Our Little Secret (Jake Hancock Private Investigator Mystery series Book 5)

by Dan Taylor

  A second later, spotting me straightaway, the sheriff walks through the door. He’s not in uniform. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and a shirt that looks familiar. He tips his hat at me, and then goes over to the bar. Where he orders what looks like a bourbon.

  He comes straight over, but doesn’t present his hand for shaking. Asking, “Giles?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sheriff Dale Constable. But you can go ahead and call me Dale.” He takes a seat. Takes a sip of bourbon as he looks at me with slits for eyes.

  Then he says, “Nice shirt you got on there, Giles.”

  “Thanks.”

  There’s a curious look in his eyes.

  Then he says, “So what is it you wanted to know?”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know I won’t be keeping you long, Sheriff. In the time between phoning you and meeting now, I’ve had a little look around your town, and I think it’d make quite the tourist spot.”

  He takes a sip of his bourbon. “That’s good. You said something about…wanting to know a little information concerning Hickston’s crime rate?”

  We talk a little while about the sheriff’s “neck of the woods.” I don’t get the impression he’s keeping his cards close to his chest. He speaks candidly, in fact, talking of “a flare up of a prescription drug problem a few months back,” which they stamped out by cutting off the addicts at the source: “a local chiropractor who was behind on mortgage payments and child support.” Other minor offenses on weekends are a problem, “but nothing worse than you’d find in New York or Chicago. Drunk stuff, pretty much what you’d find in any place with a tavern or two.” I can’t help but like the guy. He’s a chilled-out dude, with warm blue eyes, and skin like sun-baked cow’s leather. He’s genial and welcoming, and even says, in a voice like a Texas Ranger on barbiturates, “You’d fit in nicely in this town. A man with values like you have.”

  I disagree. There isn’t a titty bar for miles, but I say, “Why thanks, Sheriff.”

  But the acid test is still to come. I look over the sheriff’s shoulder at the drunk guy, and we make fleeting eye contact.

  The whole time the sheriff talked about his town, he sat back in his seat, occasionally swirling his bourbon in its glass, the ice cubes making a chinking sound. But now he leans forward slightly, says, “Say, Giles, you said you’re from out of town. Now where would that be?”

  “A little place called Cedar’s Valley, a town ten miles north of Big Bear. No idea why they added the ‘Valley’. Place is flatter than a wrestler’s bust.”

  He smiles. But there’s something in that smile I don’t like. “You traveled from there today, all the way here?”

  “Sure did.”

  The next five seconds or so, the sheriff has a wry smile on his face. As though he’s farted and is waiting to see if he’ll get away with it.

  He goes to speak, but the drunk guy at the bar comes over. Staggering, just like I expected him to. He pats the sheriff on the shoulder, surprising him.

  I act all like what’s this guy doin’? Looking around the bar as though he’s a lunatic.

  “Oh, hey, Bill,” the sheriff says, after slowly turning to look at him.

  “Hey, Sheriff. Say, I saw the strangest thing this morning. Early,” Bill says.

  “What’s that?”

  25.

  Twelve minutes earlier…

  I WALK INTO the bar, having parked my busted-up rental outside. There’s only a family in the bar, who look like they might be passing through. They’re currently waiting on food, and the dad looks like he might have regretted ordering. Oh, and a sixty-something drunk guy sitting at the bar, staring at the row of whiskies standing on a shelf behind the bar.

  Shit.

  Figuring the family are of no use, and only having the drunk guy to work with, I go up to the latter. I take the stool next to him.

  I say, “What are you drinking, friend?”

  He looks at me with glassy eyes. “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’ll get you that drink and then we can talk about it.”

  He goes back to staring at those whiskies. “Now that’s a funny response. Why’d I need a drink for that?”

  “You don’t. But I figured I’d buy you one anyway. Call it charity.”

  “Call it a no, then. I don’t need your charity.”

  We sit in silence ten seconds or so. Then I decide it’s now or never.

  Casual, I say, “You know the sheriff?”

  He looks at me again. “What about him?”

  “He a buddy of yours or anything like that?”

  Long stare. “Now why do ya ask a question like that?”

  “I’m just making conversation, is all.”

  “Goin’ around asking fellas if they know the sheriff without givin’ your name doesn’t sound like jus’ conversation to me.”

  “Well, you got me there, I suppose.”

  The barman goes past. I tell him to give the old timer a glass of the best whiskey off the top shelf behind him.

  When he’s got his drink, the old timer says, “Never been fishin’ with the guy, if that’s the sort of thing you mean.”

  “It’s a start.”

  He swallows the glass in one. “If you’re lookin’ for gossip about the sheriff, I ain’t the one to give it to you.”

  “No, I’m not looking for gossip. I was just making sure you’re the type of guy I could confide in about something I saw earlier today.”

  “Something to do with the sheriff?”

  “Maybe. Just maybe.”

  Old timer raises his empty glass to the barman. “Okay, you’ve got my interest.”

  “But maybe you don’t have mine. These fishing trips. They’ve never happened because you didn’t get invited or because the sheriff wouldn’t have ever wanted you there?”

  He fixes me with a curious stare, then says, “They never happened because I don’t even know if the sheriff’s a fisherman or not.”

  “If it turned out he was, would you go with the guy?”

  “If he gave me my driver’s license back, I’d tell him I’d go, but then on the day, I’d say that the Mrs. sold my tackle in a yard sale the day before the trip. I’d spend the afternoon laughing my ass off in here.”

  Bingo!

  The barman goes past again. I tell him he can go right ahead and take that bottle down from the shelf, to save his arm from all the lifting.

  When the old timer’s glass is full again, he says, “You going to tell me about why you’re so interested in the sheriff?”

  “It’s not so much the sheriff. I don’t know the guy. I just saw something curious, is all. Wanted to know what you’d make of it, as a resident of Hickston.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A girl who used to live around here. Speaking of being raped.”

  Old timer leans in, lowers his voice. “By the sheriff?”

  “No. But she said she’d been to see the guy, and he wasn’t that concerned about her wellbeing.”

  Still his voice low. “Like he didn’t care?”

  “That’s one way to put it. Another way would be to say that he ignored her complaint. Now, I don’t know who to believe. Girl seemed genuine, but she could just as well be lying. That’s why I decided to look up the sheriff, and try to speak to him.”

  “About this rape?”

  “Right after we’ve spoken about the weather. Problem is, I’m not the type of guy the sheriff might talk to about this allegation. I’m from out of town, and my profession might disagree with him. Sheriff thinks we’re meeting to shoot the breeze about Hickston, that I’m interested in the stellar job he’s doing here.”

  He sits and thinks a second. Looks at the bottle of whisky. Then says, “And you want me to speak to him about it?”

  “That would be imposing. And I know better than to go into some town the folk don’t know me and start imposing.”

  Silence a second. “What wouldn’t be imposing?”

  “I supp
ose, if, say, some guy happened to mention he’d seen the girl this morning, walking away from town like she’d been dragged through a field backwards, some guy other than me, I’d be able to gauge the sheriff’s reaction.”

  “And you want that guy to be me?”

  I take out my wallet. “The gig pays well.”

  He puts his hand over my wallet. “It’s not money I’m interested in, Mr. My concern is livin’ here afterwards.” He nods at the wallet. “I take it there ain’t enough money in there to alleviate that concern. There’s a reason we’re sitting here talking and you haven’t given me your name yet.”

  I put it away. “No, you’re probably right about that. And you might’ve noticed I haven’t asked for yours, either.”

  “No, you haven’t.” He takes a swallow of whisky and then fills up his glass again. Then he sits and thinks a couple seconds. “I’m probably going to regret this, but I’ll do it. What do you want me to ask the sheriff?”

  26.

  “WHAT’S THAT, BILL?” the sheriff asks.

  “Now you’re going to have to take this with a real big pinch of salt. Wife was out mowing the lawn this mornin’, said…” His voice trails off. “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this. It’s probably nothin’.”

  “Maybe we can do this another time,” the sheriff says, patting old Bill on the shoulder. “If it’s nothing.”

  Sheriff turns to me, as though that’s the end of the conversation.

  But Bill comes through for me, says, “In fact, I’ll just go ahead and get it off my chest. Mary won’t get a wink of sleep tonight if I don’t ask.”

  Sheriff smiles warmly. If there’s impatience in it, I don’t see it. Then he says, “Well, if it makes Mary sleep better tonight, then I’d be glad to help. The problem is—”

  Bill cuts him off. “Mary says she seen a girl walking through town. High as a kite. Hair all a mess. And…”

  Here’s the money shot. I lean forward slightly. Bill continues, “Annabelle somebody. Mary doesn’t know her last name. Muttering about some unsavory thing.”

  Sheriff glances at me, smiles apologetically, a hint of embarrassment there. Here he was telling me the worst they’d seen in Hickston in recent years was a bunch of pill-popping residents and the odd fight on a Friday night. All of a sudden we’re talking rape.

  Sheriff could slip up, end up saying, “Annabelle English said she’d been raped?” Something like that, which reveals he knows more than he’s letting on. He could’ve jumped to a conclusion I would’ve deemed jarring, almost telling. Like being the first man in the conversation to use the word rape.

  But all I get is a negative result. The sheriff asks Bill, “What kind of unsavory thing?” Negative, could be a false negative, but it doesn’t seem so yet, with how cool the sheriff’s acting about all this.

  Bill freezes, doesn’t know what to say next. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, at least according to Annabelle. I’d have expected the sheriff to shut this conversation down really quickly, if he knew what the “unsavory” thing was.

  Despite the whisky, he thinks fast on his feet. “Now it wouldn’t be my place to say. It’s a small community and I don’t want to get people talking about something that may’ve not ever happened. Wouldn’t be right on the boy.”

  Sheriff says, “That’s real prudent of you, Bill. This sounds like something we’ll need to talk about later. Right now I need to finish up my conversation with Mr. Baker here.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Could be nothing.”

  Sheriff nods, ending the conversation. “Could be nothing. We’ll get to finding out later on.”

  Bill walks back over to the bar after nodding at both of us.

  Sheriff played it real cool. He avoided the trap I set for him. As I said, negative result.

  He turns to me after watching Bill walk off. Says, “Real close-knit community we have here. Each one looking after the other.” He leans back on his stool, swirling the whisky in its glass again, making clinking sounds with the ice cubes. But quieter this time, from the ice cubes being smaller. Then he says, “But as good a community as it is, I don’t see why any tourists would want to visit this place. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got hospitality, but hospitality only goes so far. Tourists want to visit more exciting places, I reckon.” He pauses. “Say, when you were looking around, coming to the conclusion that it would make a nice tourist spot, where did you look?”

  “Just around.”

  “Yeah, but where?”

  “Took a drive out east, checked out the motel. It’s one of the nicer Motel 6s. Then I checked out the bars. Well, I had intended to, but I happened on this place first. And when I sat down I didn’t want to move.”

  The sheriff smiles. “Is that all you did? Warmed your butt on that stool there?”

  “Yep.”

  His smile grows. “Then I’d better show you around proper, Giles.”

  “Gee, that’s a kind invitation, Sheriff. But I think I’ve seen all I need to see here.”

  “Is that so? Well okay, then.”

  I stand up, and this time the sheriff presents his hand for shaking. I look down, go to shake it, but notice the cuff as I go to take his hand. I stop. And then I realize what the sheriff meant when he said, “Nice shirt you have on there, Giles.”

  The sheriff would think so, with us having on the same shirt. Oh, boy. Shit’s about to get really interesting.

  27.

  IT’S MY TURN to have to play it cool. “Hey! Look at that. Nice taste in shirts you have there, Sheriff.”

  He takes my hand, leans in slightly and starts shaking it.

  Then he says, “Where’d you get yours, Giles?”

  “It was a present from my wife. She travels a lot, so I couldn’t say.”

  “Pretty unique design, wouldn’t you say?”

  I glance down at it. “I wouldn’t say so. I see shirts like this all the time. In fact, I went to see my accountant earlier on in the week, guy was wearing the same shirt if you squinted.”

  His eyebrows narrow. “In Cedar Valley?”

  “I thought about getting an accountant on the East Coast, but I didn’t fancy the commute.”

  He ignores my quip, gets all sheriff-serious on my ass. “I got mine in town here. I don’t much like my wife buying my shirts. I’m pretty particular about them; it’s a funny foible I have.”

  “Funny, I have the same sort of quirk, but with bread. I’m very particular about bread.”

  He firms up his grip. “Cute, Giles.”

  “Well, I think I’ll stop shaking your hand now, Sheriff.”

  I try to take it away, but he doesn’t let go. He’s got a grip like a mule, with hands instead of hooves, if that makes any sense.

  “Or not. I hope you can drive stick. I’ll do the steering,” I say.

  He lets go, and wipes my hand sweat onto his shirt.

  Then he goes back to being his leather-skinned, cordial self and talking in that slow way of his. “I hope you enjoy your drive back to Cedar Valley. I’m looking forward to all the new tourists we’ll have around.”

  “I’m sure they’ll love the place.”

  Sheriff tips his hat at me and then walks out.

  28.

  SO THAT DIDN’T GO as well as expected. The sheriff’s onto me like a porn star on a sunbed.

  Change of plan. It’s probably time to leave Hickston. I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.

  I decide to head on over to the Motel 6 to pick up Annabelle. I’ll decide what to do with her while we’re driving away. Despite the sheriff’s hostility, I’m still not sold on her story of rape. I’ll phone Megan on the way to the motel, tell her everything I’ve learned, and she can make a decision one way or another on how she’s going to handle the situation.

  I leave the bar and get in my rental.

  Take the road that heads east: Hooper.

  It’s a nice quiet road when I’m out of the town center. There are corn fields on o
ne side and rapeseed on the other.

  I take out my cell and dial Megan’s number.

  When she answers, she sounds drunk and totally oblivious to the fact I’m investigating her boyfriend and that she should be doing the same her end. “Hey, Jake. How are you doing?”

  “You sound—”

  “Really happy, I know. You’re not going to believe what happened.”

  I think about the chances of me and the sheriff buying the same shirt, and then both of us turning up wearing it, thinking maybe I might.

  I try to interrupt her, but she steamrolls right over me. “So, I arranged to go around to Julius’s. I did everything you said, with the…foreshadowing, was that the word? Anyway, I was in the middle of checking Julius’s computer, and then he came in and caught me.”

  “Okay.”

  “We got into a big fight. I tried that bit about the webcam, but he called bullshit.”

  “Okay. Megan, I’ve got—”

  “Just let me finish, Jake. We got into a blazing row about trusting one another and whatnot. And he was totally right about everything he said. I really should have trusted him. I don’t know what I was thinking hiring you.”

  “Megan—”

  “So I came clean about my suspicions about what happened last weekend. He came clean about everything. And I mean everything. Turns out he was just visiting a buddy up in Hickston. He didn’t want to tell me because…well, this buddy of his, she’s a girl. Anne Pickleton. An old friend from college. He didn’t want me getting the wrong idea. He even took her to the store to help pick out the jewelry for me. It’s kinda ironic when you think about it.”