by Robin Caroll
Skimming farther down the menu, I tried to find something that wouldn’t upset my stomach. I still had many miles to drive before dawn, and getting sick would mean I’d have to go ahead and snag a hotel room for the night.
The meatloaf special was probably way past its hot-and-fresh claim by now. More than not, dried out and harder than a shotgun shell. Ick. What else? Hmm. A crawfish po’boy didn’t sound too bad. But it was probably made with spices I wasn’t accustomed to, which could give my already-stressed stomach misery.
The waitress’s shuffling announced her impending arrival. I had to make a decision posthaste.
She plunked the glass onto the table. “Have you made up your mind?”
So much for Southern hospitality. “I’d like the hot ham and cheese with fries, please.” I offered up the sweetest smile I could muster as I returned the menu to its rightful place, careful not to disturb the salt and pepper shakers.
“Anything else?”
Yeah, a gallon of hot coffee and a salad using a whole head of lettuce. “A glass of tea with my meal, please.”
“Sweet or unsweet?”
“Sweet, please.” My teeth would hurt for sure. Could fugitives get dental insurance?
She smiled and headed back to the counter. Apparently I’d made the right choice. And if anyone came in later, asking about a lady alone, the waitress would be sure to remember I’d passed on coffee but ordered sweet tea. And meat. Anybody looking would feel assured it wasn’t me.
While I waited for my meal, I pretended to text on my GoPhone but really thought about all the tips I’d made to the police over the past couple of days. Five anonymous calls to the Arkansas state police, six to 911, and three to the Little Rock police. I’d even gone to various Internet cafés and sent tips in via e-mail, paying cash for the service. As far as I could tell, which was based on news reports and newspaper articles, the feds were still looking for me as a person of interest wanted for questioning.
Someone was plugging the cork on the truth.
One day, Daniel, I’ll see justice served.
Case status: unsolved/open.
Rafe glanced at the date on the folder. Three years ago? He’d read the brief, knew this was a murder case. But not just any murder—that of a federal judge.
Solving this particular cold case would make Alphonse Jackson sit up and take notice. Might even earn Rafe some respect. Earn his place.
He loosened his tie as he scanned the case notes a final time. Because the victim had been a federal judge, all stops had been pulled out to investigate the murder, but nothing had come of the investigation.
Was he beating a dead horse and setting himself up for failure? None of the other files had such high visibility. Sure, he could solve a couple of the white-collar cases, but that wouldn’t impress Jackson. Or anybody else.
Rafe left his dank space and headed to Lars’s cubicle. He smiled as both agents glanced up. A thought struck him—both Lars Hartlock and Jack Devane had a foot in the bureau’s early retirement plan. Maybe there could be room for promotion after all.
He turned the corner and ran smack into Agent Ed Major. The man shoved him against the wall.
“Whoa. Sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going.” Major didn’t merely growl, he snarled. “Nobody wants you here, Tennessee. Why don’t you just leave?” He jabbed Rafe in the bicep, then pushed past him down the hall.
Rafe grabbed the file he’d dropped.
Major’s partner, the rookie Snead, gave a little shrug. “Ed’s just . . . well, he, uh . . .”
“Don’t sweat it, kid.” Rafe shook his head.
Snead nodded, then fled in the trail of his partner.
Ed Major was going to be a pain in Rafe’s heel, that was for sure. What was his game? Why did he seem to hate Rafe, personally? He’d have to figure it out. Later.
He wiped his palm on his slacks and gripped the case file tighter as he entered Hartlock and Devane’s cubicle. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me about a specific case on the list. It was one the two of you handled.”
Caution flickered in their eyes. He could understand. They had to feel like he was about to question the way they did their jobs, and they had at least ten more years in the bureau than he did.
“What can we help you with?” Hartlock asked.
“Right now, I’m only reviewing a file.” Rafe shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Verifying the information.”
Devane raised a single brow. They didn’t want him here—none of them did. They’d made that abundantly clear yesterday when the rest of the agents gave him the cold shoulder. But what choice did he have?
He was doing the best he could.
“Which file?” Devane’s bald spot had snatched more space than hair follicles.
Rafe opened the folder and flipped through its contents. “The Tate file. Do either of you remember the case?” His presence meant the boundaries had been set, and he had to proceed with caution or he’d alienate the two people who knew most about the case.
Both men sat straighter. They made eye contact. For a fleeting second. If Rafe hadn’t been looking for it, he would’ve missed it. These two knew he’d chosen the one case that would draw attention if he solved it.
“I do.” Hartlock scratched the back of his head. “Hard case.”
Rafe pulled out a report and glanced over it, even though he’d all but memorized the file. “I wondered if there’s anything additional in the search for the prime suspect. There’s been no update for more than two years.”
Hartlock shook his head. The blend of gray through his dark hair gave the impression of distinction, maturity. “We did what we could at the time—put out a BOLO . . . have an alert on the social security number . . . staked out the home address and that of known friends. Suspect has no family. Those measures are still in effect as far as I know.”
“You seem to recall the case very well.” Rafe hated the way they stared at him like a nasty bug needing to be squashed under their shoes.
“Of course we remember it. A federal judge was murdered. Not likely to forget much of that case.” Devane leaned back in his chair.
“There’ve been no hits? No leads on the person of interest? Not even a wild-goose chase?” Hard to believe. A quack or two always called in a sighting.
Hartlock laughed. “Did you read her file? See what she did for a living?”
Rafe nodded but pulled the sheet anyway. “Psychology. Freelanced for us. Gave several training seminars.” A real smart cookie. He’d attended one of her seminars on profiling years ago. From what he recalled, she was good. And attractive with that almost-white blonde hair and slim figure. They’d even shared a cup of coffee afterward. Perhaps that was another reason Rafe was drawn to this particular case.
“Right.” Hartlock lifted a shoulder and brushed lint from his jacket. “She knows how to hide. If she doesn’t want to be found, we ain’t gonna find her.”
True. “What about this?” He lifted the document he’d found shoved in the bottom of the evidence box. Was listed as trash from the scene.
Devane took the document, glanced it over, then handed it to Hartlock. “Never saw this before. Where’d you get it?”
“Found it in the evidence box. So, y’all didn’t follow up on this?”
Hartlock studied the single piece of evidence before passing it back to Rafe. “Nope. Never saw it. Probably not even connected to the murder.”
Maybe not, but Rafe’s curiosity was piqued. It’d been easy enough to run the name through an Internet search, determine the legitimacy of the person and his current status. Rafe had and discovered Hayden Simpson was the police commissioner of Hopewell, Louisiana. That fact alone warranted further investigation.
Hartlock continued.
“It could’ve been missed. We handled the case hard for a couple of weeks, then the attempted murder of the governor happened. We were assigned that case, and since the governor was alive, that took top priority.”
Rafe swallowed, understanding. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply you took shortcuts.” They hadn’t. It was yet another piece of evidence of being overworked and undermanned. And now the bureau was cutting again.
Maybe he was grasping the impossible. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t know you were assigned to the attempt on the governor.” Talk about high-profile cases hitting at the same time.
Devane smiled. “We know it’s tough on you to come into an office where you don’t know anybody and have to do follow-up. Nobody wants that duty.”
“I don’t mind it at all. It’s okay. I just want to pull my weight around here.”
“I get that.” Hartlock bobbed his head. “Respect it.”
“So I’m following up every possible lead I can find. Even the extremely remote ones.”
“Bad deal you picked this case right off the bat.” Devane scratched his head. “We did everything we could with the information we had, and nothing’s come up since. It was too smooth. Too professional.”
Professional. Like someone who knew how to leave a clean crime scene.
“Do you think this goddaughter could’ve really shot him?” He couldn’t quite match the confident woman he’d met years ago with a cold-blooded murderer.
Hartlock steepled his hands over his desk. “I think so. I worked with her on a couple of cases. She was always a bit of a loner . . . Tate raised her. She knew how to handle a firearm. Knew how we’d investigate.” He dropped his palms flat to his desk. “If she didn’t kill him, why’d she flee the scene?”
The same question had plagued Rafe from the moment he’d read the file. Innocent people didn’t run. Guilty ones did. “If she shot him, why did the security guard’s statement reflect that, in his opinion, she was devastated by the shooting?”
Hartlock snorted. “You know as well as I do that a rent-a-cop’s opinion doesn’t matter a hill of beans. He wasn’t trained in observation. But most important maybe she was actually showing guilt and the guy thought she was devastated. She does have a master’s degree.”
Another good point. Rafe smiled. “Thanks for the info.”
“If we can help you in any way . . .” Devane pushed to his feet. Hartlock did as well.
“I appreciate that.” Rafe closed the folder and moved to exit. “I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory before.”
“No problem. We understand the stress.” Hartlock clapped him on the shoulder. “So, where do you go from here?”
Rafe smiled and waved the trash document. “Hopewell, Louisiana.”
The sun filtered through the cypress trees, casting prisms of light over the bayou. Louisiana experienced a nice October afternoon. A little overcast, cooler than average. A perfect day for fishing.
Hayden made another cast. A glimmer of light to his right turned his head.
Bella, his best friend, adjusted the camera lens, then smiled.
He waved her over to the pier.
“Any bites?” She plopped onto the pier beside him, set her camera in its case, and nodded toward the red-and-white bobber lazing atop the water.
The hint of fish hung over the bayou, mixing with the clean smell of dirt. Hayden hauled in a deep breath, letting the soothing scent of home wash over him. “Nah. I think I’m just feeding the fish.” He squinted at her. The afternoon sun caught the reddish hues of her short hair. “Get any good pictures?”
“I think so. We’ll see how they turn out.” She grabbed a Diet Coke from the cooler and took a swig. “I think these should finish out my ‘Seasons’ series.”
“That’s good. Sun’s about to go down and the temp will drop pretty fast. We should head back.” He stood and pulled in his line. “Can’t wait to see your shots.” He meant it. Bella was one talented photographer, that was certain.
She shoved to her feet, dusted off her jeans, and lifted her camera case. She slung the strap over her shoulder and reached for the soft-side cooler. “Hope it turns out like I see it in my mind.” She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.
He laughed as he reached for the tackle box. “You creative types . . . always seeing stuff in your head.”
Her black Labrador, Chubbers, bounded up to them, tail wagging.
“Hey, don’t knock it, buddy.” She rubbed Chubbers behind the ears before leading the way up the path to his cabin. “Speaking of knocking, have you heard from Emily?”
His steps faltered. “Not a word. She still isn’t speaking to me.”
“She’ll come around. Give her time.”
“Yeah, so you keep saying. At least she calls Mom every day or so.”
“There is that.” She kicked a stone from the path, rounding the curve to his storage shed.
He hadn’t spoken to Emily since she’d left his office days ago. “She doesn’t appreciate me taking over for Dad. And with her being bipolar . . .” Shaking his head, Hayden shoved open the shed door and slipped the tackle box inside on the shelf. “I think she keeps seeing Boyd just to tick me off.” He set his rod in its reserved space.
“Could be.” Bella handed him the cooler. “Why don’t you try acting as if you like him for a while and see what she does?”
“Are you kidding me? You know how he is. The guy’s a drunk . . . a loser . . . a troublemaker with a capital T.”
“I didn’t say you had to really like him, just give Emily the impression you do.” She shrugged.
“I’m the police commissioner. How would it look if I start hanging out with the hoodlum? That’d do wonders for my new contract negotiations.”
Bella reached out a hand and stopped him. “Are you really worried about having your contract renewed?”
He wanted to shrug it off but couldn’t. “Marshall’s been making noise about wanting my job. He’s talked with the city council and put a bug in their ear.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Marshall Abernathy is the definition of good ole boy. He has no law enforcement experience.”
“He was in the ROTC. An officer.”
Bella rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, that’s such a great background for being police commissioner.”
“Heard he completed a criminal-justice course.”
“Let me guess . . . online.”
“Either way, he’ll have the degree.” Despite his best attempts not to, Hayden sweated the situation.
“And you have ten years of experience.”
“You know what people say—time for new blood. Fresh ideas, welcoming technology, and all that.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him toward his cabin. “You’re the most amazing thing that ever happened to this town.”
“I’m doing my level best to keep my nose clean. Everything I do is under scrutiny now that Marshall’s in the game.”
“You’ll be fine.” They stopped at the steps. “Everybody knows you’re an awesome commissioner.”
He concentrated on Chubbers nosing the hedge. “Maybe so, but you know how Marshall is. He’ll dig and dig to find something I’ve done that’ll make me look bad, and he won’t hesitate to tell everybody and his brother. There are a few on the council who’d love a reason to replace me.” Like Caleb Montgomery, who thought because of his placement on the council, Hayden should ignore Mrs. Montgomery’s habit of speeding.
He reached for the railing, one foot on the bottom step. “So I can’t be seen hanging out with Boyd for any reason. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. He’s married, and it’s plain wrong of him and Em to be involved. I’ve prayed and prayed that she’d see the light.”
“In your praying, did you remember the Scripture about not judging?”
Not for the first time, Hayden wondered about his best friend’s spiritual background. “Well, yes, but I also know 1 Timothy 4, which basically says to point things out to our brothers and sisters in Christ.”
“Just read James 5:19 when you get a chance.” She squeezed his arm. “But it’ll all work out. You’ll see. Emily will come to her senses and dump Boyd, and the council will see Marshall for the idiot he is.”
She knew the exact Scripture? She’d told him years ago she was mad at God, but he hadn’t realized she was so well versed. There was hope she’d see the light. He grinned. “Spoken like a true friend. But I hope you’re right.” He nodded toward her Jeep. “You coming to Mom’s for supper tonight? She’s frying catfish.”
She smacked her lips. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Didn’t think so.”
She laughed. “I do so hate to be a foregone conclusion, but when it comes to Ardy’s cooking, I’m hooked.”
“Then we’ll see you around five-ish.”
He gave a final wave as Bella climbed into her truck.
Lord, please let her be right about my contract being renewed and Emily coming to her senses. And please let it be soon. Real soon.
Chapter Five
“The only secrets are the secrets that keep themselves.”
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
Day 33
This was way too easy.
I sat in the chair facing the new account officer at the bank. He smiled a wide, Cheshire-cat smile as he explained all the benefits of my checking and savings accounts. While he had nice eyes and a normal nose, his smile stretched clear across his face, revealing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. It was because of this single feature that I couldn’t stop staring. Those had to be Lumineers or something. Nobody had such perfect teeth without help.
