It was after sunset when I reached St. Augustine, and people swarmed the streets. I parked two blocks from my station in the first open spot I found and walked. At over twenty thousand square feet, my station—an old Masonic temple the county had purchased and renovated years ago—had far more space than we needed, but we made it work.
I walked through the front door and smiled at Trisha, our dispatcher. She was in her mid-fifties and had curly brunette hair she kept secured behind her head with a clip. Technically, she was a sworn officer with the same training I had, but she didn’t go on calls herself anymore. She liked being behind the desk. Four computer monitors surrounded her.
“The boss in?” I asked. She shook her head.
“No, but he wants you to call him,” she said. “Also, Captain Julia Green from the St. Louis County police called. She wants you to call her, too.”
“If Julia calls again, tell her you haven’t seen me,” I said. “And give me some warning if you see Travis.”
She smiled. “Can do.”
“Thanks, Trish,” I said, walking deeper into the station. Almost the moment I took a step, I smelled the rank odor of vomit. There was a college-aged kid handcuffed to a bench in the reception area. He was asleep, but he had puked on the ground in front of him, somehow missing both his pants and shirt. Good for him. His future friends in the drunk tank would appreciate not having to smell vomit-soaked clothing all night. I stopped walking and looked at Trisha.
“Have you seen Sasquatch?”
She typed for a moment. “He and Officer Reynolds are on foot patrol at the fairgrounds.”
At twenty-two, Officer Preston Cain—Sasquatch—was the youngest guy in our department. He was developing good instincts and would become a good cop one day, but he wasn’t there yet. I liked working with him, though.
“When he gets back, tell him he’s got puke to clean up,” I said.
Trisha raised her eyebrows. “It wasn’t long ago that you were the youngest officer in this building and had to clean up the puke.”
“I know,” I said, nodding. “Back then, I hated the system. Now, I see its utility.”
She smiled and turned as a phone rang.
“I’ll tell him.”
I smiled and walked to my desk in the bullpen. On a normal evening, there’d be half a dozen officers at desks inside, filling out paperwork before they finished their shifts. With everyone busy with the Spring Fair, though, I had the room to myself.
For the next hour, I transcribed my interview notes and wrote reports about what I had done and whom I had talked to. It was the boring part of police work, but it was just as important as anything else we did. One day, those reports might put somebody in prison. Or in this case, they might help Christopher Hughes get out. I still didn’t know how I felt about that.
At half after six, I drove far past the edge of town to my two-story American foursquare home. It wasn’t pretty yet, but it was mine. The original homeowner had constructed it over a hundred years ago with parts and plans ordered from a Sears catalog. The materials had cost twenty-two hundred dollars plus the price of the land. I had purchased it and the surrounding five acres for forty thousand dollars.
Some days, I still thought I got ripped off.
When my realtor brought me by the place for the first time, she called it a teardown. The moment I researched the property, though, I fell in love. The home had fallen into disrepair—along with St. Augustine County—but for almost a hundred years, three generations of a single family had called it home. It deserved a second life, not a bulldozer.
So I bought the place and fixed it up. I took out a loan and replaced all the windows, the clapboard siding, and the roof my first year. A contractor did most of that work, but I provided manual labor. Once the contractor finished the exterior, I did everything inside myself. It was a work in progress, but it was dry and comfortable now. And it was mine.
I didn’t go in right away. Instead, I parked in the driveway and walked about a quarter mile to my neighbor’s house. Susanne Pennington sat on her front porch, drinking a cup of iced tea. Roger, my one hundred-forty-pound bullmastiff, sat at her feet. When the dog saw me, he raised his head, stood, and came running. His entire body trembled with excitement, but he stopped at my feet and sat down, looking up at me and licking his lips. I smiled, knelt, and held out my hands.
He jumped to greet me and licked my cheek before turning his head for me to scratch his ears.
“How’s my sweet boy?” I asked. As if understanding me, he bowed before me, telling me he wanted to play. “We’ll go for a walk soon.”
I stood and started for the porch. “You doing okay today, Susanne?”
My elderly neighbor smiled and gestured toward the rocking chair beside hers. Roger joined us on the porch and sat beside me. I scratched his head and neck. Susanne, Roger, and I had ended a lot of days together like that. It was a good life.
“I feel good today,” she said, looking over her front lawn. “The sun was out, a warm breeze blew, and Roger kept me company all day.”
She smiled at my dog. Roger walked over to Susanne’s house most days when I headed to work. He was about ten, an elderly age for a dog his size, and he had arthritis in his hips. I got him from an animal shelter when I bought the house. Back then, he was still young, and he used to chase every single squirrel, raccoon, or opossum that came into the yard. Now, he was content to sit on the porch and have someone stroke the fur of his back.
I patted him and talked to my friend, and with each passing moment, the weight of the day lifted a little more. At about seven, I stood up and walked Roger home. It wasn’t much of a walk, but at Roger’s age, it was enough. He stopped and sniffed things alongside the road, and then he barked at a truck that drove by. When we reached the house, he walked to his bed beside the fireplace and fell asleep.
I grabbed a container of macaroni and cheese from the fridge and then stepped to the bar in the living room. When people were around, I drank red wine. When I was alone, I skipped the pretenses and drank vodka on the rocks. It made things easier. I put on the TV for some background noise, but mostly, I sat and processed the day.
About half an hour after I got home, Harry called. He had read my reports at work and wanted to check in. We talked for a few minutes, but neither of us had much to say.
After hanging up with him, I poured myself another drink and then walked outside to the front porch. Roger continued to snore in the living room. It was a beautiful night, so I sat and looked at the stars, allowing their lonely stillness to calm me.
I was out there on my third drink when my cell rang again. I answered, expecting my boss. Instead, it was Detective Ledgerman.
“Hey. It’s Joe Court. What can I do for you?”
“Just wanted to call and tell you to go fuck yourself.”
It wasn’t the first time a rude phone call had interrupted my evening, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, it surprised me. Ledgerman and I had ended things well.
“Okay. Message received,” I said. “Any reason you’re upset?”
She sputtered something, but I didn’t understand her.
“You want to repeat that?” I asked.
“You have a lot of nerve,” she said.
I didn’t know whether she wanted an answer, so I didn’t respond.
“You have nothing to say?” she asked.
I sipped my vodka and shrugged. My old chair creaked beneath me as I rocked.
“As angry as you seem to be, nothing I can say will lead to a productive conversation. Not only that, you’ve said enough for both of us,” I said. “We can talk tomorrow when you’ve cooled off some.”
“Did you call Angela Pritchard right after I dropped you off, or did you wait for a while and think things through?”
Angela Pritchard’s name was familiar, but I took a moment to place it.
“The weather girl on channel three?”
“For fuck’s sake,” said Ledgerman. “You’re slurring your words. Are you drunk?”
I looked down at my glass. “No, but I’m getting there.”
“Angela Pritchard is an investigative journalist for channel three. She ran a story about Megan and Emily Young.”
I put my drink glass on the ground, crossed my arms, and leaned back so my feet could reach the porch rail in front of me.
“You had to know the story would come out.”
“I did, but my department planned to call a press conference so we could do it responsibly.”
And by responsibly, she meant they wanted to release the information in a way most favorable to themselves.
“If you want to accuse me of leaking the story, go ahead, but I didn’t do it.”
“She knew their names, Detective. Even in my reports, the victims are Jane Doe 1 and Jane Doe 2. The leak didn’t come from me or my department. Hence, it came from you.”
I considered for a moment. “I think you’re kind of missing the obvious third choice: Sherlock Holmes.”
She paused for a moment, but when she spoke again, her voice had a measure of control it had lacked before. “James Holmes is cooperating with my department and the county prosecutor’s office. He wants his client out of jail. They’re already in discussions about a monetary settlement for Christopher Hughes’s pain and suffering. This leak didn’t come from my office or his. Using the process of elimination, that leaves you.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “I see why you called me. What’d you hope to get out of this conversation?”
She started to call me a bitch, but then she caught herself and drew in a slow breath.
“You are a real piece of work.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Stay away from my investigation,” she said. “I don’t care what you do down there in Hillbilly County, but if I see you at a crime scene in St. Louis again, I’ll arrest you. And if I find out you had anything to do with the deaths of Emily or Megan Young, I will charge you with murder with special circumstances.”
“That’s out of line,” I said. “You can accuse me of leaking a story to the press all you want, but accusing me of murdering two people is a step too far. I don’t appreciate that.”
“I don’t care what you think,” she said. “Here’s what I think, though. Christopher Hughes raped you, Emily Young, and Megan Young when you were in high school. That’s awful, and I’m sorry that happened to you. Instead of going to the police, though, you three got even. You faked Megan’s death and framed Christopher Hughes for her murder. Then you laughed your ass off as the state dragged him to prison. When Sherlock’s private investigator came and asked about Megan, you killed your co-conspirators before they could turn on you.”
I shook my head and closed my eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s plausible,” said Ledgerman, her voice dripping with malice.
“Good luck proving that plausible theory,” I said. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
She hung up without saying another word. Roger poked his head out the front door and came to sit beside me. I scratched him behind the ears.
“She doesn’t seem to like me,” I said, picking up my glass again and taking the final swallow. I didn’t know who leaked the story or why, but I recognized one thing: This case had just gotten a lot harder. I was almost glad I wouldn’t be part of it too much longer.