An hour later, in my bed at the Hampton Inn, I came wide awake, sat up, and said into my cell phone: “Those guys riding the train on our way into Starksville that first day, they did that same salute.”
“Definitely,” Bree said, back in North Carolina.
I shook off the cobwebs in my mind. “How many did you see?”
“Six total.”
“Were they on specific cars or random?”
“They were all on freight cars, mixed in with tankers.”
“What did Davis do after the train had gone?”
“Got back in the Bronco, turned around, and headed north, probably back to Pleasant Lake,” Bree said. “I abandoned the surveillance at that point.”
“I’m still surprised about Guy Pedelini. I pegged him as a good guy.”
“I did too,” Bree said. “But I’m coming over to Pinkie’s point of view.”
“Which is?”
“Don’t trust anyone in Starksville who isn’t family.”
“Cynical, but probably a good idea for the time being.”
“Here I’ve been hogging the conversation. Any luck down there?”
“Nothing but luck,” I said and then filled her in on my day.
“Wow, that was fast,” Bree said when I was done. “Who’s this minister you’re going to see?”
“Her name’s Reverend Maya and supposedly she knew Paul Brown. The funeral guys remembered her.”
“Well, that’s good. You’ll be able to talk to someone who knew your dad.”
“I think so,” I said. “Then I can put this all behind me and come back and hold you, and together we’ll figure out that three-finger-salute thing.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“More like first thing the following morning.” There was a silence between us before I said, “You okay?”
“Just trying to figure out where to go next. Any advice?”
“Try to see Stefan if you can. Find out what specifically made him suspicious of the area around the train tracks. I don’t think he mentioned it.”
“I already talked to Naomi,” Bree said. “She’s seeing him in the morning. What are you doing tomorrow until you meet the minister?”
“I told Drummond and Johnson I was free to help them,” I said. “Least I could do, considering how much they’ve helped me.”
“I miss you, Alex,” she said softly.
“I miss you too,” I said. “And thanks.”
“For?”
“Sticking your neck out for family.”
“I’m Alex Cross’s wife,” she said teasingly. “What else would I do?”
“Very funny,” I said, grinning. “I love you, Bree.”
“I love you too, Alex,” she said. “Have a good night’s sleep.”
“You too,” I said, and clicked off.
It was nearly eleven by then and I’d been up since five. I should have been turning off the light, trying to get back to sleep. But I felt like I’d had a cup of espresso, jittery, wanting something to do. My focus finally fixed on that stack of three binders that held a copy of the murder book covering the investigations of the socialites and the maid.
Had I missed something on my first trip through them?
Figuring I’d be better off seeking the answer to that question instead of lying awake in the darkness wondering what this Reverend Maya might tell me about my father, I opened the first binder and started to read the records all over again.
Sometime after midnight, exhaustion overtook me, and I slipped off into darkness and dreams that were a mishmash of things I’d seen in Starksville and Palm Beach: Sydney Fox lying dead on her doorstep; the sugarcane burning, throwing smoke and bugs into the sky; Rashawn Turnbull’s body in the crime scene photos; and a dark-hooded and cloaked man standing with his back to me on a street in Belle Glade.
He raised his gloved right hand and held three fingers high.