*There was blood on the driver’s side, but not as much as Lila expected. Blood droplets from Brent’s cough dotted the interior, but most of that had hit her in the face.
She swept her flashlight over the cab, scanning the passenger side. Looking for what? She didn’t have a clue. The surgeon had been given word that the bullet had not exited Brent’s body. Once they had the piece of shrapnel, they’d have a better idea of what type of gun was used.
Lila eased out of the squad car and straightened. She’d heard that shot. It was a crack. Loud enough to break the sound barrier. Small gun. Small caliber? A pistol.
“What?”
Lundquist’s question jolted her. She drew in a breath and shrugged. Backing from the open door, she closed it.
“Did you remember something?” he asked.
“Not really. Mulling over what I know.” She angled her body and lifted her gun arm. “I don’t think the shooter was inside the cab of the truck when they pulled the trigger.”
“Outside? Standing next to Brent?”
“Why else would he have the window down? And he had a cup of coffee. I dumped all the trash from our quick breakfast when I went into the gas station.”
Lundquist moved out of her way as she sidestepped closer to the car. “What you’re suggesting is that it was someone he knew. Someone he wouldn’t suspect of malice.”
“And that’s pretty much everyone in this town. The entire county.” Lila thrust her shoulders back as she realized she might be in the right position for the shot. “Shooter stood here.” She stood with her frontside facing the car, her shooting arm just above the side mirror, acting like she was walking away. “The shooter knew how to avoid his vest.”
“Why not in the head?” Lundquist stood next to her. “If you wanted to kill him”—he placed his finger right against her temple—“it would be easy to do it here.”
Lila narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think they wanted to kill him outright.” She pulled Lundquist’s hand down. “Or they didn’t have the stomach for it.”
“If it was someone Meyer knew, he was probably friendly with them. But it doesn’t answer the question of why target him? Do you think it has anything to do with what’s been going on?”
She turned on her heel and paced away from the car. Brent Meyer had a family legacy and a father who despised him. Could his father have been the shooter? Lila shook her head. If Pratt Meyer had it out for his son, he wouldn’t have waited this long. No, this was something different. What was it Meyer had said yesterday in a fit of anger? That they should look real hard at Ma Kauffmann.
“Lundquist, what do you know about the Kauffmann and Meyer feud?”
“Are you thinking a Kauffmann did this? That’s far reaching, Dayne. That feud has never resorted to violence. Not once in all their history.”
“Who says it hasn’t come to that point?”
“What would harming Meyer bring them? He and his father are estranged—there would be no gain. And I can’t see Ma ever putting out that order. She might be a hard woman, but she’d never purposely kill someone.”
“People change, Lundquist. They grow meaner and harder. She might have been pushed to the brink and decided this was how it had to go.”
He shook his head. “Not likely. It’s just not possible. Her dead husband, maybe, but that man wasn’t working with a full load. Ma’s the brains in that family.”
“How did he die?”
“The story goes, he tried to play hardball with some punks that had moved into the area from Chicago. They didn’t like his attitude and shot him.” Lundquist scowled. “Speaking of which, I don’t think Sheehan investigated that too hard. I read up on that in the papers, since it happened before my time in the department. Sheehan claimed the punks had skipped town and he had no details to go any further. Henry Kauffmann’s death is technically still an open case.”
“Is there an actual case file in the department?”
“We can find out.”
As they headed back to the courthouse, Fontaine’s Charger pulled into the parking lot. The deputy himself stepped out, alone.
“Where’s the sheriff?” Lundquist asked.
“Meeting with DCI and PD at the gas station. What are you two doing?”
“Looking at some old case files,” Lundquist said. “Hey, do you remember when Henry Kauffmann died?”
“Yes? What does that have to do with Brent’s shooting?” Fontaine asked.
“Probably more than we think,” Lila said. “Inside, Fontaine, you can help us. After all, you’re family.”
“Only on Ma’s side.”
“All the better.”
*
They found one box with evidence on the Henry Kauffmann death, and together the three of them dug up a few more case files with connections to the Kauffmann family, per the sheriff’s wishes, according to Fontaine. Lila hit on a juicy file with a connection to a Meyer family member, which she added to their growing pile.
“I can’t believe Sheehan left this here for us to find,” she said.
Fontaine dropped a folder into a full box. “When Elizabeth won the election, she didn’t give him a chance to clear out.”
“He was so mad. He was screaming at anyone who’d listen, which wasn’t many. She even barred those deputies who were most loyal to him. They couldn’t even touch his stuff,” Lundquist added.
“Unfortunately, he kept anything that could have incriminated him out of the department. And files were scarce.” Fontaine shoved the box back on the shelf from where it came. “Most of this stuff happened before his time. But those previous sheriffs were as bad as Sheehan.”
And what did that say for the county as a whole if the people kept voting in corrupt sheriffs? Yet they had voted for Elizabeth Benoit. Perhaps the tide was swinging toward better?
“Let’s take these upstairs and see what we have,” Lila said, stacking her two boxes.
They carried their findings up to the department floor and under Georgia’s watchful eye spread out the cases between their three desks.
“Any news from the hospital?” Lila asked.
Georgia shook her head. The old adage, no news was good news, fit perfectly here. But was it? The unknown was hell on the nerves. Lila slid a file onto a stack. She knew all too well that feeling.
How many times had the doctors hovered over her, refusing to divulge what they knew for fear of causing panic? She hated it then, and if the lack of news on Meyer continued, she would hate it again.
“Should we be leaving Fitzgerald out there to man everything alone?” Lundquist asked.
“He’s not,” Georgia said. “The sheriff asked for assistance from the state troopers.”
Lila let a pile of folders slap onto her desktop. She tipped the empty box onto the floor and made room for more files.
“How do you want to do this?” Lundquist asked her. “What should we be looking for specifically?”
“Anything that ties Ma, her husband, or her family to criminal activity. If a Kauffmann name appears in any way, write it down. Is that what the sheriff was wanting, Fontaine?”
“For the most part.”
“Let’s get to work.”
As they combed through the reports, Georgia kept them fueled. At one point, she joined Lila reading through a file, abandoning her forty minutes later to answer the phone.
“I’ll let them know.” Georgia set the handset on the receiver.
News. Had to be about Meyer. Lila’s hands dampened.
“Brent’s out of surgery.” Georgia sank into her chair. “He’s alive but critical. They have him in the ICU.”
“Any more details?” Lila asked. She forcibly pried her fingers out of a fist.
“The sheriff said she’d relay that when she got here.” Georgia massaged her forehead. “In all my years of dispatching, this has never happened.”
Lila turned from the woman. How she wished that had been true for her. She could still hear his voice in her ear as he drove the blade into her body. Hush, my darling. Spreading her fingers wide over her abdomen, Lila gritted her teeth. He had taken much from her—her sanity would not be one more.
Her gaze flicked toward her fellow deputies, and she locked eyes with Lundquist. He glanced down, his forehead wrinkled. Aware of what she was doing, she jerked her hand from her body, and angled her back to him. Picking up another report, she flipped the file open, trying hard to ignore the sensation of his eyes drilling holes into her back.
Lila had a nearly empty page of notes after another half hour of work. Even the file she’d pulled on the Meyer family member was nothing more than a property dispute with another farmer whose cattle were breaking through the fence and destroying crops. Frustrated, she tossed the file into a box.
“Are you having any luck?” she asked her male counterparts.
Fontaine shook his head. Lundquist looked up from a report he was reading and paused. The whoosh of the outside door opening echoed down the hall, followed by the squeak of rubber on polished cement.
They all looked to the doorway as the sheriff entered.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
“We’re doing what you asked,” Fontaine said, slapping a file down on his desk. “And it’s getting us nowhere.”
“Not exactly,” Lundquist piped up.
Benoit frowned. “Doing what I asked?”
Lila ignored her boss. “What do you have?”
Lundquist held up the open report in his hands. “I don’t know if it’s strong enough, but it’s on Henry’s death.”
Abandoning her post, Lila joined him. She skimmed the report over his shoulder, until he pointed to the part he thought worth mentioning.
“Pratt Meyer was questioned about Henry’s death?” Lila’s head snapped up. “Why would he be questioned if gang members were the supposed killers?”
“Let me see that.”
Lundquist handed over the report to Benoit. The sheriff read through, her features tightening.
“Because Ma threw Pratt under the bus.” Benoit slapped the file shut. “She was deflecting the investigation away from her and her family. And Sheehan went along with it.”
“What is her beef with Pratt Meyer?” Lila asked.
“There seem to be numerous reasons, but none make sense except to her.” Benoit handed back the file. “I have something for you.” She dug into her coat pocket and withdrew a plastic baggie she held out to Lila. Inside was a mushroomed bullet. “The bullet tore through his bowels. There was a lot of blood loss, but Dr. Thorpe did what he could for now without putting any more stress on Brent.”
Lila took the baggie and stared at the stunted piece of lead. This small, almost insignificant thing had ripped through a man’s body and left him hanging on for his life by a thread.
“If I had to hazard a guess, that looks like the remains of a twenty-two,” Lundquist said.
Crumpling the baggie in her hand, Lila let it fall to her side. “Up close. They wanted to kill him.”
“I want this bastard,” Benoit said in a low voice.
Not as bad as Lila did.
“Sheriff,” Georgia broke in, “the Wagners are here.”
Benoit blinked. “I’ll take them into my office.”
“I want to be there,” Lila said.
Benoit frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”