“Is this Carly’s first homicide too?” she asked.
“Yeah. She’s a good tech. Really good with prints and a hell of a photographer. But this is too much for her to handle on her own.” A perplexed look fell on Braddock’s face as he watched the SUVs and the unmarked Crown Victoria drive away. “You know, I just realized that she’s the only one who doesn’t call me Chief. I wonder if it has anything to do with her being a Cherokee.”
* * *
Rachel stepped into the kitchen and smelled something rotten.
“Is that from the trash?” she asked.
“Food in the microwave.”
“So he was making dinner when he was attacked.”
“Looks that way.”
She scanned the room, starting high and working downward. The ceiling, the lights, the walls, the cabinets, the counters, another door that led to the backyard . . . When she got to the floor, she saw the only sign that there had been violence: a mottled pool of blood where the victim had died.
She circled the stain, noticed diagonal lines that resembled the impressions of folded or bunched-up fabric. “He was wearing a shirt?”
“Sweat shirt.”
“How many wounds could you see?”
“Just the one.”
Rachel thought there were likely more, but they could be hard to see when examining a blood-soaked body at a crime scene. Once the body was washed, the pathologist would count and measure each wound.
“What kind of knife was it?”
“One of those,” he said, nodding toward the counter behind her. She turned and saw a knife block sitting in the corner by the fridge, an empty slit where one of the largest of the set should have been.
“Okay,” she said, “we have this one bloodstain, the body, the knife, a few prints, and a rag.”
“Yep.”
“Anything else?”
“We bagged his phone, his keys, and his wallet. They were laying on the counter.”
She paced the room, noticed the creaking floorboards, and said, “Would have been hard to sneak up on someone in here. Who talked to the friend?”
“Shane did. This morning while we had him here.”
She thought for a second and asked, “If McGrath got home after three in the morning, why would his friend come over at six thirty?”
“Shane asked about that. Butler does handyman work around town. Apparently, he was on his way to a job and came by to borrow a saw of some kind. I think McGrath used to work in construction too. There’s a bunch of tools locked up in the shed out back.”
“Does Butler have an alibi?”
“Yep. He was home with his live-in girlfriend at the time. Shane talked to her, and she confirmed it.”
Rachel processed that as she took another look around the kitchen. Her eyes found a window, and she asked, “How about the canvass? Did the neighbors see anything?”
Braddock smiled. “We talked to everyone that lives on this road, but the nearest house is three football fields away.”
“Must be nice.” She looked back at the blood, tried to imagine what it might have been like for Butler to find his friend dead on the floor. Then a thought struck her. “Danny, did you know the victim?”
“A little,” he said. “Met him a few years back. Would see him around town every now and then.”
“Sorry.”
He shrugged. “There’re only about two thousand people in the whole town. You stay around here long enough, you’ll get to know all of ’em eventually.”
“Which means we might be talking to two thousand people.”
“If you say so.”
“You said you wanted to be thorough.”
“I’m going to regret asking for your help, aren’t I?”
“Without a doubt. In the meantime, you need to get everyone who’s working on this case in the same room so we can go over everything we have so far. Maybe after the autopsy.”
“I can arrange that.”
“When are you planning to release the house?”
“I’m not in any hurry.”
“Good.” She thought for a moment about all the work that was ahead of them. “I sure hope this doesn’t turn out to be some kind of random thrill kill or serial case.”
“Me too,” he said, and there was the hint of genuine fear in his voice. “Where do you want to go from here?”
“Wherever we can find people who knew Dean McGrath.”
6
Braddock had his other detective pulling records and searching for next of kin, so Rachel wanted to focus on the victim’s coworkers and friends. For a bartender, those two groups were often made of the same people, which meant that the best place to start was the bar where McGrath had worked.
“I need to check in at the office first,” Braddock said. “I’ll probably be close to an hour. Anything you want to do in the meantime?”
“Would you mind dropping me off at the motel? I could use a shower.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be back to pick you up as soon as I can.”
He left her at the door, and she went in feeling a little shaky from caffeine withdrawal, if there was such a thing. She showered for as long as there was hot water, trying to make sense of what she knew about the murder. When she got out, there was still time to spare, so she decided to lie down and close her eyes for a bit.
When the knocking woke her, she was naked beneath a wet towel and had sucked some of her hair into her mouth. She spit it out and yelled, “Hang on!” Had to remember where she was.
She dressed as quickly as she could and let Braddock in while she brushed her hair.
“Man,” he said. “I thought this place looked bad from the outside.”
On the way out to the Tahoe, he offered to put her up in a bed-and-breakfast across the river.
“I’m good,” she said. “Any news?”
“Nothing yet.”
Which was to be expected.
* * *
The Riverside Pub was on the eastern edge of Dillard City next to an auto parts dealer. There were four motorcycles parked in front, all of them large Harley-Davidsons. Braddock turned onto the side road and said, “Let’s see who else is here.”
“Is this a biker bar?” Rachel asked.
“When the weather’s right. We get a lot of bikers coming through this area, especially now that it’s starting to warm up. They like to ride the backroads through the mountains. If you’re still here this weekend, you’ll see them at your motel.”
In the parking lot behind the building, a red, beat-up Dodge Durango sat by the back door. Braddock parked next to it. “We can go in through there.”
“Let’s walk around to the front,” she said.
They followed the side road back to Main. Rachel stopped at the corner and surveyed their surroundings, hoping to spot a public building or a bank or a gas station, but there were none in sight. There was a hardware store and a flower shop directly across the street. She asked, “Do you think either one of those has a camera pointed this way?”
“I doubt it, but we can check.”
“You should canvass this area, in case there was anyone around who saw him leaving.”
When she turned to face him, Braddock was already on the phone with the patrol captain arranging for a deputy to go door to door for a three-block radius. He finished the call and put his phone away, looking a little sheepish.
“Don’t worry, Danny,” she said, fighting the urge to smile. “It’ll come back to you.”
“Thanks, former Special Agent Carver, I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked over to the door and held it open. “Can we go inside now?”
“No need to get testy.”
He gave her a half smile. “At least you’re starting to earn your keep.”
They stepped inside, and their eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dark interior. It was wood paneled and decorated with old license plates and pictures of women wearing bikini tops and cutoff jean shorts. The four bikers were sitting
at the bar. Southern rock played on the jukebox.
“Afternoon, Deputy Danny,” came a voice from behind the bar. It was hoarse and stuffy, as if spoken by a man with severe nasal congestion.
Braddock cocked his head to one side and said, “Smiley? Is that you?”
“Hell yeah.”
“I thought you were working over in Whittier.”
They walked past the bikers and met Smiley by the beer taps. He looked miserable with a red nose and watery eyes.
“Nah, I quit that gig last month.”
“You don’t look so good,” Braddock said.
“Goddamn pollen.” Smiley touched his nose with a bar napkin.
“Can’t you take some allergy medicine or something?”
“Momma’s got me drinkin’ this tea she makes”—he sucked a breath through dry lips—“with honey she ordered online. Says it’ll cure me, ’cause it comes from California or somewhere.”
Rachel said, “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Well, now you just ruined my whole damn day.” He looked at Braddock. “Y’all figure out who killed Dean?”
“We’re working on it,” he said. “Thought we’d come by here and talk to whoever might have seen him last night.”
“I saw him when he came in. You know, to start his shift.”
“How did he seem to you?” Rachel asked.
“What d’ya mean?”
“Was there anything unusual about his behavior? Did he seem nervous or afraid of anything? Anyone?”
Smiley shrugged. “Not that I could see. But I really didn’t talk to him much.”
“Did you see him interact with anyone? Outside of what he would normally do as a bartender?”
He shook his head, dabbed the napkin under his nose.
“How well did you know him?”
“Not too well. Just met him when I started workin’ here.”
Rachel pulled a Steno pad and pen from her inside jacket pocket and made a couple of notes.
Braddock asked, “What time did you leave outta here last night?”
“Just after seven.”
“And where did you go?”
“Home.”
“Did you go anywhere else after that?”
“No, sir.” He didn’t appear bothered by the question. “Mom will tell you. I was there all night. Laid up in bed with this damn hay fever.”
“Well, we sure appreciate the help, Smiley. Who’s working tonight?”
“You’re lookin’ at him.”
“You gonna make it?” Rachel asked.
He shrugged again and dabbed his eyes.
“I feel for you, bud,” Braddock said. “But look here, you keep your ears open for me, all right? Let me know if you hear anything that could be useful to us.”
Smiley had a sneezing fit but managed to get a nod in. Rachel and Braddock started to leave, but he held up a finger asking them to wait. He sneezed again, then sounding even more pitiful than he had before, said, “You know, there wasn’t too many people around here that liked that asshole.”
“Why not?” Rachel asked.
“’Cause he owed most of us money.”
Braddock: “How much did he owe you?”
“Fifty bucks. But that ain’t shit compared to some.”
Rachel: “You think someone might have killed him over it?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He was always pissin’ someone off about it. And how in the hell could he manage to hang on to his house and all that property workin’ here?” He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I know I couldn’t do it.”
7
Braddock treated Rachel to an early dinner at Lexington Barbecue, which he said was the only Carolina barbecue worth having. They ate outside on a patio that overlooked the river. The gentle sound of water flowing over rocks was putting Rachel to sleep, so she asked for the most potent soft drink she could get. When the server returned with a Mountain Dew, she drank a third of it at once.
“You look like you’re starting to fade,” Braddock said. “Rough night last night?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
He nodded, stayed quiet for a minute, then asked, “So what do you think of our little town so far?”
“It’s nice.” She was too tired to come up with anything better to say. “How about you? Do you still like living here after all these years?”
He smiled. “You know, when I first moved here, I thought I would hate it. I mean, the scenery’s amazing and all, but I thought I would get bored out of my mind in a place like this. But then . . . I don’t know. I just sorta fell in love with the place. I think it actually bugs Mandy that I like it here even more than she does.”
Rachel had been wondering if he would bring up his ex-wife. “Does she still live around here?”
“No. She moved to Asheville when we separated. I think there was a part of her that—”
The server, a teenaged girl in a tight red T-shirt and black jeans, appeared at the end of the table and said, “Can I get anything else for you all?”
“I think we’re good,” Braddock said.
She turned to leave, then stopped short and stood a step away with an uneasy look on her face.
“Everything okay, Amber?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mister Braddock, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” he said with a polite smile. “What’s the matter?”
“Well . . . it’s just that my mom’s been readin’ online about the murder and all . . .”
“Yeah?”
“And she knows that you eat here every now and then.”
“Okay?”
She looked over her shoulder and bounced on the balls of her feet like a small child needing a potty break. “She made me promise that, if I saw you here, I’d tell you . . . I mean, it ain’t me sayin’ it . . . but she said for me to tell you that you all should be out tryin’ to find that murderer instead of sittin’ here eatin’ barbecue.”
Braddock laughed. “Is that exactly how she said it?”
Amber looked around nervously. “Not exactly. She said you should be out tryin’ to find that murderer instead of sittin’ here stuffin’ your faces.”
“Yeah, that sounds a little more like her.”
Rachel gave him a stern look, reminding him that it was never a good idea to ignore criticism from a concerned citizen.
He straightened up and said, “Well, Amber, tell your mom that we’re doing everything we can.”
Rachel’s expression said, Is that the best you can do? He shrugged, so she decided to step in. “Amber.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
A pang of sadness from being called “ma’am” again. She pushed it aside and said, “Tell your mom that the Lowry County Sheriff’s Office has devoted all of its resources to ensuring the fastest possible resolution to this case.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Also tell her that the sheriff has requested and received additional assistance from outside law enforcement agencies including the State Bureau of Investigation and the State Crime Lab.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But, Amber.”
“Ma’am?”
“Everyone needs to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rachel smiled, and Amber shied away. But Braddock suddenly looked morose. He said, “Sounds like you’ve said that a few times before.”
“Once or twice.”
He looked toward the water, seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, and said, “I really do love this place. But if we can’t solve this case, my days here might be numbered.”
8
The Sugarlands Distilling Company in downtown Gatlinburg, Tennessee, was packed with tourists waiting for the next round of free samples. Gifford slipped into the crowd unnoticed. Carrying a small plastic bag containing twelve dollars’ worth of fudge wrapped in white paper, he drifted along the edge of the room and pretended to examine the rows of mason jars filled with various fla
vors of moonshine. His right hand, buried in his pocket, clenched the burner cell, waiting for it to vibrate.
After his second trip around the perimeter, he stopped at one of the bars to watch a salesman deliver a speech about the latest variety of apple-pie-flavored spirits. It sounded good, but the phone buzzed in his hand just as the tiny plastic cups were being filled. He strolled outside, stopped at the edge of the street, and spotted the tank-green Jeep Wrangler a few seconds later. It rolled up to him, and he felt his heart speed up as he climbed into the passenger seat. They were already moving when he closed the door.
“I did good, didn’t I?” Gifford asked. He kept his eyes on the storefronts and restaurants passing outside his window. Confectioners and T-shirt vendors and souvenir shops. A place to buy cheap samurai swords and ninja throwing stars.
“You did good,” the driver said.
“Done it just like you said, man. Went real smooth too. Slicker than baby shit. Just like you said it would.”
The driver veered into the left lane and sped up, and Gifford realized he was talking too much. He kept his mouth shut for the rest of the trip, which took them through town and into the Great Smoky Mountains.
* * *
Despite his forbidding demeanor, Derek Bishop was in a good mood. Gifford had performed better than expected. In fact, he had done such a good job, the Lowry County Sheriff’s Office had hired an outsider to assist with the investigation. The consultant, according to his source, was a woman who excelled at solving difficult cases. Especially those that lacked physical evidence or a witness who could identify a suspect. And that was exactly the kind of case that Gifford had given them.
Everything had gone according to plan, but the woman made Bishop nervous. There was still work to be done, and once the body count started to go up, she would be looking for patterns. If she looked hard enough, she would find one. Bishop couldn’t let that happen, so he had begun to think of ways to modify his plan. But changes would create complications. He needed time to work out the details. For now, he would keep things moving forward, which meant giving Gifford his next assignment.
Bishop steered the Wrangler into Newfound Gap, a scenic overlook straddling the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. He pulled into a spot near the end of the second row and took a few seconds to look around. The edge of the parking lot lined the top of a bluff that offered a commanding view of the mountains to the south. Dozens of people milled about the walkway, pointing at objects in the distance and trying to capture the scenery with smartphone cameras before the sun went down, all of them too preoccupied to notice two men planning a murder.
Among the Dead Page 3
