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Carroll Street Homes.

It seemed that everywhere Preach turned, the trailer park had a way of popping up during the investigation.

Maybe it was coincidence that David was killed on the trail to Wild Oaks. Maybe it was a coincidence that the crime rate in the trailer park had skyrocketed in recent months. Maybe it was a coincidence that Nate Wilkinson and a number of Los Viburos gang members lived there.

Or maybe there was something to it.

It was Sunday, and Preach decided to take the day off. Not because he wanted a break, but because his head was too cluttered. Sometimes a little time away aided the creative process. Allowed him to gain a fresh perspective and connect some dots on a tough case.

The day had started well. After a late breakfast, he took a slow jog over to his gym, a tiny sweatbox filled with rusting weights and rubber mats covered in chalk from the power lifters. No mirrors. No fancy locker rooms. Not even a front desk. The place was owned by Ray Logan, Preach’s old wrestling coach, and Ray only gave the key out to people he trusted. Preach had the gym to himself that morning.

After his workout, he stopped at Jimmy’s during the church hour. These days, a good cup of coffee and quiet contemplation brought him closer to the divine than sixty minutes of manufactured calm. It was a little hard to be a cop and wade through the muck of the world, then sing 500-year-old hymns and pretend everything was all right, even for an hour. That life, brief and visceral, was in his rearview.

He still cared deeply about life’s questions. He still talked to God and wondered if He was listening.

He just couldn’t do church.

Try as he might, he failed to spend the whole day away from the case. As he munched on an afternoon panini, still at Jimmy’s, his thoughts turned to how to attack the trailer park angle. Should he interview the residents and see if he learned anything new? Shake down the members of Los Viburos, bring them in for questioning? Do the same with any members of Nate’s gang he could find?

Those were all possibilities. But first, he decided to follow the money.

Everyone knew a property development war was being waged in Creekville. It was all over the news. With the explosive growth of the Research Triangle and the cities it served, developers were chomping at the bit to exploit the quirky little gem within spitting distance of Chapel Hill. No matter that fashioning that uncut gem into a garish piece ofjewelry would ruin the charm. The money would switch hands, enrich the fat cats, and everyone else be damned.

Except Creekville was different. Over the years, its residents had fought tooth and nail to keep the charm and local businesses in place, and Carroll Street Homes had become ground zero in the war. Developers wanted bland, mixed-use condominiums within walking distance of downtown. The progressives in charge of the city council trumpeted the impoverished trailer park as a bastion of low-income housing.

Preach knew better. Carroll Street Homes was not a historic neighborhood with deep community ties. It was a crime-ridden blight that no child should grow up in. While he hardly sympathized with the real estate developers, he had no illusions about the proletariat sanctity of the trailer park.

In the news, an attorney named Brink Dickenson kept showing up. An African American with a prominent Raleigh firm, Brink represented a variety of high-end commercial builders. He was the one lobbying the Creekville City Council for a zoning change for Carroll Street Homes. The current restrictions greatly limited the commercial value of the property.

Preach drove to the office, logged in, and did some more research. He learned the Rathbun family owned a ton of property in Creekville.Half the town, it seemed. This was no surprise. They had been petitioning the council for a zoning change for years.

But the Rathbuns did not own Carroll Street Homes. After failing to reach Brink Dickenson, Preach made a few calls to local real estate agents who always worked on Sunday. He learned that Carroll Street Homes had been a coveted piece of real estate for some time. The previous owner, a crotchety old farmer named Homer Atkins, had owned the land for decades, always refusing to sell. Eight months ago, when he started to develop dementia, he finally entertained offers. A bidding war ensued. In the end, Homer sold the property for three million dollars to Edmund Pettis Properties.

On the one hand, three million dollars seemed like a huge sum of money for a dilapidated trailer park. On the other hand, the park comprised nearly five acres in the shadow of downtown.

But what did Preach know about such things ? Almost nothing, so he asked the agents and learned the price was a premium. Speculation based on future profit in the case of a zoning reassignment. He also learned that Edmund Pettis Properties had outbid a “prominent local family” the detective assumed was the Rathbuns.

Preach assumed Edmund Pettis Properties was a rich local developer and was surprised to find that no one by that name lived in the area. In fact, a Google search revealed that Edmund Pettis was the name of the infamous bridge in Selma, Alabama, that Martin Luther King had marched across in 1965.

Odd.

Preach dug deeper.

Using a legal research tool to which the station had limited access, he learned that Edmund Pettis Properties was a subsidiary of New Hawk Holdings Inc. One of many subsidiaries, in fact. The name struck a chord. Preach thought he had heard it before. It took him a moment, but it came to him just as he finished typing the name in the search engine, and the results confirmed it: New Hawk Holdings Inc. was owned by Bentley Montgomery.

The witness in Ari’s murder case.

The same man who gave her the shivers at night.

Preach let out a deep breath. What in the world?

The connection between his case and Ari’s caused a wave of emotion to flood through him. He knew he had to reach out to her but wasn’t sure how. What should he say? Did she even want to hear from him? Should he give her more time?

He debated calling her, then decided the next conversation should be in person. After running a hand through his hair, going back and forth as to what to do, he texted to ask if she would meet him for dinner the next day at a cozy little French bistro in downtown Creekville. Their favorite place for a nice evening out.

By the time he fell asleep that night, aimlessly flipping through channels as his stomach churned with worry, he had yet to receive a reply.