CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I never got around to eating my sausage and biscuits that morning, and by eleven-thirty I was ready for something substantial. I left the office with nothing particular in mind and wound up at Seabrook’s, a barbecue joint over on the north side of town. The place had been built back when I was a kid by a black Korean War combat vet named Rufus Seabrook, a consummate grump who was never shy about voicing his scorn for the human race. What saved his business from failure was the quality of his barbecue. If better ribs or brisket have ever passed mortal lips, I don’t know where such a thing might have happened. Now in its third generation of family ownership, Seabrook’s was a local institution.

I made my order and paid for it at the counter, and managed to get my favorite corner booth just as the noon rush began. I was waiting on my ribs and had just gotten my iced tea sweetened to my satisfaction when Charlie Morton walked up and slid into the seat opposite me.

“Need to talk to you, Bo.”

“Always willing to talk, but I hope you’re not trying to wiggle out of our agreement.”

“No, I’m just being a good citizen.”

“Charlie, I love those good citizen deals, so you just let her rip.”

“I know Emmet Zorn was seeing that Twiller woman who was murdered, so I thought you might like to know he came to me about two weeks ago and wanted to put his house and store on the market.”

That was interesting. “Really? Did you take the listings?”

“Sure, and I’ve already sold the house. I didn’t even have to put a sign in the yard. The deal goes through forty-five days from the date when we signed the contract, which was five days ago. As far as the store is concerned, I told him that I handled commercial property, but not businesses per se. Luckily, though, I knew a guy in Dallas who’s been looking for a little something to retire to down here in East Texas, and he may buy the store. If he does, I’ll buy the property myself and lease it to him.”

“How much did the house bring?” I asked.

“Seventy-two thousand. It’s nothing special, a nice two-bedroom frame house built just before World War Two. But older cottages like it are popular with young couples just starting out, and his has been well maintained over the years. It has beautiful hardwood floors. Heart maple.”

I couldn’t help but grin, thinking about the hole in the hallway floor. “How about the store?” I asked. “What’s it worth?”

“I’ve offered him a hundred and seventy-five thousand on the property, and he’ll let the business itself go for the retail value of the inventory, less markup. Which averages about twenty-five percent. But my point is that it looks like Zorn is planning to bugaloo out of town, and I thought you might want to know.”

“You bet I do. I’ve heard Zorn has a partner in the store.”

“He did at one time. I’ve seen the abstract on the property and all the paperwork on the business. I wouldn’t have called my friend in Dallas otherwise. The partner pulled out about six months ago and signed the whole thing over to Zorn. I assume Zorn bought him out, but no details appear in the records.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the guy’s name?”

“Sure I do. And it’s a name you’ll probably remember from the newspapers.”

“Who?” I asked, already knowing his answer.

“Lester Sipes.”

*   *   *

When I got back to the office I found Emmet Zorn waiting to see me.

“Come into my inner sanctum,” I said.

He came through the doorway with the search warrant in his hand and wariness in his eyes. I sensed that he was mad but too smart to give vent to his anger. Wise move on his part. I decided to kick things off before he could quiz me. “It’s legal,” I said.

“I see that, but why?”

I pointed at the chair in front of the desk and he dropped reluctantly into it. “Didn’t you read it?” I asked.

“Not completely.”

“You should have. A search warrant has to name what is being sought.”

“Which was?”

I decided it was time for a creative lie. “Any unscripted drugs or anything else that might have tied you to the Twiller murder. An unnamed source said you’d been procuring her some Vicodin from contacts down in Houston.”

“And you believed him?”

“I believe everything; I believe nothing,” I said in a phony French accent, mimicking Inspector Clouseau. “But since the door to this office is shut and it’s your word against mine, I don’t mind telling you that I just used the information as an excuse to see if we could find anything to link you to Amanda’s death. Which we didn’t, and that means you are less of a suspect than you were this time yesterday. Be happy about that.”

“I don’t like people going through my things, especially when I’m not there.”

“Who would?” I asked. “But notification in person isn’t a legal necessity if the owner isn’t on the premises at the time of the search. Just so long as the warrant is left in a conspicuous place, the requirements of the law have been met.”

“So now you’re convinced I wasn’t involved?”

“I’m more convinced than I was yesterday. And by the way, Doyle Raynes was granted bail by the appeals court over in Tyler as a result of Harvey Holbrook’s efforts. Holbrook doesn’t come cheap and he doesn’t do charity work, so I can’t help but wonder what your part in that was.”

“I asked a friend in Houston to help the kid out. That’s all.”

“This friend must be pretty well heeled.”

“He is.”

“And charitably inclined?”

“Sheriff, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing more right now. Take a hike. I’ve got work to do.”