One eyebrow shot up when he realized what I was hinting at. “No.”
“When are you going to Atwood?”
“Right after I leave here. Based on my experience and professional opinion, the fact that our prime suspect is missing increases the chance that he is up to something. It sure doesn’t put him in a good light.”
He had a point. But I kept going back to the now-missing snowing death scene snow globe. It didn’t mean Benjamin Arnold wasn’t involved. But if he was, there had to have been someone in town he was working with. And who might that be? Even though I was not a police officer, it seemed to me that first checking then eliminating the people who were closest to Jerrell, or were affected by his crimes, made the most sense. At least we knew how to find them, for the most part.
Clint cleared his throat and put the memo pad back in his pocket. “So you about finished up with your therapy session?”
“Uh . . .” What was he getting at?
“If you are, I thought maybe you’d like to get out of town for a few hours. I know you’ve been spending a lot of your time at Curio Finds since you’ve been back.”
How would he know that?
“According to Mark Weston, anyway. He says you’re always there. In fact, that’s where I thought I’d find you today. But when I stopped by, Pinky said to check here.”
“Pinky and I trade off on Sundays, and sometimes a day off during the week, so we don’t both have to work all seven days.”
“Sounds like you have a worse schedule than I do. Ever thought of hiring someone to cover some of those hours?”
“We’ve thought of it, yes. But that involves a whole other level of issues, like workers’ comp insurance and finding someone we can completely trust. We’ll see. What did you mean about getting out of town for a few hours?”
“I thought you might want to ride along with me to Atwood when I check in with the Arnolds.”
That was unexpected. Did he feel sorry for me, being stuck at Curio Finds month after month with little time off, or was he planning to pump me for information, convinced that I was somehow involved in the murder of Jerrell Powers? I figured that was probably it. But that didn’t stop me from saying yes. After all, it would be a nice break from Brooks Landing.
Even if it was with the irritating, but nevertheless handsome, assistant chief of police. Maybe I could pump him for a little information in return. And I had gotten in a calming cleaning session. Which would be helpful before my hours-long journey with Clint, especially if he drank a hot beverage on the way.
I left Clint to finish his coffee and slipped into the bedroom to get ready. I changed quickly out of my jeans into gray slacks, a black sweater, and black boots. Not too casual, not too dressy. I brushed my teeth and hair, put on a little makeup, and was set to go in no time. Clint looked from me to his watch when I returned, gave a short nod and a small smile of approval, then stood.
“You might want to grab a jacket. It’s about sixty degrees.”
I knew what the temperature was, but decided at that moment I would have to pick my battles with Clinton Lonsbury, or we would be bickering over every little thing, instead of every other thing. On the way out, I pulled a gray, thigh-length rain-or-shine coat from the entry closet and threw it over my arm.
As I settled in the front seat of a police car for the second time in my life, I felt much more relaxed than the first time. When Clint turned the ignition, a voice crackled and made me jump. A Buffalo County dispatcher was sending a deputy to check on an open door at a business in a nearby town. Clint pulled the radio mouthpiece from its holder on the dashboard. “Brooks Landing PD Three-one-two to Buffalo County Dispatch.”
“Go ahead, Three-one-two,” a deep male voice answered.
“I’m ten-eight with a rider, en route to Atwood, Minnesota. Starting mileage: five-eight-six-two-two.”
“Copy, at ten twenty-three.”
Clint retrieved a logbook from the inside pocket of his door and jotted the date and mileage on the top sheet. “We’re off,” he said as he fastened his seat belt then put the car in drive and pulled onto the road in a seemingly simultaneous motion.
He glanced my way when he pressed down on the accelerator. “Have you recovered from your major shock the other night?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know if it will ever seem real.”
“It’s the kind of thing real therapy might help with.”
Pick your battles. “Have you ever had therapy to help you deal with things you’ve been through as a police officer?” My words came out with sugar coating around them.
It took Clint a minute to answer. “Well, um, no.”
Aha.
• • • • • • • • • • • •
The time and miles passed with not much dialogue between us, outside of observations about the small towns and countryside along the way. As I stole the occasional peek at Clint, it struck me that he was even more attractive when he was in the role of a strong, silent type. I was relieved when we finally reached our destination at the Arnold home in Atwood, so I could quit fighting the urge to look at the guy.
The house was an average-looking middle-class rambler most likely built in the 1960s. It had a large picture window framed with black shutters that looked nice against the gray siding. We got out of the police car and followed the sidewalk to the front steps. I stayed back a ways to give Clint room when he rang the doorbell.
Mrs. Arnold opened the front door and stared at Clint’s uniform for a second then gave me a quick once-over. Without a smile or a greeting, she let us into the house and led the way to the kitchen, where Mr. Arnold was reading the newspaper at the table. He stood and shook Clint’s hand and nodded at me. I nodded back and we all settled on chairs around the table.
Morton and Penny Arnold were a couple that seemed ill matched, at least appearance-wise. He was well over six feet tall with a barrel chest and long stray gray hairs that poked out from his nose, ears, eyebrows, and throat area. She was thin and over a foot shorter than her husband. All her visible hairs were on her head and neatly combed into a severe bun. I challenged myself to spot a single errant strand, but there was not one to be found.
If Assistant Chief Clint Lonsbury were part of an interrogation team, he’d surely be the one who would take the “bad cop” role. I doubted he had a charming, schmoozing bone in his professional body. I folded my hands and kept them on my lap so I wouldn’t bump elbows with either Mrs. Arnold or Clint. Both of them were serious—“stern” would be more a more accurate word—during the interview. I was the innocent observer who’d gotten out of Brooks Landing for a little break but was wishing I was back there. Or anywhere else. Morton moved his eyes from his wife to Clint and back again, as each one spoke. He appeared as uncomfortable as I was.
Clint squeezed his eyebrows together and leaned closer to Mrs. Arnold. “. . . So you have had no communication whatsoever with Benjamin in over a week?”
“Officer Lonsbury, that is what I have told you two times already: when you phoned, and not one minute ago when you asked again. I see no reason to repeat myself a third time.”
“How about his friends? If you give me their names, I’ll follow up with them.”
Mrs. Arnold shook her head and shrugged. “We learned the hard way that birds of a feather do flock together. Our son fell in with some hooligans in high school, and he’s been skirting the law ever since. He made one bad choice after the next. We tried to do right by the boy, but he turned his back on all of it. We told him he always had a place here if he was willing to toe the line, but we’ve had to accept that might never happen.” Her face softened a tad.
Clint turned his focus on Mr. Arnold. “And the names of Benjamin’s friends, if you would?”
Mr. Arnold lifted weary eyes and met Clint’s. “We don’t know of any. Ma’s right. Benjamin burned about every bridge he crossed since high school. As far as his friends, we sure don’t know any by name.”
Clint squeezed
his lips together then relaxed them. “Do you have photos of Benjamin we can have a look at?”
Mrs. Arnold squinted her eyes together as if she were in pain. “You’re a policeman. You must have seen those pictures they take. What they call mug shots.”
“I have seen Benjamin’s photo, but appearances can change. Back when those were taken, two or three years ago, he was sporting a reddish auburn beard and had longer bleached blond hair. His face looked like it was sunburned and had an angry expression on it.”
Not unlike the current one on Mrs. Arnold’s face, I thought.
Mrs. Arnold raised her eyebrows. “Well. I guess Father and I have not seen him with that look before.” She left the room and returned with a small photo album a minute later. She set it gently on the table and opened to the last page. It was a professional high school picture, the kind that went in a yearbook.
“This was taken his junior year. He didn’t want to get one taken his senior year. He dropped out as soon as he turned eighteen at the end of September. Once he became an adult, there was not much more we could seem to do with him. He moved out, and you know the rest of the story,” Mrs. Arnold said.
I knew very little of his story, but it was not my place to ask questions. I looked at Benjamin’s photo. He could have been nice looking if he’d smiled, or at least hadn’t tried so hard to look like a thug. He had large, close-set brown eyes and an intense stare. Without the beard, I noticed his chin was small and would have given his face a weak appearance if it weren’t for his strong, cold eyes. His hair was a reddish auburn, and his skin was fairly light, and apparently prone to burning instead of tanning.
“He was always a handful,” Mr. Arnold added.
Clint reached over and turned back a few pages and glanced at the photos. There weren’t many, and none of Benjamin in groups, like at a birthday party or a ball game. Was that because of the type of kid he was or because his parents limited his activities?
“Your son must’ve been kind of a loner,” Clint said.
Mrs. Arnold seemed taken aback. “Well, there weren’t many playmates in the neighborhood.” She left it at that.
Clint nodded. “You have my number so be sure to call if Benjamin shows up or if you hear from him. As I told you over the phone, I need to talk to him before I can clear him of any involvement in Jerrell Powers’s death.”
The way Mr. and Mrs. Powers each barely nodded, I wasn’t sure if they would contact Clint or not.
We stopped by the Atwood police station before we left town. It was housed in an old building that likely dated back to pioneer days. An older gent sat behind a desk the size of a judge’s bench. His few remaining hairs were snow-white and it was entirely possible he was eighty years old. I’d never seen a more ancient man in uniform, but he was as distinguished looking as could be.
“What can I do for you folks?” His voice was clear, and so were his royal blue eyes.
Clint hesitated a minute before he stepped up to the desk. “I’m Assistant Chief Clinton Lonsbury, Brooks Landing PD, and this is Cami Brooks.”
“Camryn,” I said.
“Oh, yes, Assistant Chief Lonsbury and . . . Camryn. I’m Bill. I’m retired from the force, but I couldn’t let it go completely. So I help out here and there at the office.” He shifted his full attention to Clint. “I understand you’re on the lookout for one of our former, more infamous citizens. Benjamin Arnold.”
“Correct. He seems to have gone missing.”
“That’s what I heard. Have you talked to his probation officer?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, I know that she’s looking for him, too.”
Clint nodded. “You got her name and phone number handy?”
“Sure.” He tapped his left temple. “Right in here. Want me to write it down?”
Clint pulled out a memo pad and pen from his pocket. “I got it. Go ahead.”
Bill recited the information and Clint wrote it down. “Appreciate your help, Bill.”
“That Arnold boy has been in trouble since he was a young’un in high school. A real shame for his parents and the whole community. And for him, too, of course. That goes without saying. Now to think he might be mixed up in a murder, that just takes the cake.”
“I can’t say he’s my prime suspect at this point. But he is my prime person of interest. Some evidence at the scene was compromised. . . .” My mind drifted to the moment I had grabbed the knife and I knew that was the evidence Clint was talking about. I broke out in a full-body flush, drawing first Bill’s, then Clint’s attention. Clint studied me for a second before he went on, “He’s at the top of the list of people I still need to talk to.”
Bill nodded slowly and surely. “Understood, and I’ll pass it on to our chief that you stopped by. And on a Sunday, too. I like a dedicated officer.”
Clint lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s part of the job.” He left Bill with a reminder to call if Benjamin Arnold showed up. Especially if he was spotted at his parents’ house. They had agreed to call the Brooks Landing police in the unlikely event that they heard from their son, but Clint was not convinced they would do that. Neither was I.
When we were back in Clint’s police car, he started the engine then jotted something on a logbook that lay on his center console. I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw he was recording the times of when we were at the Arnolds’ house and the Atwood police station.
“The halfway house where Jerrell Powers and Benjamin Arnold spent quality time together is in Hassock, about a twenty-minute detour on the way back to Brooks Landing. I wasn’t planning to stop there today, but it might not hurt. Unless you need to get back home at a specific time for something, that is.”
There was the cleaning, but on second thought . . . “No, I’m good.” I’d never been to a halfway house before, and I was curious what it was like. Clint threw me a questioning look, so I added, “No pressing plans for the rest of the day.”
He nodded and focused on the road ahead. “So how did you end up in our nation’s capital?”
That came out of left field. “Um, well, it sort of evolved. After my high school graduation, I moved to Chicago and attended the University of Illinois. I liked the art and the culture there, so I stayed. It was far enough away so it gave me a little break from frequent visits from family members.”
Clint threw me a sideways look. “That’s a problem for you?”
“Not anymore. Back then, with my brothers and sisters being so much older than me, it was like having six parents who were always giving me advice about nearly everything. What car to buy, what career to go into, what schools were good, what schools were bad, what kind of people to avoid, and so on. It was wearing on me. Putting a little distance between us was a little lonely, but freeing at the same time.”
“So you were in Chicago . . .”
“Yes. I majored in public affairs and did an internship for Ramona Zimmer, who was a state senator at that time.”
“In Minnesota or Illinois?”
“Illinois. Her husband had a job transfer to Minnesota toward the end of her second term. She stayed behind to finish her term when he moved, then joined him. Two years later she had made enough connections to run for the senate seat and won. It was a highly contested race and lots of money flowed to both her campaign and her opponent’s.”
“I remember that.”
“After she’d won the election, she contacted me. She’d liked my work ethic and offered me the position of legislative director.”
“As the top dog, huh?”
“No. That’d be the chief of staff.”
Clint nodded. “Shows you what I don’t know much about. What does the legislative director do?”
“You have to keep abreast of the issues, monitor the legislative schedule, make sure the assistants are doing their homework.”
“Sounds boring.”
“I liked it, and I didn’t have time to be bored.”
He grunted an
d pointed at a road sign. “Hassock. The name kind of makes me want to put my feet up.”
“It is Sunday. The day people are supposed to rest.”
“I guess.” He turned, headed down a long driveway, and parked in front of a brick building.
“It looks like an old schoolhouse,” I said.
“That was its original purpose, back when it was built. It was also a brothel at one time, but the pious folks around here got it shut down. Then the state bought it and turned it into a semisecure facility.”
“Which means?”
“The inmates are not locked down, like in other correctional facilities. But if they break one of the major rules, like not being in their bunks by eight o’clock at night, their probation is revoked and they go to jail.”
“Without passing go?”
Clint sort of smiled. We got out of his car and walked up to the steel entrance door. There was an intercom with a camera lens mounted on the frame next to it. Clint pushed the button.
“Can I help you?” The voice sounded like it belonged to a younger man.
“I’m Clinton Lonsbury, assistant chief of the Brooks Landing PD. And this is my partner for the day, Cami Brooks.”
“Camryn Brooks,” I corrected, as if anybody cared.
“I’m investigating a homicide and would like to talk to the person in charge, if he or she is available.”
“Will you hold up your ID in front of the camera, Assistant Chief Lonsbury?”
Clint pulled out his wallet and opened it, revealing his official police identification. Then he held it up for the person monitoring the security system.
“Okay, I’ll buzz you in.”
The door made a clicking sound and Clint pulled it open. He motioned for me to go first, and we stepped into a large area that held a number of seating possibilities. There were tables with chairs, couches, and stuffed chairs with varying amounts of cushioning. Two men sat at a table playing checkers, but the place was otherwise deserted. They both looked at me like I was the best thing they’d seen in a long time and I repressed the urge to hide behind Clint so they’d stop gawking.
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