On Holt’s desk was a copy of the local newspaper opened to the article about Angelina’s visit to the nursing home. The upbeat text was supplemented by photos of before-and-after pictures of residents whose hair had been cut and styled. Holt smiled as he read the article. Angelina knew how to turn on the charm, and he was sure she’d been a hit with the older ladies. He dialed the phone number for the salon. Brittany answered. Holt disguised his voice.
“This is Dexter Strickland. I understand from the article in the newspaper that you specialize in haircuts for older women. I’d like to schedule an appointment for my ninety-year-old mother. She’s a sweet lady, even though she drools a lot and forgets to—”
“Holt, this isn’t working,” Brittany interrupted him. “Angelina told me your mother drives a red SUV and looks ten years younger than her age.”
Holt dropped the facade. “How did you know it was me?”
“Duh. The caller ID popped up from the district attorney’s office. Who else could it be? You’re the one showing signs of early senility, and I bet you drooled all the time when you were a baby.”
“I’m sure I did. Is Angelina available?”
“No, she’s in the middle of a color for a woman who came in early this morning. I think the customer is going out of town or something.”
“Okay. Tell the boss the article was great, and I’m proud of her.”
“She had a blast. I think they’re going to do it again around Christmastime and take the entire salon. They’ll make those ladies so hot every bachelor in town over the age of seventy will be hanging around the building like stray dogs. Hey, I gotta go. Two lines are ringing.”
After Holt hung up the phone, he pulled the Samuel Byers case from the file cabinet and sent an e-mail to the defendant’s lawyer, proposing closely supervised probation with harsh penalties if Byers slipped up again. Within seconds Holt received a reply from the attorney that he would discuss the offer with his client.
There were several new files on Holt’s credenza, and he spent the rest of the morning organizing them and making phone calls to determine the holes he needed to fill. He’d learned how to sift through the police jargon that made the cases sound more airtight than they were. Shortly before noon he received a text message from Skip Patrick inviting him to lunch.
There were more eating options in Paxton than a visitor might have guessed. Holt walked to Hamilton Street, the main thoroughfare that ran in front of the courthouse, and turned right. Two blocks later, he ducked into a side alley that was so narrow only a single car could pass at a time. A hundred feet down the alley was a low-slung building with red paint peeling off the wooden exterior. A faded sign identified the place as Jake’s Smokehouse. Puffs of aromatic wood smoke drifted over the top of the building and drew in customers like late summer bugs to a front porch light. Holt opened a screen door and went inside. At 12:05 p.m., the restaurant was already packed with a lunchtime crowd. Skip raised his hand. He was sitting at a table for two on the right-hand side of the room. Holt made his way over to him and slid into a chair across from the shorter, heavier lawyer whose dark hair was beginning to thin on top.
“I ordered our drinks,” Skip said. “It’s so busy we’ll be lucky if HC brings them in the next five minutes.”
Holly Carol Smith, or HC to everyone who knew her, was Jake’s wife and served as hostess and dining room supervisor. There were plenty of men in Ashley County who went by some combination of initials, but it was unusual for a woman to shorten her name to two letters of the alphabet. Most of the servers and cooks at the smokehouse were family members. If one of Jake’s relatives was laid off or needed a place to work in between jobs, they knew where to go. HC placed glasses of tea on the table in front of them. Her wiry body was as full of energy as a coiled spring.
“If you want to tell me what you’re eating, I’ll put it in for you, and one of the girls can deliver it,” she said. “You can see we’re slammed.”
“Brisket plate with mac and cheese and baked beans,” Skip responded immediately.
“And you’ll have burnt ends with skillet-fried yellow squash and slaw,” HC said to Holt without waiting for him to speak.
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for taking care of me.”
“You’re still on my good side,” HC replied as she turned and headed toward the kitchen.
“I wish Jake had gotten a speeding ticket while I was working at the DA’s office,” Skip said.
“It wasn’t just a speeding ticket. His driver’s license had expired, the car hadn’t been inspected in three years, he had no proof of insurance, two taillights were out, and he had an illegal muffler.”
“And I took care of it over a bowl of banana pudding,” Holt said. “He didn’t even have to come to court.”
“Did you pay for the pudding?”
“You bet I did. Otherwise it would have been an ethical violation.”
Holt squeezed a thick slice of lemon into the tea to cut its intense sweetness and took a sip.
“How’s politics at the DA’s office?” Skip asked.
“Heating up,” Holt replied.
“Mr. Spratt found out about the meeting Ralph had with Greg Stevens,” Skip said. “It really set him off. He thought for sure Stevens would back Nolte this time around.”
“No comment,” Holt replied.
“Come on,” Skip said. “It’s me. Who else was at the meeting?”
“Somebody who really likes cars.”
“Pat Kirby?”
Holt took another sip of tea.
“Mr. Spratt can’t get mad at him,” Skip said. “The firm does a ton of work for him.”
“And Kirby sang your praises,” Holt said.
“In front of Ralph?”
“Yes.”
Skip grinned. “I bet he loved that.”
One of the regular waitresses brought their food. Burnt ends, the heavily smoked bits of charred meat cut from the edge of a thick piece of brisket, weren’t listed as a regular menu item and were reserved for special customers. Once gone, there wouldn’t be any more until the following day.
“Give me one,” Skip said, eyeing Holt’s plate.
There were six chunks of blackened meat on the plate, each amounting to no more than two or three bites. Holt hesitated.
“I have some gift cards at the office for the new steak house,” Skip said. “We did the legal work for the owners, and they want to build a customer base. I’ll give you one so you can take Angelina out for dinner.”
Holt stuck his fork into the smallest burnt end.
“No.” Skip reached across the table with his fork and stabbed a much larger one. “That makes it a fair trade.”
For the next few minutes they focused on food. Holt’s first bite of the burnt ends yielded a nice crunch followed by the pungent smokiness of the moist meat within.
“Something that tastes this good can’t be good for you,” he said as he finished off a morsel and eyed the two remaining pieces on his plate.
“If you’re not going to finish them—” Skip said.
“Don’t misinterpret what I mean. My comment is like the non-questions you used to ask witnesses. You know, the ones that had such an obvious answer it made the members of the jury roll their eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“State v. Grover. You were cross-examining a country guy named Lickety—”
“Don’t bring that up. I’m enjoying my lunch,” Skip cut in. “Tell me something else complimentary Mr. Kirby said about me.”
“Uh, he can understand your well-crafted opinion letters.”
“Who else was there besides Stevens and Kirby?”
“Larry Morris and Ben Porterhouse.”
“Big financial hitters,” Skip replied.
Holt sipped his tea. “Speaking of big financial hitters, what do you remember about the investigation into the death of Stevens’s father-in-law?” Holt asked.
“Rex Meredith?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much. Ralph handled that directly. I don’t think the case was open for more than a month or so. He huddled up a few times with the detectives who worked the investigation, then issued a press release confirming it was a suicide. One evening when I was alone at the office, I peeked at the photos of the scene. It was ugly.”
“There were pictures?”
“At least ten or twelve. Why?”
“Ralph left the file in my office the other day. All it contained was the death certificate, a diagram of the scene, and a two-page report by one of the detectives. It seemed kind of skimpy for such a high-profile situation.”
“Who was the detective?”
“Butch Clovis.”
“That sounds right. But he wasn’t the only one who worked the case. There was another officer involved who left the sheriff’s department before you came to town.” Skip paused. “What was his name?”
Holt ignored his food while he waited.
“McHenry or McReynolds. Something like that. He quit after a few months. I’m not sure where he went.”
“But he was a detective?”
“Yeah, and he wasn’t a young guy. He’d worked in law enforcement before. Belinda can tell you. She remembers stuff like that. Why are you interested? Are you treating it like a cold case?”
“Not really. I was just curious, especially when I’ve seen thicker files in trespassing cases.”
“Well, the photos may have been shredded when no charges were filed. The family wouldn’t want pictures like that getting posted on the Internet.”
Their waitress returned. “Room for peach cobbler or banana pudding?” she asked.
“Not here,” Skip said.
“And give me the check,” Skip said. “My friend here only makes what the taxpayers give him.”
“The taxpayer who owns this place already told me to comp his meal,” the waitress replied as she motioned to HC, who was running the cash register. “You’re the only one who has to pay.”
Holt smiled at Skip and shrugged. “Cops and firemen get free meals,” Holt said. “Why not a lowly assistant DA?”
“Hey, I’m happy for you,” Skip said. “When our firm runner goes to the courthouse tomorrow, I’ll have her drop off the gift card for the steak house. Make sure Angelina knows it came from me. If the two of you ever break up, I want to be first in line outside her door.”
“I can tell where you ate lunch,” Belinda said, wrinkling up her nose. “You smell smoky enough to dip in barbecue sauce and put between two pieces of white bread.”
“If I had to try a case this afternoon, would that help or hurt me with a jury?” Holt asked.
“Probably help. There aren’t many vegans in Ashley County.”
Holt glanced toward the door to Ralph’s office. It was closed. “Where’s Ralph?”
“Triplett County. He’s telling the home folks they aren’t going to have to pony up as much money for his reelection campaign as they did last time and reassuring them that he hasn’t sold out to the Ashley County crowd.”
“Sounds like a tightrope walk. That’s a suspicious crowd over there.” Holt paused. “Do you remember a detective who worked for the sheriff’s department a few years ago named McHenry or McReynolds? Skip was trying to remember his name at lunch.”
“McDermott. He’s probably thinking of Tony McDermott.”
“Skip said he quit. Do you know why?”
“No. He was only a few years from retirement, and I thought he was going to ride it out here and then move to a place he had in the mountains. He’d worked for years in Atlanta and came here thinking it would be less stressful. He told me one time he’d seen too many of his buddies shot or killed right before they quit and didn’t want to become a statistic. He was recently divorced; his wife married another police officer.”
“Where did he go from here?”
“I’m not sure, but his vacation house was on Lake Burton. He carried a picture of it in his wallet. It wasn’t much to look at, but he’d built it himself and was real proud of it.”
Belinda picked up a sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to Holt. “Samuel Byers’s lawyer dropped this off while you were at lunch. His client wants to accept the plea. If you like, I can squeeze it onto the arraignment calendar set for tomorrow.”
“Yeah, Thursday’s fine.”
Holt went into his office and called Bishop Pennington. The preacher wasn’t available, so Holt left him a message about the sentencing the next day. Swiveling in his chair so he was facing his computer screen, he opened a search engine whose use was limited to law enforcement personnel.
He typed in the name “Tony McDermott.”