Saturday
The SBI search unit recovered fourteen shell casings from the road and the shoulder at the intersection. They took hundreds of photos, collected the broken glass lying on the asphalt, and bagged samples of soil and grass from the embankment where they thought the killer had initiated his ambush. Jensen and Sanford walked the scene and developed a theory about how it all went down. When they were satisfied that they had gathered all the evidence they were likely to find, they decided it was time to bring the car back onto the road. The three occupants were still inside.
A tow truck driver said he couldn’t guarantee that he’d be able to pull it up the slope without causing a lot more damage, especially with how it was wedged against the tree. Said there was a chance it could get stuck or, even worse, it might break free and keep rolling downhill. Their best option was to use a crane. Sanford ordered that one be brought out as soon as possible, no matter who they had to wake up to get it done.
Rachel and Braddock had watched it all unfold from behind the tape.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stay here,” Braddock said. “They’re just letting them sit down there . . . I can’t take it.”
He turned and walked to the car, leaned against the door, and buried his face in his arms on the roof. Rachel rubbed his back. There was nothing she could think to say that would console him, so she didn’t try. He looked at her and said, “We fucked up, didn’t we?”
She couldn’t answer. He stared at her for a moment. Her eyes welled, and she looked away.
Jensen was watching them from the side of the road near the wrecked patrol car. Rachel’s eyes met his, and he gave her the same look of concern he had earlier. There was something he wanted to tell her but couldn’t with everyone around. A part of her was curious to know what it was, even though it probably didn’t matter. Whatever he had to say, it wouldn’t change what had happened.
“I’m leaving,” Braddock said. “You want to come with me? It’s all right if you want to stay.”
She shook her head and walked around to the passenger side. “There’s no reason for me to be here if you’re not.”
They got in, and Braddock started the car, took a last look across the road, then put it in gear and wheeled around. A minute later, they were heading into town. The Fontana Lodge appeared on the left. He turned into the parking lot, which was filled with motorcycles, scanned it, and said, “I know you’re paid up for the night, but I’d rather you stay at my place. If you still want to.”
There was a sad longing in his eyes that said he couldn’t handle being alone. Rachel squeezed his hand and said, “Just give me a minute to pack up. I’ll follow you.”
As she stepped out, he said, “Don’t forget that bottle of bourbon. I have a feeling I’m going to need some of it.”
While Rachel was packing her suitcase, a text came in from Jensen: “Need to talk. Mind calling when u get a minute?” She wondered if he was feeling guilty about hiding information from his boss. If he was worried that people had died because of it. He might even be afraid of losing his job. But Rachel wasn’t in the mood to ease his conscience or reassure him, so she put her phone away and tried not to think about it. She finished packing and loaded her luggage in the Camry.
The drive gave her too much time to think. She was relieved to pull into Braddock’s driveway. When she got out, he was standing by the Crown Victoria, looking at his watch. “One fifteen,” he said. “We’ve been up for almost twenty hours now.”
“Feeling tired yet?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to sleep.”
She kissed him on the cheek and held up the bottle. “This should help.”
He put on a weak smile. “Yeah . . .”
They went inside. Braddock took down a pair of Old Fashioned glasses from a cupboard next to the fridge and set them on the counter. He stared at them for a moment and said, “I think I need a shower. Just a quick one. I feel . . .”
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
He shuffled into the bedroom while she filled a glass with ice and poured the first drink. The cubes cracked as bourbon washed over them. She took a sip and spun the ice around. A second later, her phone chimed. She pulled it out of her back pocket, saw it was Jensen, and almost turned it off.
“Damn you, Rachel,” she said to herself, unable to ignore the message.
She unlocked the phone and read it: “Really need to talk. Important!”
The shower came on. She glanced at the bedroom door and decided it was best not to mention it, at least not until she knew exactly what Jensen wanted. Braddock had enough on his mind already. She went outside and made the call from the front porch.
“Hey there, Rachel. I’m sorry to bug ya so late. How ya holding up?”
“As good as can be expected. What’s going on?”
His voice lowered. “I need to see you. First thing in the morning, if that’s possible.”
She glanced at the door. “I’m sure Danny and I will be at the office first thing—”
“Without Danny,” he said.
“Well . . . Mike, the sheriff’s office hired me. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to meet without them being involved.”
Voices were shouting in the background. Jensen said, “Shoot. Hang on.” Then he was yelling at someone, and there was beeping, like the alert signal a large truck would make when moving in reverse. “The crane just showed up. I gotta go. Think about it, okay? If you change your mind, send me a text, and I’ll meet you anywhere you want.”
The line went dead. Rachel went back inside, grabbed her glass of bourbon, and downed it. It was almost too much to swallow without gagging. She shook her head to ward off the aftertaste and poured a refill. Then she filled the other glass and carried them to the bedroom. The shower was running, but Braddock was sprawled across the bed, still wearing his clothes. He was sound asleep.
She turned off the water, went back to the living area, and settled into the sofa to sip on her drink. The room was dead silent, no distractions. She started thinking. Questions poured in. Anxiety and a rush of emotions came with them. She tamped it all down, not wanting to give in and let herself feel the pain and the guilt. There was a TV on a stand next to the fireplace. She jumped up and grabbed the remote control from the coffee table, turned it on, but kept the volume low. It was tuned to CNN.
“Can’t handle this right now,” she whispered.
She flipped through the channels, looking for something mindless. Found a sitcom as she finished her glass and moved on to Braddock’s. A buzz kicked in, and she started to relax. She laughed at the show, forgetting for a moment everything that had happened just a few hours earlier. But it didn’t last. Fisher’s baby face, with its soft features and the ridiculous mustache he was barely capable of growing, appeared in her mind.
Like a lot of young men she had worked with, he had started out cocky and headstrong, but that was only because he had wanted more than anything to be good at his job. For three days, she had watched him work, watched him absorb every ounce of information she had given him. And he had demonstrated real potential, the makings of a great detective. That was over now.
Rachel took out her phone and typed Jensen a text. She wanted to meet. She would let him know where in the morning. His response came quickly. “Sounds good.” She set the phone aside, took another sip, and allowed herself to cry.
40
Rachel woke on the sofa. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, stretched her arms over her head.
“Morning,” Braddock said from the kitchen. “Coffee?”
She stood up and stumbled, took a moment to steady herself. “No, thanks. What time is it?”
“A little after eight,” he said, pushing scrambled eggs around a pan with a spatula. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He nodded in the direction of the Old Fashioned glasses sitting on the counter. “Sorry I couldn’t join you last night.”
“It’s okay. You needed the rest.”
“I wish I had more to offer you.” He scooped the eggs onto two plates. “I don’t usually make breakfast.”
She smiled and said, “It looks great.”
They ate in silence. Rachel felt numb, almost in a daze. Braddock stared at the table until they were both finished. Then he stood, carried the dishes to the sink, and said, “The county commission is having an emergency meeting in about an hour. I’m sure they want to grill Ted about everything that happened yesterday. I need to be there.” He rinsed the plates quickly and set them at the bottom of the sink, turned to face her, but kept his eyes on the floor. “We’re gonna need to sort through all this mess . . . write some kind of official report. Ted wanted me to ask you if you’d consider staying around for another day or two to help us out with it.”
“Sure,” she said. “I can do that.”
He nodded. “I booked you a room over at Shipley’s Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s the best place to stay in town.”
“Oh . . . okay.” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
He finally looked into her eyes. “Things are just so screwed up right now. And, let’s face it, you’ll probably be leaving soon anyway.”
“Right. I understand.” She stood, thought for a moment, and decided not to argue. “I think I’ll go ahead and take off. Get over there and get settled in. Try to clean up before the meeting, if you think you’ll need me there.”
“It’s up to you. No rush, though. If you can’t make it, I’ll see you at the office later.”
She slipped on her shoes and picked up her phone from the coffee table, took a quick look around, and realized she hadn’t brought anything else in with her. Braddock was watching from the kitchen. He looked like he was trying to think of something to say, so she hurried out the door, dropped into the Camry, and drove away.
* * *
Dorothy Shipley was only the second black person Rachel had met since she had arrived in Dillard City—the other being an officer with the DCPD.
“Welcome, young lady,” Shipley said at the door. “You come inside and make yourself at home.”
She was in her sixties and was a little overweight, wore a constant smile, and never let Rachel say a word.
“It’s just you here, I’m afraid. The plumbing’s gone bad in the other room. These old houses . . . Did you know this is the oldest house in all of Dillard City?”
Rachel didn’t know that, though she didn’t get a chance to say so.
“I’ve spent ten years fixing or replacing just about every bit of this place.” Shipley waved her arms in broad arcs. “Every bit of it.” She leaned toward Rachel, and her voice lowered in pitch. “Course, I don’t do plumbing, now. I’ll call somebody else for that mess, you know.”
She led Rachel on a tour through the two-story Victorian, pointing out the various improvements and restorations she had made through the years. On the stairs, Shipley stopped halfway up and spent several minutes describing how she had stripped and sanded, then stained and varnished the mahogany balustrade. “Can you believe some fool would go and paint up all this gorgeous wood? Lord have mercy.”
When Rachel finally got to her room, she closed the door, hoping for a few minutes of silence. Though she couldn’t help but smile when Shipley knocked on the door and said, “Whenever you get ready, now, you come on downstairs to the kitchen and let me fix you up a plate. I got fresh biscuits. They just came out of the oven.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shipley. I’ll be down in just a few.”
The floorboards creaked as Shipley made her way through the hall and down the stairs. Rachel unpacked her suitcase, set aside her plastic bag filled with dirty clothes, and went for a shower. The hot water ran out a little too fast, but it was probably for the best, since she could have stayed in all day. She dressed and brushed her hair and didn’t mind that it was still wet when she went down to the kitchen.
Shipley had a pile of warm biscuits on a plate, covered with a white napkin. When Rachel came in, she pulled back a corner and said, “You’ve got to have yourself one of these.”
Rachel took one and had a bite. “Wow,” she said. “That’s really good.” And she wasn’t just being polite. She eyed the plate. “May I have another one?”
Shipley’s voice went falsetto as she said, “Of course you can, child. Have as many as you want. Can I fix you up a little sausage gravy to go with it? Won’t take but a minute.”
“Oh, thank you, but I actually ate before I came here. And I have to get going soon.”
“Well, okay.” She sat down at the table. “I’ll leave these out, though, in case you want one later on whenever you get back. I suppose you’ll be gone for a while.”
“Probably. It could turn out to be a busy day.”
Shipley studied her for a moment and said, “I’m sure it will, with all this craziness. Such a shame about those poor folks last night.”
“Yeah.”
“And if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a shame you and Danny didn’t work out either.”
“Um . . . I’m sorry?”
Shipley laughed. “Child, this town is too small for us ladies not to notice when a young single man like Danny Braddock takes an interest in someone. Especially when she’s not from around here.”
“I don’t . . . Really? The whole town knows?”
“You must be kidding.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Of course we do.”
Rachel turned a little red. She finished her first biscuit, wrapped the second in a paper napkin, and said, “I guess I’d better get going. Thanks again, Mrs. Shipley.”
Shipley straightened. In a formal tone, she said, “It’s been my pleasure.”
Rachel smiled and turned to leave, got to the kitchen door, and stopped. She turned back and said, “Mrs. Shipley, did you know Dean McGrath or Andy Coughlan?”
“I sure did,” she said. “Dean kept to himself after his wife left him, but I’d see him around every now and again. I knew Andy a lot better.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, you see, my husband was his accountant.”
“Was?”
“Yes. Terry passed a little more than three years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Lord knows, I do miss him so. Every day.”
Rachel waited a moment, then said, “I know this may be difficult to talk about, but do you think there’s any chance that Mister Coughlan might have been involved in anything illegal?”
“Illegal? Like what?”
“Drugs maybe?”
Shipley looked at her like she was crazy. “I’d sooner believe the sheriff was a crack dealer.”
Rachel thought about that for a second and said, “Okay. Thanks again, Mrs. Shipley. I’ll be back later this evening.”
“You take care of yourself, Miss Rachel.” She rose from her chair. “It’s not safe out there. Not anymore.”
41
The commission’s meeting room was in the Lowry County Courthouse, a tan, one-story brick building with an overpowering red metal roof. Rachel saw a crowd gathered out front as she turned into the parking lot. The people looked tense. Some were arguing.
Rachel parked away from the entrance and considered skipping the inquisition altogether. She sent Jensen a text saying that she was available to meet and waited for a response. After five minutes without a reply, she decided to go inside. She got out and headed for the front at a brisk walk. When she reached the crowd, she kept her head down and marched past them quickly. They murmured after her as she went through the door.
A pair of deputies stood in the lobby. Rachel didn’t know them, but they both seemed to recognize her immediately. The one to her right pointed at a security checkpoint set up in front of a door. She whispered a thanks as she walked by him, took her phone and keys out of her pockets. Her phone case had slots for her ID, credit cards, and a small amount of cash. She slipped her driver’s license out and showed it to t
he security officer, then put everything on the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector.
Once she cleared the checkpoint, she walked into a long hall. Braddock, Curtis, and Pritchard were huddled together next to a door about halfway down, talking in low voices. They stopped when Braddock saw her approaching.
“Hey,” he said. “You get settled in at Shipley’s?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “It’s a nice place.”
“Much better than the Fontana, I’m sure,” Curtis said.
“Dorothy’s a sweet woman,” Pritchard said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “She and her husband bought that place about ten years ago. She was a school teacher before that. Second grade. Taught my oldest before she retired. Damn shame about her husband. He died of a heart attack a couple years back.”
“Damn shame,” Curtis said.
They stood there quietly for several minutes before the door opened and a young man in a gray suit leaned out and said, “They’re ready for you, Sheriff.”
Rachel’s phone chimed as they started to enter. The message was from Jensen. He wanted to meet right away. She could choose where.
Braddock lingered in the doorway. “You coming?”
“Um . . . actually, if you don’t need me, I should probably return this call.” She raised her phone quickly.
He glanced inside. “Go ahead. You don’t need to be here for this.”
Outside, Rachel slipped past the crowd and sent a message telling Jensen to meet her at Everett’s Diner. Then she hopped in her car and hurried over. When Jensen finally came through the door fifteen minutes later, Rachel was in a booth sipping on a Mountain Dew. She waved to get his attention.
“Hey there,” he said, sliding into the seat. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said first thing in the morning.”
“Ever hear the saying about gift horses and teeth?” she asked, sounding a little annoyed. “You’re lucky I’m here at all.”
The server came by, and Jensen ordered a coffee, black. Rachel thought a piece of warm apple pie sounded good, so she asked for one of those with a little vanilla ice cream on the side. When they were alone again, she said, “So?”
Among the Dead Page 17
