chapter three
Robin walked into the designated Waffle House at seven.
She didn’t want to take a chance that Sandy might arrive early and leave. She might not get anything but color, the details that changed fact into a real human story. But she hoped for more.
“Coffee and wheat toast,” she said when the waitress arrived at her table. She couldn’t eat more. Her stomach churned this morning and she’d had precious little sleep. She unfolded the paper she’d picked up in a box at a gas station on the way. Her own had not yet been delivered by the time she’d left the house. Heck, the sun hadn’t even come up.
The headline stretched across the width of the paper: THREE MEREDITH COUNTY OFFICERS MURDERED, EXECUTION-STYLE.
Her story was accompanied by several sidebars, one of which gave a brief biography of each of the officers and another of other police slayings in the state. A large photo of the three slain officers on the ground made her wince, and she closed the paper.
She flipped open her cell phone to call the sheriff’s office. He was unavailable. She asked for the chief deputy. He, too, was unavailable. Then she asked for the deputy who acted as department spokesman on occasion.
“Sorry, Robin. Nothing new, but there’s a press conference this morning.”
“Why a press conference if there’s no news?”
“Because we’re being deluged by you people. The sheriff thought he would tell everyone at once that we have no news.”
“Thanks for a preview,” she replied wryly.
She then called the county police department, where she was told again that there would be a joint press conference at ten. She would go, of course, but she hated the mob mentality at press conferences. She would find a way to talk to the sheriff and police chief alone.
She drank several cups of coffee, grateful to the waitress, who seemed to recognize her caffeine addiction, and opened the paper again, this time skimming over other headlines. But she stopped every time a car drove into the parking lot and the door opened.
Her watch told her she’d been there an hour and a half, and the waitress was obviously tired of having one of the four booths occupied so long for coffee and toast. Robin ordered eggs and hash browns, then moved them around her plate.
She was ready to give up when the door opened and Sandy walked in. His eyes were bloodshot, and stubble shadowed his face. He glanced around the diner until he spotted her. He hesitated, then walked to the booth.
“I didn’t think you would still be here.”
She didn’t reply, afraid he might run. Wariness was in every inch of his body.
He slid across from her, and the waitress was instantly there, a cup in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. “Coffee, hon?”
He nodded, and she poured coffee into the cup.
“What’s your pleasure?”
Robin listened in amazement as he ordered a slice of ham, eggs, potatoes, and a waffle.
“Haven’t eaten since noon yesterday,” he said as the waitress left with the order.
His eyes went to the headline on the front of the paper as he took a quick swallow of coffee.
She waited as he nervously drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table. He radiated tension.
She took a sip of her own coffee.
He put the cup down. “Damn it, I don’t know why I’m here.”
“For breakfast,” she said mildly.
“There’s closer places.”
“I wondered about that.”
“Not a good thing now to be seen with a reporter. I used to come in here years ago when I went hunting. Don’t know why I told you I would be here.”
She did. Or thought she did. He needed someone to talk to. Somehow during those ride-alongs they had become friends. He’d told her he couldn’t talk to his wife about some of the things he’d seen as a cop. He said other cops had much the same situation. They couldn’t take their jobs home.
“You probably needed to talk,” she said simply.
“If anyone knew I met with you …”
“They won’t.”
He stared at her for a long time.
She took a sip of coffee. “Is there anything you can tell me?” she finally asked.
“Orders are that everything come from the boss.”
“The sheriff?”
He nodded.
“You told me before that you guys in the sheriff’s department don’t think much of the county police.”
“They’re still cops,” he said roughly. “They have families.” His hand shook slightly as he raised his own cup of coffee and took a long swallow.
“Training as good as yours?”
He turned as the waitress approached with a plate full of eggs, ham, potatoes along with a waffle.
She waited, afraid that more questions might spook him. He’d agreed to meet her for a reason whether he realized it or not.
“You gonna stay on the story?” he finally asked.
“For a while, anyway,” she said. “Any ideas where to look?”
“Stay with the press conferences.”
“I don’t understand.”
He took a bite of waffle, chewed it much longer than it deserved. Then he looked at her again. “I like you, Robin. Probably too much. If I weren’t married …”
He let the words die, then shrugged. “Not that you had any interest.”
She didn’t say anything. She liked him, but he was right. She had no romantic interest. She was surprised that he said what he had. She was no beauty, and now she was hampered by the brace on her leg. Not exactly seductive.
He gave her a sideways look. “I think that’s why. No bullshit. No cute denial. You’re the only woman I’ve ever talked to about my job.”
She gave him a minute, then asked, “Why should I stay with press conferences?”
“Because someone killed three cops to keep a secret,” he replied bitterly. “I don’t think they would stop at a nosy reporter. And you are the nosiest one I know.”
“Surely they’re gone now. Cop killers wouldn’t linger around.”
His eyes hardened, but he didn’t say anything.
She leaned over. “You know something. Or suspect it?”
“I’ve already said too much.” He took some money from his pocket and threw it on the table. “I have to go.” He looked at her again. “Just do what I say. Don’t go snooping on your own.”
Then he was gone.
She didn’t follow. She knew he wouldn’t answer any more questions, nor did she want to press him. Not now.
She would wait. He would tell her more. She felt it.
“I don’t think they would stop at a nosy reporter.”
Who were “they”?
The press conference was as useless as she knew it would be.
There were “leads” but nothing that could be discussed at this time. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation had joined the investigating team. The medical examiner had given his preliminary report. One man had been beaten. All three died from a small-caliber bullet to the back of the skull. One each.
“Is it a professional hit job?” one electronic reporter shouted. Robin recognized him as an investigative reporter for the highest-ranking local news show.
A dumb question in her view. Of course it was a professional job.
“We can’t say that at this time,” the sheriff said.
“How could the killers get the drop on three officers?”
“If we knew that, we would probably know who committed this outrage,” the sheriff replied.
“What about tire tracks?” asked another reporter.
“We don’t discuss details of the investigation,” the police chief said, regaining his place at the microphone.
“What can you tell us?” The last exasperated question came from still another television reporter.
“That we’ve formed a task force and we’ll find the people who did this.”
Bored with the expected answers, Robin glanced around. Her gaze caught a man standing about ten feet behind her. He didn’t have the casual wear of most print reporters, nor the professional finish of television ones. Instead, he wore a pair of slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But it was his face that captured her interest. She certainly would have remembered it if she’d seen it before.
She’d read of hawk faces but had never seen one before. A true definition of features: a lean, sharply angled face and profile. His hair was dark and well cut except for a cowlick that defied control and fell on his forehead. His eyes were deep-set and dark as navy coffee but it was the intensity in them that drew her attention. For a second it seemed as if her perusal drew his own. His gaze riveted on her face, and the intensity in it was so strong she fancied the ground shook. She felt an unwelcome surge of heat in her cheeks and hoped he didn’t notice it as well. Then she thought she saw a flash of contempt in his eyes before he shifted his gaze away.
She felt judged without knowing why, but her gaze lingered on him as she wondered whether that impression had been her imagination. He was lean but not thin, and his foot tapped with an impatience that, like that cowlick, she sensed he couldn’t quite control. A reporter? She knew she hadn’t seen him before. She certainly would have remembered his face. But then she’d been away for nearly a year and had been out of the press mainstream since her return. She simply had not had the energy to socialize as she had before, not with the brace and crutches …
“There will be press conferences daily.” The police chief’s words jerked her attention back to him. He was obviously winding things up.
She glanced back toward the speaker, heard the fruitless additional questions that echoed former ones, then turned back to where the dark-haired man had stood.
He was gone.
She turned to the reporter next to her. She knew him from the Press Club.
“That dark-haired guy who was standing in the back …”
The reporter turned, then shrugged. “I don’t see anyone.”
“He must have just left. I just wondered if you noticed him. Dark-haired. Lean. In a blue shirt and dark slacks.”
The reporter’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I just hadn’t seen him here before.”
“Sorry. Didn’t notice anyone.” He turned his attention back to the sheriff and police chief, who were going into the courthouse.
“Damned useless,” the reporter muttered.
She nodded in sympathy, then smiled a good-bye. “I have to file my story.”
The reporter moved away. She waited a few moments, then limped inside the courthouse when she felt no attention was on her. The image of the stranger went with her. He had been in back of the others, but she’d had a strong image of a man alone, that he had nothing in common with the others who’d stood poised with their pencils and recorders and cameras.
So why was he there?
Only an onlooker? Maybe an attorney from one of the many small law firms that surrounded the courthouse. But then why the intensity she’d felt even at a distance?
Had anyone else felt it? Or just her?
Or was her curiosity running away with her? She pushed the image away and strode down the hall of the courthouse to the justice of the peace’s office. She would go over to the police department later and try to get some officers to tell her more about the three dead officers. But right now she wanted to talk to Graham Godwin, the courthouse historian and gossip.
Godwin was ancient. He admitted to being eighty but she suspected he was a decade older than that. The joke around the courthouse was that the only way he would leave was in a hearse. He was also a lecher who had, more than once, tried to grope her.
But he knew more than anyone about the county and the people in it.
“Ah, Miss Stuart,” he said with a leer when she entered the open door of his office. He pushed over a candy dish full of peppermints as his gaze undressed her. “Have one.”
“Thank you.”
“Been to the news conference?”
“Yep. It wasn’t very helpful.”
“Didn’t think it would be.”
“What do you think happened?” she said.
“Crime is coming to our peaceful little county,” he said mournfully.
“Did you know the police officers?”
“Knew two of them. Their families, too. Third came from somewhere else.”
“Families always lived here?”
“As long as I have.” He chuckled. “Damn long time. Went to school with Jesse’s grandfather.” He leaned over. “Now I know that would surprise you but …”
His hand touched hers. She fought not to snatch it back.
“Good cop?”
He nodded.
“Why did he join the police department? Why not the sheriff’s department?”
He drew his hand away and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Sheriff’s department was closed.”
“How closed?”
“Just … closed. Friends of the sheriff’s.” His eyes gleamed as he waited for the next question. It was obvious he enjoyed her attention, and he didn’t have the fear that she’d sensed in Sandy.
“I hadn’t heard that before.”
“Not exactly something we talk about.”
“You are.”
“Sammons can’t fire me. I have as many friends as he does. I also know where all the bodies are buried.”
She sat up in her chair. “Now that’s a provocative statement. Would you like to tell me about a few of them?”
He chuckled. “Thought that might get your attention. Maybe sometime …” He let the likelihood drift in the room.
She returned to something more substantial. “The sheriff’s not your friend?”
His face didn’t change, nor did he answer. He merely rocked again in his chair.
“He’s not?”
Godwin only smiled at her. A Cheshire cat smile.
She tried again. “Do you think it has something to do with drugs?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I can’t think of anything else that would be so valuable that someone would risk killing three police officers.”
“I can think of several things,” he said. “A love nest discovered that someone wanted to keep private.” He leered again.
“Wouldn’t killing cops to protect a love affair be rather extreme?”
He shrugged. “To some people, life is cheap.”
“What people?”
“Now that’s for the sheriff and police chief to discover.”
He was playing games with her. He had done it before but she’d usually gleaned some kernel of truth from him. Otherwise he knew she wouldn’t come back, and his game would end.
She took another candy and stood. “Thanks for the peppermints.”
“Come back and see me.”
“I’ll do that.”
She left, turning over his words in her mind. She stopped in the hallway and jotted down notes.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. Time to phone in her first story for the early editions. She would write the final in her office for the morning delivery. Hopefully.
She didn’t really have anything new, certainly nothing that the other news media didn’t have. But she did have some hunches.
Now if only she could get anyone—several anyones—to speculate …
She just had to find the right people.