A mostly orderly crowd filled the folding chairs set up on the lawn outside the Rixby plant, but Sage supposed that was what one could expect from paid attendees. Behind this area on the grass and the paved parking area beyond was where the problem was. Uninvited attendees equipped with signs and posters were there to protest Mick Hillman.
“They demote you already?” Rod Smith asked. As luck would have it, Sage had been paired with him to handle the crowd control duty.
“Just pitching in.” Sage expected some wiseass remark from Rod, but the other police officer just gave him a nod before turning to look at the beefy man dressed in a suit and wearing an earpiece who strode purposely toward them. He was a member of Hillman’s security detail.
“We need to do something about this mess,” the security guard said to Rod and Sage. The guard waved his arm in the direction of the protesters beyond the perimeter.
“It’s a free country,” Rod said.
“This is private property,” the guard said. “They’re trespassing. You can have them arrested.”
“With all due respect,” Sage said, “they’re not being disruptive, but if we try to remove them, things could get ugly. Tell your guy to give his speech, and we’ll keep things under control.”
“Yeah,” Rod agreed, leering at the guard. “If Hillman don’t start saying his pretty words soon, even the natives will get restless.” He indicated the attendees in the folding chairs as they shifted around in their seats waiting for the event to begin, which was already ten minutes behind schedule.
“If there’s any type of problem at all, you two will be looking for new jobs,” the guard said. “Mr. Hillman has some powerful friends.” He turned and walked back toward the stage, pressing his earpiece to his ear as he went.
“Mr. Hillman has some powerful friends,” Rod mimicked. “Unbelievable.”
“I assume the Rixbys must be some of them,” Sage said.
“The Rixbys,” Rod said as if the word was a euphemism for excrement.
“Aren’t they the bigwigs in this town?” Sage asked.
“They don’t even live in this town,” Rod said. “They’re too good for Culver Creek. They live in Atkins, and their potato chips taste like ass.”
“I haven’t tried them,” Sage said.
“You’re not missing anything. Trust me.”
A ripple went through the assembled crowd, and Sage looked toward the stage. There was movement there, and Sage caught a glimpse of Mick Hillman with his slicked-back hair on the steps leading up to the stage.
“Looks like showtime,” Sage said.
“Do you think someone grows up thinking, What I’d really like to be is a political blowhard?” Rod asked as Hillman dashed out onto the stage to applause and cheers, as well as some boos from the area behind the fence.
“You never wanted to be president when you were a kid?” Sage asked.
“I guess I always knew I would be a cop,” Rod said. “My dad was on the force, and his father was before him.”
“Smith,” Sage said, remembering something he had read recently. He couldn’t quite place where it had been. The Lily Esposito file was the most obvious answer, but that didn’t feel right. As Hillman extolled the virtues of some hardworking single mom he had met on the campaign trail, it came to him. It was something he had read yesterday, the police report on the death of Craig Walker. An Officer Smith had been working with Arlo when they were called to the scene of a young father who had taken a bad tumble down the basement stairs.
“Your father ever mention Craig Walker?” Sage had to raise his voice to be heard over the amplified words of Mick Hillman.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell to me,” Rod said.
“He died after falling down his stairs,” Sage said.
“Oh that,” Rod said. “Yeah, I got my ass whooped one time over that goddamn thing.”
“How?” Sage asked.
“My brother and I were horsing around near the top of the stairs, and my father exploded at me, started screaming about some guy who had broken his neck and died after getting pushed down his stairs and how would I like it if I died that way or if I had to live the rest of my life in a state of guilt for causing my brother’s death. My father could be dramatic at times, and unreasonable.”
“Yeah, except no one pushed that guy down the stairs. He just fell,” Sage said.
“Really?” Rod said. “Why did I always think the guy had been pushed?”
“I don’t know,” Sage said.
Hillman’s speech clocked in at twenty-eight minutes, but to Sage it felt interminable. There were a few times his words and empty promises were drowned out by the small but orderly group of protestors, but in general, things went smoothly and Sage figured he and Rod probably wouldn’t be collecting unemployment anytime soon.