In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  Acting out and pulling in. Almost a year since the split, and the kid was more remote than ever. Grady’s fingers twitched as he registered the weight of the phone in his jacket pocket. He could call the school office and ask them to pull Matt from class. He’d loathe being the center of attention, though.

  Grady shrugged. “You know what they say. Eleven is the new sixteen.”

  The big man snorted. “That were true, he’d have himself his own Charity Bishop by now, hanging onto his arm and every word that popped out of his mouth.”

  “Think you’ve got that backward.” The teenage version of himself had never been able to get enough of his girlfriend. Her strength. Her passion. Her raunchy sense of humor. The yielding softness of her body.

  All those luxury vacations his parents had dragged him and Justine on? Skiing in Aspen and summers in France and spring break in Tahoe? Being with Charity had won out over any of those. She had been his favorite retreat. His best and only escape. Until he got greedy. The moment he’d asked for a commitment was the moment things had started going to shit.

  Grady exhaled. “God, we were young.”

  “You’re not exactly geriatric now.” The sheriff dropped his chin and peered at him over his glasses. “You realize you’re a conflict of interest.”

  Yeah, well. Lots of conflict, little interest. On her part, anyway.

  Grady blew out a breath. How many times would he have to remind himself why he was here? “The last thing I want to do is get in the way of her job,” he said. “The sooner you find out who did this, the better. If you can use my help, you’ve got it.”

  Pratt eyed the empty chairs around them. “Seems you already did help. How’d you manage to keep your folks away?”

  “Told them Phil Smiley would be here, camera in hand. They prefer to pitch their fits when the paparazzi aren’t looking.”

  Grady finally recognized that the muffled static he was hearing came from the other side of the glass. Someone was on the radio. Pratt jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to get back there and do my job. But when all this is over, I wouldn’t mind the chance to catch up over some barbecue. You been to Jerzy’s since he added on?”

  Grady fought the urge to ask are you fucking kidding me? With everything that was going on, the old man wanted to set a date to score some ribs and shoot the shit? There, of all places?

  “I’ve stopped in once or twice over the years,” Grady finally said. For both his sake and Matt’s, he didn’t often make the trip back to Becker County.

  “Jerzy said he almost gave up the place after the fire. Glad someone talked him out of it.”

  Grady didn’t let himself react. Seemed the sheriff was still doing most of his fishing on dry land. “Hard to imagine Becker County without Jerzy’s Shake Shack.”

  “Man does make the best damned chocolate malt this side of the Mississippi.” The sheriff offered his hand again. “Just trying to put you at ease, son. We’ll do everything we can to get this business taken care of, as soon as possible.”

  “I appreciate that.” So Pratt could read his mind, after all. Good thing Charity didn’t have the same talent.

  The buzzer sounded as Pratt reached for the door. Obviously the dispatcher had been keeping an eye out for him. The lawman looked back over a brawny shoulder. “One last thing.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “About Charity. You need to steer clear. ’Less you want her to lose the one thing that keeps her going.” At Grady’s raised eyebrow, the sheriff tapped his badge. “The job.”

  * * *

  Charity finally managed to distract Brenda June from that knight-in-shining-armor comment by suggesting she make a run to the store for the sheriff’s favorite amaretto-flavored creamer. Next Charity searched Justine’s overnight bag, then asked Mo to man the radio while she delivered it.

  The Becker County Sheriff’s Department had fewer employees than the nearest fast food restaurant and still needed more office space. Sheriff Pratt and his crew occupied one half of what used to be a bowling alley, which explained the persistent smell of cigarettes and sweaty feet. Crammed into the other half were offices for the County Commissioner, the Treasurer, the Commissioner of Revenue and a local judge who presided over municipal cases when he wasn’t at his bait and tackle shop waxing poetic about streamer flies and surgeon knots.

  Each half of the building needed more room. Neither had room to give, which meant Charity had had no choice but to park Justine Langford in their only vacant holding cell smack dab in the center between Hank’s and the cell that housed his drinking buddy. Charity would have given anything to put Justine somewhere else, but short of getting her a room at the motel, there was nowhere else. And considering their operating budget barely covered the cost of toilet paper, she’d have been skinned alive for spending that kind of money. Thankfully the “night shift”—a regulator named Flunker who watched The Golden Girls reruns while cleaning and recleaning the contents of the department’s weapons locker—had reported no unusual activity on the part of their guests, other than the normal shouts of innocence and threats to sue.

  Charity made her way to lockup, grateful she didn’t have to pass Hank’s cell to get to Justine’s. Didn’t solve the problem of the smell, though. One of them, maybe even all three of them, had been sick during the night. Charity breathed through her mouth and prayed the puke fest was over.

  After rapping a heads-up on the steel door that opened into the six-by-eight room assigned to Justine, Charity unlocked the door and stepped inside. Slowly Justine rose from her sitting position on the bed, which was a halfway-decent twin mattress topping a one-piece metal platform. Justine’s glare made it clear the accommodations had been less than comfortable.

  “Are you kidding me?” The brunette had always carried an attitude five times bigger than she was. She jabbed a finger at the wall shared by Hank’s cell. “Putting me next door to that lowlife? When he wasn’t throwing up, he was snoring, and when he wasn’t snoring, he was shouting horrible things.” She swiped the back of her hand under her nose. Her gaze glinted with the sharp, polished purpose of a knife. “Your name came up a lot.”

  Charity couldn’t help a laugh.

  A muffled thumping echoed through the wall. “That you, little sister? Get me the fuck out of here.”

  Charity ignored him. “If we had somewhere else to put you, that’s where you’d be. I’m sorry you got stuck with him, but I’m not the reason you’re here.”

  Bit by bit, the bitter seeped out of Justine’s face. Fear crept in behind it. Her hands shook as she gathered her wild hair at the nape of her neck. She held it there, watching warily as Charity set the overnight bag on the narrow bed.

  “Where’s the orange jumpsuit?”

  “You haven’t been formally charged with anything, Mrs. Langford.”

  “Oh, please. We both know you have no respect for me so go ahead and call me Justine.”

  The pounding got louder. Hank had started kicking the wall. “You hear me, bitch? Let. Me. Out. Keep ignoring me, and I promise, I will fuck you up.”

  Justine’s lips twitched. “Brothers.”

  Charity couldn’t help smiling back.

  “But you will, right?” Justine whispered. “Charge me. I did confess.”

  “We have seventy-two hours to figure it out.” Charity backed toward the door. “Your lawyer is here. I’ll come back and get you in a few.”

  Justine shook her head. “I already told you I changed my mind. I don’t want to see him.” She stared down at the zippered bag. “Is anyone else here?”

  Charity wanted to tell her Drew was in the station so she could gauge Justine’s reaction, but she knew better than to do it outside of the interview room. “Your brother is waiting to see you.”

  Relief flickered across the brunette’s features. Still her hands shook as she unzipped the bag and studied the contents, though her posture remained rigid, elbows tight against her ribs.

  Crap. Maybe she really
was protecting her son. Even as regret pinched at Charity’s heart, she had to wonder if Drew Langford realized how lucky he was to have a mother willing to sacrifice her freedom for his sake.

  Quite a contrast to Charity’s own mother. Once when Charity was in the second or third grade, Eve Bishop had forgotten a pan of bacon on the stove and the kitchen had caught fire. Her mother had fled the house with a pack of cigarettes and a stack of lottery tickets, leaving Charity to find her own way out. Eve had blamed the fire on her daughter, and a red-faced fireman had given Charity a stern lecture on kitchen safety.

  Her brother’s muted groans brought Charity back to the present. Hank began to describe in great detail the bowel movement he was enjoying.

  Justine slapped her palms to her ears. “When will you be back for me?”

  “Soon.” Charity turned toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  Charity stopped, and made a face at the doorway. Damn it, if Justine was about to tell her something important, then Charity had screwed up royally by not bringing along someone else to hear it.

  “Would you take that thing with you?”

  Charity swung back around. Justine was frowning down at the breakfast tray she’d barely touched. Charity picked up the tray.

  “You still in love with my brother?” Surprisingly, Justine didn’t take time to gloat. “I heard all about it. How you went wild after Grady left for college. Stayed wild, too, till you decided to run for sheriff.”

  Charity’s fingers clamped tightly on the tray. Hank started to howl like a gray wolf baying at the moon.

  “Wild runs in the family,” she said. She backed up two steps and pushed the heavy door shut, unable to prevent herself from enjoying the satisfying clang.

  * * *

  Charity’s lips mashed together as she strode away from her brother’s howls. No surprise that Grady’s family had talked about her. Everybody in town had talked about her. She’d heard it all before. Good Lord, she’d have been drooling onto a straitjacket for years now if she hadn’t learned how to ignore gossip.

  Besides, Justine was angry, nauseated, and frightened, more for her son than for herself. Charity would put money on it. Time to hear Drew’s side of the story.

  She carried the tray to the break room, noticing as she walked past reception that Pratt was still talking with Grady. Seriously? Once she took care of Justine’s tray, she’d have to break that up. If they made Drew wait any longer, his lawyer would pitch a fit.

  She tried not to dwell on what they might be discussing. Or who. She’d done enough dwelling for one day, thank you very much.

  In the station’s tiny kitchen, Mo leaned against the counter, munching on an apple, while Dix poured himself a cup of coffee. A familiar fondness sapped the tension from Charity’s shoulders. As always, Mo’s short blond hair was combed and in control, while Dix’s hair looked like his four-year-old nephew had been racing toy cars through it.

  Mo took a breather from his apple. “Sheriff ready?”

  “Not yet.” Charity narrowed her eyes at Dix, who was adding waaaay too much sugar to his coffee. Especially since he took it black. “You okay, Dix?”

  Dix’s hand jerked and sugar sprayed the counter. “Kakêpâtis,” he muttered. He’d used that word before.

  Moron, Charity thought it meant. She decided not to ask who he was talking about.

  With a shake of his head, Mo tossed what was left of his apple into the trash. “Easy, Detective. You’re about as jumpy as the Langford kid.”

  Charity pulled a mug from the cabinet. No way she could get through this day without another dose of caffeine. “How is Drew?”

  Dix’s spoon clattered into the sink. “How would you be if someone murdered your girlfriend and you were the one who found the body?”

  A taut silence ensued, broken only by the sound of Dix’s palm brushing across the countertop as he swept the sugar into his hand. He took his time emptying it into the sink.

  When Dix turned, Charity offered a bright smile. “You want to handle the interview?”

  Dix blew at his coffee before taking a sip, avoiding her gaze. “You are the lead.” The hint of bleak in his tone gave him away, and it had nothing to do with Mo.

  Charity gave up on the smile and filled her own mug. Dixon Ironmaker was a good man. He was honest, hardworking, and loyal to a fault. Why couldn’t his wife appreciate what she had?

  Why don’t you mind your own business?

  She and Mo had speculated about Dix’s wife and whether she suffered from depression. It would explain a lot. It would also mean Charity should be offering compassion instead of censure.

  Sheriff Pratt strode into the room, avoiding Charity’s gaze as he brandished the Sarah Huffman case file.

  “Okay, people. We have two West family members in custody and four others breathing down our necks. Let’s do this right so we don’t have to call in the state. Talk to me.”

  Charity, Mo, and Dix took turns filling him in on what was already in the file: Justine’s nine-one-one call and subsequent confession, the crime scene details, the witness who reported seeing Drew, and the teen’s admission to finding the body before he knew he’d been busted.

  “Anyone check out the witness?”

  Dix nodded. “She’s solid. A middle-aged woman who runs a small computer services firm. She was on her way to a technology conference out of town when she spotted Drew Langford.”

  The sheriff grunted. “What do we know about the kid?”

  “Just turned eighteen,” Mo said. “Senior in high school with better-than-average grades, star soccer player, no juvenile record.”

  “The posse is working in shifts, keeping the scene secure and searching for the murder weapon.” Charity frowned down into her coffee. Days like this, she could almost understand the lure of alcohol-induced oblivion, but the price for that oblivion was too damned high.

  Pratt tugged at his goatee. “Got a warrant to search the Wests’ home?”

  Charity nodded. “Already signed off by Judge Purl. Said he’s waiting to hear all about your fishing trip, by the way.”

  “You mean he wants to gloat over the fact that I didn’t catch squat.” Pratt turned his scowl on them all. “Any idea what kind of weapon we’re looking for?”

  “Not the leather necklace we found.” Mo motioned with his chin at the photos in the file the sheriff held. “What we’re looking for is a pair of thin straps, maybe an eighth of an inch diameter each. One of the straps has a thicker segment, extending a couple inches.”

  “Like a decoration, you mean?” Pratt squinted. “An eighth of an inch is too thin for a purse strap. Boot laces, maybe?”

  Mo scratched his jaw. “Or some kind of woman’s belt. Hey, how about a leash?”

  The sheriff stared. “For what, a toy poodle?”

  Red exploded in Mo’s cheeks. “She was found outside the vet’s,” he muttered.

  With a loud, deliberate slurp of his coffee, Dix reclaimed their attention. “Could be a necklace or a lanyard made out of coated wire. Or a paracord bracelet, which is woven from parachute cord. You can unwind it and use it as a rope.”

  The sheriff raised an eyebrow.

  Dix shook his head. “Nothing like that found on Mrs. Langford.”

  “What about the victim’s vehicle?” the sheriff asked.

  “Her personal car is an Audi sedan. The A8.” Mo spoke quickly, without checking his notes. “She wasn’t driving it last night, though. Transmission problems, according to Muscoe’s. They gave her a minivan while they’re working on her car.”

  “The A8?” Pratt raised his eyebrows. “That’s an expensive vehicle. Find anything in the van?”

  “No, sir.” Dix tipped his mug toward the folder, as if to say it’s in there. “We searched it last night. We tagged a few items, but Muscoe’s did a thorough job of cleaning it before they loaned it out. Nor did we find anything in Mrs. Langford’s convertible.”

  We? Charity bit at the inside of her che
ek. She hadn’t gotten much sleep, but it sounded like Dix hadn’t gotten any. Meanwhile she’d been mooning around behind the library.

  She gulped at her coffee.

  “And Sarah Huffman’s residence?” Pratt tucked the file under his arm.

  “Townhouse in Norwood Estates. One of the regulators has been keeping watch. I’ll take a team when we’re done here.” Dix hesitated. “I have heard rumors.”

  Mo’s head came up. “What kind of rumors?”

  “The kind that hints at shady property deals,” Dix said grimly.

  The sheriff nodded. “Everyone keep that in mind during the interviews.”

  “After we’re done with those, I’d like to drop in on the ME,” Mo said. “Sarah was five-eight. The angle of strangulation indicates the killer is a few inches taller.”

  “Which would eliminate Justine,” Charity said, and earned a stone-faced glance from the sheriff.

  “Unless the killer had Sarah on her knees,” Dix said.

  “Check out the body, see if her knees are missing any skin. Check her pants for marks as well.” Pratt made a shooing motion at Mo. “Go now. Don’t come back until you have the ME’s report.”

  Mo didn’t give the boss a chance to change his mind. With a jerk of his cleft chin, he was gone.

  Charity lifted her now-lukewarm coffee to her lips, but before she could take a sip, the sheriff wiggled his fingers in a hand it over gesture. Reluctantly she surrendered her mug. Why had she ever confessed she was trying to cut back?

  “You and Dix handle the interviews,” Pratt said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get someone to check alibis. I already have the county commissioner riding my six for a statement, so I need to work one up. Don’t forget to ask young Mr. Langford if he owns one of those rope bracelets. Oh, and Deputy Bishop? Come see me when you’re done.”

  Charity nodded, her stomach tightening as she walked out. She stopped Dix outside the interview room. “Hey, what’s with all the weird looks and innuendos?” When he frowned, she gave the sleeve of his uniform shirt a tug. “You know what I mean. I’m getting the hairy eyeball from both you and Pratt. Want to tell me why?”