After taking a shower, Holt called Angelina and asked if she would like to go to dinner.
“Yes,” she said.
“Great. How about Camille’s? It shouldn’t be very crowded on a Sunday evening and—”
“No, I’m in the mood for a sandwich. We could meet at the sub shop on Eastway Drive.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. If I still want to be with you after going there, I think our relationship has turned the corner.”
Holt wasn’t sure about Angelina’s logic, but he wasn’t about to argue with her wishes.
Thirty minutes later, he held the door open for her at the sub shop. They went up to the counter. A young man with a thin fuzz of beard on his chin stood in front of trays of deli items.
“Go ahead,” Angelina said to Holt. “I’m not sure what I want.”
“Smoked turkey with provolone on whole wheat, toasted, with light mayo, tomato, a few pickles, lettuce, and seasoning mix on top,” Holt said.
“Is that what you ordered when you came here with the blond deputy?” Angelina asked.
“Uh, I think so.”
“What did she get?”
“The same,” Holt replied, opting not to lie. “We made it a jumbo. That way it was cheaper.”
Angelina faced the young sandwich artist. “I’ll have rare roast beef, cheddar, tomato, lettuce, and the balsamic vinegar sauce.”
“Toasted?” the young man asked.
“Sure.”
The young man prepared the sandwiches and handed them across the counter. Holt paid.
“Where did you sit?” Angelina asked.
“Over there,” Holt said and pointed to a table near the back wall. “I didn’t want to be too close to a rowdy kid who was in here with his parents.”
Angelina took off for the table. A puzzled Holt followed.
“Here?” Angelina asked, touching one of the chairs.
“Yes, Trish sat there, and I sat here.”
“That’s what I want,” Angelina replied.
They sat across from each other.
“Then she prayed a blessing for the food,” Holt said.
“I’m not up to doing that.”
“I am,” Holt said.
“Really?” Angelina asked in surprise. “When did you start praying?”
“I’ve gone to Bishop Pennington’s church the past two Sundays. I’m a beginner, so don’t put me under a microscope.”
Holt bowed his head. “Thank you, God, for this food, and that Angelina has forgiven me. Amen.”
Angelina chuckled. “So that’s one of the new ways you’re going to manipulate me. If I say you’re not forgiven, it makes me look like I’m disobeying God.”
“You would be,” Holt said as he took the first bite of his sandwich.
Angelina shook her head. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Angelina took a sip of water.
“Do you know the reason I wanted to come here?” she asked.
“It wasn’t for roast beef and cheddar?”
“No.” She leaned forward. “What did Trish Carmichael say to you that made you cry?”
Holt placed his half-eaten sandwich on the tray in front of him.
“Five years ago her father was killed and her mother paralyzed in an accident involving a drunk teenage driver. What she said about her family brought up things I’ve kept hidden for a long time.”
And with that brief introduction, Holt told Angelina about Calico. Unlike Trish, who’d viewed everything through the lens of her own tragedy, and Bishop Pennington, whose goal was to bring Holt to the Lord, Angelina listened as a person who simply cared for Holt. At one point he had to stop for a moment as his emotions bubbled to the surface.
“I feel like such a kid,” he said.
“You were,” Angelina said with compassion in her eyes. “A scared, drunk, eighteen-year-old kid.”
Holt finished the account of his conversation with Officer Merriwether and the pain of Calico’s funeral.
“Now you know,” he said, taking a deep breath and exhaling. “And I’m not going to try to manipulate or control how you respond.”
Angelina reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “Here’s my response,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I believe if you had to make the same choice today, you’d do the right thing. What matters to me is who you are now, not what you did then.”
Holt didn’t speak. Instead, he raised Angelina’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
Trish arrived at the sheriff’s office shortly before 7:00 a.m. on Monday and stopped at the dispatch desk. She knew the first item on her to-do list.
“What is Detective Clovis’s schedule today?” she asked the officer on duty.
The woman turned to her computer screen. “He and the sheriff have a meeting at the board of commissioners’ office first thing this morning, but he should be in later.”
“Please let me know when he gets here. I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
Trish resolutely went to her cubicle and began working. Five new cases had landed on her desk, and she was busy opening files when her phone buzzed.
“Holt Douglas from the DA’s office wants to talk to you.”
Trish hesitated. She didn’t want to talk to Holt, but two of her new cases were going to require his immediate assistance. “Okay.”
“Thanks for taking my call,” Holt said when she answered. “I was preparing the order for the judge to sign in the Dorman case, and I’m not sure I have a current address for the defendant.”
“Just a minute. I’ll check.”
Trish pulled up the information on the screen and gave it to him. She tapped her finger against the top of her desk.
“Did you mean what you said in court on Thursday about shutting down the Rex Meredith investigation?”
“Yeah, that’s what Ralph told me to do.”
“Then why would you meet with Cecil Burkdale?” she asked. “I saw you talking to him yesterday afternoon at Henderson’s Farm Equipment where my father used to work.”
“That was a strange deal,” Holt answered without hesitation. “Burkdale was parked in front of my house when I got home from church and wanted to meet with me.”
“You went to church again?”
“Yes. And I intend on going next Sunday, too. Anyway, Burkdale wouldn’t talk to me at my house but insisted we go to the dealership. I’m not sure if he’s crazy or not.” Holt paused. “Are you going to tell Butch Clovis about this? Burkdale is a strange man with weird theories, but I don’t want him getting hassled by Clovis.”
Trapped by her curiosity, Trish knew Holt was right about the detective’s possible reaction. She scrambled to come up with a response.
“Not if your investigation is still shut down. That’s all he cares about.”
“I have the same questions I did when you and I were working on this together,” Holt replied, “but I’m not going to disobey an order from Ralph without a compelling reason to do so. Anyway, Burkdale is mentally fragile. A visit from Clovis might send him to the psych ward of the hospital.”
Trish hated it when Holt made her sound like a coconspirator. But she didn’t want to trigger a nervous breakdown.
“Okay. I won’t say anything to Detective Clovis.”
“Thanks. And let’s hope Mickey Dorman pays his child support.”
When Trish mentioned Cecil Burkdale, Holt’s heart had started racing as fast as it did right before a jury announced the verdict in a felony case. It was a good thing the conversation took place over the phone, because his face wouldn’t have appeared as calm and matter-of-fact as he hoped his voice sounded. He’d not lied to Trish. If true, Burkdale’s accusations would be a compelling reason to disregard Ralph’s command to shut down the investigation into Mr. Meredith’s death. More important, they would provide ample justification to open another one into the threat to Valerie Stevens.
Holt wasn’t sure Trish would keep her mouth shut. And if Cecil Burkdale was right about the level of sophistication employed by the security firm retained by Greg Stevens, several people might already know about Holt’s trip to the farm equipment dealership.
He spent part of the morning researching the security firm mentioned by Burkdale. Everything the bookkeeper said checked out. It was a bona fide business with a good reputation. Like similar outfits, it promised to be professional and discreet. Shortly before noon, the receptionist buzzed him.
“Mr. Bernard S. Patrick is on the phone for you.”
Holt accepted the call. “Skip?” he asked.
“I’ve dropped that. It worked fine when I was eight years old, but it doesn’t fit my current station in life.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll buy your lunch and tell you. Meet me at Camille’s in ten minutes. This news can’t be shared over baked beans and burnt ends.”
The phone went dead. Holt was puzzled. Skip had always considered barbecue the height of culinary experience.
Holt arrived at the boutique eatery before Skip. While he waited, he admired a glass-enclosed case filled with pastries that would each take a five-mile run to burn off. He was calculating a workout regimen that would justify a freshly baked éclair when Skip sauntered through the front door.
“Get one to go if you want to,” Skip said when he saw what Holt was doing. “Make that two.”
“Maybe I can resist the temptation if I eat lunch,” Holt said.
“That’s on me, so don’t hold back,” Skip replied.
Holt ordered soup and half a sandwich. Skip opted for a salad with salmon.
“Please double the salmon on that,” he said to the young woman behind the counter. “I want a piece of meat in every bite.”
They sat down at a peach-colored wrought-iron table.
“What in the world is going on with you?” Holt asked. “You’re acting like you won the lottery.”
“Better,” Skip replied. “At the end of the month I’m going to be an equity partner at the law firm.”
“Congratulations. You weren’t expecting that to happen for at least another couple of years.”
“I know,” Skip said as he leaned in closer. “And it gets better. This part is totally confidential. Mr. Spratt is going to retire and phase out of the practice. A big portion of his work is going to flow down to me. He’ll receive business credit on the billings for a while, but eventually it will completely shift to me. You wouldn’t believe the quality of his clientele. If I do a good job and keep the clients happy, I’ll be set for the rest of my career.”
The income earned by partners in a lucrative small-town practice could rival that of all but the top lawyers in big-city law firms and involve far fewer hassles. Holt could understand why Skip was pumped up.
“You timed it right,” Holt said admiringly.
“And I want to make this work for you. I’m going to need an associate sooner rather than later, and there’s no one I’d rather work with than you. I’m enjoying office practice more than I thought, so that will open up as much litigation as you want to do. I know Mr. Ayers and Mr. Goldfarb have had their eyes on you. They told me Judge Lomax holds you in high regard.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the judge talks to the senior members of the bar. All my info is secondhand, but your name has come up around the office.”
Skip’s invitation wasn’t a total shock to Holt. He’d mulled over the possibility that they might join forces in the future. But standing as a barrier was his commitment to fulfill Calico’s ideal to be a prosecutor. It had now become Holt’s dream, too.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Ralph just went to bat for me with the county commissioners and obtained approval for a salary supplement.”
“Which is nothing compared to what you’ll pull down jumping into private practice. And you won’t be limited to straight hourly work. Mr. Ayers is getting tired of handling contingency work, and when those cases hit, the hourly rate assigned to the amount collected is insane. I’ll make sure your employment agreement provides for bonuses if you pass certain performance goals. That will be a cinch if you do well in the contingency part of the practice.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“Of course I have. And we’ll have a blast being in the same office. Don’t tell me you’re having fun now. Jim is constantly wrapped up in AA, and Ralph runs around in perpetual fear of losing an election.”
“AA has been good for Jim.”
“I know.” Skip rolled his eyes. “And he should be proud of those sobriety chips. It’s amazing that he can stick with Ralph and not go back to drinking.”
Skip pointed his finger at Holt’s chest. “Society needs good prosecutors,” he continued, “but you’ve paid your debt, and it’s time to move on.”
“You know nothing about my debt,” Holt mumbled.
Skip didn’t ask a follow-up question. Instead, he speared a piece of salmon and held it up in front of him.
“If you join me, you’ll be able to afford trips to pull live salmon from the crisp, cold waters of an Alaskan river.”