by Claire Booth
THIRTY-THREE
Sheila was seeing the same people. If this day was hard on her, she couldn’t imagine how bad it was for the families who’d known more than one of the accident victims. She settled into the back row of the Lutheran church and bowed her head slightly as Alex Danzig’s father and stepmother walked toward their reserved seats in the front. More people filed in, half of them high-schoolers in marching band uniforms. She patted at her hair and studied the stained glass, pretending not to notice the sideways glances she was getting from the teens. Four o’clock came and went. There was some shuffling, and the pastor walked over and held a whispered conversation with Mr Danzig. He nodded and was heading toward the pulpit when a gentleman sitting in the back row on the opposite side of the aisle leapt to his feet. He met a woman just as she crossed the threshold. She wore a T-shirt dress and what looked like new Walmart pumps. Her eyes were red. She swiped a hand under her nose and glared at the man, who smiled at her and wouldn’t budge from right in front of her until she took his arm. He led her up and over to a seat in the front as far away from the Danzigs as possible.
Must be Alex’s mother. Sheila snuck a glance at the other side of the church. Ginny Danzig looked furious, but her poor husband just looked broken. And too beyond grief to be bothered by the behavior of his ex-wife.
Done with the spectacle of Jennifer Danzig wobbling down the aisle in her new shoes, everyone turned to the pastor. He did a good job, talking about Alex’s talent for playing the tuba and his wonderful leadership as a drum major. He spoke about Mike Danzig and his son working to restore their beloved Camaro, which would’ve been a lovely story if Jennifer hadn’t blown her nose with the honk of a migrating goose right in the middle of it. Everyone in the audience cringed – except Ginny Danzig, who just went from angry to apoplectic.
The poor woman softened a little when the band’s other drum major got up to speak, hugging her as she walked to the front. The teen was a cute little thing in her crisp military-ish uniform. She told a few funny stories, including one about Alex’s good-naturedness when teased about his completely generic good looks, and one about his tuba and an amorous dog. That one had everyone – everyone – in stitches. Bless her for that.
Afterward, everyone trooped over to the church gym for coffee and cookies. Sheila noticed that Jennifer’s minder was still glued to her side. They stood in a corner for a few minutes, but by the time Sheila had given her condolences to the two people who’d actually parented Alex, Jennifer had disappeared. Sheila walked over to the man and introduced herself.
‘You’re, ah, a friend of Ms Danzig’s?’ she asked, knowing full well he wasn’t.
‘Oh, God no,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of Mike and Ginny’s. Virginia, I mean. She asked me to stick on the ex during the whole thing to make sure the woman didn’t do something stupid.’ He paused. ‘I couldn’t stop the nose blow, though.’
‘Yeah, that was something else,’ Sheila said.
‘Did you know Alex?’ he said, which was much better than ‘Why exactly are you here, deputy lady?’ which was what he meant.
Sheila explained that the sheriff’s department, including her specifically, had responded to the car accident. And they felt it important that the department pay its respects and let the families know that the whole community cared.
The guy, who hadn’t introduced himself, took a swig of his Hi-C punch. ‘That’s real nice, I got to say. Your boss is a good guy to make you come out and do it. Wish he would’ve sent … well … still real nice.’
He nodded at her and moved off. She thought it was about time she did the same. Any welcome she’d felt here was gone.
Another judge would be available sooner, but Sedstone had been the one to authorize all of the warrants in the case so far. So Hank eased through the door of his in-session courtroom and took a seat in the back row. He wanted to be on his way to the accident site. He needed to see the memorial. But they had to get going on the DNA testing for Euford. He adjusted the file on his lap just as his phone vibrated. He carefully pulled it out of his back pocket and held it in the folder like he was reading the paperwork inside. If Sedstone was like any of the other judges he’d known, he wouldn’t like cell phone use in his courtroom, whether you were law enforcement or not.
The jail phone number came up on his screen. Whatever they wanted would have to wait. Sedstone’s clerk shot him a look. Busted. He put the folder back down on his lap and studied the skinny, sullen defendant. It was a pre-trial hearing on an ordinary theft case out of Hollister. The attorneys finally agreed on a trial date. He wished his problems were as simple as a scheduling conflict, he thought as Sedstone adjourned and he followed the judge back to his chambers.
‘Well, my boy, what fresh craziness do you have for me today regarding this case?’ he said as he shrugged out of his robe and gestured for Hank to have a seat.
Hank explained the DNA and Euford-slash-Evelyn’s refusal. Sedstone smoothed a hand over what looked like a very expensive tie and tilted back in his chair. Then he stared at the ceiling, which was more than a little worrying. The judge had never struck Hank as the particularly contemplative sort.
‘That’s a big thing, to force a man to turn over the very building blocks of himself.’
Uh oh.
‘Why do you need to know whether this O’Connell is related to Gunner?’
Hank gripped his folder and sat up straighter, feeling like a put-on-the-spot student. He cleared his throat and explained that a DNA test would help to clarify motive in the homicide case. The results could also help with identifying O’Connell, because they still had no idea who he really was.
Sedstone pursed his lips. ‘Nothing’s stopping you from getting O’Connell’s DNA. He’s technically a John Doe – you don’t need a warrant for that. But I can’t – right now – see that you need Mr Gunner’s. Now, I’m not shutting the door on you completely. If you come up with new evidence, bring it back to me and we’ll talk about it.’
The phone on his desk buzzed. He rose to his feet. ‘That’s my ex parte hearing. I need to take it here in chambers.’
Hank quickly stood and took back the paperwork that Sedstone handed across the desk. They shook hands and Hank left through the now empty courtroom. His head spun as he took the stairs down to the first floor of the courthouse. To his knowledge, the judge had never denied a warrant before. For anything. He barely managed to nod at the deputy working the security screening at the entrance as he walked out. There were other ways to get the short distance to his office, but he needed the fresh air.
Sheila really didn’t want to see anybody. She wanted to make it to her office without getting stopped in the halls, finish the little bit of work she needed to do, and go the hell home. So she came into the building the back way, which turned out to be the wrong decision. Because now she was looking at Gerald Tucker, that bastard smokestack who fought Hank for the sheriff position, as he leaned against a concrete planter and puffed on a cigarette.
He smirked at her. ‘You got a problem, Mrs Chief Deputy.’
She paused with her hand on the door handle.
‘And what’s that?’
He shrugged. ‘Some booking thing. They all got their panties in a wad about it in there.’
‘You work in the jail,’ she said. ‘Why aren’t you in there?’
It was a rhetorical question, really, because she knew exactly why. Because he was a horrible cop who frequently abandoned his post, including the night that the Branson Beauty showboat ran aground. He’d been assigned to guard the damaged craft. Instead the whole thing ended up exploding. He said he’d left before it happened. Hank was positive he was the one who blew it up, although her boss still hadn’t been able to prove it.
She glared at the paunchy white man in front of her. His nose was more run through with capillaries and his eyes more bloodshot than she remembered. She hadn’t really seen him since the election several months ago. When Hank beat his ass at the polls, th
ank God. If Tucker had won and become sheriff, she’d be the one stuck in jail purgatory.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘Not my job. I’m off. As of five minutes ago.’ He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Better go run and solve it, Mrs Chief Deputy. Quick now. Go on.’
She forced her face to stay blank and pulled open the door. The black tie that made up her dress uniform felt like it was throttling her. And she had to put it on again tomorrow for the next two funerals. She loosened it just a fraction and trudged her way back to the jail.
She didn’t make it that far. Two deputies and a plainclothes with a BPD badge on his shirt pocket came storming down the hallway.
‘They lost my prisoner.’ The BPD guy jabbed at Deputy March, a rookie who had just gotten off the standard probationary period. She was almost in tears and flattened herself against the hallway wall as he jabbed again.
The other deputy stepped in between them.
‘Dude. Not cool,’ Derek Orvan told BPD. ‘Just chill for a sec.’
‘You’re assigned to patrol,’ Sheila said to him. ‘What’re you doing working the jail?’
‘I took Allen’s shift. I need the overtime.’
Sheila gritted her teeth. Orvan’s overtime meant a no-longer-balanced department budget. But the long-time deputy’s laid-back demeanor was an asset in this situation. BPD was no longer up on his toes and ready to swing at somebody. She herded all of them into her office and shut the door. She lined them up and gave them all the stink eye. Then she pointed at the rookie. She had to let the kid go first if she was ever going to have any semblance of authority. Plus, March was the only one present who was actually supposed to be at the jail today.
March took a deep breath. ‘This officer—’
‘Detective,’ he snapped.
Sheila’s point took aim at him. ‘Quiet.’ She gestured for March to continue.
‘There’s an inmate that was released yesterday. I have the paperwork.’ The last sentence came out in a rush, half defiant and half terrified. ‘It was cleared. She posted bail.’
‘She was on a no-bail hold,’ BPD growled.
Sheila turned to the detective. She was all for good relations between agencies, but one did not come into her department and start yelling without there being a consequence. She was damn well going to listen to her staff first.
‘And your name is …?’
He took a very small step back. ‘Kent Bianchi. Ma’am.’
Her eyebrow raised of its own accord.
‘Yes. Ma’am. I am here … was here … to interview Amy Mason. Who is a suspect in a case that I’m working. She was supposed to be held without bail.’
‘If bail went through mistakenly, you’ve got a problem with the court, not with my jail. We get paperwork, we process it.’
His next step back was much larger. Sheila waited. She was pretty sure her expression was calm. Inside, she wanted to curl up in bed and not come out for a week. Or punch something. Ideally both.
Bianchi nodded and turned to leave. She didn’t think so. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him her mother’s patented schoolmarm glower. He froze and then turned toward Orvan and March.
‘Sorry for the misunderstanding.’
Men. You’d think an apology would kill them. This guy was in a lot more danger from her than from a few lousy words. She dismissed her deputies with a nod and refocused on him.
‘Either you tell me what your problem is, or I ask your supervisor.’
He paled. ‘Uh, my supervisor is really busy with a case right now. He … you … shouldn’t …’
‘I know who your supervisor is.’ An image of Dale Raker rubbing syrup off his tie flashed through her mind. ‘And I’m working with him on that case.’
Pale turned to sheet-white.
‘When did you get promoted to detective?’ she asked.
‘Six months ago. I’ve been working auto thefts. Until the homicide this weekend. Raker handed off the rest of his caseload. I got the prostitution case. And an embezzlement. But the prostitution’s why I’m here.’
She sighed and sank into her desk chair. Bianchi, a pink-faced stocky white guy who was probably younger than she’d first thought, stood there looking uncomfortable. He desperately wanted to solve whatever this was and show Raker that he was cut out for the big leagues. She told him to sit and gave him an abbreviated version of her catch-more-bees-with-honey lecture. He deserved the whole thing, but she was too worn out.
Then she took down the particulars of the lucky lady who was now no longer a guest of Branson County.
‘Are you going to put her out as wanted? Five foot five, brown hair, blue eyes, heavy Southern accent?’ Bianchi asked, then took a closer look at Sheila’s expression. ‘Because I can do it. I’m happy to do it. I don’t mean to make more work for you.’
‘Wanted for what? Properly posting bail? No. You need to go over to the courthouse, and get them to rescind that bail approval. That’s your first step. Then you can take her back into custody.’
He nodded sadly and stood. She took pity. Because Raker really would hit the ceiling.
‘But,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing to stop you from finding her and tailing her until the court comes through. You can even try to talk to her. Don’t let a setback stall what you need to do.’
He brightened and with a ‘thank you’ that was a hell of a lot more genuine than his earlier apology, scampered out of her office just as Hank walked in.
‘Who was that?’
‘Don’t ask.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘I need to ask you some questions, Sheriff.’
Hank stopped in surprise. The Daily What’s-It newspaper reporter stood in the parking lot in the rapidly falling darkness. He must have been lying in wait. That was worrying.
‘Uh, hi, Jadhur. What’s up?’
Jadhur cleared his throat and readied his notebook. Hank wanted to run away.
‘I’m working on a follow-up story about the accident out north of the Ozark Mountain Highroad and—’
‘We really don’t have anything new to say. You should check in with the Highway Patrol. They’re conducting the investigation.’
He stepped to the side, and Jadhur moved with him.
‘They’re not going to be able to comment on the traffic stop that happened before,’ he said. ‘Your office stopped the car right before the accident and then let them go with too many kids in the car?’
It was a question, but it was also a statement. Of fact. How did the kid find this stuff out? Hank concentrated on keeping his expression neutral.
‘I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, Jadhur. I’m sorry, but—’
‘Look. I’ve confirmed that there was a traffic stop, and that no ticket was written. And I’m hearing scuttlebutt that you’re the one who did it. Is that true?’
‘You should know better than to believe rumors.’
‘You’re not answering the question.’
Jadhur’s interview skills were coming along nicely. Unfortunately. Hank drew himself up to his full, authoritative height. Time to own it.
‘Yes. I was the one who conducted the traffic stop on Saturday night. At that point, I judged that the situation would be best handled by sending all of the occupants straight home. Their speed at the time I stopped them was well within what would be a judgment call for any patrol officer.’
Jadhur frowned and caught himself halfway through an eye roll, probably because of the excessive cop jargon. Hank tried again.
‘They weren’t going too far over the limit. They were all sober. They were all respectful and polite. I decided that a good lecture would have the right kind of impact on them so that they’d be more responsible in the future. Kids make mistakes. They shouldn’t be dragged off to jail for them every time.’
‘Why haven’t you come out and said this?’
Because he’d been busy ruining people’s lives with news of their kids’ deaths. An
d trying to find – please, please, please – an explanation for it. A reason that it happened, beyond his own culpability.
That must have showed up on his face, because Jadhur started to look a little sympathetic. Or maybe it was piteous. Either way, it wasn’t good.
‘My office has been busy giving MSHP any assistance they need with the crash investigation, and that’s really all I’ve got to say,’ he said.
Jadhur contemplated his notebook for a second. Hank knew he was making sure he’d asked every possible question before he let Hank walk the rest of the way to his car. He could get around the kid with a quick side lunge, but that probably wasn’t the most professional thing to do. So instead he stood there, hoping he looked patient rather than exhausted.
Jadhur finally nodded and started to put away his notebook.
‘Oh,’ he paused. ‘It’ll be in my story, but I’m guessing you might not have heard yet – the county commissioners are pretty upset about it, and one of them’s coming out pretty strongly, saying that you shouldn’t keep your job. Sent me a statement and everything. Do you want to respond?’
Hank could feel a flush start to crawl up his face. He knew exactly which commissioner that was. Porcupine Edrick Fizzel.
‘They have no authority over me anymore.’ Hank hoped he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘I was elected. They might’ve appointed me when I first got here, but I was duly elected by voters this summer. Those commissioners have no say.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Jadhur said. ‘And I’ll point that out, don’t worry.’
Jadhur trotted over to his ancient little Toyota Tercel and putt-putted out of the parking lot as Hank trudged toward his car. The county commission didn’t have any control over him, but it had a whole lot over his budget. Their grubby politician hands had a very firm grip on his department purse strings. His mistake could potentially cost the department money that his employees needed to do their jobs. He sank into the driver’s seat and rested his head on the steering wheel. He needed a minute before he drove home.