The consensus of most of the Times employees was to stay home and work remotely. Holman and I decided that’s what we’d do, and if temperatures warmed enough to start melting some of the ice, we would try to go in later that afternoon. From my makeshift workstation in the living room, I filed an update on the post office food drive and did a final edit on a piece about the effects of frost on local farmers. Once finished, I went back to my online research about Claremore Ministries. Holman, having already caught up on his work the night before, was searching the Times obit archives for references to Claremore and Oakwood Christian Church.
I found little information that I felt could be connected to my grandfather or Flick. Specifically, I was looking for any press mentions of the church and/or Claremore himself around the time Granddad was killed. I found nothing suspicious or even out of the ordinary. I was able to find an old edition of the Claremore Ministries newsletter from the week of Granddad’s death and learned that Wyatt had gone on a mission trip to Haiti for two weeks, while Shannon stayed behind to care for Megan Johanning, who had suffered a fall. They asked for prayers for her swift and complete recovery. That was it. I didn’t know what I’d expected to find, but I was disappointed all the same. I couldn’t find one single thread tying Claremore Ministries to Granddad or Flick, other than the doodle in Flick’s notes.
My phone started to vibrate on the couch next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I answered and a robovoice came through the phone, “This is a collect call from—” the line crackled and then came the signature sneering tone: “Joe Tackett.”
“I’ll accept.” I put the phone on speaker and motioned for Holman to come listen in.
“Riley?” Tackett’s voice set me on edge. I didn’t like hearing him say my name.
“Yes.”
“You made any progress getting me a deal yet?”
I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. I didn’t want him to think I was running around doing his bidding, but I didn’t want him to think I was doing nothing either. I needed the information he had, and I didn’t want to lose the chance to get it. “We talked to the prosecutor. She said she needs to be sure you have credible information before she can do anything.”
I heard him mutter something under his breath but couldn’t make it out. “Well, you better tell her to hurry her ass up. I’m getting some pressure in here.” He sounded agitated, impatient.
“What kind of pressure?” Holman asked.
“Who’s that?” Tackett snapped.
“It’s Will Holman.” He paused, then added, “Lurch.”
Tackett sighed, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “When it got out that I had official-lookin’ visitors a few days ago, people started talking. Damn inmates are worse than a room fulla old women. Rumors started that I’m ratting out the Romeros. If the wrong people believe that, I could be in trouble—as in the dead kind of trouble.”
This was exactly what Jay had warned me about. I had no love for Joe Tackett, but I didn’t want to see him dead—in no small part because if he died in prison, what he knew about my granddad’s death would die with him.
“Aren’t you kept away from the other prisoners?” I asked.
“Believe me, if they want to get to me, they’ll get to me.”
“Why don’t you tell the prosecutor what you know now? Give them what you have, then perhaps she can arrange for your protection?” Holman suggested.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all I got. I’ve seen how those people operate. If I give up that recording before I have a deal on the table, I’ll never get a damn thing.”
Tackett had a point. Giving him a transfer or whatever it was he wanted was going to be a tough sell under the best of circumstances. I’d be willing to bet that the authorities would take any chance they could to get out of dealing with him—and I couldn’t blame them for that. Tackett was a bad man, and he’d abused his power in Tuttle County for a long time.
“What can you tell us about a Shannon Miller—er, I mean Shannon Claremore?” I asked, changing the subject.
There was a taut silence on the line. “Figured out the connection, did you?”
My entire body broke out into chills. I knew we were onto something! Now, I just had to bait him a little further. “Of course we did.”
“Well, good luck nailing that crackpot without proof. That’s why I had to get her on tape.”
Crackpot? That didn’t sound like he was describing the Shannon Claremore I’d read about. My hesitation gave me away.
I could practically see Tackett’s self-satisfied smile through the phone. “Ah, I see. You’re on the right track, but you ain’t there yet. I can fill in those blanks, but I need a deal before I say shit.”
Holman and I looked at each other, both of us unsure of what to do. We had no control over what Lindsey decided to offer Tackett. It could be weeks until she spoke to him, if she decided to talk to him at all. And even if she did, what if she felt his information didn’t rise to the threshold of “fruitful and credible”?
“Just give me something—anything—that I can take to Lindsey to prove that the information you say you have is relevant to the murders of my grandfather and Hal Flick. That’s the only way they’re going to fight the feds to help you.”
For a few seconds all I heard was the sound of his breath in the receiver. “Albert found out that Shannon Claremore is not who she says she is,” he said finally.
“What does that even mean?” I said. “Who is she if she isn’t Shannon Claremore?”
“That’s all I’m gonna say for now. Tell that lady prosecutor I’m ready to talk. But I don’t know how much longer I’ve got.”