Part III

Fake News

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ruby Mac blocked the doorway from the break room as Lehigh turned to head back to his office, his oversized mug filled to the brim with his favorite elixir.

“He’s on the move,” Ruby said in a low voice. “In a squad car, heading downtown.”

Lehigh nodded. Ruby had kept a close watch on Bobby Wills since they’d set him up with the fake evidence, so he needed no further explanation. “Where to? Downtown? The D.A.’s office?”

“The press. He’s going public with it.” Ruby jangled keys in her right hand. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

Lehigh took a big gulp of coffee, then set the mug down. “Can we catch him?”

Ruby laughed. “That’s why I said I’ll drive.”

They hustled out to a squad car, motor running in a no-parking zone in front of the building. “Setting a fine example for the community, I see,” Lehigh said with a smile.

“You want this guy nailed, or what?” Ruby gunned the engine and spit gravel behind them, tearing out of the lot. Once they hit solid pavement, she peeled rubber down the busy street, siren wailing.

“I see we’ve opted for the stealth approach,” Lehigh said.

“We’re a mile behind him,” Ruby said. “Hold on.” She slammed her foot on the accelerator and took a tire-squealing right turn at a red light. “Where’d all this traffic come from?” She zoomed around a slow truck pulling a full load of freshly baled hay. Lehigh dared not open his mouth to reply for fear of ingesting stray cow patties flying off the truck.

She turned off the siren a minute later and slowed to merely breakneck speed, pulling into the parking lot for Channel Six TV and parking in a handicapped spot in front. “Emergency parking,” she said before Lehigh could object.

Lehigh scrambled out of the cruiser and scanned the lot. Bobby Wills, still in uniform, stopped in his tracks, interrupting a fast-paced stroll toward the TV station’s front doors. His gaze rested on Lehigh and Ruby, and after a moment of hesitation, he broke into a run.

“Request for backup at Channel Six!” Ruby shouted into the radio mic. Bobby dashed along the side of the building and seemed certain to get around the corner before they could reach him. “What are you waiting for?” Ruby said to Lehigh.

Lehigh shook himself out of observer mode, jumped out of the car, and broke into a sprint. Though never a track star, Lehigh’s speed and height earned him a starting position as wide receiver as early as sophomore year—and double duty as a defensive back, covering his opponent’s fastest runners on pass plays. Years of working outdoors, felling trees, chopping wood and hauling debris had kept him in good shape. He gained ground quickly on Wills and thought he had a chance to catch him before he reached the entrance.

But he couldn’t match Ruby’s speed. She breezed by Lehigh and tackled Bobby a few steps past the corner of the building.

“Gotcha!” She slammed Bobby’s body to the ground and landed on top of him. Bobby let out a loud grunt as he sprawled face-first in the hard dirt, and a large yellow envelope skittered out of his hand.

“What—the—heck—” Bobby gasped for air and rolled to his back to look up at Ruby. “What’d you do that for?”

“Suppose you tell us,” she said, breathing hard and pointing at the envelope. “Or should I just look for myself?”

“Easy, Ruby.” Lehigh snagged the envelope off the ground and tore it open. He scanned the pages, confirming his suspicions that they contained copies of the bogus information Wadsworth had planted in the files.

“I can explain,” Bobby said.

“Best wait for your lawyer before you do,” Lehigh said. “Because you, my friend, are in a whole lot of trouble.”

***

“THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!” Commissioner Elliott Jackson slammed his open palm on the long black-topped table of the meeting room in the Mt. Hood County Commission Building. The table could seat at least a dozen people, but at the moment it held only four: Lehigh, Jackson, Ray Ferguson, and a thin, balding, bespectacled man with pale skin and a long, crooked nose whose name Lehigh had forgotten immediately. He hadn’t said four words other than his name since the start of the meeting, but those words had said plenty. He was a lawyer, representing the union of county workers—in this case, Bobby Wills.

“Unconscionable,” Ferguson echoed. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you!”

“It is outrageous,” the lawyer said, breaking his silence, “that an officer of the law can be assaulted in public by a fellow officer with impunity!”

“You mean,” Lehigh said with growing impatience, “a suspected felon was apprehended while attempting—”

“You had no reason to suspect any such thing!”

Lehigh stared at the lawyer, shocked to hear the words coming from his mouth while his mouth remained closed, lips unmoving. Only after the sound of the speaker’s voice registered did he realize that the person speaking was not the lawyer, but Elliott Jackson.

He turned to face Jackson, confirming the source of the words. “With all due respect, Commissioner, we had been watching Deputy Wills and had it on good authority that he—”

“Entrapment,” the lawyer said.

“Disgraceful!” Jackson shouted.

“Definitely not proper procedure,” Ferguson said, shaking his head.

“What the hell?” Lehigh faced each man in turn, not believing his ears. “We had him dead to rights, attempting to leak information—”

“Falsified information, by your own admission,” Ferguson said.

“Planted,” the lawyer said.

Lehigh counted to five, calming himself. He imagined actual steam coming out of his ears and wondered why they didn’t react to such a sight. Keeping his voice low and even, he addressed Ferguson. “You were the one who insisted we do something to stop the leaks.”

“The true leaks, yes,” Ferguson said. “Not this ‘fake news’ that you’re planting. Why, Deputy Wills clearly was trying to expose the cronyism and incompetence that surrounds our professional, sworn officers of the law on a daily basis. Isn’t that right, Felix?”

The lawyer, whose name, Lehigh gathered, was Felix, nodded, a somber expression on his face. “That’s correct, Ray. Absolutely.”

“You practically invited him to share the data with the press,” Jackson said with a snarl. “A bombshell like that, which hadn’t been disclosed to either side in this case, sitting in a ‘secret’ file in your office—what would you expect from a young man with a strong sense of justice and police procedure?”

“Strong sense of what?” Lehigh nearly came out of his chair. “The guy was heading straight to Bruce Bailey!”

“You don’t know that for certain,” the lawyer said.

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Lehigh collapsed back into his chair. “This is ridiculous.”

“It certainly is,” Jackson said. “And you’re going to make this right immediately. Mr. Anderson, I’ll personally make sure that Deputy Wills’ suspension is wiped off the books and that the sheriff reinstates him without prejudice or break in service. Will that satisfy your client?”

“I’ll make the offer,” the lawyer replied. “And as for the sheriff?”

“We’ll take the proper disciplinary actions,” Jackson said.

“Discipline? On me? Are you nuts?” Lehigh’s gaze swept from one man to the next in the room. All lawyers, except him, and none of them represented him. He kicked himself mentally for not bringing an attorney of his own. They’d ambushed him, and he’d played right into their hands.

But he refused to concede this time. He knew he was right, and no way he’d let them steamroll him. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

“Sit down!” Jackson shouted, also rising from his seat.

“You sit down.” Lehigh pushed Jackson’s chest with one flat paw. The commissioner thumped into his chair, his mouth agape. Lehigh leaned over the table, his face hovering above the other three, and pointed a long finger at each in turn. “Okay, guys. I see what’s going on here. You want to run this town like a circus, you go on ahead and call in the clowns. You want Wills reinstated, you can do it yourself. Pass an ordinance, do whatever. I’ll have no part of it.”

“It’s your duty as sheriff,” Jackson said in a half-hearted rumble.

“My duty is to enforce the law,” Lehigh said. “Which I can’t do if you guys are constantly in my face, begging favoritism for your cronies and minions. No, don’t deny it. Here’s the deal, guys. As long as I’m in this job, I do it my way. You want it done different, you replace me. Until then, shut your damn trap.”

The union lawyer snuck a peak at Ferguson, then at Jackson. “I, uh, think we’re done here,” he said. Ferguson nodded. They gathered up their papers and shuffled toward the door. Jackson stared at them both in shock. He followed them out the door with one long, nasty look back at Lehigh just outside the doorway.

Lehigh leaned against the table, rubbing his aching temples. The conspiracy, he realized, ran even deeper than he’d ever thought.

***

A BLAKE SHELTON SONG blared from the open doors and windows of The Roadhouse as the sun dipped below the tops of the Lodgepole pines and Douglas firs on the slopes of Brady Mountain, loud enough to hear from the highway. The smell of barbecue, fries, and grilled burgers drowned out the negative imagery otherwise invoked by lyrics celebrating the time-honored traditions of digging in the dirt, chewing tobacco, and spitting, which somehow made men more successful at chasing women. Or so the song claimed. Lehigh didn’t care. The only thing on his mind was eating something besides roasted squirrel. That, and having his first beer in over a week.

He parked at the far end of the gravel lot and sauntered over to the entrance, passing two “Latner for Sheriff” lawn signs along the way. He stole a glance in the windows so he could scan the cowboy hat-wearing men and women cheering each other on around the pool tables. He’d found trouble in The Roadhouse before, more often than not, and steered clear of it for that reason. But the aroma of ribs and deep-fry drew him in like a fish on a line. Trouble or no trouble, he was hungry.

He didn’t recognize any of the pool-table rowdies, male or female, but kept to the other end of the L-shaped bar anyway, and scooted up on a tall stool with empty seats on either side. The bartender, a skinny, ponytailed brunette with lines on her leathery face and a low-cut blouse so tight that it had to be constricting her smoke-filled lungs, slapped a cardboard coaster on the counter. “What’ll it be, handsome?”

He squinted at her, wondering if she remembered him. “Gimme one of them pale ales you got, and a plate of ribs with jojos.”

“Coming right up.” She slipped a pint glass under the tap and filled it about three-quarters with foam and one-quarter with beer. She thumped it onto the counter, not bothering to wipe up the spill. Yeah, she remembered him, all right.

“Thanks, Babs,” he said, and the edges of her lips curled into a smile.

“I’ll get your food order in.” She sashayed away, neon reflecting off the rhinestones studding the waist and sides of her jeans.

Lehigh sipped his beer and let the television distract him. He had stopped watching TV in recent weeks, not least because he didn’t have one anymore, but also because the news coverage frustrated him to the point of distraction. A Mariners baseball game wound down its final half-inning, a lopsided affair that nobody, including the players on the field, seemed interested in. After the final out, a brief interview with the opposing team’s star cut away to local news.

Oh, crap.

“Babs?” He craned his neck around the cash register to see where she’d gone, but he saw no sign of her. “Anyone back there got the TV remote?” he called out, but no one answered.

Moments later, the news anchor’s face filled the screen. With the sound off, Lehigh couldn’t make out the top story until a caption appeared at the bottom of the screen.

And then he really groaned.

“Corruption, scandal, and cronyism in sheriff’s office,” it read. The screen split, and Bruce Bailey’s smug grin dominated half the screen. The anchor continued talking as Bruce nodded, clearly anxious to begin his report.

“Want me to change the channel, Sheriff?” Babs appeared before him with a wet bar rag, spreading the spilled beer thinner and wider across the counter.

Lehigh debated with himself for a moment, then sighed. “Actually, if you could put the sound on, I’d be much obliged.”

“Happy to.” She found the remote under the counter and turned up the volume, just in time to hear the start of the story.

“A recently hired deputy in the Mt. Hood County sheriff’s office claims to have been fired in retaliation for whistle-blowing,” Bailey said. “Deputy Bobby Wills alleged today that interim Sheriff Lehigh Carter physically tackled him to prevent him from revealing damaging information about cronyism, favoritism, and corruption to the press.”

“What the hell?” Lehigh shouted before he could stop himself. “That yellow, lying mongrel, I ought to—” He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut, realizing that everyone in the bar was now staring at him and watching the newscast—the exact opposite of what he wished would happen.

“The deputy claims to have uncovered evidence in the investigation into the Everett Downey murder that Sheriff Carter was, for unexplained reasons, hiding from the prosecution that would support the conviction of Carter’s father-in-law, Senator George McBride,” Bailey went on. “When Wills attempted to share this information with the appropriate parties, he says, the sheriff attacked him, publicly, and threatened him further bodily harm.”

“Liar!” Lehigh shouted before he could stop himself.

A heavy figure thumped onto the bar stool next to him. “Or, not,” the man said to nobody in particular.

Lehigh turned toward him. He didn’t recognize the man’s face or voice. “What do you know about it?” he asked.

The man shrugged. Long, greasy hair, parted in the middle, hung to his beefy shoulders and blended in with his bushy beard and sideburns. He smelled like an ashtray that had just farted. He turned and his bright blue eyes fixed on Lehigh. “Only what I saw,” the man said. “And I saw it pretty darn clear.”

“Saw what?” Alarm bells rang in Lehigh’s head. He replayed the scene in his own mind and admitted to himself that, on appearance, the scene might have looked pretty bad to a bystander.

“Saw you and that lady cop run him down and open-field tackle him like a linebacker,” the man said. “And I saw that you were armed.”

“We had good reason to arrest him,” Lehigh said.

“Did you now?” The man smiled and gestured to the television. “I don’t suppose you shared it with them folks?”

Bailey’s voice emerged again in the quieting din of the bar. “Attempts to contact the sheriff today for comment were unsuccessful,” Bailey said. “Back to you, Steve.”

“What crap,” Lehigh said. “Nobody tried contacting me!”

“Maybe,” the man said, “they called your lawyer.” He stood and leaned closer to Lehigh. “Maybe you should do the same. Sheriff.” He ambled over to the pool tables and picked up a cue, never looking back.

Lehigh’s food arrived, but he’d lost his appetite. All he could think about was the man’s advice to call his lawyer.

It sounded like advice he might need to take.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ray Ferguson pushed his way through the glass front door of Dot’s Diner and scanned the room. It took effort to see past the blue haze of smoke that flowed freely from the bar to the kitchen, smelling of grease, salt, and weak coffee, but after blinking his eyes a few times, he spotted the broad back of his breakfast companion in the corner. He smirked at the man’s weak attempt at disguise. He couldn’t decide which parts were most ridiculous: the dark wig mostly hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, the bushy moustache, or the outfit of brand-new boots, black studded jeans, and a red rodeo shirt that had never been worn within a hundred yards of a steer or horse, except for photo-ops. The man’s size alone would give him away, never mind the fact that his face appeared every four years, like clockwork, on campaign billboards around the county.

Minus the fake sideburns, of course.

He strode to the table, all business, and sat opposite County Commissioner Elliott McBride Jackson, facing the room. Not the safest seat in the house, but at least he could see anyone coming at him. Empty tables surrounded them. He felt safe removing his own rarely-used cowboy hat.

“Did you watch the news last night?” Jackson asked him. The Commissioner took a sip of coffee and winced. “Damn, that’s awful.”

Ray signaled the short, Brillo-haired matron behind the bar, and she set to pouring him a cup. “Yes, I watched. Remind me to send Bruce Bailey a good bottle of Scotch whiskey for Christmas this year.”

“Was that your doing?” Jackson tried another sip of coffee and pushed it away.

“It was my understanding,” Ferguson said with a smirk, “that the good deputy did it on his own volition, pursuing truth, beauty, and justice.”

“In other words, yes.”

“In other words, ask your secretary,” Ferguson said. Damn him, playing innocent. “She might have some pillow talk to share with you. Officially, I’ve got nothing.”

“I would never pry into the private lives of my staff,” Jackson said with a glint in his eye. “So, let’s get down to business. How’s the case?”

Ferguson eyed him with caution. He didn’t trust politicians as a rule, and this one in particular. As much as he’d fumed in public about the leaks in the case coming from Carter’s shop, he harbored at least as much suspicion about Jackson, if not more. But, too late now. He’d cast his lot with the Chairman, and Jackson could help his own political career far more than the idiot hayseed sporting the sheriff’s badge at the moment.

“It’s going well,” he said. “We have a few loose ends to tie up, but the fact that he tried to flee helps with the optics. I expect he’ll beg for a deal, long before we go to trial.”

“And will you give him one?”

Ferguson shrugged, decided to play it coy. “We’ll consider anything that serves the public interest.”

“The only thing that would serve the public interest is if that man hangs by his neck in the public courtyard!” Jackson slammed the table with his fist, and coffee spilled out of his cup onto the table.

The wiry frame of the waitress reappeared out of nowhere, finally delivering Ray’s coffee. “Sorry for the delay—had to wait for a fresh pot. I’ll get a rag to wipe that up.” She vanished, giving Ray only enough time to read the name stitched into her blouse. Dot, the owner.

Ferguson sipped his coffee, grimaced at its harsh acidity, then stirred several thimbles of half-and-half and three doses of sugar into it. “Tell me,” he said, “why are you so gung-ho to see your cousin go down for this murder? Not that I doubt that he did it,” he added. “Not for a moment.”

“Isn’t his guilt enough? I tell you, if that man walks on this charge, after all of the crap he’s done and gotten away with over the years, it’ll be a grievous injustice. No, more than that. A travesty. A scandal!” Jackson glared at Ferguson. “Don’t let that happen, Raymond. You hear me? Don’t. Let. It. Happen.” He stabbed the table with his index finger with each word, as if to drive each one into the Formica.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Ferguson smiled. “I have my own reasons to want to win this one.”

“Like getting elected Attorney General of Oregon next year?” Jackson smiled for the first time since Raymond arrived. “Yes, a case like this could do wonderful things for a law-and-order candidate in this state.” He started to lean forward and lay his arms on the table to make another point, but just in time he noticed the spilled coffee.

“Let me get that spill wiped up for you,” Dot said from behind Raymond. She hummed tunelessly, pushing the brown liquid into her palm with the rag, leaving a wet river of grease behind. “There we go. Can I get you fellas any breakfast?”

“Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast,” Jackson said.

“Same,” said Ray, although he’d already eaten. Anything to get rid of the eavesdropping hag.

She moved over to another table, where a lone man had taken a seat, his face buried in a newspaper. Jackson cleared his throat. “What of our other, uh, priority? Anything new to report?”

Raymond lowered his voice and leaned toward Jackson. “With the TV news from last night, that ought to keep Carter’s attention off of our business. He’ll be fighting these leaks all the way to November. By then, we’ll have McBride’s conviction well in hand. I’m confident the voters will see fit at that time to return a law enforcement professional to head up the sheriff’s office. The polls I’ve seen already trend in that direction.”

Jackson frowned. “I don’t like leaving this matter in the hands of the public. Trust me, I know how fickle they can be. We need insurance.”

Ferguson sighed. “Outside of beating him at the ballot box, there’s little that I can do. Unless I catch him red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar—and, like it or not, Carter’s too careful, and too honest, to get himself mixed up in any of that.”

“What about him beating up that young deputy?” Jackson asked. “Couldn’t you charge him with assault?”

“That woman deputy actually roughed him up,” Ferguson said. “And we can’t start busting every cop who gets a little physical with perps. Think of where that would lead.” He shook his head. Courts and politicians already had placed too many silly restrictions on law enforcement without adding the chilling effect of an assault charge.

“There must be something we can do to Carter,” Jackson said with an impatient growl. The man had no sense of humor. “He was accused of a cover-up. Can’t you press charges on that?”

Ferguson shook his head. These pols could be so thick-headed sometimes. “That’s a civil offense, if anything. You know as well as I do, those charges won’t go anywhere in court. No, the only solutions are political. Which, I believe, is your area of expertise.”

“I don’t want to wait until November. Think of the damage he could do to this town!”

A rustling of paper distracted Ferguson for a moment. He glanced around. The closest person, the man with the newspaper behind him, seemed absorbed in his sports page. He faced Jackson again. “That’s not the only political solution. He was appointed by the County Board, after all. You could remove him.”

“I checked the charter. We’d have to impeach him, and my colleagues on the Board don’t have the courage to do that. Hell, most of them like the guy, for whatever reason.” Jackson scowled and picked up his coffee, thought better of it, and set it down. “We’d need to have something on him. Something big. Something he can’t weasel his way out of.”

“Like?”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “A felony, for example.”

Ferguson rolled his eyes. “Carter’s not likely to go out and rob a bank.”

“I’m not talking about that.” Jackson lowered his voice to a whisper. “The man has a temper, I’m told.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And he’s separated from his wife.”

An uneasy stirring boiled in Ferguson’s gut. “So?”

“So, estranged couples have been known to argue. And cheat.” Jackson smiled, a cruel smile. “And men of his type have been known to let their emotions run away with them.”

“You want him to beat up his wife? Your own damned niece?” Ferguson could hardly keep his voice down.

“No!” Jackson scanned the room again. “I’m saying, we might find someone willing to do a little acting, so to speak. A woman, say, whose occupation might lend itself to, uh, extra-curricular activities...?” He smiled again.

Recognition finally dawned. “You mean, perhaps, one of Mr. Downey’s employees at the nightclub?”

Jackson nodded.

Ferguson considered the idea. “Not bad,” he said. “This could help with our other objective as well. I’ve heard that the establishment has fallen into harder times since Mr. Downey’s demise. Staff leaving, business being down. This could help drive the dagger into the heart of those awful places.”

“And we’d be rid of them for good. And I mean, for the good—of the county, that is.”

Ferguson grinned. “It’s ingenious. If we can find someone.”

Jackson shrugged. “You realize, of course, that some of the most frequent visitors to Mr. Downey’s establishments work on your task force...so I’ve heard.”

Raymond bristled. “That’s absurd.”

Jackson shook his head. “I have it on good authority. At any rate, they’ve been involved with enough arrests there over the years to have the whole staff on speed-dial. I say we use that resource, and quick. We should strike while the iron is hot and Carter’s attentions are drawn elsewhere.”

Ferguson relaxed. While Jackson more often than not infuriated him with unsubstantiated claims and pointless public posturing, Raymond had to admit that the deputies on his task force frequented the strip clubs—and probably had developed both personal and professional relationships there. Why not use them to his advantage?

Before he could respond, Dot appeared with plates in hand and set them in front of the men. “More coffee?” She picked up a pot she’d somehow stashed on the next table.

“Nothing more, thanks,” Jackson said with the sweet smile of a campaigner.

Raymond waited until she’d moved away, then nodded at Jackson. “I’ll look into this,” he said. “It’s a good plan.”

Jackson nodded and took a bit of his breakfast, then dropped his fork. “These are the worst eggs I’ve ever had,” he said.

Raymond shook his head. Spoiled brat of a politician. Nothing was ever good enough.

***

PHIL REARDON HID BEHIND his newspaper, waiting for the two men to leave the diner. They’d groused about the coffee, the food, the service, the grease—everything except the diner’s most important flaw: its complete and utter lack of privacy.

He’d heard every word of their conversation, and it disturbed him.

It also surprised him. Jackson, though well-known as a liar and scoundrel, had always struck him as being more careful than this. Speaking in public about a plot to unseat one of his political enemies seemed reckless, even wearing that awful disguise. He’d survived in local politics by bullying most opponents and cutting deals with the rest, usually at taxpayer expense, but he also held a job few others even wanted. Phil, like most people, remained willing to let him do it if it meant they didn’t have to.

The Assistant District Attorney’s complicity shocked him more. Ferguson had a reputation for intelligence, hard work, adhering to Christian values, and a passionate zeal for enforcing the law. But if he’d heard this right—and he had no doubts about it—Ferguson was conspiring to break the law. Commit perjury, even, or at least convince someone else to do so.

He understood, even if he didn’t agree, why they’d want to go after the strip clubs. As a father, he’d always despised the clubs and harbored secret fears of finding his daughters’ friends (never his daughters!) on stage someday. That alone kept him out of the clubs, despite the loneliness he’d suffered since his divorce. But their zeal for going after Lehigh Carter he didn’t understand. Lehigh went rogue at times, but he was honest to a fault. The independent streak they loathed was what most people liked about him. He couldn’t be corrupted like Buck Summers—or, for that matter, Jackson.

“More coffee?” Dot refilled his cup without waiting for an answer. Phil lowered his sports page and noticed that the two conspirators had left. “Thanks, Dot. Busy morning, huh?”

“About the usual. Some new faces, though.” She turned her head toward the now-empty table in the corner. “Normally I’d welcome a new customer, but...”

“Lousy tippers?”

Dot made a sour face, then nodded. “Two bucks on a twenty-five dollar tab. How’s a gal supposed to earn a living?”

Phil shook his head. “Can’t say I’m surprised. They’re not the nicest of guys.”

Dot cocked her head and rearranged the sugar bowl, creamers, and salt and pepper shakers on the table. “How d’you mean?”

“I shouldn’t say anything. It’s none of my business.” He went back to reading the newspaper.

Dot swatted at him with her towel. “Those are public officials. Everything they say is our business. Come on, what’d they talk about?”

Phil grimaced. He’d always been taught to keep his mouth shut, his nose clean, and his powder dry. He hated wading in to someone else’s business uninvited. But Dot kind of had a point about them being public employees, and Lehigh, a good guy, needed help against these goons.

“They seem to have it in for Sheriff Carter,” he said. “Talking about trying to get him out of office. Before the election, I mean.”

“Why?” Dot cleared the plates from their empty table onto a tray and paused by Phil’s side. “What’d he ever do to them?”

“I dunno. I guess they think he’s not up to the job, or something.”

She scoffed. “Compared to what we used to have, he’s a genius. But anyway, what can they do to him? He doesn’t answer to them, does he?”

“No, but...” He looked around and lowered his voice. “They’re talking about setting him up to take a fall on something he didn’t do. Get some stripper or something to say he beat her up. It’s all part of a plan to shut down the clubs. Sick, huh?”

“That’s terrible!” Dot set the tray down on the next table over and sat down across from Phil. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

Phil nodded. “Pretty sure. I could hear them pretty good.”

“You have to tell the sheriff,” she said. “Warn him, before they—”

“No, no,” Phil said. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You have to, Phil. You can’t let them get away with that!”

“Dot, I have my own problems, okay? My wife won’t let me near my kids, she’s draining me of all my money—I got too much on my plate already.” He pulled out his wallet and dropped some bills on the table, including a generous tip. Hopefully enough to keep her from squawking too much about all this. “Look, just forget I said anything, okay?”

She shook her head. “This is serious business. You’ve got to do something.”

“Do something, like what? Get cross-wise with the rich and powerful? Yeah, right.” He stood and slid out of his chair. “That’s how people around here get killed. Just ask Jared Barkley and Ev Downey. I don’t want to be next. My kids need their daddy, even if their mother doesn’t think so.” He turned away from her and headed to the exit.

She caught up to him at the door, her face tense. “You sure about what you heard?”

He paused a moment, thought about it, and nodded.

“Well,” she said, “I ain’t got no little ones to worry about, and my husband would just as soon I go to jail as come home at night. So if you won’t do nothing about this, I will.”

Sweat broke out on Phil’s brow. “What are you gonna do?”

She lifted her chin, straightened her posture. “I’m gonna tell the sheriff the truth. What you do about it is up to you.” With that, she spun on her heel and strode into the kitchen.

Phil stared after her, cursing himself for opening his big, fat mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Julia wobbled into Lehigh’s office wearing two-inch heels and smelling of fingernail polish, or possibly polish remover, a clue that she’d had a pretty slow afternoon, as had Lehigh. She paused just inside the door, clutching an oversized yellow envelope. “The report from that independent lab you asked for came in just now,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see it right away.”

“Hold on a sec.” Lehigh looked up from his monthly crime report, a brief document dominated by bar fights and domestic squabbles, both numbering in the single digits despite the intense August heat. He waved Julia onward, hitting Save on the spreadsheet, a step he’d missed too many times, to his frustration. How many late nights had that mistake cost him? He took the report from her. “Thanks, Julia. You’re the best.” She remained standing in front of his desk, her eyes pinned to the floor. He cleared his throat. “Is there something else?”

She brushed her hand through her long brown hair, which looked a little brighter and fuller than usual, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other on her uncharacteristically high heels. He feared at one point she might tip over, but she righted herself. “Sheriff, I wondered if it might be okay...well, it’s our anniversary, and my husband wanted to take me out to dinner, but we could only get reservations at five, so—”

“Of course, of course. Enjoy yourselves. Where’s dinner at, anyhow?”

“Wilkinson’s, up in Wyee Falls. It’s an hour’s drive, so he was hoping to pick me up at four.”

“With my blessing. Enjoy.” He waited for her to wobble back out of the office, then opened his web browser on his phone. A few taps on the screen later, he had the number he needed.

“Wilkinson’s, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to buy a bottle of wine for a friend dining with you tonight.” The entire transaction took only a few minutes. Then he tore open the sealed envelope and found the section he needed.

The results startled him, even though it confirmed the suspicion he’d had that caused him to pursue the independent lab’s opinion in the first place. He sat back in his chair, contemplating the report’s implications.

The lab’s analysis showed that, without a doubt, George McBride’s 30-30 rifle could not have fired the bullet that killed Everett Downey.

He retrieved the county’s ballistics report from his file and scanned the report’s conclusions. That report declared a perfect match between the fatal bullet and the test bullets fired for the analysis. He scanned back into the detail of the report and examined the photographs of the bullets used.

Something didn’t add up.

He returned to the independent lab’s report. Checked the detailed analysis, and the photographs. Checked the other photographs.

They didn’t match.

He needed more information. An expert. Luckily, he had one he trusted nearby. He picked up the phone again.

Moments later, Jim Wadsworth closed the door to Lehigh’s office behind him. “What’s this about a new ballistics report?” he asked, shuffling over to a chair.

“I sent for it the other day, while you were fetching George back from Portland.” Lehigh handed him the report. “Read it.”

Wadsworth flipped through the pages and landed on the one he needed, then scanned it, nodding. “Where’d this come from?”

“A private lab in Hood River. Here’s the county’s report.” He showed that one to Wadsworth. The next few moments seemed like eons. He’d learned a lot in the few months since becoming sheriff, but wouldn’t call himself an expert on ballistics. Maybe he read it wrong.

“Okay, here’s what I see,” Wadsworth said. “Ballistics, first of all, is an inexact science. More of an art, really. Lots of subjectivity, despite what you see on TV.”

“It’s just opinion, then?” Lehigh asked, his heart sinking.

“I didn’t say that,” Wadsworth said. “Just that there’s some interpretation involved. Having said that, there are two things everyone agrees on. One is that rifles leave striations on the bullets they fire, and no two guns’ striations are the same.”

“So, they’re unique, like fingerprints?”

“Unique, but unlike fingerprints, they can change over time,” Wadsworth said. “Unlike fingers, guns show wear with use. It’s subtle, but traceable.”

“Okay.” That didn’t sound good. He sighed. “You said two things. What’s the other?”

Wadsworth set the reports side by side on Lehigh’s desk, open to the photographs of the test bullets. “See the indentations on the tail end of the bullet there, and there? Those come from the firing pin. Those also can vary from weapon to weapon, and also with the age and use of the gun.

“They look different. I mean, the one in this report—”

“Doesn’t match the one in the other. Right. Even though the bullets tested within each report are the same. In other words, the fatal bullet—the one that killed Everett Downey—is different in the two reports.”

Lehigh shook his head. “I’m confused. How can that be?”

Wadsworth thought a moment. “Where did the bullet come from that the private lab used?”

Lehigh shrugged. “The evidence room downstairs. The gun, too. They had the originals, just like the country forensics office.”

Wadsworth stared hard at him. “How good is this lab?”

“The best, according to my research.”

“Would this lab have any reason to lie?”

“Of course not. They’d go out of business so fast—wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Wadsworth sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “My friend, it’s not what I’m saying. It’s what this report says, which is: George McBride’s 30-30 was not the weapon used to kill Everett Downey.”

Lehigh let out a long breath. “I had a sneaking suspicion,” he said, “which is why I hired these guys for a second opinion.”

“The implications are just crazy,” Wadsworth said. “I mean, what we have here is proof that the county ballistics report was falsified. The question is, why?”

“The other question, and maybe the more important one,” Lehigh said, “is, by whom?”

***

“WOULD YOU please stop withholding evidence from me?” Ferguson shouted, shaking a sheaf of papers in his hand at Lehigh. The papers, Lehigh noticed with a small amount of pride, reflected the watermark of the nearby Twin Falls Paper Mill, the company owned by Consuela’s son Manuel, who bought a substantial part of its pulp lumber from the co-op to which Lehigh belonged. Apparently, the D.A.’s office had a “buy local” policy.

“I’m not withholding anything,” Lehigh said. “I just haven’t gotten it to you yet. Hell, I haven’t even had a chance to make a spare copy myself.”

Ferguson slammed the report down on the table, a copy of the independent lab’s ballistics report Lehigh had ordered. How Ferguson had gotten a copy so fast, he had no idea. But he’d need to find out soon. It wasn’t Bobby Wills this time, though. Bobby was still on paid leave, a reward for the “trauma” of being accused of leaking information.

“Well,” Ferguson said, “I shouldn’t be getting reports like this from anonymous sources. I should be getting them from you—immediately, not whenever you get a chance.”

Anonymous. Hmmm. “Let’s focus on the contents of the report,” Lehigh said. “It seems to indicate—”

“—That McBride has more guns at his disposal,” Ferguson said. “Don’t worry. We’re on our way to his house right now, and to every gun shop in the four-county area. We’ll find this weapon, don’t you worry. And when we do, your father-in-law is going down. As are you, if you continue to protect him!”

“I’m not protecting him.” Lehigh pushed away from the table, but stayed in his chair. At his insistence, neither man had brought any other staff with them into the meeting, out of concern for leaks. He wished now that he’d brought Wadsworth in—Ferguson seemed to trust him more. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“As am I. And mine is to put a guilty man behind bars—which you seem hell-bent on preventing.” Ferguson scooped up the report again and rifled through the pages. “Whatever possessed you to buy your own ballistics report, anyway?”

“I had a hunch,” Lehigh said. “Which turns out to be correct. Someone falsified the original. Why aren’t you as upset about that as I am? Aren’t you concerned about going into court with cooked-up evidence? Couldn’t that cost you the whole case and let a potentially guilty man go free?”

Ferguson glared at him a moment, then calmed, nodding. “Yes, of course I am,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll look into that situation as well. But, dammit Carter, we need to work together on this stuff. No more of you running off on your own, understand me?”

Lehigh stood and met Ferguson’s accusing gaze with one of his own. “That goes both ways, Ray,” he said. “And remember: I don’t work for you. I’m responsible to the voters. Nobody else. Do you understand me?”

Ferguson sneered. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” He shoved the report into his briefcase and headed to the door.

“Hey, Ray?” Lehigh waited for Ferguson to turn. “Don’t let me find out that you were responsible for that false ballistics report,” he said. “Because you know what? This badge here? It empowers me to arrest anybody...including district attorneys.”

Ferguson gasped. “Are you accusing me—”

“How’s that feel, Ray?” Lehigh crossed his arms and smiled. “Being accused of something before there’s even a shred of evidence against you. Feel good? No? Well. I’m glad we now understand each other.”

Ferguson slammed the door behind him. Lehigh’s smile faded. As good as it had felt to push Ferguson’s buttons in the meeting, the truth remained: Lehigh still had a serious problem with moles in the department. As long as that problem persisted, he’d never get to the truth behind the murder of Everett Downey. He had to solve that problem, fast.

***

DAMN THAT REDNECK PHARISEE!

Raymond Ferguson gripped the steering wheel of his black county-issue Crown Victoria with white knuckles, his hands in the proper ten-and-two-o’clock positions as he’d been taught at the age of sixteen by his stern, tight-lipped father. Archibald Ferguson had brooked no exceptions to conformity of any kind, who expected “perfection, or better,” as he used to quip, the man’s only attempt at humor in Raymond’s memory. Father often came to mind in moments like these―moments of quiet crisis, of careful review of his recent actions, searching for possible missteps. Mistakes were inevitable but never excused in the Ferguson household. One always paid a price, in repentance if not in worldly sums. Always.

In this case, the mistake had been to underestimate his opponent. Lehigh Carter appeared to many as ignorant, if not downright dumb, and it led people to believe he could be easily fooled. Ferguson had fallen into that trap a few times now, allowing Carter to exploit Raymond’s own weakness, the sin he could not seem to forbear: the sin of pride. What his enemies called arrogance. Enemies who seemed to multiply in number daily—or was he becoming paranoid in his advancing years?

The second mistake—sloppiness—compounded the first. He should have spotted the error before the sheriff did, and taken steps to correct it. But the tidiness of it all had pleased him too much, meshing with the other evidence to not only implicate McBride, but make him overconfident for a career-boosting slam-dunk conviction. Now he’d have to work a little harder, with a more thorough and—Father would approve of this—more disciplined approach.

Speaking of discipline, not all of the mistakes were his. He’d trusted people who had not earned it, and they’d disappointed him. For them, too, there must be consequences. Punishment, even. But what punishment fit that crime?

He pondered options, each more onerous than the last. God had punished Everett Downey’s lifetime of wickedness with what some might call the ultimate punishment. But those with a more disciplined perspective—there was that word again—knew otherwise. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All men suffer the same ultimate fate. He shuddered to think of the punishment Downey would receive in the Final Reckoning.

An old hymn bubbled up in his throat, and he hummed its tune as he drove. Then the lyrics came to him: “The wicked like the driven chaff are swept from off the land,” he sang. “The way of sinners, far from God, shall surely be o'erthrown.” A smile crept onto his face, and his hands relaxed on the wheel.

Perfection, or better.

Father would be proud.

***

THE SECOND INDEPENDENT forensics report came in even faster than the first. Now that they’d established a relationship, the firm took on new work with just a phone call and a courier drop. This project, a simple matter of matching fingerprints against those of the deputies and employees working in the Clarkesville office, took only a day to turn around.

Lehigh spread the report’s summary pages before him and scanned the report’s conclusions. The analysis showed that only four people in the department had handled the ballistics report and left fingerprints on its glossy cover: Lehigh, Wadsworth, Julia...and one other deputy.

Not the name Lehigh had expected.

He gathered up the pages and locked them in his desk drawer, then made his way down the hall to the reception area. Ruby Mac sat behind the desk, studying a report.

“You’re not on patrol today?” Lehigh asked her.

“I’m pulling a double shift,” Ruby said. “Earning some extra money while we’re short-staffed. I go out on patrol in twenty minutes.”

“I see. And where’s your partner right now?”

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “He just came in. I suspect he’s getting a cup of coffee. Why?”

Lehigh winced. “You might need to work alone today. Stay here.” Lehigh reversed course and headed straight to the break room. Nobody there. He checked the meeting rooms—all empty. Hmm. That didn’t leave many places a deputy ought to be found inside the building.

But maybe he wasn’t where he ought to be.

Lehigh hurried down the hall, toward the administrative office, where Julia managed the files and phones. “Julia,” he said, breathing hard when he arrived at her desk, “have any deputies come by here today?”

She nodded. “Almost all of them. They pretty much have to pass my desk when they go in or out.”

“Anybody ask to see any files?”

She shook her head. “Gosh, no. They all know better than that.”

“Good. So, where would you have filed that ballistics report that came in a few days ago? The one from the private lab?”

“That’s in the secure area,” she said. “In evidence lockdown.”

“Did you send that report down by interoffice mail, or did you walk it down yourself?”

“I walked it down. You said it was very confidential.” She nodded her head, as if confirming in her head what Lehigh’s exact instructions had been. “I locked it up there myself.”

Lehigh leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “Anybody see you do that?”

“Of course. There’s always a deputy on duty.”

“And who was on duty the day you brought that report to the evidence locker?”

She shrugged. “One of the new guys. I think his name’s Marvin...?”

“Martin Lightfoot?”

She brightened and snapped her well-manicured fingers. “That’s him. Indian fella. Very sweet guy. Why?”

Lehigh sighed. “Have you seen Martin today?”

She nodded. “I see him right now, in fact. Right down that hallway.”

Lehigh spun on his heel. Martin Lightfoot, all 6’2”, 250 pounds of him, stood 30 feet down the hall, staring at Lehigh.

And then he ran.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lehigh caught up to Martin at reception, where, to his surprise, Ruby Mac had him trapped in a corner. If not for the seriousness of the situation, the visual of little Ruby, holding big Martin Lightfoot at bay with nothing more than a ball-point pen, would have pushed Lehigh into spasms of uncontrollable laughter.

“How the heck did you manage this?” Lehigh asked when he recovered from his surprise.

“Julia buzzed me, told me to lock the door,” Ruby said, grinning. “Then Marty here comes barreling through and runs smack dab into the door, head-first. What’s up?”

Lehigh looked again at Martin, and only then noticed the big man’s dazed look. “Your partner’s in trouble, Mac. Help me move him, and then come back and unlock the door.”

Moments later, Martin sat in Lehigh’s guest chair, wiping tears from his eyes. Ruby scowled at him from behind with arms crossed.

“I swear, Sheriff,” Martin said. “I didn’t do anything with that report. I held it for a minute, maybe less, when Julia was fussing with the locker. Then I never saw it again. Honest.” He sniffled and coughed into his fist, then met Lehigh’s stare with a pleading look.

“Why’d you run just now, then?” Lehigh asked.

Martin shook his head, mouth open. “I don’t know, boss. I saw you looking at me like that—like cops have looked at me since I was a kid. Whenever I see someone in uniform looking at me like that, instinct kicks in, and I run. It was stupid, I know.”

“You’re a cop now, Martin,” Ruby said, exasperated. “Are you gonna run every time I look at you?”

“You’re different,” Martin said. “You’re my partner.”

Lehigh pondered the situation. He didn’t have a lot on Martin—just a fingerprint—and his story seemed as plausible as the alternative that pointed to his guilt. Thus far he’d kept his record clean, otherwise.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” he said. “You’re on phone duty until further notice. That’s your regular assignment until I say otherwise. Stay away from the files and be ready to account for every moment of your time over the past two weeks. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this, one way or the other.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. “You’ll see. It ain’t me! I ain’t no mole!”

He shook Lehigh’s hands with both of his own and rumbled out of the office. Lehigh sighed. The number of deputies he could trust was dropping by the minute.

“What do you think, Ruby?” Lehigh asked.

She frowned and moved closer, speaking in a low voice. “It doesn’t seem in character for Marty to pull something like this,” she said. “But I’ve been wrong before about people.”

Lehigh nodded. “Have you seen him snooping around the evidence vault at all?”

She shook her head. “But I haven’t really paid attention. I will now. Of course, he’s not likely to try anything with you around.”

His stomach growled. A cup of coffee sounded good. “In that case,” he said, “let me go ahead and make myself scarce for a bit. Keep an eye on him while I’m out.”

She nodded. “Will do, boss.”

***

LEHIGH PAUSED BEFORE entering Dot’s Diner to scan the room through the glass door, left ajar about an inch by whomever last gave up on getting coffee worth drinking. The salty, greasy aroma of bacon and sausage leaked out from the gap between the door and the gap on the handle side, almost balanced by the sharp tang of burnt toast. The tables along the wall remained empty at this late morning hour, but a few hardy souls sipped weak coffee at the counter.

Nobody looked too happy with their meals, but the air leaking out around the door felt ten degrees cooler than the outside, maybe twenty, so he swung the door open and grabbed one of the many vacant booths farthest from the white-haired men who stopped talking as soon as they recognized him. Dot delivered a white porcelain mug and filled it with steaming liquid, about the color and consistency of weak tea. “Cream and sugar, Sheriff?” she asked without making eye contact.

“Lots,” he said. “And a donut.”

She smirked, and he realized what a stereotype he’d become, and almost changed his mind. But no, dammit. He wanted a donut. She whisked herself away and filled the men’s mugs at the counter, made some small talk with them, then returned with his treat, a palm-sized confection bearing a thick coat of powdered white sugar.

“Thank you, Dot,” he said, dipping the donut into the coffee. She stood by with the pot, ready to refill at a moment’s notice. Coffee cups never went empty at Dot’s.

“Friend of yours was in here t’other day,” she said.

“That narrows it down, considering how few people admit to being my friend,” he said. “Male or female?” He couldn’t imagine Stacy ever stepping foot inside the greasy spoon.

“One of your old football chums. And a coupla suits. That Reverend character.”

Lehigh’s alarm bells sounded, and heat rose in his ears. “Well, now,” he said, sipping his coffee, “I’d have a hard time believing Ray Ferguson called me his friend. Who was he with?”

“One of them politician types. Johnson? Jackson. Something like that. Big fella. Kind of full of himself, you know?” She topped up his coffee. He stirred in another packet of sugar.

“Commissioner Jackson? What the heck was he doing here? I thought he had his coffee delivered to his office.” He smiled, hoping she’d catch on that he was joking, but she never met his eyes. “And I know he didn’t call me his friend.”

“Nope. ’Twasn’t the suits saying hello to you. Although that’s not to say you weren’t on their mind, from what I gather.” She eyed his half-eaten donut, as if she wanted to pour coffee directly onto it. He dipped it, chewed, swallowed.

“Dot,” he said around his mouthful, “you’re talking in riddles. What are you trying to tell me?”

She sighed, shook her head. “I’m saying you need to keep in touch with your old pal who might have overheard something he wasn’t supposed to hear. You catch my drift?” She leaned closer to him and whispered. “His name’s Phil. And yes, you should talk to him. Soon. Okay?” She wiped away the few drops of coffee that had spilled onto the table and slapped the rag back into her hand.

“No hints as to what they said?” Lehigh sipped his coffee. Ugh. He took a quick bite of the donut.

She bent low again and spoke in a low voice. “The suits? Listen, Sheriff. Men like that don’t come in here much. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen either one of them within fifty feet of a blue plate special. So when they do, I know they’re up to no good.” She glanced around and leaned closer. “They want you gone, Sheriff. Something to do with that dead pervert Downey. How, I don’t know. Figured you might.”

Lehigh swallowed the last of his donut and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “As to how, I got some ideas. But as to why...that I still haven’t figured out.”

She smiled, a thin flat line with tiny upward curls near her cheeks. “The why is the easy part,” she said. “Sheriff, those boys are afraid of you.”

He set the mug down in surprise. She emptied the rest of her pot into it and swished away, humming.

***

JULIA GREETED HIM AT the doorway to his office and followed him inside. “Sheriff? A Mr. Benjamin Wright is waiting to see you.”

“Benjamin who?” He searched his memory. The name didn’t ring a bell.

“He says he knows you. Says you had beers at The Stadium a few months back.”

“Ben? Holy cow, what does he want?” Ben once worked for Stacy’s ex-boyfriend Paul, and turned state’s evidence in Paul’s trial for the murder of Lehigh’s predecessor, Interim Sheriff Jared Barkley. “I’m not involved with the Barkley case any more.”

“He says it’s a personal matter. Shall I tell him to come another time?” Julia headed toward the door.

“No, no. I’ll see him.” He had no idea what Ben had up his sleeve, but he figured he owed him one. Moments later, an athletically-built African-American man in a tight-fitting T-shirt appeared in the doorway. He removed his cap to reveal close-cropped black curls and a sheen of sweat trickling down his brow and temples.

“Thanks for seeing me without an appointment.” Ben extended a shovel-sized paw for a handshake. Lehigh shook it, grateful the man didn’t engage in foolish hand-crushing games like Ferguson and Jackson.

“What’s all this about, Ben?” Lehigh pointed him to a seat. “You having trouble with the prosecutor’s office on the Paul van Paten trial?”

Ben remained standing and shook his head. “Nope, nothing like that,” he said. “I’m here because, well, my buddy Martin called me. Sheriff, Marty Lightfoot never double-crossed nobody.”

“I see,” Lehigh said. “So you’re here as a character witness?”

“I guess you could say that.” Ben dipped his head and lowered his eyes. “Mr. Carter, I’ve known Marty since we were boys. He’s the most honest man I’ve ever met, and loyal to a fault. Kind of like you, Sheriff.” Ben lifted his gaze and met Lehigh’s. “That’s why I was so surprised to hear you suspected him of something like this.”

Alarm bells rang in Lehigh’s head. He never trusted flatterers, and Ben never struck him as the type. He chose his words carefully. “Ben, I appreciate your sticking up for your friend, but I can’t ignore evidence right in front of me. While it’s not proof by itself, it’s definitely enough that I can’t ignore it.”

“Fair enough.” Ben finally took the seat Lehigh offered him. “But isn’t it as likely he’s been set up as done anything?”

Lehigh weighed the man’s words. “It’s possible. I don’t know about likely.”

“Sheriff, a lot of people in this town are saying things about you, about how you’re playing favorites, just like all the old sheriffs used to,” Ben said. “Now, wait, hear me out. I don’t believe those rumors, because I’ve known you a little while. You’re a man with a strong sense of justice, and I respect that about you. A lot of us do. Working folks like me, I mean. Folks who don’t have a lot of money, or some big government position.” He dipped his head again, his eyes on the floor. “Innocent folks who spend time in jail because of people like Buck Summers and Ray Ferguson.”

Lehigh caught his breath. “Folks like me, you mean,” Lehigh said. “And my wife.”

“I didn’t want to say it, but yeah.” Ben looked Lehigh in the eye again. “Folks like us need you to do what’s right. We’re tired of the good old boys running everything and scaring everyone into just going along, not saying nothing. We’re done with those days, Sheriff. We need you to stop it. You know what I’m saying?”

A lump rose in Lehigh’s throat. “I do know what you’re saying, Ben,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And I promise you, I will fight for what’s right. If that means Martin is innocent, he’ll be reinstated with no questions asked. If he’s guilty, he’ll be punished. And if I can’t tell, then I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him innocent. Those are the rules for Martin Lightfoot, Ben Wright, George McBride, anyone. Everyone. On that, you have my word.”

A broad smile creased Ben’s face, revealing perfect white teeth. “That’s all I ask, Sheriff. For Martin, and for people like Senator McBride.” He stood and extended his hand again, this time gripping Lehigh’s with a firm but not painful shake. “Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

After he left, Lehigh sat in his chair, pondering Ben’s plea. He wanted to trust him, as he had in the past. But the whole thing might be a setup, too.

He clicked an icon on his computer’s desktop that granted him access to the county’s arrest records. Within minutes, he had his answer.

***

LEHIGH PARKED HIS PICKUP on the muddy shoulder of a neighborhood street just off of Highway 279 on the edge of town and glanced at the faded house numbers on the streetside mailbox. The numbers matched, as did the condition of the house compared to what he’d expected: a modest ranch in decent enough condition to rent, but not quite as well-kept as if the owner lived there. No name on the mailbox, or anywhere. Short, sun-baked grass, not much in the way of flowers or shrubbery. In the driveway sat a ten-year-old gold Impala in much better shape than the property, the car of an honest working man who wanted to avoid another car payment. Definitely the right place.

The door opened as he walked up the gravel drive. A husky man with rounded shoulders and a receding buzz cut filled the doorway, at first with a scowl, but then his expression softened into an uneasy smile. “Hey, Sheriff,” Phil said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wondered if you and I could chat over a beer,” Lehigh said. “I’m buying.”

“A beer?” Phil scrunched his eyes half-shut and cleaned out an ear with his finger. “I take it this isn’t official business, then?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure.” Lehigh took a deep breath. Time to just plunge in. “I stopped by Dot’s this morning.”

Phil’s expression darkened and he held onto the door handle, keeping it shut between them. Only the screen on the lower half let their voices carry through. “What’d she have to say?”

Lehigh glanced around, spotted nobody else in the neighborhood who might be eavesdropping. “Just that I should talk to you. Said you mighta heard something I ought to know.”

Phil eyed him a few moments, then pushed open the door. “Come on in. The beer’s on me.”

Moments later they’d each taken the first long draft from an ice-cold can of light beer, seated at a right angle in Phil’s living room. A small TV provided background noise from a baseball game. Phil spoke to him in a low voice. “I don’t know what you’ve done to get on the wrong side of the district attorney and the county chair,” he said, “but for some reason, they don’t like you.”

Lehigh smiled. “Yeah, well. Since you’re sharing your beer and we’re off the record, I confess, that’s mutual. But what makes you think so?”

Phil took a noisy sip from his beer and rested the can on his knee, leaving a wet circle on his cargo shorts. He took a deep breath and let out a long, noisy sigh. “I’m not sure I should repeat any of this, Lehigh. I wasn’t actually part of the conversation. Kind of accidentally overheard it, and I can’t be a hundred percent sure of what I heard, you know?” Another noisy sip, followed by a quiet burp.

“I get it,” Lehigh said. “Look, I’m not here to grill you or put you on any witness stand. But,” he said before Phil could beg off, “you and I both know, the same good old boys who’ve always run things for their own benefit around here don’t like it when folks like me come in and rock the boat. But the best hope we have of changing things is—”

“They’re out to get you, Lehigh!” Phil gripped his can so tight he bent it into an hourglass shape. “They’re talking about a setup of some kind, getting some stripper girl to pretend you hired her for sex and then beat her up. Ruin your reputation, get everyone hating on you so they can—well, I don’t know what-all they’re after, other than getting you out of their way. I figured you’d know.”

Lehigh sat back, stunned by the barrage of words from the normally quiet man. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, grimacing. “Ray Ferguson said that?”

Phil shrugged, drained the last of his beer. “I’m not remembering which one said what, but they both were in agreement. Pretty excited about it, too. Get rid of you, and your father-in-law, and Ev Downey’s strip clubs all at once. I understand the last thing, and I don’t care one way or the other about old George McBride, but why would they lump you in with those two? It don’t make sense. Another beer?” He stood and reached for Lehigh’s can.

Lehigh swirled the contents of his beverage. “No thanks. You go ahead.” He followed Phil into his kitchen and leaned against the doorway connecting the two rooms. “Tell me, Phil. How confident are you of what you heard?”

Phil popped the top of a new can and took a long slurp before wiping his mouth and answering. “Pretty certain. Like I said, not word for word, but that’s the gist of it.”

“Did they mention a time frame for pulling this little stunt?”

Phil shook his head. “Not in my earshot. Soon, though. Long before the election.”

Lehigh nodded. “No doubt about that. You’re sure they weren’t aware that you heard?”

Phil shrugged. “Pretty sure. They seemed pretty oblivious to my presence there. But I’d feel better if you didn’t talk to anyone else about it.”

Lehigh clapped him on the shoulder. “I owe you that much. But what about Dot? She knows.”

Phil took a long swallow of beer and wiped his mouth. “Dot’s not a problem. She loves being the only one to know something—especially something as juicy as this.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m a regular who tips way better than they do.”

Driving back toward town, Lehigh became less and less convinced that Dot would keep her secret for long. He’d have to do something to thwart their plans before the secret got out.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lehigh set the forensics report on his desk and rubbed his eyes. Stupid, stupid. How had he not seen this detail before?

The lab’s report detailing whose fingerprints touched the independent ballistics analysis had listed four sets of fingerprints. They found three—his, Wadsworth’s, and the author’s—on the report’s glossy cover. The fourth—Martin Lightfoot’s—had come from the metal clasp on the envelope. None from the cover or pages of the report itself.

Just like Martin had claimed. Or, at least, consistent with his contention that he’d only held the envelope for a moment.

“Julia,” he said into his intercom, “please send in Martin Lightfoot.”

Martin slumped into his guest chair moments later, breathing hard. Lehigh wondered if he’d run down the hallway. “Martin, I owe you an apology,” Lehigh said.

Lightfoot straightened in his chair. “You mean you believe me?” he said. “You’re not firing me?”

“Should I?” Lehigh asked, suddenly unsure.

“No!” Martin’s eyes grew wide. “I swear, I never went into those files! You gotta believe me!”

“Then why the crack about getting fired?” Lehigh asked.

Martin shook his head and gazed at the floor. “That’s how it always is around here for people like me,” he said. “Guilty until proven innocent. I swear, I never went into those files. But people always want to believe the worst about me.”

Lehigh’s mouth grew dry, and a lump formed right where it hurt the most. He’d done exactly what Martin described, he had to admit. “Martin, I believe you’re innocent—a victim of circumstance. I admit, I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“So I can go back to patrol?” Martin’s eyes brightened. “Please?”

Lehigh cleared his throat. Damn lump wouldn’t go away. “I have something I’d like you to help me with first.”

Martin sank back in his chair. “I hope it ain’t more office work. Staffing the archives is bad enough. Reception is just killing me. Sheriff, I got to tell you, I don’t know how you can stand being in here all day.”

Lehigh smiled. “I want you to help me find whoever is doing what I blamed you for. Who snuck into the files and leaked them? And how are they doing it?”

The deputy shook his head, mouth agape. “How can I help, Sheriff? I don’t know anything.”

“Unfortunately, it means no patrol just yet,” Lehigh said. “But perhaps it’s something better. How would you like to go undercover for me?”

“Undercover? How? What do you mean?”

Lehigh leaned forward, gesturing for Lightfoot to do the same. “I want to make it look like you’re still under suspicion,” he said in a quiet voice. “The cover story will be, you’re suspended, pending investigation. That’ll make the real mole get a little bolder, I’m thinking, and hopefully make a mistake.”

“But I won’t really be suspended, right?” Martin asked. “I don’t want this to sound bad, Sheriff, but I got a wife, two kids—”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Lehigh said. “I’ll make sure you don’t miss a paycheck. In fact,” and he smiled a little, “undercover pays better.”

Martin stood and shook Lehigh’s hand. “Sheriff,” he said, “if you need a spy, I’m your man!”

“Perfect,” Lehigh said. “Now, listen carefully to what I want you to do.”

***

EXECUTING HIS PLAN to trap the mole required more information and careful planning, so Lehigh spent a couple of late nights reviewing case files in his office. Interview transcripts, official reports, and forensics analyses filled his dreams as well as his waking hours in his search for the right tidbit to set as bait. But nothing jumped out at him.

Until he re-read the coroner’s report.

The summary page noted the time of death as somewhere between eleven p.m. and one a.m. on July 25. But that didn’t seem right. He pulled out his own notes from his visit to the crime scene the following morning. He’d written down “8-10 pm TOD, Doskey/Wads.” His shorthand for: Wadsworth had told him that Coroner Doskey estimated a time of death being between eight and ten p.m.

Well, that had been a preliminary estimate. Maybe he changed his mind after a more thorough investigation. He read further into the report. Yes, that seems to have been the case. All of the references to time of death repeated the same revised estimate. Soon after midnight, he closed the file.

Then he reopened it. Something didn’t add up.

The math.

The report was dated “July 26, 2 PM.” Doskey had, according to his notes, finished his examination of the body by noon. Just over twelve hours after the estimated time of death. But his narrative stated that the condition of the body suggested a more advanced state of lividity and necrosis than that, even taking the summer heat and humidity into account. Fourteen to sixteen hours, he’d noted.

Between eight and ten p.m.

He double-checked the summary page and all of the other references to time, trying to resolve the inconsistency. And then he spotted something else.

All of the references to the time of death were listed in numeric format, exact to the minute, followed by lower-case “a.m.” For example, “12:04 a.m.” All other times in the report, such as when the coroner first received the alert of the potential homicide and the time he’d completed the report, were written out and rounded to the nearest hour, followed by capital “AM” or “PM.” For example, he’d arrived at the scene at “eight AM.” Body removed by “ten AM.”

As if one person had written the times in some cases—the time that Ev Downey had been murdered—and someone else had written all other references to the time.

He picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number listed on page one of the report—Herman Doskey’s personal cell number. A groggy voice answered after the second ring. “Doskey here.”

“Sorry to call you so late, Doc.” Lehigh winced. His computer’s clock read 10:51 p.m. “I lost track of time.”

“Carter, this had better be an emergency,” he said. “Any other reason for waking my wife at eleven at night is liable to get you impeached.”

Eleven. Not 10:51.

“Again, I apologize. I just had a question about your report on Ev Downey. The time of death—”

“Your time of death is going to be in ten minutes if that’s the only reason you called,” Doskey said in a hoarse whisper. “Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

“It probably should have,” Lehigh said. “But not if it means we put the wrong man in jail for murder.”

Several seconds passed. Lehigh heard deep breaths on the other end of the line. Finally, Doskey said, “Talking on the phone is not a good idea.”

“Let’s meet, then,” Lehigh said. “When and where?”

“Somewhere private,” Doskey said. “Not in town.”

Lehigh recalled the restaurant that his assistant, Julia, had enjoyed for her recent anniversary. “Wilkinson’s, in Wyee Falls,” he said. “Six-thirty tomorrow morning okay?”

“Make it seven,” Doskey replied with an exasperated sigh. “It’s a long drive. And Carter? Turn your damned phone off. It’s late.”

The line went dead.

***

WILKINSON’S RIVERSIDE Restaurant overlooked the town’s namesake Wyee Falls, one of the many gorgeous waterfalls scattered along the rocky eastern slopes of the Oregon Cascades. Modern in amenities but rustic in look and feel, its hot springs spa pampered the whims of guests and locals alike, which crowded the undersized parking lot. Lehigh parked behind the building and had to wander around to the front entrance, a hike that caused him to arrive in the lobby five minutes late. He found a white-haired, bespectacled man seated at a window table, sipping orange juice and reading a newspaper.

“Sorry I’m late, Dr. Doskey,” he said, extending a handshake. “I had to—”

“I saw where you parked.” Herman Doskey sniffed and set down his newspaper to accept the proffered handshake. “Smart idea. Keeps your truck out of sight.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Lehigh sat in the seat opposite the coroner and thanked their waiter for an immediate pour of coffee. After they ordered, Lehigh pushed his mug aside and leaned in, lowering his voice. “So, Doc. I have some questions about your report.”

“My report, or the county’s?” Doskey glanced from side to side and ducked his head. “In twenty-five years of service to the public, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never had a single word of my reports changed or challenged—hell, usually not even proof-read for typos. Now, all of a sudden, every syllable gets examined under a microscope.”

Lehigh raised his eyebrows. “Who’s reviewing your reports?”

Doskey pushed his horn-rimmed glassed up to the bridge of his nose and scoffed. “Not my reports. Just this report. As for who...” He paused, then leaned back. “I’ve been ordered not to say.”

“Ordered?” Lehigh scratched at his chin and lifted his mug of coffee. “You’re an elected official, just like me. Who’s got authority to give you orders?”

Doskey patted the air downward with open palms. “Keep your damned voice down!” He beckoned for Lehigh to lean closer. “Never mind who has authority. It’s about who can make my life miserable. I’ve got a wife and family, and I’m just a few years away from retirement. The last thing I need is to start a war with law enforcement.”

Lehigh’s heart raced, and he set his coffee mug down hard, spilling about a sip’s worth onto the white tablecloth. “Doc, I’m law enforcement, and I didn’t—”

“Forget I said that,” Doskey said, waving his hands in front of his face. “I didn’t mean that. I misspoke. Okay?” He fixed Lehigh with an earnest stare, his eyes blinking at a rapid rate.

Lehigh knew fear when he saw it. “Doc, who’s threatening you?” he asked. “Who’s telling you to change reports and—”

“I didn’t say that!” Doskey spoke in a strained, hushed voice. “What I said was, people are reviewing my work. ‘Quality assurance,’ they call it. My version is considered a ‘first draft.’ That’s all I’m saying.”

Lehigh nodded and drew in a deep breath. The waiter arrived with their breakfast, and the conversation paused while he ensured that everything was to their liking. Once he departed, they dug in, eating in silence for a minute or two. After washing down a few bites of delicious huckleberry pancakes with a final swig of coffee, Lehigh cleared his throat.

“I understand,” he said, “that you don’t want to name names, for fear of retributions. But if you could just give me a hint of who’s modifying your reports—”

“Nobody said anyone was modifying my reports,” Doskey said around a bite of sausage. He kept his eyes glued to his plate and ate with methodical efficiency. A forkful of eggs, a bite of sausage, a nibble on the buttered English muffin, a sip of juice. Rinse, lather, repeat.

“Excuse me, Doc, but somebody is saying it,” Lehigh said. “Me. And you’ve basically confirmed it. The only thing I don’t know is who’s doing it. And you do know. Right?”

Doskey stopped chewing, stared at him for a few moments, then resumed eating. “This meeting was a bad idea,” he said. “I should never have come here.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lehigh said. “Someone in law enforcement. Which is my department. So—”

“You’re not the only law enforcement agency around here,” Doskey said.

Lehigh pushed some food around on his plate, lost in thought. “Doc,” he said. “What time was Everett Downey murdered?”

“You read the report.”

“I did. And I noticed some inconsistencies.”

“Well, aren’t you smart.” Doskey shoved his plate aside, still half-full of food.

“I did the math. The time of death should have been before midnight, like you initially estimated, not after.”

“Then somebody’s math is wrong.”

Lehigh paused and chewed another huge bite of pancake. “Mine, or yours?”

“Not mine,” Doskey said.

“Whose, then?”

Doskey glared at him. “Next question.”

Lehigh sighed. “I see. So, to recap. Someone involved in the investigation ordered you—”

A cell phone rang. Doskey pulled one out of his pocket. “Duty calls,” Doskey said. “I have to go. But listen, Carter. You need to follow your instincts on this one. That’s all I’m able to say right now. Thanks for breakfast.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate and rushed out of the restaurant.

Lehigh sat still at the table, staring at his food long after it had gone cold. As cold as Doskey’s feet, all of a sudden.

Follow your instincts, Doskey had said. Lehigh’s instincts told him that somebody had either changed Doskey’s report, or forced him to, and threatened him harm if he revealed their identity. Someone in law enforcement, who could make good on that threat, at least enough to frighten him. Someone who knew the actual time of death, but needed it changed to protect their own alibi—or undermine George’s.

He clicked open a pen and jotted down some names on a napkin: Buck Summers. Ray Ferguson. Clayton Maddox. Jim Wadsworth. Judge Petros Geroux, if he stretched the definition of “law enforcement.”

Stretching the definition further, he added another name: Elliott Jackson. As county chair, he oversaw all executive functions of county government. Which led him to add another name: Teresa McBride, his well-connected secretary. Which led him to add one more: Bobby Wills. Wills had access to the files, and while he had no authority of his own, through Teresa he could influence actions of those who did wield power.

That thought led him to add one more name. Someone who could wield power, even without holding a government position. The power of the press. Bruce Bailey.

He looked over the list and scratched out a few names. Jim Wadsworth, out of pure gut feeling. Buck Summers, who had been in jail at the time. He hesitated over Ray Ferguson’s name, then left it alone. He couldn’t prove Ferguson did it, or not.

That left a handful of names. Still too many. He needed to narrow down that list, and fast.

Follow your instincts.

***

LEHIGH ARRIVED BACK in Clarkesville a few minutes before nine with a headache pounding at both temples. He blamed coffee deprivation, as he’d downed only one cup over his strange breakfast with the coroner. He’d been so preoccupied with what Doskey had revealed—and refused to reveal—that he’d forgotten to ask for the bottomless refills to which he’d been entitled. Considering how much breakfast at the posh resort had cost him, he should have emptied the pot and taken some to go.

He weighed his options and decided, against the wishes of his taste buds, to head to Dot’s—a purely financial decision. Dot charged less than anyone else in town, and often comped law enforcement types. Considering how weak she made the coffee, she should have paid people to drink it.

Entering the greasy little diner, he spotted Ben Wright sitting alone in the corner, finishing a plate of corned beef hash. Ben raised a half-eaten slice of buttered white toast and waved him over. Lehigh took the seat across from him and thanked the ever-efficient Dot for immediately serving him up a cup of coffee. She cleared away Ben’s dishes, then waddled back to the kitchen, humming an old George Strait tune.

“I want to thank you, Sheriff,” Ben said, “for taking care of...what we talked about. Martin’s a good man. You won’t be sorry that you trusted him.”

“No, I should be thanking you,” Lehigh said. “You set me straight and kept me from making a big mistake. I appreciate that.”

“There’s more where that came from,” Ben said with a grin.

“How’s that?” Lehigh sipped his coffee. A tingling sensation trickled down his spine.

Ben shrugged. “You’re making another big mistake. ’Course, I suspect you know that already.”

Lehigh frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Ben laughed. “Come on, now. You put your own father-in-law in jail, and you don’t know what kind of mistake that is?” He laughed again, drawing stares from patrons at nearby tables.

“My wife has let me know what a mistake she thinks it is,” Lehigh said. “And I’ve had my own doubts lately. But I had to arrest him, based on the evidence we had.”

“You say so.” Ben drained his coffee and signaled Dot for a refill. She showed him an empty pot, and he scowled.

“Of course, if you know something different...” Lehigh’s voice trailed off, inviting Ben to finish his sentence.

Ben leaned back in his chair. “What I’m going to tell you isn’t going to please your wife, or her mother,” Ben said, a smile still teasing at his lips. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Lehigh sighed, working on being patient. Everybody was being so coy these days. “If it bears on the evidence of the case and the guilt or innocence of the accused, of course I want to know,” he said. “Come on, man. What is it?”

Ben cocked his head, as if weighing his decision. “What time was the murder?” he asked. “Was it before midnight, or after?”

“Officially, between midnight and two in the morning,” Lehigh said. “But let’s just say, there may be reason for me to re-open that question. Why?”

“And old George says he was home alone all night, right?” Ben said, his smile widening. “His wife was out for the evening with friends, and he had no alibi until his wife got home around one-thirty?”

Lehigh nodded. “You know something different?”

Ben leaned forward, his hands knotted together on the table. “Sheriff, I know where George McBride was that night. Exactly where, from nine o’clock until almost one in the morning.”

“My God, man, tell me. Where?”

“He was in the same place I was, Mr. Carter. A place he won’t care to admit ever being, but I assure you, he was.”

Lehigh took a deep breath. Ben was having way too much fun with this, but if that was the price to pay for the truth, let him. “Let me guess,” Lehigh said. “A place where his wife wouldn’t approve of him being? Say, for example, a strip club?”

“Downey’s own,” Ben said, nodding. “In fact, he was there before me. I got there at nine, and he already had a drink in front of him. Sitting with Old Ev Downey, right there in the club, in a booth in back. They were having themselves a good old time.”

“George McBride? At Downey’s? Seriously?” Lehigh shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like him.”

“Nope,” Ben said. “I go there two, three times a month, have for years. Never seen him there before, not once.”

“Anyone else in the club at the time?” Lehigh asked. “I mean, at that time of night, shouldn’t a whole lot of people have seen them there? No one else has come forward.”

Ben shrugged. “A lot of guys don’t want to admit they frequent such places, and the girls, well, they’ve been flat-out told to never talk to anyone, much less cops, about who the customers are,” he said. “You go in there waving a badge around, well, suddenly they can’t remember who was there or who was working that night, you know what I mean?”

Lehigh nodded. “Squares with what I’ve seen. So, you saw George in there all night?”

Ben shook his head. “About an hour after I got there, the two old boys went back to the uh, private rooms,” Ben said. “You know what I mean?”

Lehigh shuddered, recalling what Stacy described from her own time working as a waitress in the club. Had George ever ventured into Downey’s club during one of her shifts, neither would have lived down the embarrassment. “How long was, er, he, uh...”

“About an hour,” Ben said. “Downey came out and sat back at his table right away,” Ben said. “George was back there at least an hour. He came back out, had another drink or two, then he and Downey shook hands, as if they’d just made some sort of deal, you know? Then a waitress brought them champagne. Man, were they in a good mood.”

“And then George left? Alone?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Ben said. “After about a half hour, and long before George left, Downey disappeared into the back rooms again. I was just coming back from the men’s room and he flew past me in the hallway. I look down past him, and I see Buttercup, one of his dancers, running out the back door. Old Everett, he ran right out after her. I figured, she must be quitting or getting fired or something. Too bad, ’cause I always liked her. But some ten minutes later, she comes back, and ends up doing another set. But Downey, he never came back in. It didn’t strike me at the time, but now it does. Anyway, George stayed behind to enjoy the show and that bottle of champagne. He was there a good hour or more by himself. Eventually, I guess he got tired of waiting for Downey, and he left. A little before one a.m., like I said.”

Lehigh sipped his coffee, now stone cold. If the coroner’s report had been changed, and the murder had taken place before midnight, then Ben’s eyewitness account could vindicate George after all.

If, if, if.

But then again, if George didn’t kill Ev Downey, who did?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lehigh rolled his truck along the long narrow drive leading up to Stacy’s split-level ranch, hesitating a moment before taking the parking spot that had once been his. He peered through the wide picture window into the living room, but the dark room revealed no hints as to whether his wife was at home. He hadn’t called first. Maybe a mistake.

He swung his suddenly heavy legs out of the truck and gave Lucky and Diamond a treat, then laughed as they bounded by him into the yard, one they’d run in hundreds of times over the past year. They picked up right where they left off, finding squeaky rubber toys at the base of a few trees at the side of the yard and diving into a game of chase. Their noisy barking reached ear-shattering levels in moments, and seconds later, the front door opened.

“Lucky! Diamond!” Stacy called out. The dogs ceased their insane but simple game and dashed over to her, sitting at her feet, tongues out. She grinned and mussed the fur on Lucky’s head, then Diamond’s, and tossed the squeaky toys they’d delivered back out into the yard.

“I hope it was okay to bring them,” Lehigh said, fingers hooked through the loops of his belt a few steps away from her.

“It’s fine,” she said in a low, even voice. She smiled. It looked a little forced. “It’s, uh, nice to see you.”

“You too.” He wondered if her heart ached as much as his at that moment. “I have a favor to ask of you.” He squinted into the sun toward the dogs so he wouldn’t have to see her response.

“Huh.” She opened the front door. “Well, I’m fixing dinner. You hungry?”

“Always. But I didn’t come here to—”

“I know. A favor. But just like you, I listen better on a full stomach. Come on, there’s plenty. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Your favorite.” She held the door open for him. After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped inside the house.

She set two plates on the table and pulled the cork out of a half-empty bottle of white wine. “Are you on duty?”

He shrugged. “I’d love a glass of wine, thanks.” He sat and she served them both a healthy portion. Chicken breasts, potatoes, gravy, and steamed green beans filled their plates. “These are from the garden you planted,” she said, indicating the green beans.

“Delicious,” he said around his first bite. “I really appreciate the meal. You didn’t have to.”

“I know that,” she said. “Just like I don’t have to do you any favors. Speaking of which...or would you rather finish your dinner, just in case?”

He took a bite of the chicken, savoring the seasoning she’d sprinkled onto the skin before roasting. A little salt, some green spices, maybe some red pepper. Perfect. As was the chardonnay. He set down his fork. “It’s about your dad’s case,” he said.

“I figured.” She sipped her wine, kept the glass in her hand. “I mean, what else do we have to talk about these days?” She shook her head and looked away. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that any more, and there I go again.”

“It’s all right.” He set down his wine glass and reached out a hand to her. She stared at it a long moment, then set a tentative hand in his. He held it and waited for her eyes to meet his again. “I’ve discovered some things that could help exonerate your father,” he said, “but it’s not the type of thing you’d want spread all over town.”

“I can’t imagine it’s any worse than being accused of murder.” Her voice sounded strained. “Have you discussed it with him or his lawyer?”

“Constantine Richards refused to allow me to speak to him,” Lehigh said. “As for the D.A.—well, let’s just say I have reasons not to inform them of this just yet.” His heart rate quickened. If Ray Ferguson knew he had tried to speak to George, or that he’d shared this with his wife... “Let’s keep this confidential, between us for now, if we can. Okay?”

She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “So how can I help?”

“You have some history that could help your father out here,” Lehigh said, drawing out his words. “I thought maybe you could use your connections to verify what I’ve learned. The folks there clam up when they see a badge and a uniform pull up.”

“Who? Where?” Stacy clenched her napkin. “I don’t understand.”

Lehigh stared at the meal going cold on his plate. He’d rehearsed this conversation a billion times, and like every other time he did that, it never went according to the script. “I have reason to believe that the time of Everett Downey’s death happened earlier in the evening than what’s been reported in the news,” he said.

Stacy shrugged. “How does that help my father?”

Lehigh took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “A witness says he saw your father at the time of the murder...in a club.”

“A club?” Stacy’s face lost all color, and she slid her chair back from the table. “Lehigh. What club?”

Lehigh looked away from her. “Ev Downey’s place—Montgomery’s Lounge. Where you used to—”

“My father would never!” Stacy stood and glared at him. “Who was this? Who said they saw him there?”

“I’m not yet at liberty to—”

“They’re lying!” Stacy shook a finger at Lehigh, then pulled it back to her side. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not you saying this. But my father never went to those strip clubs. He spent his career trying to get them closed. He still refuses to believe I ever waited tables there!”

Lehigh shrugged again and shook his head. “It surprised me, too. But it meshes with other things we’ve learned—his business deals with Downey, for example.”

“That’s it!” She brightened and tapped her palm on the table. “He was there for business. Cutting a deal. Doesn’t that make more sense?”

Lehigh gave a slow nod, then shook his head. “That actually might look worse for him. Cutting secret business deals with a shady character like Downey just before he was killed gives him motive. Especially since he spent most of his political career claiming he wanted to shut those clubs down.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Maybe it’s best we just leave this story alone.”

Lehigh stood and stepped toward her, but stopped when she backed away. Dammit! She remained so angry at him, or at least, so wary of his intentions. “You understand,” he said, “if he was there—if—and if this witness’s story can be corroborated, it could provide your dad an alibi.”

“And ruin his reputation.”

Lehigh grimaced and let out another long breath. “Forgive me saying so, but I think it may be a tad bit late for that.”

Stacy opened her mouth as if to object, then closed it, nodding. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.” She smiled, even, then the smile soured. “It would kill my mother.”

“Again...”

“No,” she said, “even worse. My mom could probably live with the thought of Dad being a murderer. But the idea of him hanging out at a strip club...wait. Why are you making that face?”

Lehigh wished he could kick himself for his lack of poker face. If his expression showed even a tenth of the dread he felt about telling her what Ben had revealed to him, he’d never be able to keep it from her. “I just agree, I guess. It’s pretty bad.”

She stepped closer to him, peering into his eyes. “I know you, Lehigh. You’re holding back on something. Something even worse than him being a pervy old man. What is it?”

Lehigh spread his hands, tried to speak. No words came.

“Come on, Lee. Tell me!”

He stepped back, repelled by the force of her words. There was no hiding it now. If she did help him, she’d find out anyway. “He may have...visited the private rooms in back.”

“Impossible! My dad is not a cheat! Even with—even with—” Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my God, Lehigh. Are you sure that’s what they saw?”

Lehigh pressed his lips together and gave a slow nod.

“Were there witnesses? More than one?”

He churned one hand in the other, wishing his nerves would settle down. “That’s where I need your help. If you could use your connections, trade upon your own history there, maybe people would talk to you who wouldn’t talk to me or the D.A. Woman to woman, you know?”

“I don’t know, Lehigh. It’s been so long—over fifteen years. Nobody I knew then still works there.” She meandered into the living room, her mind off somewhere in the clouds.

After a minute of waiting, he joined her on the sofa. “I’m not saying this is one hundred percent true, or even a little bit true,” he said. “And if not, we’re no worse off than before. But if it is true, and we can get at least one other person to testify that they saw him there at the time of the murder, it proves your Dad’s innocence, and he goes free. Don’t you think that’s worth finding out?”

She stared out the picture window, tears flowing like waterfalls down her face. “I tried, all of my life, to keep my history there from my father,” she said. “I probably failed, but if so, he always kept up the pretense. If I do this, all of that comes out publicly.” She looked back at Lehigh. “All of it.”

Lehigh reached out his hand and waited several seconds. Still in tears, she unfolded her arms and rested her palm in his. He closed his hand on hers with the lightest possible pressure. “I understand,” he said. “It’s not just your dad’s reputation that would go down. I know this is a lot to ask. But, Stacy. I don’t ask this for me. It’s for your father. No matter what happens, I’ll stand by you, and support you, and do whatever I can to protect you.” He squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back, nodding. “I know. Thank you.”

He waited a long minute while she thought, their eyes locked in the dimming daylight of the room. She reached for a tissue with her free hand, wiped away her tears, blew her nose. Fresh tears replaced the ones she’d brushed away, and she dabbed at her cheek with a fresh tissue.

She turned to him, a look of determination and grit in her eyes, her dark hair framed by the fading daylight from the picture window. She held his stare another long moment.

He waited.

Finally, she spoke. “It wasn’t easy for you to come here, was it?”

He shook his head. “I knew how hard it’d be for you. And if you can’t do it, I understand. I’ll just have to figure out a different way, that’s all.”

“You would?” She cocked her head, examining his face. “You’d help out my father, in spite of everything that’s happened—with him, between us—all of it?”

Lehigh surrendered a tiny smile and pulled her hand closer. “Of course. Not because he’s your father, per se. I’d do the same for any man I believed to be innocent.” He chuckled. “Not what you wanted to hear, I know, but—”

“You believe he’s innocent?” Hope tinged her voice. “Really?”

He nodded. But it was a slow nod, and she picked up on it.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” she said.

Lehigh drew another deep breath. Telling her the rest could undo the good will she’d extended thus far in the conversation. But not telling her seemed dishonest, and she’d find out sooner or later. “The people that hate me in this town—”

“People don’t hate you!”

He chuckled. “We both know that there’s at least a few who do. And we both know who they are. Anyway, they apparently are recruiting someone at the club, one of the dancers, to set me up. If you could find out who—”

“We could stop it before it happens! What kind of setup?” She moved closer, growing more excited.

“She’s supposed to take a punch or two and blame it on me, I guess.”

“Those scumbags would beat up a woman?” Stacy’s voice reached shrieking levels. “I’ll tear their eyes out!”

“And I’d hold them down for you,” he said. “But first, we have to prove it.”

She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Lehigh,” she said with a smile, “you got yourself a deal.. Let’s do this!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

They gave the dogs each a bone to chew in the back yard, and then Stacy drove them both to the McBride mansion. Lehigh reasoned that they’d be less suspicious if they saw her Volvo rolling up the long drive rather than Lehigh’s unwelcome pickup or a sheriff’s department Crown Victoria. Not that he wanted to catch George unawares. He just didn’t want to be chased off the property at gunpoint.

They nodded to the armed marshals standing guard at the perimeter of the property, a condition of McBride’s house arrest since his ill-fated attempt to leave the state. He also had to wear a tracker bracelet and report his whereabouts and every movement to the court every 24 hours. While a far cry from barbed wire and black bars, Lehigh had no doubt that George felt as imprisoned as Buck Summers and his co-conspirators in county lockup.

Consuela, the diminutive housekeeper, greeted them at the door with a wide grin, hugging both of them and babbling in Spanish too fast for Lehigh to translate with his high-school language skills. She broke into English after giving Lehigh a good-natured shake of the shoulders. “How skinny you are! You stay for dinner, okay?” Their half-true protests of having already eaten fell on deaf ears, and she ushered them into George’s study with promises of wine for Stacy and McBride’s best scotch for Lehigh.

Lehigh leaned close to Stacy and whispered, “Does she know that we, uh...?”

“The whole town knows, Lehigh,” she said without moving her lips. “We’re all just very good at pretending otherwise.”

Stacy’s silver-haired mother, Catherine McBride, appeared in the doorway in a blue floor-length Polynesian-style dress, as if attending a formal ballroom event. “Darlings,” she said. “Why didn’t you call ahead? We’re having dinner with Constantine Richards and his wife tonight. You’ll understand if we can’t include you.” She pecked Stacy on the cheek, then, glaring at Lehigh, extended her hand. He took it and gave it a light squeeze, keeping his eyes on her face for any sign of emotion. She gave none.

“We won’t be long,” Stacy said. “Lehigh has something he’d like to ask Dad.”

“Sheriff Carter knows Mr. Richards’ office phone number, I presume,” Catherine said with a sniff. “Drinks?”

“Consuela’s on it,” Lehigh said. “Yes’m, I know how to reach Mr. Richards. He also knows how to put me off, no matter how much I’m trying to help his client.”

“Help? Hah!” Catherine turned her back on them and headed to the hallway. Consuela’s entry with a tray full of drinks interrupted her departure. Lehigh noted that her tray included a champagne flute that slipped right into Catherine’s hands. So much for her dramatic exit.

“He’s right, Mother,” Stacy said. “He has a lead that could help Dad’s case. But Mr. Richards won’t even take his calls.” She glanced at Lehigh as if for confirmation, and he gave a quick nod. “If we could speak privately with him—”

“Consuela, please ask the senator to join us,” Catherine said, as if asking for a glass of tea. Consuela handed Stacy and Lehigh their drinks, curtsied, and left without a word.

“I think it might be best if you weren’t here,” Stacy said, her eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of her.

“Pfft.” Catherine took the seat at the far end of the coffee table and crossed her legs. The chair’s seat reached a few inches higher than the sofa’s, which, if not for her tiny frame, would have enabled her to gaze down at them with the full force of her contempt. “George and I have no secrets.”

“You may have one or two,” Stacy said, still not making eye contact. Lehigh smirked behind his glass of Scotch, half-pretending to savor the light peat aroma an extra moment before taking a sip.

“We’d better not.” Catherine took a healthy sip of her champagne and smacked her lips. “I should have asked her to bring the bottle.”

“I second that,” Stacy said, sipping her chardonnay.

“Is that my daughter’s voice I hear?” George McBride’s booming voice echoed from the hallway. His voluminous shock of white hair appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, capping a smile that faded into a scowl. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said, pointing a pudgy finger at Lehigh.

“I brought him,” Stacy said before Lehigh could speak. “He has something important to say to you, Dad. I think you should hear it.”

“It had better be an apology,” George said with a scowl. Lehigh started to stand, but George stopped him with a face-out palm. “Oh, don’t get up, Carter, unless you’re planning to kneel and beg forgiveness.”

Lehigh paused in his rise, then stood to full height. “I prefer to stand,” he said. “I don’t like being looked down on.” In his boots, Lehigh had a good four or more inches on McBride, and he took no small pleasure in the irony of his statement. “But if it makes you feel better, yes, I am sorry I had to be the one to arrest you, sir. It was one of the worst days of my life.”

“I’ll tell you one that’ll be even worse,” McBride said, pushing his way around the furniture to stand nose-to-nose with Lehigh. “The day I’m proven innocent. Because on that day, I promise, I will run you right out of this town. Maybe out of the whole damn state! Now get the hell out of my house!” McBride waved his arm toward the door, spilling his drink all over Stacy.

“Dad! Please! Would you at least hear what he has to say? I swear, it just might help you!” Stacy pulled George away from Lehigh, then dabbed at her dress with a napkin.

“What would help me is if he resigned,” George said with a growl. Then he brightened. “Wait, is that what you’re here to announce? Then this would be a happy day!”

Lehigh drew in a slow breath. “What I have,” he said, “is a witness who says he saw you at the time of the murder.”

“Interesting, but impossible,” George said. “The murder was at, what, two in the morning? I was home, in bed, and my wife has already attested to that. Not that anyone will listen.” He finished off his Scotch and set the empty glass on the table.

“I have reason to believe the murder took place earlier than previously thought,” Lehigh said. “Before midnight.” He sipped his drink, letting the words sink in.

George stared at him, his expression still filled with contempt at first, but then he paled. His face drooped, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Catherine,” he said, “perhaps you could find Consuela and ask her to refresh my drink?”

“You’ve had plenty enough to drink before dinner,” Catherine said. “And I wouldn’t miss this for all the chocolate in Belgium. Who is this witness? And where did he say my husband was? George, weren’t you here, at home? Isn’t that what you said?”

George stared open-mouthed at her. He glanced at Lehigh, then Stacy. His lips quivered, and his body crumpled into a nearby easy chair. “Perhaps I ventured out for a short while,” he said. “You say someone saw me?”

“And he’s willing to testify,” Lehigh said. “But he’s only one witness. His account would carry more weight if he was corroborating your own story. Right now, they don’t line up.”

“Where in thunder were you, George?” Catherine said, sitting up straight in her seat. “And why in heaven’s name are you taking this so badly? Don’t you see what good news this is?”

George reached for his glass, found it empty, and dropped his arm back to his side, lips still quivering.

“Dad?” Stacy leaned forward, resting a hand on his arm. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Catherine asked, her voice a sharp bark. “What the hell’s the matter with you, George? Why don’t you answer us?”

George gazed up at Lehigh, his eyes pleading. “Is this witness of yours a reliable one?” he asked. “Will his testimony stand up in court, or is he, you know, one of the deplorable types that...” His mouth continued to move, but no words emerged.

“So it is true,” Stacy said.

“Damn it, will somebody please tell me what is so damned true and important before I scream?” Catherine shouted. “George. Answer me. Where were you that night?”

George glanced at her, then let his gaze fall to the floor. He maintained a still stare for 30 or 40 seconds, and finally spoke. “I went to meet with Ev Downey,” he said, his eyes flickering toward his wife for a moment. “We were negotiating a land deal for that new supermarket that was supposed to go in. But there were things about that deal I didn’t like. Some of the investors seemed a little shady to me.”

“Shadier than Ev Downey?” Stacy asked with a little too much sarcasm. George didn’t seem to notice.

“I wanted out of the deal,” he said. “I offered him an attractive buy-out option. He drove a hard bargain, and in the end, he agreed.”

“He agreed?” Lehigh said. “Did you draw up papers?”

“He said he’d have his people take care of that the next day,” George said. “Turns out, there was no next day.”

“That’s great news!” Catherine said. “Not that you partnered with such a low-life, but that people saw you meeting with him. I must say, though, I don’t understand why this is so hard for you to admit.”

George faced her, but lowered his eyes. “We met at Downey’s place. The club. You know, with the, uh, dancers.” He glanced at Stacy, then averted his eyes.

Catherine made a face like she’d just bitten a lemon. “Well, that’s unfortunate. But at least it was only a business meeting.” She smiled at her husband, who still refused to look at her. She waited. Still nothing.

“George,” she said, “it was just a business deal, right?”

McBride continued to stare at the floor. Catherine’s face fell. “Oh, George,” she said. “George, you didn’t...oh, hell. You did, didn’t you?”

The room went still for several seconds. Lehigh stood. “I think this might be a good time for us to leave you to your private conversation,” he said. “Thank you for your time. Stacy, shall we...?”

Once outside, Stacy shivered in spite of the intense August heat. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes right now,” she said. “So, what’s next?”

Lehigh smiled at her. “Next, I take you up on your offer of becoming my newest deputy investigator.”

Chapter Thirty

Stacy applied the last touch of eyeliner to her already overly-made-up face and compared her image in the mirror to an old photograph she’d kept from her waitressing days. She’d caked on a thick coat of foundation with a generous smudge of blush, waxed her eyebrows, inserted hazel contact lenses, and applied enough purple eyeshadow to make Catwoman jealous. Visible through her white button-down blouse, her lacy push-up bra gave her much-needed cleavage, and the matching G-string, while unlikely to ever see the light of day, made her feel as trashy as she looked. A red wig waited nearby to complete her slutty persona.

She sighed. She hated this look—always had, even when it doubled her tips. Once she’d worn it to bed for Lehigh, but it had the opposite of the desired effect. He claimed to favor “good girls” over loose women, and while she felt like neither, she strove for the same persona he preferred.

But she was on a mission. And she was grateful that she still fit into the same outfits she’d worn half a lifetime ago.

She kept the wig and other accessories in an overnight bag, wearing jeans to drive in rather than the ridiculously short skirt she’d have to wear if her plan worked. She’d been arrested once in her underwear, an experience she never wanted to repeat.

She entered Montgomery’s Lounge in a brisk walk, with the bag slung over her shoulder like she owned the place, and donned the wig before finding the manager, a rail-thin brunette with uneven teeth and oversized blue-framed glasses, staring at a computer in her office. The place reeked of tobacco ash, whether because of the manager’s flouting of the indoor smoking ban or from decades of prior indulgence. A nameplate on the desk read “Cyndee Gagnon.”

“Looking for work?” Cyndee said without looking up. “Dancer or waitress?”

“Table service,” Stacy said. “No live action.”

Cyndee snorted. “You’re a bit old for that anyway. Experience?”

Stacy bit back a retort on the age jab. Keep the eyes on the prize. “Twenty years ago. A place a whole lot like this.” She set her bag down on the guest chair but remained standing. No need to get the stench of this room on her clean clothes. “You need anyone?” She already knew the answer, though. If they didn’t need help, that would have been the first thing out of Cyndee’s mouth. That, or tobacco spit.

“Can you work swing? If so, you can start tonight. Assuming you ain’t got a record.” Cyndee squinted at her. “You look kinda familiar.”

“My name’s Bridget,” Stacy said, keeping to her script.

“Bridget, huh? Sure, sure. And mine’s Cinderella.” Cyndee laughed at her own joke, a quick, cynical bark. “Got any references?”

“My cousin Amanda used to dance here.” Her friend Amanda’s brief tenure from twenty years before would raise no red flags that she knew of.

“Amanda musta been before my time,” Cyndee said. “No matter, just fill out the paperwork and make sure it’s legal. Charlie will show you the ropes. She gets ten percent of your tips, straight up. Got it?”

Stacy grabbed the employment application and stuffed it into her bag. “Thanks. You won’t regret it.” She dashed out before she burst out laughing. Everybody at Montgomery’s gave birth to new regrets every day of the week.

She found the forty-ish Charlotte, or “Charlie” as she preferred to be called, cutting up limes in preparation for a busy night. Stacy guessed that Charlie had once been a dancer, given her slender frame, full array of piercings and half-hidden tattoos, and out-of-proportion bust not quite contained by her low-cut blouse. She gave Stacy the nickel tour and seemed relieved when Stacy volunteered that she already knew the ins and outs of the operation from a prior stint at Downey’s. “You’ll do good here,” Charlie said, eyeing her, “especially if you show a little skin. Get signed in and we’ll get you a couple of tables. It’s already getting busy tonight, and we’re short a couple of wait staff.”

“Curious,” Stacy said. “Why do you suppose that is? Did a lot of people quit recently?”

Charlie wiped a clean bar towel on the counter and shrugged. “Every day, lately. Seems people are spooked by old Ev kicking the bucket. Good for you, though, huh?”

Stacy nodded. “He used to hang out in the bar a lot, years ago. I heard he was here the night he was killed. Were you working?”

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “I work every night, honey. I got bills to pay. Yeah, the old man was here. As usual, he was entertaining some rich dude who was blowing a wad of dough. Good tipper, but then, they all are when they’re drinking free booze.”

“I like the sound of that,” Stacy said. “Is the rich guy here tonight? I wouldn’t mind getting his table.”

Charlie laughed. “Not friggin’ likely you’ll ever see him around again. Not without the free booze.”

“Was he famous or anything?” Stacy said.

The bar rag stopped moving on the counter. Charlie eyed her with suspicion. “Don’t ever talk about who our customers are,” she said. “Even among ourselves. We ever do that, we’d be out of business in a week.”

“Sure, sure,” Stacy said. “I was just hoping, you know, a guy like that...well, I kind of need the money.”

“You’ll make money,” Charlie said. “Just keep selling drinks. Go on, get out of those clothes. You look like you belong on Wall Street.”

Stacy headed into the changing room down the hall behind the stage, frustrated. She’d come so close to verifying George’s alibi. She’d pressed too hard, too fast. This would take time.

A group of dancers waited their turns in the changing room, bouncing to the thump-thump of a disco beat that pounded through the walls. The show had begun. She tried to make eye contact with them, but they kept their distance. Just like when she’d waited tables years ago, the dancers and wait staff rarely mingled. She’d save them as a last resort in her investigation.

But the other waitresses working in the bar with her were no more forthcoming than Charlie. One had just started a few days before, and the other claimed not to have been working that night. A third rushed away after only the briefest of hellos, claiming to be swamped.

Then, a little over an hour into her shift, two men with familiar faces entered. The younger one, short and round-bellied, she recognized as Deputy Peters. The other, with his black crew-cut and athletic build, she’d remember forever. Sergeant Dale Dupont.

She cursed under her breath when the two out-of-uniform deputies took a table close to the stage in her section. Moments later, a third, even younger man, pudgy and dough-faced, joined them, a man she didn’t know. She tried to flag another waitress to cover the table for her, but two begged off and the third could not be found. She sighed and hoped her disguise and the unusual context would prevent recognition.

“What can I get youse guys?” she asked them in her best Brooklyn accent, slapping cocktail napkins in front of each man. She stood opposite the stage side of their table, kept her face in shadow and faced away from them.

“Pitcher of light beer,” Peters said. “Hey, are you new?”

“Just started tonight,” she said. “I’m Bridget. You guys got IDs?”

“IDs?” DuPont leaned back in his chair and laughed. “We come here every weekend. Nobody ever asks us for IDs!”

“I’ll be honest,” Stacy said, her face burning hot, “it’s this one here.” She pointed to the dough-faced boy. “I need to make sure he’s twenty-one.”

“Show her your badge, Bobby,” Peters said. “That’ll shut her up.” The other two laughed. After a moment, though, the boy pulled out his driver’s license.

Stacy checked the date and the name. Bobby Wills. The name sounded familiar. “I’ll be right back with your beer—hey!” She slapped DuPont’s hand off of her thigh.

“Just testing the waters,” DuPont said with a laugh. “Hey, you look kind of familiar. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

“I just got into town a coupla days ago.” Stacy chomped an imaginary piece of gum. “You must know my cousin Amanda.”

“If she looks like you, I want to know her,” Peters said.

“You boys enjoy yourselves.” She spun away before they could grab anything more substantial.

She delayed at the bar as long as she could, then returned with their pitcher. She poured their glasses about two-thirds full, swatting DuPont’s hands off of her butt twice between pours. She wanted to keep her visit as brief as possible, but it occurred to her that they might volunteer information she needed. “You guys waiting for anyone else to show?” she asked at a safe distance from DuPont.

“Yeah, his wife.” Bobby Wills pointed at DuPont and laughed.

DuPont thumped him in the chest. “We’re just here for the show, and, you know, maybe a little company,” he said with an oily smile on his face. “Maybe get some first-time action for our friend, here.” He smacked Bobby’s shoulder and sipped his beer.

“Hey, I ain’t no first-timer!” Bobby said, perhaps a little too loud.

“So, what do you say? Help our friend out, maybe go on a ‘date’ after your shift?” DuPont asked. “Maybe make a few extra dollars in ‘tips’ for your trouble?” He grinned, and Stacy nearly puked.

“You’re not asking me to do anything illegal, now, are you boys?” Stacy said.

“If it’s so illegal, why do the politicians and the prosecutors in the D.A.’s office—oof!” Peters doubled over, clutching his belly and twisting away from DuPont, who rubbed what appeared to be sore, red knuckles on his right hand.

“I think you misunderstood me,” DuPont said. “I apologize for any offense.”

“So, what’s your story?” Peters said. “How’d you end up in a place like this?”

Stacy shrugged. “It’s a job, you know? I just need the money, like everyone else.” She started to move away.

Peters draped his arm over a chair at the adjoining table, blocking her path. “Well, if you’re looking to make a little extra, I might be able to help you out with that.”

Her heart raced. “I, uh, don’t do that kind of thing, okay? I just wait tables.” She took a step back, but DuPont was there, and all eight of his giant hands. She wiggled back toward Peters.

“It’s not that kind of work,” Peters said. “Tell me, have you ever done any acting? It pays well, and it would do the community a great service.”

Her heart pounded. “Tell me more,” she said.

Peters patted his thighs, grinning like a wolf. She groaned, but set her tray down and sat in his lap, leaning close.

“You’d just need to ‘pretend’ to get into a fight with a guy,” Peters whispered into her ear. “And be real believable. You know what I mean?” His hand slid up her leg. She batted it away.

“Who’s the guy?” she asked in a husky voice close to his ear.

Peters giggled. “No names, but let’s just say, I work for him—for now.” He grabbed another thigh, and she dug her nails in to his wrist. He yanked it back.

She smiled at him, grateful that her disguise had worked so well. “Well, I bet I could do that for you,” she said. “Here, I’ll give you my number.” She scribbled the number of a pet supply store on a napkin and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “You call me in a couple of days, okay?”

“Sure, sweetie. And why don’t you bring us another round when you get a chance?”

Stacy smirked and hustled off to another table. The three men drained a couple of pitchers over the next two hours and left cash on the table, including a meager tip. Only DuPont gave her a second look the rest of the evening, squinting as though trying to remember her. She did her best to stay away and hide her face from him.

After three more hours of avoiding grabby hands and ignoring lewd proposals from table after table of old men and sleazy ex-jocks, she was exhausted. Being a weeknight, the steady stream of customers slowed to a trickle early. Charlie dismissed her for the night at ten o’clock.

Stacy left with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she’d intercepted the setup against Lehigh, and maybe thwarted or slowed its execution long enough for Lehigh to outmaneuver them. On the other hand, she’d been unable to verify her father’s alibi, with serious doubts that a return trip would yield any better results, and a lump of disgust weighed her down from within. A decade and a half after quitting this secret life, a few hours immersed back into it brought back all of the guilt and self-loathing she’d long ago hoped to leave behind. She hoped the meager results she’d obtained on her father’s behalf would somehow make it all worthwhile.

Chapter Thirty-One

“I’m about at my wit’s end, Carter!” Ray Ferguson fumed across the table from Lehigh, his face flushed red, his eyes narrow and dark. “Here I thought we had figured out a way to work together, and then I discover you going cowboy again!” He poked a long index finger onto the stapled sheets of paper in front of him, thumping it again for emphasis. “Interviewing witnesses—‘informally’ you say—and meeting with the accused without his attorney present—do you know how improper all of this is?”

Lehigh gripped a pencil in both hands, bending it almost to the point of breaking. Once again, key information had somehow reached Ferguson through informal back channels. How? And by whom? It drove him crazy. Someone in his own department was determined to embarrass him.

“Ray,” Lehigh said, “the reason I haven’t discussed any of this information with you is that it hasn’t been verified. It’s just hearsay. You can’t use it, one way or the other, until—”

“I’ll be the judge of what I can use or not!” Ferguson stood and planted twin fists on the table, leaning over Lehigh. “Your job isn’t to decide what’s usable. It’s to find the evidence and turn it over to my office so we can build an appropriate legal case!”

Lehigh stood to match Ferguson’s gaze. Seated beside him, Jim Wadsworth locked eyes with the blue-suited lawyer seated next to Ferguson across the table, who had started to rise out of his chair as well. Wadsworth gave his head a tiny shake and a “wait” sign with an open palm. Lehigh took it all in with a glance, recognized his deputy’s wisdom in trying to avoid further escalation, and softened his tone. “Look, Ray. I’m not trying to be a pain in your butt. I just don’t want to repeat every syllable of hearsay folks volunteer who want to be part of the big story. This murder case, people are fascinated by it. They want to feel important. That doesn’t mean they actually know anything. They just want a little time in the spotlight. Right?”

Ferguson relaxed a little, unclenching his fists. “That may be true. But, Sheriff, you’ve got to trust us with the information. We’re pretty good in my office at determining whether someone’s testimony will hold up in court. We’re trained legal professionals, each and every one of us. Can you say the same?”

Lehigh tossed his hands up in surrender and sat, waiting for Ferguson to do the same. Once they were at eye level again, he folded his hands and spoke in an even tone. “So, now that you know what we know,” Lehigh said, “specifically that George may have an alibi after all...don’t you think you ought to drop the charges?”

“Of course not,” Ferguson said. “As you said, it’s unverified. What’s more, it’s not much of an alibi. He stayed at the club until close to one a.m. That still leaves plenty of time for him to catch up to Downey on Brady Mountain Road and do the deed. And it strengthens his motive, if anything.”

Lehigh started to object, then sighed. Had Stacy been able to find a witness to corroborate Ben Wright’s story, placing George in the Montgomery Club until one a.m., he’d argue the point, but he knew that the word of an ex-con like Ben would carry no weight with Ferguson.

Then he realized the upshot of Ferguson’s remark. Ray didn’t know that Lehigh had discovered the discrepancies in the coroner’s report—only that he’d followed up on Ben’s eyewitness account of seeing George at Downey’s club. That was an important clue, and one he didn’t want to share with Ferguson just yet. “If what George claims is true, that they were dissolving the deal, then it weakens his motive, doesn’t it?” he asked. “If George wanted out, he’d need Downey alive, at least until they signed the papers.”

“Maybe he got impatient,” Ferguson said. “He probably figured Downey was cheating him again, and didn’t want the new deal to go through. When Everett refused to back out, that was his death sentence.” Ferguson smiled at his wordless assistant, who mirrored the smile back at him.

Lehigh considered the district attorney’s point. “What do you think, Jim?”

“It’s plausible,” Wadsworth said. “But so’s the opposite. That’s why we need to verify...everything.” His eyes widened at Lehigh. Good. He’d probably just realized what Lehigh had moments before.

“We’ll take that from here,” Ferguson said. “Just send us the contact information for these so-called witnesses. And Carter? Please.” He smiled, but it was not a friendly smile. “Leave the investigative work to the professionals, okay?” He picked up his report, returned it to a black briefcase perched on the floor beside him, and led his sycophantic assistant out of the room.

Lehigh swiveled and smiled at Wadsworth. “He doesn’t know,” he said.

“About the Doskey report? No, I don’t think he does.” Wadsworth cocked his head. “Which means whoever it is wasn’t here when that came in. But they were when Ben talked to you.”

Lehigh nodded. “We need to catch this son of a you-know-what,” he said. “Because whoever it is, they want George McBride convicted just a little too much. And that’s starting to bother me.”

***

COUNTY CHAIRMAN ELLIOTT McBride Jackson straightened his tie and checked his hair one last time before stepping in front of the TV camera next to the tall, dark-haired reporter. Bruce Bailey had promised him an “easy” interview after reading a quick summary of what he promised to reveal on-air. With the scoop he was about to get, Bailey ought to set up automatic monthly donations to Jackson’s re-election campaign. Even a tiny percentage of the Pulitzer Prize money would get Jackson re-elected ten times over, if anyone was ever stupid enough to run against him. Perhaps, he mused, he should vie for statewide office.

“On in five, four, three...” A small man in short sleeves finished the countdown on his fingers and mouthed “Go!” when he ran out of digits. The camera’s red light came on, and the newsman turned on his made-for-TV smile.

“Breaking news on the Everett Downey murder investigation,” Bailey said in a deep baritone. “Bruce Bailey reporting from Mt. Hood County headquarters, where County Chairman Elliott Jackson has late-breaking news about the case. Commissioner Jackson, what’s the latest?”

“Thank you, Bruce,” Jackson said, turning on his kiss-the-babies grin for the camera. Then he realized how incongruous that might seem to viewers, and adopted a stern, angry expression. “We have learned that the sheriff’s office has undertaken unauthorized, unofficial, and unprofessional independent investigations into the murder of Everett Downey, and has suppressed information vital to the case,” Jackson said. “It is our understanding that this information definitively proves the guilt of the sheriff’s own father-in-law, George McBride, which is why he refused to reveal his data and his sources!” He stopped when he saw Bruce take a step back from him, which Bailey had told him would be his cue to lower his voice. He came across “hot” on TV, Bailey had told him, whatever that means. Something bad. He softened his tone. “We ask the sheriff to discontinue this reckless behavior and release all of his information to the district attorney immediately.”

“What sort of information is this?” Bailey said. “What do you know about what the sheriff has uncovered?”

“We can’t say for certain, since we haven’t seen the evidence first-hand.” Jackson flushed red. So much for “easy” questions. “But we can say that it corroborates evidence already collected that identifies George McBride as the shooter.”

Bruce turned to face the camera head-on. “Sources inside the department say that secondary analysis of ballistics and forensics data place McBride—and his privately owned weapons—at the scene of the crime. The individuals providing the information hesitated to appear on camera or be identified out of fear of retaliation. Chairman Jackson, you seem unafraid of such retaliation. What gives you the courage to stand up to the full force of local law enforcement in Mt. Hood County?”

Jackson beamed. For a moment he’d thought Bailey would steal all of his thunder by summarizing his revelations himself on camera, but with such a softball question as a follow-up, he had no complaints. “I’ve made a career out of sticking up for the little guy against ruthless, out-of-control government overreach,” he said. “The fact that this particular bureaucrat carries a gun and a badge doesn’t deter me one iota.” His head buzzed at how good he sounded. This would play on TV like free money at the welfare office. Who could resist him now?

“Attempts to clarify these revelations at the sheriff’s office have gone unanswered,” Bailey said. Jackson’s ears tingled. What attempts? Had the scoundrel gone behind his back already? “For now, citizens of Mt. Hood County look to their elected leaders for guidance. What steps, if any, can the County Commission take to rein in this rogue sheriff, Mr. Chairman?”

Jackson’s heart rate steadied again and he scowled into the camera. “We have the authority—nay, the responsibility—to investigate these reports, and report back to our vot—er, citizens,” he said. “Whether it be motivated by cronyism, improper influence, or simple ineptitude, our citizens deserve better.”

“How serious are these accusations?” Bailey asked with a smirk. “Should the sheriff be worried for his job?”

“If these reports bear out, they’re very serious,” Jackson said. “Charges could be brought, up to and including impeachment and removal from office.”

Bailey turned toward the camera again, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is Bruce Bailey reporting.”

The camera light turned off and Bailey grinned at him. “Good stuff, Mr. Jackson. Now, if you decide to impeach, you know who to call first, right?” He winked and signaled for the camera crew to pack up.

“Likewise,” Jackson said. “If you want more on this story, you know right where to come. For the truth.”

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the caller ID. Ray Ferguson. What the heck did he want?

***

LEHIGH TURNED OFF THE TV set and chuckled to himself. He couldn’t wait until the D.A. insisted on seeing the actual independent forensics report. He’d have no choice but to reveal its actual contents. Had Lehigh released the information on his own, rather than “hiding” it, as Jackson had insinuated, everyone would have dismissed the report as biased.

Still no sign that anyone else knew of the discrepancies in Doskey’s report.

He punched the first speed-dial button on his phone. “Julia,” he said when she answered, “is Martin Lightfoot nearby?”

“Right here,” she said, “looking like a puppy who just busted into the meat locker. Shall I send him in?”

Martin didn’t wait for his reply, bursting through the door a moment later. “Did it work?” he asked, out of breath.

“Like a charm,” Lehigh said. “But I need to verify something with you. Who, exactly, did you tell about this report, and what exactly did you tell him?”

Martin crossed his arms across his beefy chest. “The only person I told was Bobby Wills,” he said. “I made sure we were alone and that no one else could overhear, like you asked.”

“You’re sure?” Lehigh asked.

“Two hundred percent,” Martin said.

Lehigh smiled. Perfect. He had his man. The source of the leaks was Bobby, after all.

***

BEN WRIGHT SIPPED HIS icy-cold light lager alone, as usual, at the end of the bar in The Roadhouse, one eye and one ear always alert to the dangers around him. He’d long since gotten used to being the only African-American to patronize the cowboy bar, ever since his cousin Will ditched out on him the previous spring—without paying that month’s rent, of course. The white folks in Mt. Hood County—those not wearing uniforms and a badge, anyway—left him alone for the most part.

A mixed blessing, that. He had few close friends in town and fewer dating prospects, but at least the sheriff left him alone. In fact, Sheriff Carter had become kind of a friend in recent days. He’d never been able to claim that growing up in the big city.

He waved his near-empty bottle at the skinny barkeep to get her attention, but she pretended not to notice him, despite his history of generous tipping. He’d been tempted to stiff her on occasion to repay her rudeness, but the guilty memory of his single mom’s tireless labor at countless greasy spoons always prompted him to leave no less than twenty percent. Babs may be a jerk, but like everyone else, she had to make a living.

She flirted with a young deputy at the bar, an apple-shaped white man with a buzz cut and a growing redness in his pudgy face. His wise-cracking at the TV screen had grown louder and louder over the past hour. He either didn’t care who might be listening, or was trying to attract an audience. The occasional chuckle from the fellows playing pool added encouragement on top of the attention Babs lavished on him, whose blouse seemed to lose buttons every time she refilled his shot glass. By Ben’s count, two more drinks would qualify her to tend bar at Downey’s place.

“There ain’t no way!” Bobby shouted over the noise to the man at the bar next to him. “No friggin’ way he wins the election. Not after what’s going down today.”

The man mumbled something back at him, and Bobby laughed. “Oh, he’s going down, all right.” He tossed back his drink. “They got the goods on him, big time. Old Rev Ferguson’s gonna roast him like a stuck pig at the Lumber Festival.”

“Best be careful about what you’re saying,” Babs said, shaking her head. “That’s your boss you’re talking about there.”

Ben’s ears burned. The deputy was talking about Carter? He couldn’t imagine anyone in town voting for that goofy guy running against him. Everyone knew former Deputy Dwayne Latner owed his candidacy to the moneyed interests in town, the old-boy network that had run the county into the ground over the past twenty years. He’d thrown Buck Winters under the bus as a co-conspirator with Paul van Paten on the Jared Barkley murder and somehow emerged unscathed himself, so he was craftier than he looked. But the man had never come up with an original thought of his own and couldn’t chew gum and tie his shoelaces at the same time.

So, what was this idiot Wills up to?

“He won’t be my boss for long,” Wills said, signaling for a refill.

Babs grabbed the cheap, lower-shelf whiskey and leaned over the bar to give him a slow, generous pour. “What makes you say so?” She brushed her hair back with a free hand.

“I got him dead to rights, holding back on evidence on his father-in-law.” Bobby’s voice slurred. “Dead to rights, I tell ya.”

The man next to him asked a question. “They got proof that his father-in-law’s the shooter, and Carter’s holding back,” Bobby said. “But I fixed him. I fixed him like a six-month-old puppy.” He laughed and sipped from his glass.

“You shouldn’t be talking like this out of school.” Babs wiped down the bar with a rag. “You never know who’s listening.”

Ben’s ears burned again. He hunkered down low on his bar stool, looked away and pretended not to hear. Thank God she ignored his request for a new beer. She’d probably forgotten about him.

Bobby laughed. “I don’t care who’s listening,” he said. “He shouldn’t be sheriff and in a few months, tops, he won’t be. And I’ll be sitting pretty, with good friends in the D.A.’s office. Good friends.”

The man next to him laughed. “Or you’ll be out of a job,” he said, loud enough for Ben to hear. “Remember, he’s still sheriff. Word gets back to him, you’ll be on the streets in no time.”

“Who’d be stupid enough to go against me now?” Bobby said. “I got connections. Powerful connections. Nobody would dare!” He stood and faced the room, scanning the faces of the pool players, who shook their heads and laughed.

“Careful, Meat Loaf,” one of them said.

“Right now, I’d put my money on Carter,” another said.

“Against the Reverend?” asked another. “No way.”

Bobby’s gaze settled on Ben for a moment. Ben pretended to nurse his lukewarm beer, now mostly backwash. Avoid eye contact. Avoid...

Bobby looked away and returned to his seat. “One more, Babs,” he said. “For the road.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” she said. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want no stinking coffee,” Wills shouted. “Gimme a damn whiskey!” Ben winced. Bobby’s piercing whine could shatter glass.

Babs crossed her arms and shook her head. “Sorry, Bobby. Now, why don’t you get yourself a sandwich or some fries? On the house.” She stepped toward the kitchen.

“Where you going?” Bobby yelled. “You calling the cops on me?”

“No, Bobby, I’m just—”

“Are you forgetting? I am the law. I could arrest you right now for serving visibly intoxicated people. Look at this place! Full of drunks, and they all keep getting served!”

The man next to Bobby slid off his stool and slunk off to the end of the bar. A couple of the pool players strolled over, pool cues in hand, surrounding him. “Who you calling a drunk?” one of them asked.

“Hey, guys, I didn’t mean nothing—”

“I take offense at accusations like that,” one of the men said in a menacing tone.

“I think our boy here needs a lesson in manners,” said the first. They stepped closer.

In a flash, Bobby burst through a tiny gap between them, tripping over a pool cue that somehow got tangled up in his legs. He sprawled face-first on the floor, howling in pain. One of the pool players removed the wallet from Bobby’s back pocket, emptied it of its cash, and tossed the wallet onto Bobby’s head. The man slapped the cash on the bar, nodding at Babs. “That ought to cover his tab and a nice tip. Now, get out of here, you sloppy little turd, before we stuff that uniform of yours up your big fat butt!”

Ben, still at the end of the bar, blinked in surprise. Before he realized what happened, Bobby was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“You gotta help me, Mr. Ferguson!”

Ray Ferguson shook his head in disgust at the rumpled, drunken figure of Deputy Bobby Wills sprawled out in the guest chair on the far side of his massive mahogany desk. Another of the county’s finest, and, as a recent hire, one that Carter couldn’t blame on his predecessor. He wished he could have recruited a more trustworthy insider to keep him updated on the sheriff’s secretive maneuvers, but Carter’s caution limited Ferguson’s options.

“I can only do so much, Deputy,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster, given his irritation. “I can’t protect you from yourself if you go spilling your guts in every dirty saloon in the county. What in the devil’s name were you thinking?”

“I–I–that barmaid tricked me,” Wills said, near tears. “She kept refilling my glass when I wasn’t looking—”

“And forced you to drink it, of course,” Ferguson said in a mocking tone. “You wretch! Fools like you should be barred from alcohol. Then again, all men are fools who indulge in the devil’s elixir. One drink leads to another, and soon your mouth runneth over. ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise.’ Proverbs 20:1. That’s you in a nutshell, young man.”

Bobby’s face twisted with confusion. “I ain’t had no wine,” he said. “I was drinking whis—”

“All we can hope now is that the ruffians who ran you out of there are as uncontrolled in their consumption as you,” Ferguson said, loud enough to drown out the boy’s rambling. “And as forgetful as you are irresponsible. A tall order, of course, considering.” He shook Bobby by the shoulder. “You keep your mouth shut from here on out, unless you’re talking to me and only me. Am I being clear?”

“But what about the sheriff? What if he fires me?” Bobby lurched forward and nearly fell out of his chair. “Can’t you do something to save my job?”

“You’re still on probation,” Ferguson said, his patience fading fast. “Carter could fire you even without a good reason—and you’ve given him plenty. No, your best bet is to go home, eat some food to absorb that alcohol, and try to get some sleep. And for God’s sake, shut your damned mouth!” He picked up his desk phone and started punching in numbers.

“But Reverend—”

“Don’t call me Reverend!” Ferguson slammed the phone back into its cradle, six digits into dialing the local taxi service. “Only my enemies call me that. Are you planning on becoming my enemy, Deputy?”

“N-no sir, I’m sorry—”

“Good. Because you will rue the day you cross me, boy. Now get the hell out of here. And don’t ever come here again unless I summon you. Go on—get!”

***

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Ray Ferguson gave a thumbs-up to Bruce Bailey, who stood with a hand-held microphone in front of a portable news camera held by a burly assistant. “On in five seconds,” Bailey said, then smiled at the camera. “Welcome back to ‘Live at Five’ News,” Bailey said. “I’m at the District Attorney’s office of Mt. Hood County with more breaking news on the Everett Downey murder case. With me is the lead prosecutor on the case, Assistant District Attorney Raymond Ferguson. Mr. Ferguson, we understand that you’ve uncovered some shocking irregularities in the sheriff department’s handling of the case, is that right?”

“Unfortunately, that is true,” Ferguson said, putting on a somber face. “We are preparing to file charges of improper use of funds, illegal search, and misuse of police authority against high-ranking officials in the sheriff’s office, based on eyewitness accounts of said behavior from within the department.”

“Those charges sound serious.” Bailey’s surprised expression even looked real. “Can you name the persons being charged?”

“In due time.” In truth, Ferguson hadn’t even drawn up the charges, and wasn’t sure he had much chance of an indictment. He hoped Carter would resign rather than risk being named. “Suffice to say, the persons of interest are very high-ranking. Very high.”

“What are the penalties if convicted?” Bailey said.

“Those indicted would be suspended from service pending trial, and if convicted, would face serious fines and possibly prison,” Ferguson said, recalling his days teaching Introduction to Law for the Layman at the community college. “The extent of the prison term would, of course, be up to the judge and jury.”

“How does this affect the investigation of the Downey murder?” Bailey asked. Finally!

“Unfortunately, it’s more ammunition for the defense, but I assure you, it’s nothing but a smoke screen,” Ferguson said, getting into a rhythm. “We’re getting used to this sort of cronyism coming from this sheriff’s office, and we’re confident that the judge will see through it and rule appropriately on the admissibility of evidence that support the people’s case.”

“And that case is that the man standing trial for this murder, Senator George McBride, is guilty of this murder?” Bailey asked.

“That is correct,” Ferguson said.

“The sheriff’s father-in-law,” Bailey said.

“The same,” Ferguson replied. He put on a sorrowful expression, as if the whole affair saddened him. Which it did, but not for the reasons viewers might conclude.

“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” Bailey said, turning to face the camera. The cameraman waved at Ferguson, his cue to step out of the camera’s view. “These revelations,” Bailey went on, “come on the heels of a new poll just released today showing that Sheriff Lehigh Carter now trails former Deputy Dwayne Latner by five percent among likely voters in the county.”

The camera’s red light blinked off, and a small monitor displayed some graphs being shown to viewers at home. Bailey picked up some papers and cited other figures from them by way of voice-over.

“This reverses a trend we’d noted in polls from just a month ago, where the incumbent led Latner by seven points,” he said. “Our data shows Latner picking up the greatest increase in support among the business community, those with college degrees, and male voters.”

Ferguson smiled. The local station’s polls had accurately predicted the last five county-wide election results. Some would say they shaped those results. Fine with him.

The red light blinked back on, and Bailey faced the camera alone. “Pollsters say that the number one issue among Latner supporters is ‘experience and professionalism’ in the sheriff’s office, followed by ‘honesty and integrity’ of the incumbent,” he said. “It appears that recent scandals surrounding the department is starting to stain the reputation of Interim Sheriff Lehigh Carter. Back to you in the studio.”

“Fascinating results on that poll,” Ferguson said. “How recently was it taken?”

Bailey shrugged. “Heck if I know. I just read what they give me.” He smoothed his hair back and handed his microphone to the camera crew. “I appreciate you giving me the scoop on this, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Call me Ray,” Ferguson said, shaking the newsman’s hand. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

***

THE JANGLING OF BELLS split the night air, jarring Stacy from a deep, dreamless sleep. She moaned and rolled over in her queen-sized bed, one that felt so enormous and empty since...

She put that thought out of her mind, aided by the repeated ringing of her stupid telephone. Her alarm clock showed 2:43 a.m. Few people, if any, dared call her this late: her parents, or best friend Donna in an emergency, or Lehigh. Anyone else would be making a mistake.

She crab-crawled on her elbows to the side of the bed and lifted the receiver. “H’lo?” She rubbed her eyes, awaiting a response.

Nobody spoke.

“Hello?” she said again, prepared to slam the receiver back into its cradle. Then she heard breathing. Heavy breathing.

“Who is this?” she said. “Speak, or I’m hanging up.”

More heavy breathing. She slid the receiver away from her ear—

“You’d better watch yourself,” said a man’s voice. She didn’t recognize it. “You’re not safe.”

“What do you mean, I’m not safe?” She sat up, much more awake. “From what? Who is this?”

“Your husband isn’t there to protect you,” the man said in hushed tones. It sounded odd—disguised, maybe. “Nor your dogs.”

“Leave me alone, you freak!” Stacy shouted and slammed the phone down. She missed the cradle, though, and the phone rattled to the floor.

“We’re coming for you, bitch!” the voice hissed from the floor. In spite of the distance, she could hear it clearly in the deep quiet of the night.

“You and what army?” she yelled back at the phone and this time was able to pick it up and slam it home. Freaks. Who would do such a thing? Probably some stupid teenagers.

Although they knew some pretty specific things, like Lehigh not being there, and that they had dogs. Stacy shivered and pulled the covers over her.

The phone rang again.

Her body went still, her limbs and neck rigid, a stiff and painful posture even if she was laying down. She gritted her teeth and waited for the next ring.

It came. Loud. Insistent. Obnoxious.

“Go away!” she shouted into her pillow.

Another ring.

Fine, then. They weren’t going to go away on their own. She grabbed the phone. “Who is this?” she screamed.

“We’re watching you,” the voice said.

“Go away!” she yelled. “Leave me alone!” She knew she should just hang up, but—

“Your father killed an innocent man,” the voice said. “Sins of the father must be repaid.”

She fought to keep her voice strong and steady, but lost the battle. “What the hell do you want?”

“You,” the voice said. “You are what I want. Dead!”

The line went still, followed by a dial tone. Stacy sat still, upright in her bed, shaking, the phone stuck to her ear, her arm unable to move to hang up. She stayed there until the dial tone stopped, switching to that annoying siren-like sound that warns of an off-hook receiver. She pressed “End” on the handset and dropped it in her lap, breathing hard.

Someone who knew her home phone number—or could find it, which was easy enough, she supposed—and knew her situation in life: separated from Lehigh, unprotected, her father standing accused of a horrible crime. And now they’d threatened to make her pay for her father’s alleged deeds.

Deeds, she knew deep inside, that he’d never committed. But few knew what Lehigh had shared with her. She’d been unable to corroborate the claim that could exonerate her father, but he had to be innocent.

Still, the public didn’t know anything about that. Which means the caller could be anyone. Anyone, that is, who knew Everett Downey, or cared enough to want to avenge his murder.

A cold shiver shook her again. The people that knew Downey best were the ones that worked for him—the ones to whom she’d risked exposure by working that shift at the club. Had someone identified her? Nobody seemed to recognize her at the time, but maybe her questions spurred curious minds to investigate.

She picked up the phone again, surprised to find her hands still shaking. She took a deep breath and waged an inner argument: make the call, or not? Call now, or wait until morning? Tell all, or the bare minimum?

Was she being foolish, taking any of this seriously?

The voice came back to her, haunting her. “You are what I want. Dead!” She had to admit, the call frightened her. Especially since they’d called back. And it didn’t sound like teenagers. Not at all.

She dialed.

“Mmm-hmmm?” Lehigh’s drowsy baritone filled her ears. A sweet sound, that. She loved the sound of his voice, even when angry with him.

“Lehigh, I just got a call,” Stacy said. “Someone threatened me. To kill me, Lee.”

“Could you tell who it was?” Suddenly he sounded alert, all business. “Male, female, young, old?”

“A man,” she said. “I couldn’t tell how old. Not a kid. He–he knew things, Lehigh. About my father. About us. It frightened me.”

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

“No!” The words escaped her mouth before her brain could stop them. “No,” she said in a softer tone, “no need. It didn’t sound like they meant to kill me tonight. More of a warning. To scare me.”

“I’ll have the call traced,” he said. “We’ll find out who it is, and by gum, when I’m through, they’ll wish they’d never heard of a telephone.”

“I think I need some protection,” she said. “Is that something you could arrange?”

“Like I said, I’ll come over—”

“No, no,” she said, again without thinking. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I thought maybe one of your deputies, or maybe you could bring one of the dogs...?”

“I don’t have the spare manpower to post a guard,” he said, “but I could bring the dogs. Of course, that means I have to come over, too.”

“Drop them off tomorrow,” she said. “You still have a key?”

After a long silence, he replied. “You want me to bring them when you’re not there.”

She sighed. How mean that sounded. “Of course you can bring them in the morning if you like. I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Stacy, you’re my wife. Even though we’re separated, your safety is not an inconvenience. It’s a necessity.”

“Thank you, Lehigh. I really appreciate it.”

Another long pause. “Stacy, are you sure you don’t want me to come back for a bit? I’ll sleep on the couch if you want, but I just think—”

“I’m sure,” she said. “I still need some time, Lee. To think about things. But thank you for asking. It’s very sweet of you.”

He sighed. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you in the morning, before work. With Lucky and Diamond, who would love to see you. Almost as much as I would.”

She hung up and cradled the phone to her chest. Her heart pounded, and tears crawled down her cheeks. A clear truth emerged before her. Despite his crazy ways and his odd mistakes—despite arresting her father for a crime they both knew he didn’t commit—she realized that her husband was, down deep, a good man. As hard as it would be, she knew that sooner or later she’d admit to herself and to him that she couldn’t live without him any longer.

But not today.

She turned off the phone’s ringer, rolled over, and prayed for sleep.

***

LEHIGH WOKE WELL BEFORE his 6:00 a.m. cell phone alarm after a fitful night of short sleep bursts. His mind couldn’t shut off the sound of fear in Stacy’s voice the night before, and he’d struggled against the urge to disregard her admonition to stay away. More than once he’d decided to drive over and park in front of her house to stand watch, armed and ready. But knowledge of how she’d react stopped him. He needed to think long-term here.

He sipped coffee by the campfire and picked at a plate of fried eggs, lit by the pink rays of sunrise climbing over the rolling hills to his left. He’d grown accustomed to the outdoor lifestyle once again, one he’d abandoned years ago after taking over the family logging business. He enjoyed the crisp night air, the soft cries of nature awakening amidst the trees, the gradual lightening of the night sky. But the pleasantness of the day came to life without his appreciation that morning. Staring off into the distance, he saw only the dark clouds emerging from within.

His wife was in trouble. Deep trouble. Threatening phone calls in the middle of the night, people stalking her to discover her vulnerabilities—and all because of him. He’d taken this sheriff’s job against his better judgment, and no part of it pleased him. The bureaucracy, the politics, the constant exposure to the seamy underbelly of humanity’s worst, all sucked the life out of him daily.

And now this.

He snuffed the fire, scrubbed his dishes clean, and slammed the last of his coffee. Still too early to go to Stacy’s, he could at least keep a watchful eye from a closer distance. He whistled for the dogs, who bounded from invisibility in the forest into his truck, and in minutes he’d traversed the empty highway into Clarkesville.

He stopped at Shirley’s Cafe and nursed a second cup of coffee. The “Good Morning” news program came on and the waiter behind the counter obliged him by turning up the volume. Minutes later, Bruce Bailey’s slimy face filled the screen.

“County Judge Petros Geroux has set a trial date of September sixth for the trial of George McBride for the murder of Everett Downey,” Bailey said, shading his eyes from the sun. The segment, Lehigh realized, had been taped the evening before. “Assistant District Attorney Ray Ferguson applauded the quick trial date, claiming that the defense attorneys in the case had engaged in, quote, endless delay tactics, end quote. As for their part, McBride’s attorney, Constantine Richards, had this to say.”

The screen shifted, and Richards’ ruddy face, bright-white shock of Einstein-like hair and long Roman nose filled the screen. “We welcome the speedy start to the trial, and contrary to the prosecution’s claims, we insisted upon an early commencement of proceedings,” Richards said. “We’ll prove my client innocent of all charges, and clear his name from the cloud of suspicion that has arisen from these baseless allegations.”

Lehigh set down his coffee and stared slack-jawed at the screen. Ferguson’s desire for a quick trial made sense—the evidence, thus far, seemed stacked against McBride, and he needed to act fast before Lehigh succeeded in poking too many holes in his case. But why would Richards agree? Why wouldn’t he at least return Lehigh’s calls? And why would George agree, knowing, as he did, what Lehigh had discovered?

The answer struck him all at once. George would rather go to prison for murder than be exposed as a man who’d cheated on his wife in strip clubs.

Nobody, but nobody, wanted him to prove George’s alibi.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lehigh called Stacy on the drive over to her place, but the call went straight to voice-mail. No doubt she cleared out early, spooked by the late-night threats. He left Diamond outside and Lucky inside the house, knowing this would make them bark at each other and scare off intruders. He left her a note, advising her to swap their stations now and again, and somehow resisted adding anything too gushy. He did sign it “Love, Lehigh.” No harm in telling her that too often.

Back in his office, he contacted a security agency to try to trace the call, and got some bad news.

“I’m sorry, but on a landline, once the call is terminated, there’s little we can do to trace its origin,” the security man said. “If she had pressed the star-5-7 code right away, and the caller ID was unblocked, she might have had some luck. But once she’s received other calls...” His voice trailed off, the universal code for “It’s hopeless.”

“Thanks anyway.” Lehigh hung up. He leaned back in his desk chair, rubbed his tired eyes, and cursed himself for his early morning call. Another blunder. Missteps of an amateur. He wondered if he’d ever get the hang of this job.

His desk phone buzzed him—Julia. “Deputy Wills has reported in,” she said in a whisper. “Shall I send him in?”

“Ask him to wait there for me.” He closed some files laying open on his desk and stuffed them into a drawer, finished off a third and final cup of coffee for the morning, and headed out to Julia’s desk. No Wills. “Well, where the heck is he?”

“He said he needed to use the men’s room,” she said. “He did seem to be in a hurry, though, when I told him you wanted to see him.”

A flash of reflected light streamed in through the window. Lehigh peeked out as a green Crown Victoria spit gravel out of the parking lot. Car 57. “Which car is assigned to Wills?” he asked.

“Fifty-sev—”

Lehigh had his County-issue SUV rolling less than half a minute after Bobby’s exit. “Car 57, this is the sheriff, come in Car 57,” he broadcast over the police band. No response. He radioed dispatch, asking for the whereabouts of Bobby’s car. No doubt he’d be listening in, but so what. They gave him the location and direction and Lehigh turned on his siren and lights. Cars pulled over, and once again Lehigh gave thanks for living in a small town.

“Target has turned east on Brady Mountain Road, heading toward Twin Falls,” dispatch advised moments later.

“Send as many units as you can spare,” Lehigh said. “I want this guy to know I’m serious.”

“Sheriff,” said a shaky man’s voice over the radio a minute or so later. “What do you want from me?”

“I need to talk to you, Bobby.” Lehigh swerved around a tight curve. “Best if we talk in the office, but I’ll follow you all the way to Idaho if I need to.”

“What about?” Wills’ voice sounded weak and high-pitched. Definitely afraid.

“I need to verify some things,” Lehigh said. “Things I heard second-hand. I want to hear your side of the story.”

“About the Roadhouse?”

“Among other things.” He had no other things just yet, but he wanted to get Bobby talking, see what else he knew.

“Look, Sheriff, I got a little drunk and may have said a few things I didn’t mean. I was just joshing, you know?”

Lehigh took another high-speed curve and spotted Bobby’s Crown Vic about a half-mile ahead of him, just before it disappeared around another bend. “Bobby, you need to take this road a whole lot slower,” Lehigh said. “There’s lots of blind curves, and deer, and—”

“Crap!” Squealing tires overwhelmed the sound of Bobby’s expletive, then the radio went silent.

“Bobby?” No answer. “Wills? You okay?” More silence. Lehigh slowed his own vehicle for the turn, then braked harder when he spotted the Crown Vic wedged into a ditch, tires spinning. Other than being stuck, it appeared undamaged. He parked a few car lengths ahead of the deputy and grabbed the radio.

“Dispatch,” he said, “get an ambulance out to Brady Mountain Road, milepost 27, ASAP.” He jogged back to the sedan. Sure enough, Bobby Wills sat behind the wheel, struggling to undo his seat belt. His deflated air bag lay across his lap and the front seats, and small cuts and bruises lined his face.

“You okay in there?” Lehigh asked.

Wills glanced at him, then turned his face downward. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I swerved to miss a coyote. Dang thing almost gave me a heart attack.”

“We’ll get you checked out to be sure,” Lehigh said. “Let’s get you out of there.” He helped Bobby out of the vehicle. The deputy leaned against the top of the car to steady himself. Lehigh sniffed the air, detected a familiar sweet aroma coming off the deputy. “When’s the last time you had a drink?” he asked.

Wills shook his head. “Late last night, I guess.”

“How late?”

Wills shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe three, four in the morning?”

“Damn, boy, did you sleep?”

Wills crumpled to the ground, tears lining his face. “Sheriff, I screwed up,” he said. “Bad, huh?”

“Drinking and driving’s not a good way to start the workday,” Lehigh said. “Why, Bobby? What’s eating you?”

Bobby’s tears flowed, and he tried to wipe them away, but new ones replaced the old faster than he could erase them. “My father was a drunk,” he said. “I always said I wouldn’t be like him, but here I am. I’m just like him, ain’t I?”

“One night of partying doesn’t make you a drunk,” Lehigh said. “It means you made a mistake. Now, about what you said at—”

“It’s like our preacher always said,” Wills said through choking sobs. “The son always pays for the sins of the father. I’m doomed!”

“Sins of the father?” Alarm bells rang. Stacy had mentioned her caller threatening her with something of that sort. “Why do you say that, Bobby?”

“It’s just the truth,” Wills said. “Sheriff, I’m sorry. About this, about the whole Roadhouse thing. About everything.”

Lehigh knelt to bring himself to eye level with the deputy. “Bobby, was it true what you said? About leaking the information to the press and all. Was it you?”

Wills glared at him through teary eyes. “I really wanted to be a good deputy,” he said. “I wanted to be the best recruit you’d ever hired. But I see how you favor Ruby Mac, and Ted Roscoe, and Marty. It made me mad, Sheriff. I just wanted to be good. And then your wife...her daddy...it just ain’t fair!” His words dissolved into sobs, and his body slumped sideways onto the ground, curled into a fetal position.

So, not only was Bobby the leak, as he suspected, but also, it appeared, the one placing threatening calls to his wife. All because he felt that Lehigh hadn’t been fair to him.

Maybe he had a point. Lehigh still had a lot to learn about being sheriff—and about whether he still wanted to be.

***

LEHIGH ARCHED HIS BACK, shaking off the lower-lumbar pain from sitting too long in his uncomfortable chair. Another day, another month-end crime report for the County Commission. The report took hours to compile, as each satellite office reported their data in different formats. His predecessors apparently hated computers even more than Lehigh, and hadn’t invested in one that enabled simple tabulations and breakdowns the way his business’s accounting software did. And all for what? Single-digit totals for pretty much everything that mattered. If not for car thefts, drunk drivers, and Friday night bar fights, he could disband the entire department.

And the occasional murder, of course.

Something stirred in the vicinity of his open office door, followed by the clearing of someone’s throat. The high-pitched tenor of the voice gave away the identity of his visitor-to-be.

“Come on in, Julia,” he said.

She entered a moment later and stood by the door, feet together, head down. “There’s a man asking for you,” she said. “He says he works for the District Attorney.”

“Tell him to come back tomorrow,” Lehigh said. “I don’t have time for—”

“Lehigh Carter?” A man appeared behind her. He stood well over six feet tall, built like a side of beef in a suit. Sweat lined his brow and his short-trimmed hairline.

“That’s me. And who might you be?” Lehigh asked.

The man stepped forward, reached into his suit jacket, and placed an envelope on his desk. “Have a nice day,” he said with a tight smile. He strode out of the office, never revealing his identity or affiliation.

Someone had typed Lehigh’s full name on the envelope. He opened it and removed a letter with the letterhead of the District Attorney’s office.

“What is it?” Julia asked.

“It says it’s an ‘information,’ whatever the heck that is,” he said. “From Ray Ferguson. Well, what do you know. He’s finally sharing—oh, no.” He threw the letter on the desk. Damn that Ferguson!

Julia fidgeted a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a notice from Ray Ferguson,” he said with a heavy sigh, “that he’s going to charge me with ‘obstructing governmental or judicial administration’ in the investigation of the murder of Everett Downey. That sumbitch wants to put me in my own jail!”

***

“THIS MEETING IS CALLED to order.” County Chair Elliott McBride Jackson banged the gavel twice on the polished hardwood block, relishing the echoes of the sharp knock bouncing off the chamber’s ancient walls. As always, the sound startled his fellow commissioners, their tell-tale jerks of the head or abrupt shifts in their seats giving away their discomfort. He considered rapping it a third time, just to see them jump again, especially that dimwitted farmer from the north district, Desmond Mitchell. Old Desmond supported that redneck Lehigh Carter at every opportunity and deserved a little extra irritation for that alone. But he demurred this one time. He might need Mitchell’s vote on his motion if any of the others got weak-kneed, as usual.

“The first item is a motion filed by the Chair to suspend the rules in order to consider an item out of order on our agenda, County Resolution one twenty seven,” Jackson said. “Do I have a second?”

“Second,” bleated one of the sheep to his left.

“Any objection? Hearing none, this motion is—”

“I object,” came a soft voice to his right.

Jackson gritted his teeth. He didn’t need to look. “State your objection, Desmond.”

“I haven’t had a chance to even read the resolution,” Desmond Mitchell said. “Does the Chairman have copies to distribute?”

“It’s in your packet,” Jackson said, with more force than he intended. He took a deep breath and smiled at his colleague. “The chair is happy to allow a few moments for you to read the item before we proceed with a vote on the motion.”

The commissioners shuffled through their papers and all six took a few moments to scan the document. Once again, Mitchell spoke up.

“Impeachment? Of the sheriff? You have got to be kidding me!”

“I most certainly am not.” The skin on Jackson’s neck grew warm and his collar felt tight all of a sudden. “These charges are serious and merit our full and immediate attention.”

“Dereliction of duty? Misfeasance, nonfeasance, and malfeasance?” Desmond rolled his eyes. “What evidence do you have for any of this?”

Jackson’s skin grew even warmer, and his temples throbbed. This guy was always such a pain in the you-know-what. He made a mental note to find a worthy opponent to run against Desmond when his term expired. “That’s what the impeachment process is about, Mr. Mitchell. Now, if we can vote on my motion—”

“Mr. Chairman, such a serious matter deserves more time to digest and reflect upon these charges,” Mitchell said. A few heads nodded around them.

Dammit! The procedural vote represented a test of his strength on the commission, and Jackson couldn’t afford to lose more than two votes. Suspension of the rules required a two-thirds majority—which meant five of the seven votes—the same as a vote to convict and expel from office. He couldn’t afford to lose the vote and get his colleagues in the habit of voting against him.

“Of course, of course,” Jackson said. “We can consider the item in its scheduled order if the members feel they need more time. It just seemed to me that we should focus on our highest priority items first, to make sure we give it the proper amount of time for deliberation, rather than rushing through it at the end of the meeting.”

One of the nodding heads, Commissioner Michelle Graber from the easternmost ranching district, leaned toward her microphone. “The Chairman makes an excellent point,” she said. “I vote yes on suspending the rules.”

“Hear, hear,” said another.

“All in favor?” Jackson said. Graber and three others raised their hands. Excellent. “Opposed?” Mitchell’s hand went up.

The final member, eighty-year-old Commissioner Abram Cantrell from Twin Falls—whose district included Lehigh Carter—blinked several times. “I, uh, abstain, Mr. Chairman,” he said.

Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. Under commission rules, an abstention didn’t count against his required two-thirds majority. “Motion passes,” he said. “The clerk will read into the record the Articles of Impeachment against Sheriff Lehigh Carter, unless I hear a motion to waive the reading...thank you, Commissioner Graber. We will consider the articles in a formal hearing next week. The clerk will notify the sheriff and request his appearance.”

“Mr. Chairman!” Desmond Mitchell stood, his hands shaking. “You haven’t even told him? Not even a courtesy call? My goodness gracious, did you want him to hear of this on Facebook?”

“You’re out of order, Mr. Mitchell!” he shouted. “We are following procedure here!”

“Follow this!” Mitchell pointed to his backside, gathered up his papers, and stormed out of the room. Cantrell shook his head at Jackson, and a few others clucked their disapproval.

Elliott sank lower in his chair. That did not go well, and it spelled trouble. He’d either need to do some backroom relationship repair—or convince Carter to resign before the impeachment proceedings began.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Lehigh clicked the View Document button on his computer screen, still not sure of what he’d find in the online evidence file. The document listed the names of active members of the Twin Falls Marksman’s Club in alphabetical order. Three pages in, he found George McBride’s name, listed as a member in good standing for over three decades. Of course, McBride had attended meetings of the club only during election years.

He clicked on the next document, a list of award winners in the club’s annual marksmanship competition. He recalled the senator’s private study, a proud display of his accomplishments as a marksman and gun rights defender, and expected to find George’s name on the top of the list of 2017 champions. But it did not appear on the list at all.

He scanned back to the previous year, and the one before. Same result.

He opened a new window on his computer and scanned the summary of evidence document attached to the Downey murder case. Sure enough, he found an image of the championship shooting results—the same date as his last visit to the club, dated “07-10-17.” July 10th, 2017. George had won the competition less than two weeks before McBride’s murder.

That struck Lehigh as odd. He didn’t recall George bragging about winning that trophy recently. And McBride had insisted he hadn’t been to the club in ten years.

He looked at the date again. Then he checked some other dates. The anniversary of George joining the club, for example. At first, it didn’t look like a date at all: “84-06-22.” Perhaps he’d misread it. The handwriting of the old Scotsman that ran the place was difficult to read. He checked again.

And that’s when he realized the error.

His deputies had misread the date of George’s last visit, and his big marksmanship accomplishment, by over a decade. The old Scotsman still used the old-fashioned European format for writing dates. The entry of “07-10-17” meant George won the championship not on July 10th of 2017, but on October 17, 2007.

His stomach turned into knots. While not core to the case, the error had helped add to the impression that McBride premeditated the murder of Everett Downey, to the point of practicing his aim with a rifle. The correction wouldn’t prove his innocence, but it did plant more doubt in Lehigh’s mind about George’s potential guilt.

Odd, he thought after a moment, that Ferguson hadn’t noticed the error, given his familiarity with the club’s quirky manner of recording dates. Ferguson’s name appeared on the membership list a page ahead of McBride’s. He should have noticed the incorrect attribution. But then again, Ferguson hadn’t made much of this particular piece of evidence. He was so convinced of George’s guilt, in all probability, he simply chose not to publicize the error even if he had noticed it.

Lehigh sighed and closed the electronic files. More bias in the system that needed rooting out. Why didn’t anyone else notice these things besides him?

***

LEHIGH SLAMMED THE phone down, frustrated by call-system menus, robotic greetings, and voice mail. Since when had lawyers in Clarkesville sold out to automation? In particular, why had his attorney, Samantha Pullen?

“Julia,” he said a moment later on the phone to his assistant, “please keep Sam Pullen on auto-dial until you reach her, okay?”

“Am I allowed to make personal calls for you like that?” Julia asked in a timid voice. “I mean, I’m happy to help, but I don’t want either of us getting into any more trouble.”

Lehigh sighed. “I guess we’d better play it safe, then. Never mind, I’ll call her back later.” He looked up another number, the one for his building contractor, who hadn’t shown up at his site in weeks. They’d demolished the old structure, then informed him of an unexpected delay on obtaining permits. All that remained of his old house was a pile of ash and debris.

He dialed, and, for a change, reached the man instead of his voice-mail. “Melvin Crabb here,” the gruff voice said.

“Melvin. Lehigh Carter. Wondering when I might see you back on the job site?”

After a long pause, Crabb cleared his throat. “Well, we’ve hit another snag,” he said. “Seems that check you wrote us to get started came back. I’ve been meaning to call you, but I didn’t want to, uh...well, let’s just say, I didn’t want to add to your troubles.”

“Kind of you,” Lehigh said, “but the number one trouble I have right now is getting my dang house built before winter comes. What’s this about the check?”

“Bank said something about funds not available.” Rustling sounds followed, then the muted sounds of Crabb’s voice shouting at someone. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Where were we?”

“This is crazy!” Lehigh made a fist, but had nothing to hit. “I have plenty of funds. Dammit! Well, you hold onto that check. I’ll sort this out today. If that check clears, will you be able to start back up tomorrow?”

“Well, ah...I put my crews on other projects. Gotta keep ’em busy, you know? You let me know when you straighten that out, then call me back. Look, I gotta go. Sorry, Mr. Carter.” Crabb hung up, leaving Lehigh even more frustrated than before. He buzzed Julia back. “Any luck with Sam Pullen?” he asked.

“I, uh...you told me not to...”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Sorry.” He reached out with the receiver to hang up, but heard her voice buzzing from the earpiece just in time. “What’s that?” Lehigh said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that last bit.”

“County Commissioner Mitchell just walked in,” she said. “And he doesn’t look happy.”

Lehigh sighed. Now what?

***

“HE what?” Lehigh slammed a desk drawer shut, sending a thunderous boom down the hallway, loud enough that deputies could hear it on patrol in east county.

“He impeached you,” Commissioner Mitchell said. “Or, more precisely, we impeached you. Five members of the commission voted to take up the measure in our next meeting. I was not one of them.”

“For what?” Lehigh said, pacing around his desk. “I mean, I’m not even sure what the heck a guy gets impeached for. Or even what that means. Am I out of a job?”

“Not yet,” Mitchell said. “We have to have a trial of sorts—a political trial, not a legal one. You’ll be called to testify, as will whomever the chairman and any member of the commission desires. If five members of the commission vote ‘guilty’ to any article of impeachment, you’ll be removed from office immediately.”

“For the love of Mike,” Lehigh said. “If you guys didn’t want me to be sheriff, all you had to do is ask. I hate this damned job and I’m only doing it because you all asked me to. If you want someone else, say the word. I’ll quit in two seconds with no regrets. Impeachment, my butt!”

“Sheriff,” Mitchell said in a gentle voice, “if you want to quit and go back to your civilian life, nobody around here would blame you. But I hope you won’t.”

“Why the hell not?” Lehigh stared out the window at the receding glacier shadowed by the peaks of Mt. Hood, so inviting compared to his stuffy office. “Give me one good reason not to turn in my badge and gun right now.”

“Because,” Mitchell said, “if you do, then the good old boys who have run this county into the ground in recent years will continue to run it like their own private casino. The people of this town deserve better. Isn’t that why you agreed to take this job, Mr. Carter? To help clean up the corruption and cronyism?”

Lehigh spun around and glared at him. He opened his mouth to reply, and found that he had no response. He sat back in his chair, overcome by depression. “You’re right, of course. That is why I took the job. But it doesn’t seem folks around here are as fired up about that as they were a few months ago. Between Jackson, the district attorney, and that airhead  Bruce Bailey, they’ve convinced people around here that I created this mess. I’m the last one they’d trust to fix it.”

Mitchell shook his head, smiling. “I think if you ignore the politicians and asked the people who live and work here what they think, you’d find a very different answer.”

“I’ve seen the polls, Desmond. I’m losing. To Dwayne Latner, of all people! Buck’s own lap dog.”

Mitchell scoffed. “I don’t believe those polls, Mr. Carter, and you shouldn’t either. Especially since you haven’t even begun to campaign.” He smiled again at Lehigh. “Talk to the people, Lehigh. Ask the ones you meet on the street, in the coffee shops, at the grocery stores. Ask who they believe. If I’m wrong, well, then you’re right to quit. But if I’m right, I’d really like you to stay and help me fight these so-called leaders. Will you do that for me? For the county you grew up in and call home?”

Lehigh looked into Desmond’s dark eyes, saw the honesty and desperation mixed with hope. Maybe the old man was right. He should ask around a bit, not just assume the worst. But would people answer him honestly? When asked tough questions, people tended to say what they thought he wanted to hear.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll listen to the people, but it can’t be me doing the asking. You go to Shirley’s or Dot’s and ask the first ten people you see. If six of them say I should stay and fight, I’ll do it. Any less, and I go back to taking care of my trees and my dogs.”

Mitchell grinned and shook his hand. “Sheriff,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

After the commissioner left, Lehigh returned to gaze out at the beautiful peaks visible from his office window. He doubted his one ally on the commission would find three out of ten people who’d support him, much less six. Part of him didn’t mind. Most days, he wished he’d never left the forest, never took on this uphill battle of cleaning up the corrupt sheriff’s department his predecessors had left behind. But he also hated knowing that he’d lost the trust of so many of his fellow county residents—people he’d gone to high school with, saw in the burger joints and grocery stores, and who rooted for the same local football team. He’d somehow lost their trust, and he had no idea how to win it back—or even if he had the energy to try.