by Tim Waggoner
Joanne sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s because you want me to pick up a sack of donuts.” Like he’d ever touch any of Debbie’s baked goods. Ronnie only ate food that he prepared himself.
“ ’Fraid not. Mrs. Coulter called a minute ago and said she had a visitor last night.”
Even before Ronnie began providing details, Joanne felt a tingling at the base of her skull, a cold fluttering in the pit of her stomach, and she knew that what had already been shaping up to be a bad day had just gotten worse.
• • •
Joanne pulled into the parking lot of the Caffeine Café at 6:56 a.m., only to discover that someone had beaten her there. She recognized the Hummer parked next to Debbie Coulter’s maroon Ford. Not that it took much effort to do so, considering the CROSS 2 vanity plates the Hummer sported. Debbie was already there, standing next to her car and speaking with Marshall Cross. Debbie looked up and waved as Joanne parked, but Marshall didn’t. He was too busy examining the Ford, scowling as if he hoped to intimidate the vandalized vehicle into revealing its secrets to him.
Joanne tried to keep her expression professionally neutral as she got out of her car, but inwardly she was seething. She wasn’t surprised to see Marshall here. The Crosses always knew what was going on in the county that bore their name. What pissed her off was that normally Marshall held back while the sheriff’s office did its job.
“Morning, Debbie … Marshall.”
Debbie turned to nod at Joanne as she approached, but Marshall continued staring at the Ford, arms crossed, brow furrowed in an unhappy scowl. Joanne didn’t make much of that, though. Marshall normally wore what she thought of as the “Cross glower.” She used to think he used the expression to intimidate people. But after her first couple years as sheriff, she realized he didn’t need to do anything special to make people uncomfortable around him. His presence alone sufficed.
Marshall was a tall broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties, though he looked ten years younger, at least. He was clean-shaven — immaculately so. Joanne had never seen so much as a hint of a whisker on him, regardless of the time of day. His hair was coal-black and untouched by gray. Most of the women in town figured he colored his hair, but Joanne wasn’t so sure. When people colored their hair, the new shade always looked a bit off to Joanne, and it never seemed to pick up the light the same way natural hair color did. Marshall’s hair caught and reflected the light just fine, thank you. He was fit, without so much as an ounce of extra weight on him, and he possessed large, thick-fingered hands that seemed more suited for a manual laborer than a member of the local gentry. Dale had once referred to them as “strangler’s hands,” but though he’d meant it as a joke, Joanne hadn’t laughed. She never would have admitted it to anyone, but she found Marshall handsome, in a cold, remote “I’d spit on you as soon as look at you” kind of way.
“Nice suit,” she said. “Is it new?”
“Good morning, Joanne.” Marshall rarely responded to her digs, and he never addressed her by her title. Crosses might show respect to those they thought had earned it, but they never showed deference. “Looks like we have a new artist in town.”
Joanne examined the Ford more closely. Ronnie had filled her in over the phone on the details of Debbie’s complaint, so she’d had a good idea what to expect. But she still felt a chill at seeing the same design that had been carved in the dead boy’s belly spray-painted dozens of times on Debbie’s car. She didn’t need any special Feelings to know this couldn’t be coincidence.
“Did either of you touch anything?” Joanne asked.
“When I got here this morning, I went inside to see if anything had been stolen,” Debbie said. “I didn’t touch too much, and I haven’t gone any nearer to the car than this.”
Joanne had investigated numerous complaints of vandalism from Debbie over the years, all related in one way or another to her infamous son. Debbie had invariably been seething with anger on those occasions, but now she was subdued, drained. Scared.
“Was anything stolen?” Joanne asked.
Debbie shook her head. Like Marshall, she kept her gaze fixed on the Ford, but she wasn’t examining it. She looked as if she half-expected the engine to turn over, the transmission to slip into drive, and the vehicle to rush toward her in an attempt to run her down.
She’s not just scared, Joanne realized. She’s terrified.
Joanne turned to Marshall. “How about you? Did you touch anything?”
Marshall looked at her, his scowl deepening. “I’m not an idiot.”
Joanne felt her anger rising, and she fought to keep it from getting the better of her. She’d grown up in Cross County, and she resented the Crosses as much as anyone. More so these days, because they had no compunctions about interfering in sheriff’s business. But being diplomatic was part of the job, especially in these parts, so she kept her mouth shut, though it sure as hell wasn’t easy.
Downtown Rhine was hardly a bustling metropolis at its busiest, but Joanne was still grateful that it was early. The shops — Holloway’s Cards and Notions across the street, the Winter Mill Art Gallery and Second Time’s the Charm, the pre-owned clothing and furniture consignment store, next door to the café on either side — hadn’t opened yet. That meant no nosey neighbors, at least for a couple more hours. Traffic on Wilkerson was light so far, but the few vehicles that did pass slowed as they went by, drivers taking a good long look at whatever had brought both the sheriff and Marshall Cross out bright and early on a Monday morning. Joanne knew that more than a few of those drivers would pull out their cell phones and start spreading the news. By noon, the whole county would be gossiping about it and rumors would be flying — all of which would make her job harder than it already was. Especially when word of last night’s murder got out.
She heard the sound of a car approaching, and she turned to see another cruiser pull into the lot and park next to her vehicle. Ronnie popped the trunk, got out, removed his camera and evidence collection kit, closed the trunk, and started toward them. The stereotype of the local yokel law officer was a good ole boy wider than he was tall, but Ronnie was the opposite. He was six five and rail thin, with slack features that made him resemble a half-starved hound dog. He was in his mid-fifties, his short hair a bright white, and he moved with the deliberate stride of someone who never hurried but always managed to get where he was going. He was completely unremarkable — except for the way he dressed. He wore a surgical mask and a pair of white rubber gloves. Not because he wished to take extra precautions while gathering evidence. He always dressed this way when he went out.
Joanne assumed Ronnie had severe allergies, obsessive-compulsive disorder, or both, but she’d never come out and asked him. He’d been an assistant sheriff before she’d taken over, and he’d been content to retain the position under her command. Despite his quirks, he was an excellent second in command, and she didn’t wish to make him uncomfortable by prying into his … condition, whatever it might be. As far as she was concerned, as long as he did his job, what did it matter if he had a few eccentricities?
“Morning Mrs. Coulter, Mr. Cross.” Ronnie gave each a friendly nod, but he didn’t make eye contact with Marshall. He then turned to Joanne. “Where would you like me to get started, Sheriff? Inside or out?”
Normally Joanne might’ve collected the evidence herself, or at least helped Ronnie do it, but she had a homicide to investigate. Besides, Ronnie was meticulous in everything he did. He was just as good at evidence collection as she was, probably better. She was about to tell him to start on the car when Marshall spoke.
“Do the Ford first. As soon as you’re finished, I’ll have it towed away and repainted. It won’t be long before news crews get wind of what happened last night and start crawling all over town, looking for sensational images to take video of. I don’t intend to let them see this.” He nodded toward the vehicle.
Joanne bristled. “Ronnie works for me, Marshall. Remember?”
Still, she saw his p
oint. The media couldn’t get pictures of the symbol etched in the dead boy’s flesh, so they’d go nuts over the car. They’d insinuate all manner of sinister connections between the murder and last night’s vandalism of the car belonging to the mother of Carl the Cutter. The TV stations would ransack their archives for footage of Carl, would dredge up every sordid detail of the killings, his trial and execution …
As sheriff, Joanne dreaded the chaos the media vultures would bring in their wake, for it would only make her job all the harder. But more than that, she felt sorry for Debbie. The poor woman had been at the center of media feeding frenzies too many times in her life. Joanne could only imagine the fresh hell a new one would put her through.
“Start with the car, Ronnie,” she said, though she wasn’t able to keep the irritation she felt at Marshall out of her voice.
Ronnie glanced sideways at Marshall before giving Joanne a nod. “Sure thing, Sheriff.” He set the evidence kit on the ground then started taking photos of the Ford.
Debbie looked worried. “I haven’t called my insurance company yet, Mar — Mr. Cross. I don’t know if they’ll pay to have the car repainted.” She frowned at the vehicle. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to keep it anymore. Not after this.”
Debbie’s slip of the tongue wasn’t lost on Joanne. She’d almost called Marshall by his first name. Joanne had been around both Debbie and Marshall numerous times — Debbie especially, whether as a customer or as sheriff looking into her latest vandalism or harassment complaint. But this was the first time Joanne had seen Debbie and Marshall together. She wasn’t surprised that Marshall was acquainted with her. If he didn’t know everyone who lived in Cross County, he was at least aware of their existence. And though he didn’t strike Joanne as a coffee-and-donut kind of guy, it was possible that he was an occasional patron of the Caffeine Café. Although Joanne had never seen him here before this morning.
But there was something more about the way Debbie was acting around Marshall. Not friendly, exactly, but familiar — and far too comfortable. Not only didn’t Debbie act frightened of Marshall, but from the way she kept looking at him, it almost seemed as if she were trying to draw strength from him. Interesting.
If Marshall noticed or cared about Debbie’s breach of etiquette, he showed no sign as he replied. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. If you don’t want the car repainted, I’ll have it destroyed and replaced with whatever make and model you’d like.”
Marshall said this casually, as if he were doing no more than offering to pick up the check at a restaurant. For him, there was probably little difference, Joanne thought. The Crosses were wealthy, obscenely so, if County legend were true. But no one seemed to know just how the family had come by its money. Profits from the slave trade, some said, while others suggested bootlegging during Prohibition or profiteering during both World Wars. Others with a less sensational turn of mind claimed the family had grown rich by successfully investing in the stock market one generation after another. Still, the fact remained: no one knew for certain save the Crosses themselves.
“That’s … very generous,” Debbie said. “But I don’t know — ”
“Generosity has nothing to do with it,” Marshall interrupted. “Whoever did this insulted you, and an insult to any citizen of Cross County is an insult to my family. It’s our duty to take care of it.”
Marshall spoke a bit too formally, a bit too stiffly, for Joanne to completely buy his words. She had no doubt he was serious about what he said, but she thought there was more to his offer than simple noblesse oblige. Her suspicion only deepened when she saw the way Debbie’s eyes softened as she replied.
“Thanks.”
Marshall’s gaze, however, remained cold and unemotional, and he accepted Debbie’s gratitude with a curt nod.
“Sorry, Debbie,” Joanne said, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to take a rain check. Your car is now part of an ongoing investigation, and I won’t be able to release it until we’re finished with it.” She turned to Marshall before he could protest. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Marshall, but you wouldn’t want to interfere with official sheriff’s department business … would you?”
Marshall’s ice-blue eyes seemed to glitter for an instant in the morning sunlight, and Joanne felt a mild sensation of pressure inside her head. But the feeling quickly passed, and Marshall’s gaze returned to normal. If it had ever been anything but normal, that is.
He sighed, the sound a frustrated admission of defeat. “Very well. But can you at least keep the car out of sight?”
Ronnie was still in the process of taking photos of Debbie’s car. So far, he’d only snapped two, not because he was dawdling, Joanne knew, but because he took his time setting up his shots so they were perfect. Ronnie only hurried in an emergency, and even then only if it was a life-and-death emergency. But now Ronnie paused in his work and glanced over at Joanne, as if waiting to see how she was going to respond.
“We’ll park it in the garage at the county building,” Joanne said. “Will that do?”
“I suppose it’ll have to, won’t it?” Marshall’s lips formed a humorless smile. “To be honest, it’s not so much you or your people I’m worried about. I trust you to perform your duties with due diligence.”
Right, Joanne thought. That’s why you made it a point to get here before I did.
Ronnie — reassured that his work wasn’t going to be rushed, Joanne guessed — stopped paying attention to the conversation and returned to choosing his next shot.
Marshall continued. “It’s Dale that concerns me. I’d rather not see a photo of Debbie’s redecorated car splashed on the front of that bird-cage liner he calls a paper.” His brow crinkled into a slight frown. “Speaking of Dale, where is he? I thought surely your good friend would have gotten here by now.”
Joanne had been thinking the same thing, but she didn’t want to tell Marshall that, not after the way he’d stressed the words good friend as if to imply that Dale was quite a bit more to her than that. She doubted Marshall really believed there was anything romantic between Dale and her. Insinuating otherwise was simply one more way for Marshall to try to get the better of her.
She shrugged. “He’ll be along sooner or later, I’m sure. But he won’t print anything that will compromise an investigation, you know that. He’s too much of a professional.”
Now it was Marshall’s turn to shrug. “Maybe. But Dale’s been stuck in Cross County for a long time. It would be tempting to make the most out of a story like this, use it as a ticket back to the big time. It might not get him all the way back to Chicago, but maybe Cincinnati or Cleveland.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A story about a vandalized car wouldn’t …” Joanne trailed off as the full implications of Marshall’s words sank in. “You know about last night.”
Marshall gave her a smile that was just a degree or two away from a smirk. “Does that surprise you?”
“Not really.” She mentally kicked herself for not realizing this sooner. She’d had too little sleep last night, and her brain was sludge this morning. Not that it was a good excuse. It just meant that she would have to work all the harder to focus.
Debbie had been silent all this time, merely listening while Joanne and Marshall verbally jousted. But now she spoke up.
“What are you two talking about? Did something else happen last night? Something … bad?”
Joanne knew Debbie would have to be told about the murder, and she could well imagine the poor woman’s reaction when she heard that someone had killed a boy last night using her son’s M.O. But this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation — especially not with Marshall Cross present.
“I’ll tell you in a bit, Debbie. Okay?”
Debbie’s mouth twitched, and she looked from Joanne to Marshall then back again. “Oh, God … it’s about Carl, isn’t it?”
Before Joanne could reply, Debbie turned and ran toward the caf�
�’s entrance.
“Go ahead,” Marshall said. “You need to keep her from disturbing any evidence inside. Don’t worry about my touching the car while you’re gone. I’m sure Ronnie will keep a close eye on me. Right, Ronnie?”
The deputy had taken a grand total of one additional shot since resuming his task. Now he looked away from the camera’s viewfinder, and while only his eyes were visible above his surgical mask, Joanne could see the uncertainty in them. Still, when he spoke, his voice was firm enough.
“That’s right, Sheriff. I’ll see to things out here.”
For a moment, Joanne was torn. She didn’t like the idea of leaving Ronnie alone with Marshall, but she couldn’t let Debbie be alone inside the café, either. Finally, she nodded to Ronnie and gave Marshall a last look.
“We’ll talk again,” he said.
Joanne’s jaw muscles bunched tight as she replied. “Yes, we will.” Then she turned and headed for the café.
• • •
“Hello, Tyrone. What’ve I missed so far?”
Tyrone Gantz didn’t jump at the sound of Dale’s voice, though the reporter had approached from behind as quietly as he could. It was a little game Dale played, seeing if he could sneak up on Tyrone. Though he’d been trying for years, he always failed.
“Not much. Ronnie just got here a couple minutes ago. He’s taking photos of Debbie’s car.” Tyrone’s voice was soft and whiskey-rough, and if Dale hadn’t known the man for years, he might’ve thought him ill. But Tyrone always sounded like this, and Dale figured it was because he didn’t get the chance to talk very often. Dale wondered if anyone ever spoke with Tyrone besides him. Maybe not, he decided.
Tyrone stood near the mouth of the alley between Holloway’s and Mitch Phillips’ dental clinic, Nothing But the Tooth. He wore a gray trench coat that was at least as old as he was, and which probably hadn’t been cleaned since the day it was purchased. Dale knew this wasn’t due to neglect on Tyrone’s part. The multitude of faded stains and ground-in dirt made for effective camouflage, helping Tyrone to blend in with his surroundings. It helped that the man could be as still as a corpse when he wished, barely seeming to breathe.
