Neil had given him.
‘Its brakes, its engine?’ he said. ‘Did something fail to cause the crash?’
‘Oh, it’s too early to tell that,’ DeRosia said. ‘We’ve barely even gotten it off the flatbed. Plus, it’s pretty well totaled. It’ll be interesting to see what we can get out of it.’
Interesting. That wasn’t the term Hank would use. Critical. Essential. Pivotal. The answer to that question was the difference between the hole in his gut either healing closed or expanding away until the only thing left of his insides was a charred pit of ashes.
DeRosia hadn’t noticed him fall quiet. She waved the waitress over for more iced tea. She added a sprinkle of sugar and stirred as Hank stared at the bottom of his mug.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what else are you working on? I know we’ve still got all that cash you seized earlier this year in that raid on those hillbillies who were stealing plants. When’s that going to trial?’
Hank set down his coffee, glad to change the subject. The Highway Patrol certainly did still have the one-point-five million dollars that he’d taken from underneath the Taylors’ dilapidated mobile home. Turned out the lowlife brothers had been stealing a valuable herbal root from local land owners and selling it to folks who needed it to cheat their employers’ drug testing.
And it turned out that that much in small bills took up a whole lot of space, much more than the sheriff’s department had available in its evidence room. So Hank’d happily handed it off to the patrol and its bigger, better-secured facilities.
‘It’s not going to come to trial for months, at least,’ he said. ‘The prosecuting attorney and all the other lawyers are still figuring out exactly how to charge it, since the ground-up root technically wasn’t illegal, even though people were taking it to mask illegal drug use. But that’s fine. I’ve got them all in custody on other charges.’ He didn’t mention that one of those charges was the attempted murder of Deputy Ted Pimental. Who’d been shot during a raid Hank authorized and led. His gut twisted some more, and he shifted in his restaurant seat.
‘What about otherwise?’ DeRosia said, moving back to allow the server to place her salad in front of her. ‘Is Branson treating you well?’
Hank barely stopped himself from snorting. Instead, he stuffed a French fry in his mouth right after the waitress set down his plate. He’d flipped straight past the salad section and ordered a cheeseburger. As a matter of professional courtesy, though, he had foregone the onion ri
ngs he’d normally order.
He chewed the scalding potato and thought about one county commissioner’s bid to fire him, the surreptitious plotting by several deputies to undermine his authority, and the alarming spike in the local murder rate since he’d come to town.
‘Sure. It’s been good,’ he said. ‘We’re enjoying it down here.’
‘Oh. We?’
‘Yeah, the kids are loving it. They have a lot more freedom down here, and they love having such a big backyard. And the hospital—’
DeRosia’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and sighed.
‘Yeah? Uh-huh. At lunch.’
Hank could hear Jenkins’s belligerent voice on the other end of the call.
‘Soon,’ DeRosia said into the phone. ‘We are allowed meal breaks, you know.’
She rubbed the bridge of her nose as the Jerk launched into a tirade about something. Hank couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear. He admired DeRosia’s restraint. He would have hung up on the asshole by now. After several attempts, she finally managed to break in.
‘Well, you’re not out there right now, so why do you care?’ she said. ‘Is it blocking the road? No? Then don’t worry about it … I’m going to finish my lunch now.’ She moved to hang up but stopped and listened to something else Jenkins was saying. Now she actually looked as angry as she deserved to be, Hank thought. She jabbed at her cell to end the call.
‘He’s moved up our briefing.’ She tossed her napkin on the table. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘And he didn’t tell you that to start with?’ Hank asked.
‘No. Of course not. That’s his style. Save the pertinent stuff until the end. Especially when it has potential to make someone else look bad.’ She shrugged. ‘This time, I got an earful about a memorial that’s up out at the crash site. Like he couldn’t have waited to tell me that.’
Hank waved off her attempt to leave cash for her salad and watched through the window as she walked out to her Highway Patrol pickup truck. Then he pushed away his half-eaten burger and signaled for the check. He’d lost his appetite.