NINETEEN

Janie looked at the map she’d copied from Mrs. Jacob’s office again. Something tickled her brain the way one of Mrs. Fluffy’s airborne-hairs often did when they landed under her nose. What escaped her memory? She closed her eyes and envisioned the events of that night for the fifth time. Running toward Annie’s place. Being met by Mike Martin. George and Betsy Ann...well, yes, they were both in the bedroom with the lights off. Not her business to judge. Knowing her friends as she did, she believed their explanation that nothing happened.

She clenched her eyelids tighter. To continue. Huddled in the carport, all the sirens, police footsteps. Bam, Bam. The shadowy figure dashing past headed for the golf course.

Her eyes flew open. That’s it! Why did they assume the burglar ran by them? The yellow light bulbs maintenance installed in all the carports to ward off insects had hampered a clear view. Several of the police force had shown up that night in civilian clothing. Detectives, off duty officers. In fact, hadn’t a plain-clothed cop flashed his badge and followed Phil Edwards around the corner? It would make more sense if he’d been the one they saw running by.

Yes, that had to be it. However, the man they saw ran west toward the fourth hole of the golf course. The Grayson cops apprehended Wellington in West Woods, which, despite the name, ran mostly to the south of Sunset Acres. She pondered that as she traced her finger over the map. The plain-clothed cop went down the alley to try and cut the suspect off who probably had hightailed it down the street in front of the condos. Perhaps the suspect switched directions, ran toward the south, and sought shelter in the dense trees. She guessed she’d do the same under the circumstances. Yes, her new theory made sense.

She tapped in Betsy Ann’s phone number. Her friend answered on the second ring.

“Janie, what’s up?”

“I want to wander around West Wood to see if there are any clues the police might have overlooked. Want to come? I think having a buddy tag along might be a sound idea.”

“Well, George is picking me up in ten minutes. We were going to the outlet mall to buy his great niece a birthday present. Perhaps we could spare an hour or so before we shop.”

“Super. I need to go over what you two recall anyway. Two birds with the same stone. Do you want me to walk over to your place?”

“That works. Won’t it still be taped off, though? I mean where they shot the guy.”

Janie thought for a moment. “Possibly. Guess we’ll find out. I’m more interested in determining from which direction he entered the woods. I’ll explain on the way.”

~*~

The Grayson Chief of Police scratched his head. “Well, I hate to admit it, but this guy doesn’t ring a bell.” He spat some chew into a paper cup. “Then again it might be Jess Maxwell. He has about twenty two hundred acres to the southwest. Deputized him a few years back. His daddy before him, until he suffered a debilitating stroke. Let me review the roll call again.”

Blake waited as the man thumbed through the rat’s nest on his desk, searching for the piece of paper. Blake glanced at the clock. Two fifteen. Day two. In the Bible, Joshua prayed for God to stop the sun, and He did. Would God do that for him? Nah, probably not.

“You say he identified himself as a Grayson cop to your officer?”

Blake shifted his weight to his other foot. “Yep. Told Officer Branson he rode in the ambulance to make sure the guy got locked up, or you’d have his hide. The perp seemed to recognize him as being one of the arresting officers in the woods. However, Amos says the name your officer gave to the nurses at the hospital wasn’t Jamison, but similar. He figured in the confusion of the night he’d heard him wrong the first time.” He flipped through his notes. “Um, you know a James Smith?”

The chief scoffed. “Yeah, he lives down the road from John Doe.”

A rush of ice water coursed through Blake’s veins. “So, you’re saying...”

The chief leaned back and sighed. “’Fraid so. Not our guy.”

Blake’s knees buckled. He eased into the chair opposite the cluttered desk. “In that case, who shot Wellington?”

The chief pressed his fingers together. “Exactly my question. Guess I need to call everyone in.” He leaned toward the intercom and clicked it on. “Angie. Roll call. Thirty minutes. Everyone in the breakroom, on or off duty.” His chair creaked as he shoved his spine into it. “I gather you want to stick around?”

“Yes.” Blake pushed up the cuff on his shirt and studied his watch. “First I need to make a few phone calls.”

The chief of police swallowed. “So do I. Mayor’s gonna flip out.”

Blake gave him a look of deep sympathy. He rose from the seat. “May I suggest we e-mail or fax this sketch to Red Oak, Round Rock, Georgetown, and Pflugerville? I’m going to contact my chief to go through their roll calls he received just in case. Someone out here has to recognize this guy.”

“Hand it over.” He walked Blake out and gave the sketch to his clerk. “This goes out ASAP to every police station in a hundred-mile radius. Ask if anyone can I.D. him. If no one can, try two hundred miles.”

The clerk saluted as he bounced a glance between the two superiors. “What about the state association of police officers?”

Blake turned to the Grayson chief, who nodded. Blake placed a hand on the clerk’s shoulders. “Great idea, rookie. Ask for Andrew Mayes. He knows everyone.” He turned to the chief. “Breakroom’s this way, right?”

He walked down the hall as he punched in Chief Gates’s cell phone number. He needed a strong cup of coffee and a gooey candy bar. Two aspirins wouldn’t hurt either.