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Enemies Within
Chapter Thirteen
Lehigh flipped through the pages of the report on his desk, ignoring the impatient grunts from his most trusted colleague, Jim Wadsworth, sprawled out in the uncomfortable guest chair in front of him. The D.A.’s report, an updated summary of evidence on the Downey murder, recapped mostly old information. But a separate report, compiled by Lehigh’s internal team, contained some new findings of interest.
“I see we’ve got some witnesses placing George near the scene just before the time of death,” Lehigh said. “What dry swamp did they crawl out of?”
Wadsworth frowned. “Bobby Wills found them. Just good old-fashioned investigating. Beating the streets and asking around until someone talks, I gather.”
“And another report claims he recently did some target shooting at the Twin Falls marksman’s club?” Lehigh shook his head. “That’s odd, since George has a private range on his own property.”
“McBride denies it,” Wadsworth said, “but his signature appears on the sign-in sheet. The range operator confirms the signature came from George. Donnell Winthrop found that piece.”
“It just seems like a stupid thing to do if you’re planning on shooting someone,” Lehigh said. “George is a lot of things, and not all of them good, but I’ve never known him to be so unsophisticated.”
“Ninety percent of the time, crooks get caught by being stupid,” Wadsworth said with a wry smile. “Maybe ten percent of the time it’s because of brilliant police work. I wish those figures could be reversed, but I’ll take a stupid crook’s mistakes any day.”
“Sure, sure.” Lehigh shook his head in wonder. He had tripped up the idiots who’d tried to set him up the year before because of their own sloppy mistakes. He skimmed through the pages. “Forensics matched the tire treads?”
Wadsworth nodded. “And the footprint. Eight and a half, just like your father-in-law. It all looks pretty bad for George.”
“Have we checked to see if they match anyone else’s tires?”
Wadsworth grunted. “Underway. It’s a slog, tracking that stuff down.”
Lehigh sighed. The exhaled breath shuddered out of him. “My wife’s not going to be very happy. She already thinks I’ve got it out for her father. Some sort of revenge thing for his shabby treatment of me when we were dating.”
Wadsworth straightened in his chair. “You’re not telling her any of this, are you? Leaking that to anyone outside of the department or the D.A. would be a serious breach—”
“No, no.” Lehigh waved him off. “Hell, I don’t talk to her at all right now. You know she kicked me out, right?”
Wadsworth’s eyes lowered. “I heard you’ve been sleeping at a motel. I...didn’t want to pry.”
Lehigh stood and arched his back. Sore muscles resisted his attempt to stretch. “Sleeping? I wish. I haven’t slept a wink since the day of the arrest. That stupid motel is a waste of money I ain’t got. Hell, even if I could sleep, the damn bed’s so lumpy, I might be better off on the floor. Except the floor’s even more disgusting.” He stretched again and his lower back muscles barked at him. He sat back in his chair. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job.”
Wadsworth turned away. “I’m sorry. I feel like I got you into this.”
Lehigh’s heart fell into his gut. He couldn’t let Wadsworth take the blame for this. “Aw, Jim, it’s not your fault. I came into this with eyes open. And I’m still hanging onto the belief that we can make a difference here, clean this place up. I’m not giving up on that yet.”
Wadsworth faced him again, his face brightening. “Glad to hear it. Now, do you want me to join you at the meeting with Ferguson today?”
Lehigh shook his head and stood. “Nope. I want you to steer clear. Let him take his shots at me. Speaking of which, I’d better hustle over there. I’m late as it is.”
Wadsworth stood and shook his hand. “Thanks, Lehigh. And good luck.”
Lehigh grinned. “I’ll need it.”
***
A KNOCK ON RAY FERGUSON’S office door startled him. He’d asked his secretary to leave him undisturbed until his meeting with Lehigh Carter at ten a.m. No, not asked. He’d left strict orders. Why would she—
“Ray? You in there?”
The voice of his top aide on the Downey case, Aaron Williamson, floated in through the door. That meant he’d probably found something new on the case. Something urgent.
Maybe something bad.
Speaking of which...
He folded the pages in front of him top to bottom and slid them into an unmarked yellow envelope, then locked them in the bottom drawer of his desk.
“Yes?” he called out. “Come in, Aaron.”
The young attorney strode in, dressed as always in a black suit, white shirt, black oxfords, and a monochromatic tie. Today, crimson. Otherwise he could have been dressed for a funeral. In other words, perfect.
He closed the door behind him and sat in the guest chair in front of Ferguson. “You told me to report to you immediately if I heard of any developments in the Downey case, especially if they came from, er—”
“The other team. Yes.” He hated to interrupt, but he could afford no slip-ups. Not on this case. He never knew who might be listening. “Go on,” he said.
“Our sources say that, uh, people have been asking questions of potential witnesses.” Williamson shifted in his seat. “It appears they’re trying to poke holes in the case against the, er, accused. From what I gather, they’ve been unsuccessful, but I thought you should know what they’re after.”
Ferguson nodded. No surprise there. He didn’t expect Carter to sit still while his father-in-law rotted in a jail cell. “Any specifics?”
“His whereabouts around the time of the murder, and leading up to it. His apparent visit to a rifle range a few weeks before. Stuff like that.”
Ferguson smiled. Good. The information he’d expected to come to light had done so. Some of it, anyway. “What about forensics? Any news there?”
Williamson’s eyes widened. “Um, yes, as a matter of fact. The footprint and tire tread match. As you predicted.”
Ferguson smiled. “Indeed. As I predicted. Thank you, Aaron. Good work.”
––––––––
Chapter Fourteen
“MR. CARTER?” SAID THE young man outside Lehigh’s motel room door. “I’m Jackson Pitt. How are you today?”
Leaning one shoulder against the edge of the open metal door, Lehigh rubbed sleep from his eyes and took in his visitor’s appearance. About 5’10” tall, wearing black slacks and a white polo shirt that hugged his wiry but athletic build, he looked like a distance runner. Probably in his mid-to-late twenties, with light brown acne-free skin, wavy black hair trimmed around his ears, all neat and professional. The name and logo for “Hood Trail Motels” stood out above his chest pocket. Lehigh recalled meeting the man once or twice at the front desk over the course of his stay at the roadside inn.
“I’m fine, but it’s a bit early. Unless you’re here to bring me coffee.” He remained in the doorway, blocking the young man’s view—or attempted ingress—inside.
“Well, sir,” the young man said, his cheery smile fading, “we were running your charges against your credit card, and, uh, well, sir...the charges were declined.”
“Say what?” Lehigh folded his arms, then freed them up to search his pockets. Which he didn’t have, because he’d pulled on only a pair of sweatpants and a plain black tank top when he crawled out of bed to answer the door a minute before, at oh-dark-thirty. “Hold on a sec. I’ll be right back.” He crossed the room to where his uniform rested over the back of a chair at the too-tiny-to-be-useful desk unit built into the wall next to the TV. He searched his pockets and located his wallet. When he turned, he discovered that Jackson Pitt of Hood Trail Motels had followed him into the room.
“I thought I told you to wait outside,” he growled, fishing the credit card out of his wallet.
“Did you? Out loud?” Pitt scanned the room. If he was trying to be discreet, he’d failed.
“Get outside while I call my bank,” Lehigh said, pointing at the open door. “I’d like some privacy.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but technically you haven’t paid for the room.”
“Listen, Jack,” he said, “I—”
“Jackson.”
Lehigh blinked. “What?”
The young man leaned against the wall, picking at a perfect fingernail. “Jackson. My name’s Jackson, not Jack.”
Lehigh sighed, counted to ten, managed to keep his blood pressure under control. “Fine. Jack-son. I need you to give me a minute.” He picked up his phone and dialed the toll-free Customer Service number on the back. Jackson watched him, unmoving.
“You deaf?” Lehigh said, his voice as sharp as a hunting knife.
“Uh...yeah. Okay, I’ll just, uh, go back to the office. When you get this straightened out, you give me a holler, okay?” Pitt shuffled to the door, his pace quickening with each step under Lehigh’s glare. Lehigh kicked the door shut behind him, just in time to be put on hold by Customer Service.
***
SHUFFLING BACK TO THE motel’s shabby office at the center of the sprawling two-story building, Jackson hummed an old, familiar country song he’d heard on the oldies station, an old ditty by Juice Newton that his parents used to listen to in his youth. Something about not being really smart, and the joker playing with the queen of hearts, or something like that. A stupid song, but it wouldn’t leave his mind, so he hummed along. He felt kind of like the foolish joker, having been outplayed in his conversation with the sheriff a moment before, but the song’s peppy melody put a spring back into his step, and he reached the office in time to answer the ringing phone on the counter.
“Hood Trail Motel. This is Jackson. How may I—”
“Is he gone?” asked the voice on the other end without so much as a “Hello, nephew.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “N-not yet, sir. I just let him know about the credit card—”
“No matter what you have to do,” his uncle said, “you make sure he’s gone, you got that?”
“Y-yes, sir, I—”
Dial tone interrupted his response. He slammed the phone into its cradle and swore. Some days, he hated his uncle. And some days, this town was just too damned small.
***
AN HOUR LATER, LEHIGH gave up on trying to convince his credit card company to raise his debt limit and hung up in disgust. He had almost no cash, and his bank wouldn’t open for at least an hour or two, so they’d be no help. Frustrated, he pulled on his uniform and trudged to the office, a museum of chipped Formica, scuffed linoleum, and bland paint, where he found Jackson Pitt reading something on his computer screen.
“I’ll need to get my bank to wire a payment to you,” Lehigh said. “If I can just keep my things here until—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Pitt said without looking away from his damned computer. “We need a valid credit card on file with available capacity to hold your room. Company policy.”
“It’ll have plenty of capacity in a couple of hours.” Lehigh’s face grew hot. “For heaven’s sakes, kid, it’s just a few hundred dollars. I’m good for it.”
Pitt shook his head. “I’m sorry. As it turns out, your room is unavailable after today anyway. The rodeo has us booked solid through the rest of August.”
“Rodeo? Oh, for the love of—! Look. Just give me a few more days so I can find another room.” His sweat glands poured cooling moisture over his hot skin. He’d paid no attention to the local entertainment schedule lately. The rodeo tended to take over the whole county for weeks on end. He’d never find another room if he didn’t get right on it. Plus, he hadn’t scheduled his deputies with any overtime to cover it. He’d have to scramble to get back in front of this.
“I’m sorry, sir. How will you be settling your final bill? Cash, or bank check?”
Lehigh slapped his card on the counter. “Credit card, dammit. Or wire. Just keep the room open for me!”
Pitt shook his head. “I’m so sorry, sir. Checkout time is ten o’clock—about two hours from now. Please remove your belongings and have payment ready.” Eyes still glued to his stupid computer.
Lehigh leaned over the counter and waved his hand in front of the screen. “And if I don’t?”
Pitt finally glanced his way. “Then I’ll have to call the sher—Oh.”
Lehigh laughed. “Now do you understand the predicament you’re in?”
***
LEHIGH RETURNED TO his room, took one very long final shower and shave at Hood Trail’s expense, and changed back into his uniform. Something about this whole situation stunk, and not just the moldy bathroom. The local TV news confirmed Pitt’s assertion about the rodeo’s impending invasion, reporting that competitors had booked every motel room, bed-and-breakfast, and campsite for a hundred-mile radius. So much for his initial conclusion that the kid had lied to him.
He considered testing the motel management’s resolve. He was the sheriff, after all. But he dispensed with that idea in one shake of a squirrel’s tail. For one thing, if the kid did call the cops, his own deputies would no doubt take great delight in hauling Lehigh’s skinny butt out of the room, preferably with TV cameras rolling. Second, a stunt like that is exactly what Buck Summers might have pulled. Exactly, in other words, the sort of behavior he was trying to eliminate from county government.
He stuffed his few spare clothes into his duffel bag and tossed it into the back of his pickup, then glanced toward the office. Through the window he spied the kid still staring at that confounded computer screen. Pitt, he’d said his name was. Jackson Pitt. The name rang a bell. A Jackson Pitt had made a big splash on the Twin Falls football team a few years back, breaking the single-season conference touchdown record as a wide receiver. The record, he recalled with a smile, that Lehigh had set in his own senior year, the last time Clarkesville had taken the conference championship. Some reporter had called once, asking him to comment, but he’d never returned the guy’s calls.
What did he care about such things? Records were made to be broken. He’d read the story in the paper when it came out, the kid surrounded by his proud family, a mix of brown and white faces all beaming at the camera. It was a big deal in Mt. Hood County, celebrating a family like that. There weren’t many interracial marriages in this conservative part of Oregon, even in the twenty-first century. Even more remarkable, his family on his white mother’s side was politically connected—
Lehigh froze, his hand still turning the key in the ignition of his truck, the starter whining its complaint.
Jackson. The kid’s mother was Julianna Pitt, neé Julianna Jackson, the younger sister of County Commissioner Elliott Jackson.
Damn it all to hell!
Chapter Fifteen
Moving his stuff took most of the morning and put him in a foul mood. He’d thought about camping, but he had no way of securing his belongings from people and weather when away from the site. Plus, now that he had an office job, people expected him to do things like shave and shower and wear unwrinkled, laundered clothing. How he missed his days in the forest.
The timing of it all put him at the rear side of the sheriff’s office, where jail cells held prisoners awaiting trial, just before noon. Lunchtime. An idea struck him when he spied Ted Roscoe just inside the door, pushing a cart laden with covered trays toward the secure area.
“Let me take this for you,” he said, blocking Ted’s progress down the hallway.
Roscoe stopped the cart and blinked. “Okay. You know the layout? The trays are marked for each inmate.”
Lehigh scanned the tray covers, recognizing all of the names—all there because of him. “Yup. Been back there several times. Enjoy your own lunch, okay, Ted?”
Roscoe grinned and whistled down the hallway, a harsh, tuneless noise that echoed off the concrete walls. Lehigh winced. Someone needed to give that boy music lessons. He pushed the cart to the heavy metal doors and entered his access code. A loud click sounded and the doors swung toward him, banging in the cart and pushing it into his midsection. Damn. He’d forgotten which direction they opened. He pulled the cart out of the way, then rolled it through and entered the code to close the doors. They groaned shut behind him. His eyes watered at the familiar harsh aromas of urine, sweat, and bleach assaulting his sinuses. He took a deep breath through his mouth and held it.
He’d sat in one of those cells once before, after Buck had arrested him for burning down his own house, a crime Buck knew he hadn’t committed. He’d also made it a policy to visit each occupant at least once while they awaited trial. The one person to whom he still owed a visit sat in the last cell on the right.
He stopped at the first cell, occupied by a couple of tools named Brockton and Thornburgh, two goons that had worked for Lehigh’s worst nemesis, Paul van Paten, a former Portland lawyer who sat in the next cell down on the left. All three awaited trial for conspiracy to murder former interim sheriff Jared Barkley, attempted murder of Lehigh, reckless mayhem, and a half-dozen other charges. None of the three said a word to him when he slid their trays through the slot, letting their angry glares do their talking for them. The second cell on the right held the white-haired form of Buck Summers, a man built for comfort rather than speed. Buck mumbled a brief hello and thank you, then sat facing away to attack his lunch plate. Alone among the prisoners, Buck never complained about the food. He didn’t dare, since he’d been responsible for providing it for over a dozen years as sheriff, and probably longer as a deputy.
The third and final cell on the left remained empty. Across from it stood the 6’ tall, barrel-shaped figure of George McBride, dressed in the same orange jumpsuit as the other four. His face fell when he spotted Lehigh.
“Lunchtime, George,” Lehigh said, setting the tray in the slot. George remained at the bars, his eyes focused on his toes.
“Did you have to do this?” George said, gripping the black bars of the cell door. “After everything else you’ve done to me...now this?”
Lehigh’s heart fell into his stomach. “I owed you a visit—”
“What you owe me is my freedom! And my good name!” George shook the bars, or tried to—the thick iron, lodged deep into the concrete, refused to budge. “Will you be returning to bring me those? Huh?”
Lehigh sighed. He couldn’t begrudge the man his anger. “If I could open these doors, believe me, I would,” he said.
“You can, but you won’t!” Spittle flew from McBride’s mouth, landing on Lehigh’s uniform. “You’ve always hated me. Ever since Stacy broke off your first engagement twelve years ago. You’ve always blamed me for that. Don’t deny it, I know it’s true. You’ve wanted to get back at me ever since, and here you have the opportunity, and you take it. Get away from me!” He slapped the tray of food back through the slot, and it clattered to the floor. Grilled chicken, mashed potatoes and bright green peas splattered onto the concrete walkway between the cells.
Lehigh took another deep breath, exhaled it. In his peripheral vision he spotted the other inmates staring through the bars of their own cells. A few of them laughed—Brockton and Thornburgh, of course. He wondered if they’d be tried as adults or juveniles for their crimes.
He squatted, picked up the tray, and used a dustpan stored on the bottom tray of the cart to scoop up the lukewarm food. A sponge in warm soapy water, also stored on the tray, mopped up the wet remains. George, clearly, wasn’t the first prisoner to toss away his lunch in anger.
He stood and faced George, who glared back at him in apparent defiance and triumph at having reduced Lehigh to the role of janitor. “I’m sorry that I had to be the one to arrest you,” Lehigh said. “I thought it would be beneath you to be arrested by anyone of lower rank. You are, after all, the president pro tempore—”
“I know who I am!” George shouted, again shaking his arms against the unmoving iron bars. “The question is, do you know who I am? And what I am to you? Do you? I chaired your damned re-election campaign—correction, first-time election, Mr. Interim Sheriff. And this is how you repay me?”
Lehigh took a moment to let George’s anger and sorrow seep into him. He’d miscalculated, arresting McBride in person, that much had become clear. Damage he couldn’t undo. He met George’s furious gaze and surrendered the tiniest nod of his head. “Again, I’m real sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”
“I’ve told you what you can do. Let me out of this moldy prison cell. Now!” He coughed, as if on cue, for several seconds. “I can hardly breathe in this place.”
Lehigh frowned and shook his head, a slow, remorseful wag. “That’s up to the courts, now, sir. But if it means anything to you, I hope they do release you.”
“Bull hockey.”
Lehigh sighed. He couldn’t convince George of his sincere wish for justice, but perhaps he could find another way.
“Senator,” he said, knowing the honorific would appease his father-in-law at least a little bit, “there is something I’d like to ask you. About the evidence—”
“So-called evidence, you mean.” McBride scowled and turned his back on him.
“Something puzzles me about it all,” Lehigh said, “and I thought maybe you could clear it up. It’s about the marksmanship reports from the Twin Falls rifle range. It strikes me as odd that you’d go practice there, seeing as how you have a private range on your own property.”
“I haven’t been to the Twin Falls range in ten years,” McBride said with a growl. “Whoever says otherwise is lying.”
“The range provided the target with your signature—”
“Forged!” McBride roared. “They’re liars, I tell you!”
“Okay then. Now, there’s something else, and I’m sure the lawyers have been over this with you, but if you’ll indulge me a moment...that cuff link that appeared on the scene—”
“I have no idea how that got there,” George said. “I was never there. Not once.”
“And the tire tracks—”
“Sheriff, did you come here to insult me? Or to run up my legal bills? Because any further conversation is going to require the presence of my attorneys!” George stood and shook his finger at Lehigh, then pointed down the hallway. “Now get out of here, you lying skunk! And stay away from my daughter. Do you hear me? You are not a part of my family. You will regret this, do you hear me? Do you?”
Lehigh braced under the force of McBride’s words. He had to admit, they stung, especially the part about Stacy. He turned the cart around in the hallway, then paused to glance at George again. Tried to think of something to say. Nothing came. A cool draft gave him the shivers. Or, something did.
Finally, the mess on the cart gave him words. “I’ll, uh, bring you a new lunch.”
George spat. The stream of saliva landed on Lehigh’s shoe. “Send one of your minions,” he said. “I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Lehigh nodded and rolled the cart toward the heavy metal exit doors, ignoring the gleeful stares of his orange-clad audience.
***
“GENTLEMAN JIM” WADSWORTH paused outside the sheriff’s office door before knocking, gripping the manila folder in his free hand. The pages didn’t tell the story that worried him and would without doubt give Lehigh Carter fits. They simply created the excuse for the impromptu closed-door meeting they needed to have, stat.
His heart rate increased as his knuckles paused inches from the thick wooden door. He couldn’t explain his apprehension. Unlike his predecessor, Carter had never shown any tendencies toward “killing the messenger” when bad news showed up on his doorstep. Buck Summers, by contrast, had punished bearers of bad news with graveyard shifts, duty reassignments, disciplinary write-ups for “insubordination,” and worse. But where Buck lashed out at others, Lehigh seemed to internalize problems. Sure, he cursed a bit, had broken a few staplers and kicked over a trash can or two. Before becoming sheriff, he’d even clock a few deserving thugs with a solid right cross. But not for telling him what he didn’t want to hear.
Still, Wadsworth had a sense that something had gone wrong. Something, that is, besides the bad news he had to deliver to his boss in a moment—something he couldn’t quite name.
Maybe it was just the bad news bugging him. And maybe, just maybe, someone had already told him. Doubtful, but possible. He shook off the foreboding and knocked.
“Who is it?” Lehigh’s voice sounded distracted rather than upset. That meant he didn’t know yet. Which meant the duty of upsetting his boss remained Wadsworth’s.
“Got a minute?”
“Come on in, Jim.” He sounded almost pleased.
Wadsworth turned the handle and pushed open the door, expecting to see Lehigh seated at this desk, the usual spare furnishings perched nearby.
Which he did. Except for the “spare” part.
Lehigh’s desk, normally set deep into the room, now sat spitting distance from the office door. The two guest chairs rested off to one side rather than in front of the desk. Behind him, boxes stacked three or four high lined the wall. In front of the boxes, on the floor, rested an old soft-sided suitcase with a plaid fabric design. A rolled-up sleeping bag rested against the pile off to one side.
He stared at it all for a few seconds, taking it all in. He coughed.
“Shut the door, would ya?” Lehigh said.
Wadsworth nodded and pushed the door closed. “You’re living in your office now?”
Lehigh grimaced and pointed to a chair. “It seems the local motels are all booked a week early for the upcoming rodeo. And my wife’s still not keen on letting the man who arrested her father sleep under her roof. So.” He waved an arm at his belongings.
“Does anybody else know about this?” Wadsworth slumped into a chair.
“Hell if I know. Who cares? I gotta sleep somewhere.” Lehigh sipped at his coffee mug and gritted his teeth. “Cold coffee. Ugh.”
“You might want to keep this quiet,” Wadsworth said. “If Commissioner Jackson or that moron Bruce Bailey found out, it could get ugly.”
“It’s already ugly.” Lehigh chuckled and set his coffee mug aside. “What’s up?”
Wadsworth rubbed his temples. Great, just great. Not only did he have to deliver bad news—he had to spoil one of Carter’s rare good moods. “A buddy of mine in the D.A.’s office just tipped me off to something you’ll want to know.” Wadsworth sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Why our own men on the task force won’t tell us anything is anyone’s guess.”
Lehigh waved a hand in the air, as if swatting a fly. “No mystery there. Every one of them hates me.” He grinned again. “So, what’s the big news? You’re killing me with the suspense.”
Wadsworth grimaced. “Your father-in-law’s bail hearing is today. I’m guessing Ferguson didn’t tell you?”
Lehigh’s head fell into his hands. “Of course not.”
Wadsworth sighed. “The odds of him getting out are pretty much nil. Ferguson has him profiled as a flight risk, and as wealthy as he is, he’s got a point. Plus his active passport.” He paused, shaking his head. “Lehigh, I’m afraid we’re going to be hosting your father-in-law for the foreseeable future, until his trial.”
Lehigh’s face fell into his hands. “Thanks, Jim. I guess I’d better call Stacy.”
Uh, oh. That bad feeling returned again. “If you’re thinking of getting involved in this,” Wadsworth said, leaning forward in his chair, “I have only one word of advice: don’t.”
“I was just going to warn Stacy—”
“I repeat: don’t,” Wadsworth said, louder. “My instincts tell me, you should stay away.”
“Dammit, Jim. He’s family.”
Wadsworth sighed. Carter could be so damned stubborn. And he was the boss. “Okay. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.” He stood, hitched up his belt, and gazed down on Lehigh, deep in thought. No doubt he’d already cooked up one of his clever schemes that always seemed to surprise people—and get Lehigh in trouble.
But if he wanted trouble, that was his prerogative. Jim had done his job. With a nod that his boss ignored, Wadsworth trudged out of the office and shut the door behind him.
***
THE SLAMMING OF HIS office door shook Lehigh out of his reverie. He’d come up with an idea that might shake some things loose on this case. It meant taking some risks, and the downside, if it didn’t work, would look pretty bad for him. Maybe cost him the election. But that thought, rather than causing depression, lifted his spirits a little. Stupid election. Winning would mean staying in this rotten job four more years. That sounded like a death sentence.
Besides, he’d only want to stay in the job if it meant pursuing truth and justice. Breaking up the cronyism that plagued not just the sheriff’s office for the past few decades, but the whole county government.
He sat at his desk, debating his next move. Odd that his so-called partner in this investigation, Ray Ferguson, didn’t alert him to the court proceedings. In fact, Ray Ferguson had withheld far too much of the truth from him all along, and that seemed contrary to justice. If nothing else, he needed to arrange for prisoner transport from the jail. Hiding basic operational details like this showed either an uncharacteristic sloppiness on Ferguson’s part—or an even greater level of distrust than Lehigh had feared.
It stunk. And it needed to be answered.
So far, all of the evidence pointed to George. All of it. Which seemed too pat, too neat—contrived, even. It didn’t square with what Lehigh knew about his father-in-law. People might call him biased on behalf of his family, but truth to tell, he’d never really liked the man.
Like him or not, though, George McBride built his long, successful career on words and promises—and, yes, more than the occasional convenient lie, like any politician—but he’d steered very clear of taking direct action. Like, ever. Even when he’d tried to silence Lehigh when he’d stumbled onto illegal campaign contributions during McBride’s run for governor, he worked through surrogates. He might very well have conspired to kill Everett Downey, but he almost certainly didn’t do it himself. He had help, and as long as he stayed in jail, his cronies would keep their distance. That might suit Ferguson’s purposes, providing a single suspect and a clean case against him, but not Lehigh’s. With George on the outside, something would shake loose. Someone, somewhere, would make a mistake—and, with luck, Lehigh and his team would find it.
If George didn’t do it, he didn’t belong in jail. But only the court could order his release. For that, they’d need a strong argument. He was, after all, a murder suspect with many resources at his disposal.
A thought struck him. Something George had mentioned when Lehigh had brought him his lunch. About the mold. County inspectors had cited the facility on numerous occasions for mold and spores. Buck had ignored the reports for years, one of the many things Lehigh had been meaning to change, but other priorities always won out. And he’d read somewhere that mold can aggravate certain medical conditions...
He picked up the receiver on his desk and dialed Stacy’s cell number. Before pressing the final digit, though, he paused. Wadsworth’s warning flashed through his mind again. He’d learned to trust the big man’s experience and instincts, and the warning couldn’t have been clearer.
Okay, new plan. He hung up, then dialed a different number.
Chapter Sixteen
“Richards, Stephens, Bullock, Attorneys at Law. How can I help you today?” The officious-sounding male voice carried none of the friendliness to which Lehigh had grown accustomed growing up in Clarkesville, or even in his experiences in larger Oregon cities like Portland. It reminded him of the brusque snobs he’d seen on TV cop shows based in New York or Los Angeles. He’d always hated those people, fictional or not.
“This is Lehigh Carter. May I speak with—”
“Good morning, Sheriff. A pleasure to hear from you again.” The man’s voice transformed into a soft, harmonic ooze. Like wet velvet, except fake. More like a polyester towel smeared with margarine. “How may I direct your call?”
“As I was saying,” Lehigh said, a little more gruff than he’d intended, “I’d like to chat with Constantine Richards, if I could.”
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Richards is in court today. Can one of our other partners assist you?”
“Yes, but we’ll need to hurry,” Lehigh said.
***
LEHIGH CONSIDERED HANGING out by George’s cell until his escort arrived to take him to court, but decided against it. Both sides, he reckoned, would take that the wrong way, and explaining would only tip his hand. Instead, he slipped out of the office around 9:30 a.m. and drove away in his truck, right past the courthouse about a block away and beyond. He sipped a weak cup of coffee at Dot’s Diner, grimaced at the taste and dumped in more cream and sugar. “You know what they say about Dot’s,” Wadsworth once joked with him. “No beans were harmed in the brewing of this coffee.”
He sat alone at the counter. Nobody approached him, although conversations buzzed whenever he looked in the opposite direction of whatever cluster of diners huddled in each corner. He wondered what topics in his life fascinated them more: the negative stories in the press about how bad of a job he was doing as sheriff, or how much his deputies hated him, or his political weakness and ineptitude. Or maybe they focused on the personal, like his troubled marriage to a former employee of the murdered Everett Downey, a woman who’d spent much of the year in jail on charges of murdering Jared Barkley—a man they all thought she’d been sleeping with. Or how a group of conspirators burned down his house and framed him for it, then tried to kill him, and damn near succeeded. Take your pick, he wanted to tell them. It was all as juicy to chew on as that Canadian bacon on their greasy plates.
At five minutes before ten, he left enough cash to cover his bill and a generous tip and left the diner. Less than ten minutes later he parked in his usual spot at the office. Minutes later he entered the building a block away and slid into the back row of the gallery of courtroom number two, unnoticed by almost everyone. Only one person acknowledged him—the person he cared about the most.
Stacy waved to him from the second row of the gallery, then turned back toward the judge. He recognized the worry in her eyes, masked by the confident smile she’d put on for her father’s benefit. George sat in front of her, wearing a dark suit, contrasting with his red scalp visible between thick combed rows of white hair locked into place with gel. She whispered something to him and patted his shoulder. George nodded and bowed his head. Beside Stacy, her mother Catherine sat in stoic silence.
The lawyers conferred with the judge at the bench, their backs to the courtroom. Judge Petros Geroux, a thin, bespectacled man with thin black-and-white hair and black-framed glasses perched on a long, pointed nose, whispered in turn to each attorney with curious skepticism. Ferguson clenched and unclenched his fists as the defense attorney answered the judge’s inquiries, then interrupted. The judge held up a hand as if to silence him. Lehigh smiled. The Rev could get pretty wound up, particularly in court. Most judges in Mt. Hood County put up with it, but not this one.
The judge waved them away, and both men returned to their respective benches. Ferguson looked unhappy, and doubly so when he spotted Lehigh. Lehigh responded with an aw-shucks wave. Surprise, Reverend. Company.
Constantine Richards, a man of patrician bearing despite his Albert Einstein-like shock of white hair, huddled with George and an aide, speaking in quiet voices. He straightened and winked at Lehigh, then set his half-lens glasses atop his long, Roman nose and faced the judge. George turned to face his wife, his eyes wide and mouth moving. Catherine responded with a start, her hand covering her mouth. Stacy spun in her seat, and her mouth formed an O when she caught Lehigh’s eye.
He smiled at her. She cocked her head to one side and, as though lost in thought, turned her attention back to the proceedings.
“Very well, then. I understand you have something to offer, counselor?” the judge said, his gaze sweeping the defendant’s side of the courtroom.
“What’s this?” Ferguson said. “Your honor, it’s far too late for the defense to be—”
“I’ll decide what is permitted or not in this court,” the judge said, pointing a finger at Ferguson. “Now wait your damned turn. Mr. Richards?”
Richards stood and cleared his throat. “Yes, your honor. The defense petitions the court to order a compassionate, immediate release of the defendant, on grounds that the condition of the facilities aggravates a documented and potentially fatal medical condition.” He handed some papers to the judge, who scanned them and nodded.
“You have copies for the prosecution?” Judge Geroux asked. Richards held up more papers, and the clerk delivered them to a sputtering Ferguson at his own team’s desk.
“Our firm has represented dozens of clients before this court, many of whom have been detained in county facilities pending trial,” Richards said. “Our history shows that the county jail facilities are conducive to the growth of molds and spores, which in turn contribute to or aggravate symptoms of pleurisy, bronchitis, arthritis, and other breathing disorders. These conditions can be life-threatening, and the court has taken these factors into account in past bail and custody rulings. The defendant’s personal physician has signed an affidavit attesting to Mr. McBride’s history of pleurisy, and our brief details how the defendant could suffer unwarranted, serious, adverse health consequences from his continued detention there. In short, your honor, unless our client is released immediately, he may not survive until trial.”
Lehigh kept his eye on Ferguson during the defense attorney’s speech. As expected, the prosecutor grew agitated, hopping from foot to foot, anticipating an opening. “I object!” he said when Richards paused for breath.
“Settle down, Mr. Ferguson,” Judge Geroux said. “You feeling ill, George?”
McBride coughed, convincing in ferocity if not in timing. “I’ve been better, your honor,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”
“May I approach?” Ferguson asked.
“Counselors,” Geroux said in a weary voice, motioning for both lawyers to gather at the bench. Ferguson made it there in double-time, already jawing at the judge before Richards could even leave his seat. Lehigh’s attention, though, focused on the dark-haired wonder seated behind the lawyer, who’d affixed Lehigh with an open-mouthed stare from the moment Richards had risen to speak.
“You?” she mouthed. A smile hinted at her lips.
Lehigh stood, winked at her, and left the courtroom with a spring in his step. There were things to like about being sheriff after all.
***
THE RULING DIDN’T TAKE long. Nor did it take long for the heat to rain down on Lehigh’s head.
“What were you thinking?” Ferguson’s voice echoed off the walls of Lehigh’s office—even over the phone. “Why did you even involve yourself in this?”
“Well, hello to you, too, Raymond,” Lehigh said into the receiver. He turned the handset 90 degrees so the earpiece extended in front of his face, saving his eardrum from the Rev’s crushing volume. “I take it the judge has made a decision?”
“Don’t play coy with me!” Ferguson’s voice grew hoarse despite dropping about ten decibels in volume. “You know as well as I do that his jail cell remains empty. You needn’t try to continue your deceptions with me!”
“Deception? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“The entire county knows you fed that report to his defense team today,” the Reverend said, his voice rising again. “Did you really think we’d be so stupid as to not put two and two together?”
Lehigh smirked, glad Ferguson couldn’t see him. “You don’t want me to answer that.” He chuckled while the line went silent, knowing that Ferguson was doing everything he could to stop himself from saying something he’d later regret.
“Just whose side are you on, Carter?” Ferguson said after several seconds. “Or is it too much to ask for you to try to keep murderous criminals off the streets just once? To speak nothing of your oath of office, and your duty to the community? What makes you so blind, Carter? Family? Fear of McBride’s position in the community? ‘Do not pervert justice; do not show partiality to the poor or favoritism to the great,’ the Bible says. I know you can’t be bothered to go to church on Sundays, but I know your parents are God-fearing. Didn’t they raise you on scripture, boy?”
Lehigh took a breath. Despite the religious rant, or perhaps because of it, Ferguson had calmed to the point that Lehigh could hold the phone against his head, and that only meant that the Rev once again had full control of his mental faculties. Ferguson had earned a well-deserved reputation for his ability to bait witnesses into saying too much, and Lehigh vowed to stay out of that trap.
“I’m on the side of justice, Raymond. Which, in our system, means we lock up the bad guys—and only the bad guys. Which means,” he said, rushing on to keep Ferguson from interrupting, “in our system of innocent until proven guilty, being accused doesn’t mean you’ve done it. Or did I get that backwards? Help me out, I’m new around here.”
“Don’t give me your high school civics lesson,” Ferguson said with a nasty edge in his voice, his volume rising. “You pulled a fast one to help your father-in-law. I get it. But mark my words, Carter. If he doesn’t show up for his trial—if he so much as walks in a half-minute late—he’s going to prison for contempt. And so are you. Not to that rinky-dink vacation home of a jail you run over there, either. You’re going downstate, where the hard-time convicts split heads just to stay in shape. Have I made myself clear?”
Lehigh shook his head in amazement. When the Rev got wound up, he could lay it on hard. “Raymond, if George is guilty, I promise to help you lock him away, and I’ll throw away the key myself. But until then, I don’t intend to treat him any different than any other person accused of a crime. Am I being clear?”
After a loud breath, Ferguson responded. “Be careful about protecting him, Carter. If your father-in-law walks because of your help, you will pay. Remember: ‘God stores up the punishment of the wicked for their children. Let him repay the wicked, so that they themselves will experience it.’ Job twenty-one nineteen.”
Lehigh gritted his teeth. “Yeah? Well, you best be careful too, Reverend. Remember, ‘Fools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end.’ Proverbs, twenty-nine.”
The line went dead. Lehigh brought the headset back to its receiver, and noticed, to his own surprise, that his hands were shaking.
Chapter Seventeen
Stacy slid into the booth at Shirley’s Cafe with her back to the wall and one eye on the door. It meant sitting too close to the swinging saloon-style doors and the cacophony of the kitchen, but it guaranteed that no one could enter or escape without her seeing them.
“Coffee, hon?” A heavy-set waitress with a brown tower of curls atop a round, ruddy face turned Stacy’s cup right-side up in its saucer and splashed light brown liquid halfway to the brim. “All by yourself today, or will a tall-dark-and-handsome be joining ya?”
“There’ll be two of us. That’s enough coffee, thanks.” Stacy opened three thimbles of cream and dumped them into her cup, turning its contents snow white. “I’ll wait to order until he arrives.”
“Gotcha.” The waitress winked. “Good thinking. Men like ordering for you. Makes ’em feel smart.” She hustled away, the heels of her flats clapping an uneven beat on the dingy brick-red tile floor.
Stacy stirred fake sugar into her coffee and stewed over the waitress’s inappropriate comments. She couldn’t care less about making men, or anyone, feel smart—including the man already five minutes late for what she’d hoped would be their first make-up date since their big fight. Men didn’t need women calling them smart. If anything, they needed reminders of how clueless they acted most of the time.
Most men, anyway. Lehigh seemed pretty grounded and self-aware most of the time. Maybe that’s what drew her to him—the self-assured way that he took on the world, always on his own terms and without pretense. “It is what it is,” he always said, a wisdom he’d gained from his salt-of-the-earth parents. Despite her anger over him arresting her father, she missed him. A lot. But, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t forgive what he’d done to her father. George had emerged from his few weeks in jail a broken man, shamed and afraid, his fragile health weakened by the ordeal. Not the strong, confident man who’d raised her.
But then Lehigh had helped him. Maybe she had reason to hope. Heaven knows, she wanted a reason. She couldn’t decide which made her more sad: waking up each morning alone, or eating microwaved dinners in front of the TV with the sound turned up loud enough to drown her loneliness until she nodded off. Or trudging upstairs to bed, knowing that she wouldn’t sleep a wink without his strong presence lying next to her.
The front door opened with a whoosh, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a khaki uniform shuffled through. Her hopes rose—then fell. The man removed his aviator sunglasses, met her gaze, and smirked. He took off his hat, revealing a conservative black buzz cut, and ambled over to her table.
“Dining alone today?” Sergeant DuPont asked. He smelled like spicy gym socks, reminiscent of the cheap aftershave her grandfather used to wear when grandma went out of town.
“For the moment,” she said.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “And risky. You never know what kind of trouble a pretty woman like you could attract in a town like this.” His tone grew even slimier. “Word’s out that you’re single again. Wouldn’t you rather have the company of a strong man beside you?”
“I will, soon,” she said. “Until then, I’d rather be left alone.”
“Now, let’s not be all unfriendly.” DuPont edged closer. Too close. “I’m just looking for some company myself.”
She thought about sliding away from him, but he might take that as an invitation. Instead she glared at him with false bravado. “What’s the matter, Deputy?” she asked. “Have you run out of defenseless women to harass on the streets, or are diners your preferred venue for annoying private citizens?”
His eyes darkened and he leaned over the table, his large frame casting an imposing shadow over her. He put his face inches from hers, overwhelming her with the aroma of moldy laundry. “You know,” he said, “your husband isn’t gonna be sheriff forever around here. Maybe not even six months from now. You might want to reconsider who you want as friends when he goes back to hunting squirrels for a living.”
“I don’t kill squirrels. I eat ’em alive, like I do misbehaving deputies.”
DuPont froze, his snarky smile fading like the color in his face. Over his shoulder appeared a lanky, long-haired man, disgust apparent in his downturned lips and furrowed brow. Despite the current tensions with her husband, Stacy couldn’t help but smile at Lehigh’s strange humor.
“I–I–” DuPont shuffled aside, a hang-dog look overtaking his face. “I didn’t expect—”
“You never know what to expect from a wild mountain man who eats rodents, do you, Deputy?” Lehigh glared at his employee and slid around him to sit in the booth opposite Stacy. “Now, don’t you have some actual criminals to arrest somewhere?”
“Y–yes, sir,” DuPont said. He stared at his shoes, hat in hand, and backed away from the booth. After a few steps, he bumped into a waitress carrying a tray loaded with stacks of sandwiches, drinks, and deep-fried treats. He mumbled an apology and hustled out the door.
“I can see why your deputies love you so much,” Stacy said in a teasing tone. “With a bedside manner like that, maybe you should become coroner next.”
Lehigh glared at her. “You’re welcome.”
Stacy flushed. Uh-oh. She’d misjudged his mood—again. When in a take-no-prisoners frame of mind, Lehigh’s rough edges could leave a wide path of destruction in his wake.
“I’m sorry. Thank you. Tough day so far?” She tried on a smile. It didn’t fit, and from Lehigh’s reaction, he could tell.
“Every day. What’s up with DuPont? Is he still bugging you?”
She shrugged. “This is the first time since the traffic stop. After this, I don’t suspect he’ll bother me again.”
“You let me know if he does.” Lehigh signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee. “Have you ordered?”
“No, I just got here. Are you pressed for time?” He seemed fidgety. Nervous. As if he wanted to leave—or not be there in the first place.
“No.”
They sat in silence for a time. After what seemed like hours, Lehigh picked up the menu and stared at it.
“The lunch menu’s on the other side,” Stacy said.
He lifted his eyes over the top of the menu, gazed at her several seconds longer. “I’ve got a hankering for some pancakes. Breakfast all day here, right?”
She took a heavy breath. “Right. Of course. Pancakes for dinner?” She managed a smile.
His gaze did not waver, nor did his expression. “Lunch. Unless this is a longer meeting than necess—er, expected.”
Heat flashed over her face. Her fingers trembled on the edges of her own menu. “Longer than necessary, huh? I should think that—”
“Stacy, I didn’t mean—”
“Saving our marriage is worth—”
“I have a meeting—”
“A few minutes out of your precious workday—”
“I can make a few calls—”
“Of the job you hate!”
Her voice echoed off the walls of the suddenly quiet restaurant. Not so much as the “ting” of a fork touching a plate disturbed the silence. Every set of eyes in the busy cafe seemed to stare at her.
Including Lehigh’s. But unlike the others, which expressed curiosity or pity, his blazed with anger.
“Thank you,” he said, setting down the menu. “Now every soul in town knows how I feel about being sheriff. That ought to go over well in the November election.”
“Lehigh, I—”
“I wonder if Bruce Bailey’s here? Maybe we could see a replay of all of this on the six o’clock news.” He grabbed his hat and slid across the booth. But before he could exit, the brown-haired waitress returned, blocking his escape.
“Are we ready to order?”
“Yes!” Stacy blurted out the words before Lehigh could object. “I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad, light on the dressing. He’ll have the pancakes. Right, honey?”
He fixed his eyes on her, his face darkening, a harsh breath escaping through his lips. “Reuben. Extra dressing. Fries. And I believe I already asked for—”
“Coffee?” A curly-haired, freckle-faced boy dressed all in white, save for the smorgasbord of food stains on his apron, held a cup and saucer out to Lehigh from the waitress’s blind side, his hands as shaky as his customer-service smile. “Will you need—”
“Cream and sugar.” Lehigh nodded.
“I’d like some more coffee as well.” Stacy fought to keep the edge out of her voice, but probably failed, judging by the boy’s frozen stance, with a cup and saucer poised inches above the tabletop. Lehigh sideways-eyeballed the kid and extended an index finger in Stacy’s direction. The boy slid around the waitress and reached out again with the saucer, this time in front of Stacy, his hands shaking more than ever. Coffee splashed from cup to saucer to placemat, creating brown rivers rushing to encircle the condiment containers spread across the center of the table.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I’ll go grab a rag.” The boy disappeared in a white blur toward the kitchen. The waitress clucked her tongue, rolled her eyes and wiped up the mess with a brown-stained rag.
“Can’t get good help no more,” the waitress said, clacking her gum. “I’ll run and get you both some fresh coffee and cream and get your orders in. You all sit tight.” In a flash, she, too, disappeared behind the swinging saloon-style doors.
Stacy stared at the wet, brown-streaked table, then lifted her eyes to Lehigh’s. His eyes seemed sad, filled with resignation and regret. She imagined hers did, too.
And then, to her surprise, his eyes brightened, and the lines around his eyes and mouth deepened. Not lines of worry or anger, though.
He was laughing.
At first, it was just a chuckle. More of a snort, followed by a choked-back guffaw, unsuccessfully suppressed as the irony of their situation overcame the inappropriateness of his reaction. Then giggles, his hand covering his mouth. Tears, even.
To her even greater surprise, she found herself laughing, too. Not just polite expressions of amusement, but loud, uncontrollable high-pitched peals of ridiculousness. He responded in kind, laughing loud and hard, and in moments they’d lost all control of their laughter, like drunks telling obvious lies about fish caught, touchdowns scored and royalty kissed in outer space. They laughed until their tension evaporated, their anger spent, and their coffee, which had somehow appeared without notice, had gone cold.
For a moment, all went quiet again. Then:
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” she said. Then, as quickly and forcefully as they’d laughed, she cried, tears bubbling forth like geysers, and through the blur she saw he’d started crying, too. Then he held her hand, both hands, and they sat there, crying, until both of them somehow knew it was time to stop.
***
“WELL, AIN’T THIS GREAT,” he said, minutes later when they could speak again. “Ain’t no one gonna vote for no crybaby sheriff.” He smiled, not that he felt the least bit happy, but to let her know that he was joking.
“I will.” She smiled too. Not joking.
Their lunches arrived and somehow that got them down to business.
“So, about my father,” she said, scooping up a bite of chicken onto her fork. “Thank you for helping to get him released.”
Lehigh dipped a French fry in ketchup and stuffed it into his mouth. He hated ketchup, but Sheila’s fries were inedible otherwise. “Just doing what’s right. But, you’re welcome.”
“What can we do to get them to drop the charges?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s out of my hands. It’s up to the D.A. and the courts now. But if it helps, I don’t think we had enough evidence to arrest him—yet.”
“It does help,” she said. “But if that’s the case, why did you arrest him?”
He picked up a fry, set it back down. He’d lost his appetite. “Once the D.A. decided to charge him, it’s my sworn duty to take him into custody.”
“So you take that oath more seriously than our wedding vows?”
His breath caught in his throat. She could be impossible sometimes. “I take our wedding vows as seriously as you do. Which is why you surprised me by kicking me out. For better and for worse—”
“Faithfulness matters!” Her volume soared.
He took a deep breath, exhaled it out his nose. “I haven’t been unfaithful to you.”
“You’re being unfaithful to my family. Our family. Arresting my father! Putting him in that disgusting jail cell! For murder of all things!” She tossed her napkin onto her unfinished salad and turned away from him.
“Are you listening to me? For Pete’s sake, Stacy. The D.A. charged him, not me!” He picked up his untouched Reuben, stared at it, set it back onto his plate, and ate another awful French fry instead.
“You’re an elected official. Seems to me you could show a little political backbone.” Still she refused to look at him.
“I’m an interim public servant, appointed to fill an unexpired term by a corrupt sheriff who played favorites. Do you want me to just follow in Buck’s footsteps and land myself in jail?”
“Better you than my f—” She stopped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “No, I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” He stood, grabbed his sandwich off his plate, and slapped a twenty and a five on the table. “And I’m very glad I understand how you feel now. For better or for worse, my ass!”
He stomped out the exit, ignoring her protests. He strode over to his truck, unlocked the door. Footsteps crunched the pavement behind him. Hand on the open door, he took a deep breath. “Stacy, I don’t think this is the time and place to—”
“Sheriff?” A familiar male voice surprised him. He swiveled to find an old high school pal, Phil Reardon, approaching.
Lehigh calmed and even managed a weak smile. “S’up, Phil?”
The balding man, a few inches shorter than Lehigh with the build of an out-of-shape linebacker, coughed into his fist. “I just wanted to say, Lee. I–I think you’re doing a great job as sheriff.”
“Why, thanks, Phil. What brings this on?”
Phil shuffled his feet and put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I saw what went on in there with your wife. I know arresting your father-in-law couldn’t have been easy. But you did the right thing, in my opinion.”
“Thanks.” Lehigh smiled and shook his hand. “Unfortunately, I think you and I might be alone in holding that point of view.”
Phil shook his head. “Nope. A lot of people around here feel that way. It’s just that—well, after putting up with Buck and his gang for so long, people are fed up, but still scared of what might happen.”
“What do you mean?” Lehigh studied his old classmate’s face, wrinkled with worry. “Scared of what?”
Phil looked around as if checking for spies, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “In the bad old days—six months or a year ago—people didn’t dare stick their necks out around here. Anyone who did found themselves on Buck’s bad side, and then...” He looked around again. A young family exited Sheila’s and waved to them. Phil waved back and shook his head. “Let’s just say, nothing good ever came of talking to the sheriff back then.” He dipped his head and shuffled away.
Lehigh stared after him. Somehow, he needed to find a way to make it easier for people like Phil to do the right thing in this county. To speak up and help stand up against the people who kept good, hard-working citizens like Phil living in fear—even if it cost Lehigh his marriage.
But how?
Chapter Eighteen
Wadsworth greeted Lehigh at the door to his office wearing a grim expression with a TV remote in his hand. “I feel like I’m always the bearer of bad news,” he said, “but you need to see this.”
Lehigh followed him into the detective’s office. A small TV sat atop a video recorder on a file cabinet. Wadsworth turned it so Lehigh could see it from the guest chair in front of the desk and flicked it on.
“Midday soaps?” Lehigh joked.
Wadsworth’s expression grew even darker. “I’m betting that you haven’t seen the news.” He clicked “rewind” and waited for the images to blur by in reverse.
“I try to avoid that habit every day,” Lehigh said. But then he caught up with Wadsworth’s implication and his good mood vanished. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Babbling Bruce?”
Wadsworth exhaled noisily and hit “play.”
Lehigh’s heart pounded in his chest. What had he done now to get the media all into a frenzy? He half-expected to see his argument with Stacy at the start of lunch pop up onto the screen, but instead, Bailey’s smug, maddeningly handsome face filled the screen, somewhere outdoors. Wadsworth hit the Pause button and faced Lehigh.
“I wish I didn’t have to show you this,” he said, “but better that you know what’s happening than not.” Wadsworth took a deep breath and hit Play.
“Breaking news in the Everett Downey murder investigation!” Bruce Bailey announced from the TV. His face appeared somber, but no amount of makeup could hide the joy shimmering in his bright blue eyes. He stood in front of the courthouse just a few blocks from where Lehigh sat, his face lit by morning sun. A few curious passersby gawked into the camera behind him.
“What breaking news?” Lehigh asked. “Nobody’s told me—”
“Sh!” Wadsworth said. “Listen.”
Lehigh growled, but obeyed. So far the day had been an emotional roller coaster, and everything pointed toward it getting a whole lot worse.
“Sheriff’s department investigators revealed today that contamination of the murder scene may have compromised physical evidence linking Senator George McBride, the defendant in the upcoming murder trial, to the crime,” Bailey said. “This revelation could spell big trouble for the prosecution, inside sources say.”
“What in the hell is he talking about?” Lehigh said, his voice too loud. But he didn’t care. This was crazy. “We didn’t contaminate any murder scene. And who—”
“Listen!” Wadsworth said again. “Talk after.”
“However,” Bailey went on, “prosecutors say that DNA evidence—”
“What DNA evidence? Why don’t I know about this?”
“Apparently, ours,” Wadsworth said, his face turning red. “Listen, will you please?”
Lehigh opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it.
“—confirms that McBride was at the scene,” Bailey said. The image shifted to the wooded area off of Brady Mountain Road, with yellow tape still visible through the trees. “Insiders suggest that the defendant may have been responsible for the contaminated evidence, and in any case, that evidence was at best, quote, supportive and circumstantial.”
“Oh, for the love of cheese,” Lehigh said. “Are they trying to say that because we let George out—”
“Hush!”
Lehigh growled at Wadsworth but obeyed. He was worse than Stacy, always shushing him when they watched TV.
“The investigators,” Bailey said, his silly mug once again filling the screen, “who would not speak or be identified on camera, speculate that further charges could be filed—”
“What the hell?” Lehigh jumped to his feet and ignored Wadsworth’s protestations. “Who’s talking to the press about the case? Didn’t we instill the fear of God into the hearts of everyone on the team? Or did I attend a different meeting?”
Wadsworth shook his head, frustration and sadness competing for primacy in his facial expression. “We did,” he said. “But someone didn’t listen.”
“Are you sure it’s one of ours?” Lehigh said.
Wadsworth just stared back at him in silence.
“We turn now to County Commission Chairman Elliott Jackson,” Bailey intoned from the television, and Jackson’s white mop and bulbous nose appeared next to the reporter, wearing, as usual, a sausage casing of a blue suit too tight around his beach-ball body. His expression seemed to scream both anger and triumph, a smile and a frown competing for dominance in the middle of his ruddy face. “Commissioner,” Bailey said, “what does this mean for the investigation?”
“What would he know about it?” Lehigh said. Wadsworth shrugged.
“It means that the corruption, ineptitude, and cronyism in our sheriff’s department has hit a new low,” Jackson said. “I warned the other commissioners about the risks of putting our law enforcement in the hands of amateurs, and now we reap what we sow.”
“Will you consider removing him from office?” Bailey asked.
“What?” Lehigh’s screech actually moved papers on Wadsworth’s desk.
“Nothing is off the table.” Jackson glared at Lehigh from the TV screen. “We’ll do what we must to return professionalism and competence to our law enforcement leadership. It will be my top priority.”
Wadsworth clicked off the TV. Lehigh swore and closed his eyes. Damn this job all to hell.
“For what it’s worth,” Wadsworth said, “none of this came from me, and in fact, I think it’s a load of bunk.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Lehigh said, eyes still closed. Of course he hadn’t suspected the detective, or anyone on the team. But clearly someone was yakking.
“I mean, okay, you’re not the most experienced law enforcement guy in the county,” Wadsworth went on, “nor the most skilled administrator around. And when it comes to politics, you’re, well, kind of a fish out of water.”
“Jeez, Jim. Are you sure you’re on my side?” Lehigh said, opening his eyes.
“But,” Wadsworth said, rushing his words, “you’re honest. You’ve got principles. You work harder than anybody I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. None of that could be said for Buck Summers or either of the guys I worked for before him. In fact, as far as good sheriffs go, in my lifetime we’ve had you, and Jared, and that’s it. There’s less than six months of decent law enforcement in over four decades.”
“I bet you say that to all the lumberjacks,” Lehigh said with a grin. But he did feel better.
“Unfortunately,” Wadsworth said, motioning to the TV, “I seem to be in the minority.”
“You know, Jim,” Lehigh said, “this may be the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard.”
“Sorry. You know me. I calls ’em as I sees ’em.”
“The worst thing is,” Lehigh said, pacing the room, “these leaks only set us back on finding out who killed Ev Downey. If all we do is chase our tails, we’ll never find the evidence pointing to the real murderer.”
“You really don’t think McBride plugged him?” Wadsworth asked.
“No. At least, not alone,” Lehigh said. “And it bugs me that so many people want to shut this down and keep us from asking questions that might lead to another suspect. Doesn’t it bother you, too?”
“It does. And you’re right. We’ll never get anywhere if people keep cutting our feet out from under us.” Wadsworth stared at his feet, shaking his head. “We’re going to have to investigate and chop off a few heads. The moment Ray Ferguson sees this—”
A knock sounded on the door, followed by Julia’s timid voice. “Sheriff? Detective? Are you in there? The deputy district attorney is here, and—well, I think you’d better talk to him.”
Lehigh clenched his eyes shut. He’d been right about one thing. This day just kept getting worse.
***
“THESE LEAKS HAVE GOT to stop!” Ray Ferguson had yet to take a seat in the cramped meeting room, despite having nowhere to go. Lehigh considered starting a tally of how many times he pushed aside an empty chair that blocked the attorney’s path as he paced behind his assistants seated opposite of Lehigh, Wadsworth, and Ruby Mac. Instead he jotted down a reminder to have it checked and repaired later—and to bill the D.A.’s office for it. Ferguson had pushed it too hard more than once, smashing its rollers into the legs of the table and the wall, rendering it immobile and lopsided.
“I agree,” Lehigh said. “And the sooner you get control of your staff—”
“My office maintains strict protocols controlling information access and release!” Ferguson plowed over the chair again in an attempt to reach Lehigh. Luckily the chair, in its crumbling condition, served better as a blockade than as a missile. “Your department is responsible for this. Always has been, Sheriff. Even under Buck Summers—”
“Especially under Buck Summers,” Ruby said below her breath.
“All due respect, Mr. Ferguson,” Wadsworth said over her, “our people don’t even have access to the information Bruce Bailey reported.” The ever-patient Wadsworth had remained quiet for the first twenty minutes of the meeting, mostly, Lehigh suspected, because Ferguson had dominated the first nineteen with his crazy ranting.
“Of course you do,” Ferguson said, whirling to face the detective. “We brief your deputies daily. Don’t we, Clayton?” He pointed to Detective Maddox, seated alone at the far end of the table. He’d stayed so still and quiet, Lehigh had forgotten he was there.
Maddox nodded. “Yes, sir. Morning briefings of the task force. All hands present.”
“The problem, Raymond,” Lehigh said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “is that the task force doesn’t share that information with us. The first I heard of it was on the news.”
“And if these leaks continue, I’ll see that you get even less!” Ferguson’s veins throbbed on the side of his head, and his face turned as red as an unripe marionberry.
“If we’re not getting any information now, how could we get any less?” Ruby asked, deadpan.
“The point is,” Lehigh said before Ferguson could respond, “the leaks are a problem. We can all agree to that, right? Not least because it distracts us all from doing our job—gathering information that leads to a conviction of the murderer.”
“George McBride,” Ferguson said.
“Or whoever it is,” Lehigh said. “I know you’re convinced, and it’s your job to be.”
“He’s the killer, Carter,” Ferguson said. “I understand why you don’t want to believe it, which is why the task force is under my direction. But it’s true, and the sooner you accept that, the better.”
“Regardless,” Lehigh said, giving up on keeping Ferguson’s mind open, “We don’t want George McBride tried in the press.”
“Not least because he’s got a better lawyer than we do,” Ruby said, this time not quite under her breath.
Gasps hissed from the attorneys’ side of the room. Ferguson’s mouth gaped wide, his eyes widening, face getting even redder. Lehigh wondered if he’d survive the insult, expecting the veins on the side of his head to pop at any moment.
“What my deputy means,” Lehigh said, hand raised to shush Ruby from any further outbursts, “is that Constantine Richards will exploit any loophole, any technicality he can, to win for his client.” An idea popped into his head that he hadn’t considered before. It shocked him, and went straight to his mouth. “This raises the question: did the leaks come from their side? Was the information Bailey reported shared with the defense?”
Ferguson whirled to face his assistants. Assistant D.A. Williamson coughed and nodded, then shrank into his chair.
Lehigh pretended to write something on his notepad, letting the moment linger. He’d surprised the prosecutors with that idea as much as himself. Which meant he had one new advantage on this front: initiative.
“Well, then,” Lehigh said, his eye on Ferguson in case he literally exploded, “We know who to talk to next. And I might know just who to ask.”
He glanced at Wadsworth, whose jaw had dropped nearly to the table. He nodded once, confirming what he knew Jim suspected. Yes, he’d just volunteered to investigate his own wife’s interference in the case. And it would not be any fun at all.
***
“SO, JIM. ARE WE THE problem?”
Several minutes before, Ruby had escorted Ferguson’s team, including Clayton Maddox, out of the building and returned to her regular duties. Only Lehigh and Wadsworth remained in the cramped meeting room. Lehigh had defended his team with vigor against Ferguson’s attacks, but he had to concede one point to the Deputy D.A.: the sheriff’s office had, over the years, earned its reputation as corrupt and untrustworthy. He’d suffered at their hands himself not long before.
“If we were talking about the folks who ran this building a year ago, I’d say yes,” Wadsworth said, a glum expression on his face. “People around here couldn’t be trusted to keep things confidential. Not if it served their purpose to keep Bruce Bailey’s face on TV.”
“I wouldn’t have trusted them with a load of dog crap,” Lehigh said, trying but failing to lighten his own mood. “As I kept discovering, the foxes were guarding the henhouse, and nobody believed it, even when their mouths were full of feathers. But what about now?”
“Now?” Wadsworth drew a deep breath, exhaled, cocked his head this way and that. “It’s...better. The worst of the bad apples are gone, and you’ve brought in some good new people. I trust Ruby Mac implicitly. Martin Lightfoot is honest to a fault. The others—well, let’s just say there’s a range.”
Lehigh’s ears tingled, and he found it hard to breathe for a moment. “Wait. All of the others?”
“I’m not saying they’re bad,” Wadsworth said, his words rushing out like a spring brook after a heavy rain. “They’re just...untested. And I don’t know that I’d bet on all of them passing a test.”
Lehigh gritted his teeth. That meant that over half of his new team could be culprits. Then a light dawned as he realized the implications of Wadsworth’s comments. “Wait. You’re suggesting that we test them somehow?”
Wadsworth hesitated. “Maybe not all. Maybe just the most likely candidates.”
“Namely?” Lehigh’s pulse quickened. He had his own suspicions, but wanted to hear those of his most trusted and experienced colleague first.
“I’d narrow it down to three. Roscoe, Winthrop, and Wills,” Wadsworth said, his gaze level.
Lehigh nodded. “I agree with Wills. Winthrop, maybe. Both are loose cannons, although as different as milk and whiskey in every other way. But, as unlikely as this may seem, I trust Ted Roscoe. Maybe because he’s a little too simple to get involved in such schemes.”
Wadsworth chuckled. “He isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, that’s for sure. Now, between the other two, we should pick one to focus on first. Test him with some ‘information’ we don’t give anyone else.” He made air quotes with his fingers on “information” and winked.
“And see if it leaks?”
Wadsworth nodded.
“Jim,” Lehigh said, unease spreading over him, “do you think anyone on the inside—our team, or Ferguson’s—may be, you know, in on it?”
“On the leaks, the murder, or the cover-up of the murder?” Wadsworth asked.
Lehigh shrugged. “All of the above.”
Wadsworth scowled. “The leaks, certainly. The cover-up, doubtful. The murder?” He stared hard at Lehigh, then shook his head. “No way. I know some of these guys are Neanderthals, and I realize Buck Summers is a great counter-example of what I’m about to say, but I don’t think the rot goes that deep. Cronyism and favoritism, sure. Incompetence at times, you bet. But I’ve worked with these people for ten, twenty years, in some cases. Hired a lot of them. Do I think they’d stoop to murder? No, I do not.”
Lehigh weighed his words, letting them roll around in his brain. Wadsworth was right, of course. “So, we should focus on what we can control. The leaks.”
Wadsworth nodded. “You okay with setting a trap? Even if it means firing someone you just hired to help clean things up?”
Lehigh pondered the idea. It seemed risky, but so did placing blind trust in the entire squad of newcomers who hadn’t firmed up their loyalties to anyone yet. “Okay,” he said. “Tell you what. You pick.”
“Which part? Who we tell, or what we tell them?”
Lehigh smiled. “Both. And don’t tell me in advance. I want to be surprised—and more important, I want to remain unbiased. The last thing I need is to give the game away.”
“Will do. Now, what about Stacy?”
Lehigh’s smile faded. “I guess,” he said, “she and I need to talk.”
––––––––
Chapter Nineteen
THE SCREEN DOOR OPENED. The wiry frame of a sun-weathered, white-haired man in baggy overalls and a red flannel shirt appeared. He thumped his boots across the peeling gray paint of the wooden porch and sat in an old wicker chair in the corner, face to face with Lehigh.
“You’re early,” Pappy said, fishing a pouch of tobacco and cigarette papers from the top pocket of his overalls.
“Just appreciating the sunshine. Is Maw here?”
“Cooking lunch.” Pappy spread tiny bits of brown tobacco in the crease of his rolling paper, his eyes focused hard at the task. In spite of his obvious concentration, about a third of the precious weed floated like snowflakes to the deck.
“What’s on?” Lehigh sniffed the air, came away with nothing but pine needles.
“You didn’t come here to talk food.” Pappy’s eyes never left the task at hand.
Lehigh smiled and nodded. “But I’d never turn down a home-cooked meal.”
Pappy paused in his cigarette manufacturing operation and glared at Lehigh from the top of his eye sockets, his eyes barely visible through his bushy white brows. “It ain’t been offered.”
Lehigh let the comment float away in the gentle breeze. The offer would come. Pappy’s harsh pretense would melt faster than ice cream lost to the summer sidewalk. And if his didn’t, Maw’s would. “So, as I said on the phone, I gotta ask you something.”
Pappy licked the edge of the paper and rolled the cigarette into a perfect, skinny cylinder. He shoved one end into his mouth, staring at Lehigh. He lit the other end with matches that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast. Smoke escaped from the corners of his mouth and rose up the front of his face. He sucked some of it back in and waved the rest away with a gnarled hand. “About your wife, I reckon.”
Lehigh started in his seat, catching his breath. “Y-you know?”
Pappy inhaled, exhaled, and gazed through the blue plumes surrounding his head. “People around here talk, son.”
Lehigh hung his head. He’d tried to keep his separation from Stacy quiet, but that was next to impossible in a small town. He wondered what Pappy had heard, a man who shunned people whenever he could. Or Maw, who socialized at church and bingo, but whose mental faculties had long ago begun to decline.
“It’s not just Stacy.” Lehigh sighed. “This job. It’s killing me.”
Pappy eyed him through the smoke, then pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled over the dried rose bushes pushing spindly limbs between the porch rails. They needed deadheading, and some trimming, too. Maw didn’t used to get behind on such things. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Pappy had enough to contend with, keeping her safe from herself.
“Son,” Pappy said at last, “you ain’t thinking of quitting, are you?”
The statement rolled over him like a tractor. Lehigh stared at him, numb. The worst thing a person could do, in Pappy’s world, is quit. He struggled for a reply. “I–I don’t know, Pap. This job is ruining my life.”
Pappy spat. “Every job I ever had ruined me. You’re no different than anybody else.”
Lehigh winced. If he’d expected Pappy to make an exception just this once and sugar-coat his advice, he’d once again underestimated the old man. But then, that’s why he’d come to Pappy in the first place. Straight talk.
“This one is different, Pappy. It’s wrecking my marriage.”
Pappy chuckled. “Every man has the same complaint, son. And every woman. Except the ones who don’t want to be married in the first place. Which is what I thought of you, for a long time.” Another long drag on the cigarette, another blue plume.
“Yeah, me too. But most people’s jobs don’t make them arrest their father-in-law.”
Pappy laughed, then broke into a fit of coughing. At first Lehigh thought it would end quickly, but the coughs grew harsher, louder, more raspy. More out of control.
“You okay, Pap?” Lehigh stood and reached out to pat the old man’s back. Pappy waved him away, coughed a few more times, then stopped, bent over at the waist, his chest parallel to the ground. After several seconds he straightened, tossed the cigarette to the deck, and stomped on it.
“Son,” he said, “you know damned well George McBride didn’t shoot Ev Downey.” Pappy wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a sleazy sumbitch, and a liar, and he ain’t got the morals of a naked mole rat. But he’s also rich and powerful, son, and if there’s one thing I know about the rich and powerful, it’s that they don’t do their own dirty work.” He coughed and laughed again. “They get ordinary grunts like us to do it for them.”
“Not pulling the trigger doesn’t—”
“But you didn’t come here to ask me to play detective.” He fixed Lehigh with one of his patented intense stares, freezing Lehigh in his tracks. That stare always reminded him of the time, as a kid, when he poached a dollar out of Maw’s purse and tried to sneak out the back door to go buy candy. Pappy never said a word. Just stared at him from way out in the vegetable garden, a hundred yards away, leaning on his shovel. He’d somehow known what Lehigh had done, and what he intended. Or so it felt, anyway, with those icy blue eyes pinning his feet to the turf, then somehow forcing him back inside so he could sneak the dollar back into her purse. Pappy sealed the deal a few hours later with a few brief words: “You put it back?” For a brief moment Lehigh considered bravado and denial, but the same icy stare dashed his resolve, and he’d slunk away, defeated.
“No, Pappy,” he said, finally. He took a deep breath. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m here to get your advice on a woman.”
Pappy choked again, as if he’d swallowed his cigarette. He coughed another blue streak, leaning one arm against the porch rail, never taking his eyes off his son. When Lehigh stepped toward him, Pappy held his hand out in a stop signal.
“You all right out there, Caleb?” Maw called out from somewhere inside the house.
“I’m fine, Irene,” Pappy said between coughs, and wheezed some deep, uneven breaths, hands on his knees. His breathing calmed, and he straightened a little.
“Lunch is almost ready,” Maw called again. “Come wash up.”
“I’m talking to Lehigh,” Pappy said. “Give me a minute.”
“Lehigh’s here already? Why didn’t you say so?” Maw appeared in the doorway, a blue checked apron tied in front over a plain yellow ankle-length house dress. “I didn’t make enough for three. Give me a few minutes and I’ll fix you a sandwich. Fried ham okay?”
“That’s okay, Maw. You don’t need to feed me.”
“Baloney. I’m your Maw. Maws feed their boys.” She tightened the knot in her apron strings and huffed back her shoulders. “Especially when I know you ain’t getting fed at home. Now, no argument. Lunch will be ready in five minutes.” She disappeared inside.
“So, you asking advice from me? On a woman?” Pappy coughed again and cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a first.”
Lehigh smiled, as much in relief that his father survived the coughing fit as in appreciation of his dry humor. “Not since high school. And you know how that came out.”
Pappy made a sour face. “You ended up marrying her anyway. Not my fault it took you twenty years.”
“Well, anyway. Same gal, different question.” He braced himself for another cutting insult, but Pappy surprised him.
“When you and your brother, God rest his soul, were still in diapers,” Pappy said, “I bought a hundred acres of forest land on credit. Your Maw just about killed me. And you know as well as I do, I don’t exaggerate when it comes to your Maw.”
“Did she actually load the gun and point it?” Lehigh asked with a horrified smile.
“Pulled the danged trigger. Near shot my foot off.” Pappy shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes. “To this day I’m grateful she’s a bad shot.”
Lehigh stared at him in wonder. He’d never seen an iota of evidence that his parents ever fought. Nor had Pappy ever admitted as much. That struck him like a hammer. Pappy was sharing. As in, personal stuff. As the daytime talk show hosts might say, they were having a “moment.” He ought not to blow it. He waited, but Pappy seemed done talking.
“So, how’d you get through it?” Lehigh asked after a while.
“I did the only thing that ever satisfies an angry woman,” Pappy said. “Just like you oughta.”
“Which is?”
“Just go tell her you’re a fool and you’re sorry,” Pappy said. “And make sure she ain’t armed.”
“I tried that,” Lehigh said. “It didn’t work. Anyway, I’m not trying to convince her to take me back...yet. I’m just trying to get her to talk to me.”
“So call her.” Pappy stood. “That all? I’m hungry.” He stepped toward the door. The moment, as far as Pappy was concerned, appeared to be over. But not for Lehigh. He stood and blocked Pappy’s path.
“No, that’s not all. Pappy, I put her old man in jail. Then I helped spring him when I probably shouldn’t have—the press is eating me alive for that. And now it looks like he, or someone working for him, may have tampered with the evidence. Maybe even her. If they did, well, they could be in a whole heap of trouble—and me, too.”
“So...?”
Lehigh locked eyes with his father. “I need to find a way to ask her what she knows...without her divorcing me.” His voice cracked, and any further words he had planned got caught in his throat.
Pappy rested a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye from his vantage point a few inches shorter. Still he seemed the bigger man, a giant talking to a little boy. “Son,” he said, “do you believe she did it?”
Lehigh thought a long moment. His head said maybe she might have, but...
“No, Pappy.” His voice sounded like sandpaper. For a moment, he wondered if Pappy heard him. He opened his mouth to repeat it.
“Then tell her that first,” Pappy said.
Lehigh absorbed the words, tried it out in his head. “I don’t think that’s enough.”
Pappy leaned closer, pulling Lehigh’s head down to his level. “If she loves you, it is.”
Lehigh inhaled, his eyes watering. Must be from the sting of Pappy’s sharp tobacco. Another breath shuddered out of him. “And if it ain’t?” he asked in a whisper.
“In that case,” Pappy said, “you’ve learned all you need to know.” He gripped Lehigh by both shoulders and looked at him a moment, his face resolute. “And if that’s the case, you can always come back here. And not just for lunch.”
Lehigh nodded. No words would form. He followed his father inside to the comforting aroma of home-cooked food.
***
LEHIGH PAUSED IN FRONT of the front door of Cascade Animal Clinic, drawing in a deep breath. The acrid smell of smoke pinched his sinuses, an all-too frequent occurrence lately with the dry lightning storms igniting the parched forests surrounding Mt. Hood County. Still, he took another deep breath. Better the smoke outside than the fire waiting within.
Finally he pulled open the door, and the air-conditioned interior chilled the sweat gathering on his scalp. A short, white-haired matron with black pince-nez glasses smiled at him from behind the Formica counter in reception. “Well, howdy, Sheriff!” said Anne-Marie, the clinic’s most faithful volunteer. “You bringing Lucky in for a visit today?”
Lehigh kicked himself for forgetting the obvious ploy. Diamond, too, needed a check-up. He improvised. “Well, I thought I’d see what your calendar looks like for bringing them both in soon,” he said. “I’m sure they’re due for some shots, or something.”
Anne-Marie clicked on her keyboard. “Well, let’s see...huh. Nope. They’re both up to date. I guess that’s the advantage of being married to the owner, huh?” She smiled, showing her perfect plastic teeth. Lehigh remembered her crooked smile of a few years back. He preferred her real teeth, but enjoyed Anne-Marie’s pride in her falsies even more.
“Huh. Well, what do you know. I guess I need to speak to that woman,” Lehigh said. “Is she in?”
“She’s with a patient,” Anne-Marie said. “I mean—well, you know what I mean.” She grinned again, and this time her plastic teeth clacked together. Lehigh cringed and wondered if the ivory version made as much noise as the cheap plastic ones. “She’s assisting Dr. Lewis with Mrs. Huckaby’s Bijon-Frisé. They should be out any minute.”
“Maybe I should come back later,” Lehigh said. Relief propelled him back to the door. He reached for the handle—
“Lehigh?” Stacy’s voice drifted in from down the hall. “Is that my husband out there, Anne-Marie?”
“It sure is, Mrs. Carter,” Anne-Marie said. Lehigh froze in mid-stride. Anne-Marie’s use of Stacy’s married name, rather than her professional one, and the emphasis she put on it, revealed just how much office gossip Stacy had to endure. Lehigh wasn’t the only one.
He turned, and Stacy appeared in the reception area behind the older woman, dressed in a white lab coat, her dark hair pulled tight behind her in a bun. She stopped in her tracks, and their eyes met. Hers seemed a tad bit misty. Or was that his?
“Hey, Stacy,” he said.
“Hello to you, too,” she said, her voice soft. “Would you like to come in? To my office, I mean.” She lifted the hinged counter to allow him through.
He took slow steps toward her, then slid past. The counter thumped back in place, and he felt her presence following him down the hallway. He knew the way, but he kept a slow pace, in no hurry to have this conversation. She slid around him as they reached her office and pushed open the door.
“Come in,” she said, holding it open for him. His chest tightened. He entered, turned—
And couldn’t breathe. Because his fierce, unpredictable, beautiful, crazy wife had him in a body-crushing hug and lip-lock, squeezing out of him every last drop of air.
“Thank you for coming,” she said after an eternity of kissing. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said. They held hands, a foot apart, looking at each other, neither, apparently, knowing what to say.
“So,” she said after a hundred years. “What brings you here today, besides the need to kiss me?”
He exhaled noisily, which surprised him. He didn’t know he had any air left in his lungs. “Can’t a guy just come visit his estranged wife at work because he misses her?”
Her smile faded at the word “estranged,” and he wanted to kick himself. She pulled back and looked down, off to the side, biting her lip. “Sure,” she said without enthusiasm. “Thanks.”
“Stacy, I—”
“No, you’re right.” She edged away and leaned back against her desk. “It’s just not like you.”
He sighed, nodded. “Well, maybe it should be.”
She cocked her head. “I wouldn’t argue with you on that.”
He surrendered an uneasy smile, remembering Pappy’s wisdom. “I also wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool.”
She smiled. “Say hi to Pappy for me. How’s Maw?”
“She’s good. She’d like to have us over for dinner sometime.”
Stacy’s smile faded. “Look, Lee, I appreciate and accept the apology, but we have a lot more work to do before I’m ready for anything like that.”
“Yeah. I know.” He tried to hold her gaze, but couldn’t, and stared at his shoes instead. Moments ticked by in silence.
“So, aside from an apology and a quick make-up kiss, there really isn’t any other reason for this visit?”
He drew in a breath and held it. Caught. Stupid, stupid. He forced a crooked smile. “Well, while I’m here, I thought maybe I could ask you about something. It’s about your father.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “Of course. Anything that will help him, I’m all over it.”
He winced. Dammit. Why did these conversations never go the way he imagined they could? “I’m not sure if it’ll help or hurt, but I need to ask anyway.”
She waited, lips tight.
“So,” he went on, “the D.A.’s office claims that someone visited the murder scene and disturbed some of the evidence. They’re claiming it points to a cover-up of some kind.”
“Any idea who might have done that?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, and his legs grew wobbly. He looked for a place to sit, then realized she’d then be staring down on top of him, and changed his mind. “They’re thinking maybe it was, you know, George.”
“He would never do such a thing. You know that.”
“I would sure like to believe that,” he said. “But can he prove it?”
“My father hasn’t left his property since his release,” she said. “I’m sure his security tapes will bear that out.”
“Excellent,” he said. “And I hate to ask this, but I gotta. Have you...?”
“Me?”
“You haven’t been—”
“Lehigh, don’t be ridiculous!” She stomped around her desk and sat down. He sat in the guest chair opposite her, relieved that he hadn’t fallen down. She clicked on her mouse and keyboard, then glanced up at him. “For God’s sake. You’re asking me whether I committed a felony. Seriously? I’m your wife, Lehigh. You know me. You shouldn’t have to ask.”
“It’s just that—”
“And my father wouldn’t do that either. He doesn’t have to, Lee. He’s innocent. He didn’t kill that man. And I can’t believe you’re still trying to prove otherwise.” She glared at him, nostrils flared, mouth set in a line. Her dark eyes smoldered. Her hands shook on the mouse and keyboard.
He measured his words and spoke in a dead-even tone. “I’m not trying to prove otherwise. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“The truth!” She rubbed her temples with her palms. “The truth, Lehigh? The truth is, you’re on a mission here to get back at my father for all the grief he’s caused you.”
“No, Stace—”
“And I admit, there’s a lot. He’s never treated you well. He hired thugs to silence you when you caught him taking funny money last year, and they burned down your house. His allies even tried to kill you. I get it, you have a gripe.” She stood and planted open hands onto the desk. “But listen to me, Lehigh. My father did not kill Everett Downey. Nor did my mother, or me, or anyone in the McBride family. Got it?”
Lehigh sighed again, staring at his hands. He understood her anger, but why couldn’t she understand the position he was in? He met her gaze. “Yeah. I hear ya. Thanks.” He stood and turned toward the door.
“Lehigh.”
He turned back to face her. She straightened. “You need to end this witch hunt against my family. Our family. You hear me? It needs to end now.”
“Again, I’m not—”
“If it doesn’t end,” she said, “mark my words. Something else will end. Us. Because I can’t stay married to a man who would do this to his own family.”
They stared at each other for several long moments. He reached for the door handle. “If that’s how you feel,” he said, “I guess there’s nothing left to say.” He opened the door—
Only then did he remember the rest of Pappy’s advice. Dammit. He then turned back to her again.
“If it makes any difference to you,” he said, “I agree with you. I don’t believe George killed Ev Downey.”
“Then why are you still pursuing this?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“Because, honey,” he said, “I still have to do my job, whether I believe the accusation or not. Even if it means investigating a possible cover-up, by him—or,” and he drew an unsteady breath, “by his family.”
“Get the hell out of here, Sheriff,” she said, and she sat back at her desk.
He left and closed the door behind him. Down the hall, the stout figure of Anne-Marie disappeared around the corner. She’d probably heard every damn word.
Chapter Twenty
“Are we ready?” Ray Ferguson asked when the young man pulled the make-up pad away from Ray’s face and inspected him for perfection. They’d taken twenty minutes longer making him pretty than he’d spend on camera. The price he paid for keeping the public informed.
“One more thing,” the make-up man said. He brushed a black crayon-type thing across Ray’s eyebrows, then smoothed them with his finger. “I think that’ll do it.” He dabbed a wet finger on a stray hair at Ferguson’s temple, then stood behind him so they could both inspect his work in the mirror.
“Who the heck is that guy?” Ferguson said with a grin. “That face looks younger than my son, and he’s a college freshman.”
“Eastern Oregon U, right?” the make-up man said. “I’m a Mountaineer myself. Class of ’14.” He ran his fingers through his own hair, a preppy do, short on the sides and thick up top. A pin on his lapel sported some Greek letters that Ferguson couldn’t quite make out. He rested his hands on the attorney’s shoulders, smiling. Almost flirting.
Raymond squirmed in the chair. Bad enough the guy touched him here, there, and everywhere. Now he knew where his kid went to college? “I think I’m ready,” he said.
“Okey-dokey,” the young man said. “I’ll walk you to the studio.”
“I know the way,” Ray said. “Been there many times.” He tossed off the plastic bib that protected his suit from errant flakes of make-up and straightened his tie, then strode down the hallway of the local TV station until he reached the door of Studio Two. The “on air” light remained unlit, so he pushed through the door.
“Right on time,” Bruce Bailey said, looking up from his notes. “We go on in fifteen. Take a look at these questions before we go on.”
“Already have,” Ferguson said. “Let’s chat.”
Ten minutes later, he sat on an uncomfortable stool next to Bailey in the well-lit recording studio surrounded by cameras. Music blared and a director counted them down. Bailey smiled into the little red light and prattled on for a while about how excited he was to have Ray on the program again, blah blah. The guy never shut up.
Finally, his cue. “What new developments can you share about the Everett Downey murder case?” Bailey said.
“Well, I can’t discuss the specifics of a matter in pending litigation,” Ferguson said, “and I’ll be the first to point out that whoever is leaking information on the case to the press is doing the public a great disservice—as well as committing a felony. We will find the source of this leak and we will prosecute, I promise you.”
“Understandable. But can you share with us the type of evidence you have, or what sort of case you intend to bring?” Bailey’s eyes widened, as if to beg, Give me something juicy, please!
“We have a very solid case against the accused,” Ferguson said. “Means, motive, and opportunity. Plus a significant body of physical evidence placing the defendant at the scene.”
“Such as DNA evidence?” Bailey asked.
Ferguson frowned. “I heard your report on that, and I have to say, that concerns me,” he said. More like alarms and terrifies, he added to himself. Exaggeration, if not pure fabrication, mixed with a whole lot of wishful thinking. Yet he couldn’t refute it on-air without doing even more damage to his case.
Bailey waited for his reply, and Raymond realized he’d just wasted several seconds of dead air time. “Information of that sort should not have been disclosed to the public,” he said. “It could do great harm to our case, as do the other leaks you noted in your opening remarks.”
“In light of these developments, Mr. Ferguson,” Bailey said, clearly enjoying this, “what can we do to prevent further leaks about pending cases like Everett Downey’s?”
“First off, let me say that the District Attorney’s office takes leaks very seriously,” Ray said. “I’m proud to say that not once has a leak ever been traced back to our team.”
“Very impressive,” Bailey said. “So, where are they coming from?”
The little red light to Ray’s left blinked a few times, his cue to turn to face the second camera. “As you all know, we’ve had a lot of change over at the sheriff’s department in recent months,” he said, keeping his voice somber. “With all the shifts in personnel, it’s understandably difficult to keep a tight wrap on everything going on. So we’re not blaming anyone, but it just stands to reason—”
“And those new personnel—that includes the man at the top, am I right?” Bailey asked with a grin. The grin meant the smug mongrel knew he was not on camera. “Sheriff Carter has been in office, what, two, three months?”
“I believe the sheriff is a good man,” Ray said the way he’d rehearsed it a dozen times earlier that day. “But he’s not a trained law enforcement officer. Nor has he run a large organization before. He faces a difficult situation.”
“Would you say he’s incompetent?” Bailey asked with a gleam in his eye. The smug grin had disappeared. The conceited charlatan wouldn’t miss a chance of being on camera for this.
“I wouldn’t use such harsh words,” Ferguson said. “As the Gospel commands us, ‘Judge not, and you will not be judged.’ What I would say is, there’s room for improvement, for greater professionalism, in the department, yes.”
“How much of this would you say is driven by Sheriff Carter being the accused’s son-in-law?” Bailey asked in his most serious tone. Not like a few minutes earlier, when he’d rehearsed the line off-stage, practically howling with delight. Damned muck-rakers.
“We can’t ignore that possibility,” Ferguson said, deadpan. Let the viewers draw their own conclusions.
“Has there been any issue of cooperation from the sheriff, or, shall we say, a lack thereof?” Bailey asked.
The light blinked again, this time to his right. Ray turned to face the new camera. “There have been issues,” he said. “I can’t say whether the sheriff intentionally withheld evidence or obstructed the investigation, but there have been moments when they could have been forthcoming.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. We need to take a quick break here.” He shifted to face the center camera. “Again, this is Deputy District Attorney Raymond Ferguson, who some say may be the next Oregon attorney-general. Might we discuss a bit of politics when we come back?”
“Well, I, uh, suppose,” Ferguson said. Acting humble was not his strong suit. Thankfully, the music filled the studio, and moments later, the lights dimmed.
“How’d I do?” Ray asked Bailey.
“Beautiful,” Bruce said with a grin. “You know the script for part two?”
“I do,” Ferguson said. “And I much appreciate it.”
“Thank me later,” Bailey said. “After your election to state attorney general next year, around the time you look around for a press secretary.”
The second segment of the interview went as rehearsed. Bailey asked him innocent-sounding questions about the “tough issues” that an attorney general would face, and Ray responded with the type of law-and-order replies his pollsters had told him would sell in Oregon. When the lights went down for the final time, Ferguson felt larger than life. Almost immortal.
Still, something bothered him. Back in the staging area, he turned to Bailey. “You know, it’s ironic,” Ray said. “You asking me about leaks.”
“How so?” Bruce picked lint off his suit.
“You broke the story,” Ray said. “Shouldn’t I be asking you who leaked it?”
Bailey’s expression darkened. “That’s not how the game is played, Mr. Ferguson,” he said. “Remember how this works? I need stories. You need air time. We play together by the rules, and everybody wins.”
Ferguson stepped back, hands raised. “Understood. I apologize.”
Bailey paused a moment, then put on his made-for-TV smile. “No apology necessary. Call it a learning opportunity. And, Mr. Ferguson? Thank you for not asking that question on the air.”
Bailey strode out, and Ferguson wiped his brow with his sleeve. Too late, he remembered. He checked his arm.
Covered in that stupid make-up.
***
“DEPUTY?” JIM WADSWORTH waved at Donnell Winthrop from his office doorway, several doors down from the break room where the young deputy emerged with a fresh cup off coffee. “Can I see you for a moment, please?”
“Sure thing,” Donnell said with a grin. He sipped his coffee, then proceeded to Wadsworth’s office at a brisk pace. “What’s up, boss?”
“Close the door, please,” Wadsworth said. “I have some, er, sensitive information to share with you.”
“Whoa,” Winthrop said. “Secret stuff? Cool.” He shut the door and slid his long, lanky body into the guest chair. He leaned forward, holding his paper coffee cup in his fingertips by the top and bottom rims. He whispered, “Is it about the murder case?”
“Yes,” Wadsworth said in a low voice. “I’ve gotten a new lead I want you to check out. Normally, as your partner, I’d do it with you, but I’m buried in paperwork. Are you up for it?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Winthrop said. “I got this. What is it? A new witness to interview? A stake-out? I’m good at stake-outs, man. I can blend right in where nobody can see me. Especially at night,” he said with a big laugh. “One time in college, I—”
“It’s not a stakeout,” Wadsworth said. “I need you to do some digging for me.”
“Digging?” Winthrop said, his smile fading. “Like, with a shovel, in the dirt, and all?” He removed the red bandana from his scalp and wiped sweat off his forehead.
“No, no. Research, I mean. Checking some records. Can you do that?”
“Oh, that type of digging. Sure, sure. I’m great at that. What ya need? Fingerprints, mug shots—”
“This.” Wadsworth slid a manila folder across his desk to Donnell.
Donnell scanned the bogus paperwork on top of the file. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“It’s a record of a business transaction,” Wadsworth said. “By Everett Downey.”
“Oh, yeah, I can see that.” Winthrop grinned again. “Obviously. What I meant is, how is it relevant to the case?”
“I want you to trace it,” Wadsworth said. “See who it leads back to. It might point us to his killer.”
“Whoa, like a smoking gun type of thing?” Winthrop said. “Man, that’s cool. Sure, I’ll get right on it.” He stood and replaced the bandana over his short black hair.
Wadsworth stopped him with a raised hand. “Don’t share this information with anyone but me,” he said. “Not Ruby, not the sheriff, no one. Got that? This is super-sensitive. Just you and me, okay?”
“You got it,” Donnell said. “My lips are sealed. And I think I know right where to start.”
“Good man,” Wadsworth said.
Donnell downed his coffee and strode out.
The trap was set.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun dipped low on the horizon. Soft rays filtered through the columns of timber and occasional tufts of underbrush, giving Lehigh just enough light to drive the stakes securing his two-man tent to the hard-packed soil. Perched atop an embankment overlooking a babbling brook bisecting his property, his new temporary lodgings provided a clear view of what would someday, he hoped, become the construction site for his new home.
If the contractor ever showed, that is. They’d provided nothing but excuses and broken promises for weeks now, and he’d run out of patience and hope.
But at least it gave him a quiet place to camp, and think, while he waited for Stacy to cool off. He hoped that would happen soon. He missed her, he missed sleeping in a warm bed, and he missed home-cooked meals. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d still not done anything about dinner.
He straightened and tossed another log onto his campfire, and that cued his best remaining friends on the planet all the excuse they needed to jump up and lick his hands and face. “Easy, Lucky! Diamond, get down, boy!” The dogs jumped up and down, spinning in circles, clearly anticipating treats and attention. He laughed. They knew him too well. He found chunks of dog biscuit in his shirt pocket and tossed them to the happy pups.
“How do you like our new home, dogs?” he said, watching them chew. Lucky finished first and found a stick for him to throw. He laughed again and tossed it into the brook. Both dogs tore through the trees, jumping into the stream and reaching the stick at the same time. They returned together, each with their teeth buried deep into opposite ends of the stick, walking at an angle toward him with playful, noisy growls.
He tossed the stick a few more times, his mind drifting to the Downey case. The “DNA evidence” cited on the news story still bugged him—mostly because he hadn’t seen any, neither from Ferguson’s reports or his own team’s. Aside from the mysterious cuff link, the other tiny bits of physical evidence found at the scene—some fiber strands caught in the underbrush—couldn’t be matched to anything in George’s wardrobe. In fact, the forensics team had concluded that the fibers probably came from clothing worn by the investigation team—the only “contamination” of the scene documented anywhere. The footprint wasn’t definitive enough, either. Really, right now, they had nothing solid on anyone.
The dogs returned, in a growling tug-of-war over the stick, which they each held in their mouths. He laughed. “One more, then I gotta get dinner,” he said. He reached for the stick, but before he could grab it from them, the dogs erupted into an angry torrent of barking, dashing off at top speed into the woods again. In a moment he spied the object of their attention: a fat squirrel, chewing on a chestnut, had strayed too far from the safety of the nearest tree. Too late, the rodent dropped the nut and made a mad dash for safety, but the dogs were too fast. Before the squirrel could reach the first branch, Lucky leaped into the air, snapping jaws and swinging paws like a cartoon animal. Through sheer determination and luck, she knocked the poor critter to the ground. The rodent rolled to his feet, but stayed put a moment, stunned by the attack. Diamond, just a few steps away, had the squirrel in his mouth a moment later, swinging him side to side, the smaller animal’s long tail whipping the air in frightened fury.
In less than a few seconds, the squirrel lay still on the ground. Diamond and Lucky stood over the inert body, pawing at it and whimpering.
Lehigh forced himself to move. He shooed the dogs away from the poor little animal, but it was too late to save it.
Lucky and Diamond sat nearby, their heads bowed. Whimpers escaped them every few moments. Neither would look at Lehigh. Instead they focused on the animal at Lehigh’s feet.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Lehigh said. The dogs lay down, still whimpering. Lucky barked once, then lowered her head again.
“What do you want? No, I ain’t gonna throw it,” Lehigh said. “It ain’t a toy. Even if it were, you already broke it.”
Lucky raised herself to a sitting position. Barked again. Diamond followed suit, a dumb puppy mimicking his older mentor’s example.
“Well,” Lehigh said, picking up the dead squirrel, “I guess that solves the question of what we’re having for dinner.”
The dogs lay down, disappointment covering their faces like a blanket.
***
OF ALL OF THE PUBLIC buildings in Mt. Hood County, Lehigh hated the Mt. Hood County Commissioners office and meeting hall the most. Not because of its architecture, which was among the most elegant in the entire region, or because of any problems with the structure. It was the occupants.
He loathed them. Particularly, Mt. Hood County Commission Chair Elliott McBride Jackson.
“If you don’t know where the leaks are coming from,” Jackson raged from his Chair-upon-high, “then how can you be sure they’re not coming from your ranks?” Jackson turned his body from side to side, as if appealing to a shared sense of outrage among his colleagues on the Commission. Desmond Mitchell, seated at the far end to the Chair’s right, held up a feeble hand, the signal for requesting the floor. Jackson ignored it.
“I am doing everything I can to discover the source of the leaks,” Lehigh said. “If they are coming from my department, I’ll know soon. But I suspect—”
“Everything?” Jackson said, far too loud. His booming voice echoed off the walls, unmuffled by the presence of no more than a handful of spectators, most of them county staff, dotting the seats in the gallery. “What specific steps have you taken to root out the malcontents who would risk sabotaging a murder investigation by leaking sensitive information to the press?”
“We’re taking steps,” Lehigh said. He knew his evasion wouldn’t satisfy the Chairman, but he didn’t want to let on that he’d delegated the task to Wadsworth—in effect, deliberately keeping himself in the dark. “I’m not at liberty to disclose—”
“Not at liberty? Why not? You are in charge, aren’t you?” Jackson again exchanged glances with fellow commissioners, and again ignored Mitchell’s request for time.
“Of course,” Lehigh said. “But—”
“Then enlighten me,” Jackson said in triumph.
“I’m afraid that could compromise the investigation,” Lehigh said.
“Don’t give me these flimsy excuses,” Jackson said. “In a minute, Desmond!” He turned and glared at his colleague, huffing and puffing loud enough for the spectators in the back row to hear. “I have the floor, and I will let you know when I am willing to yield.” He waited for Desmond to lower his hand and look away, then turned his attention back to Lehigh. “We can’t let this continue, Sheriff. It’s intolerable!”
Lehigh’s already short supply of patience grew dangerously low. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I agree, Mr. Chairman. We can’t let your cousin be tried in the press.”
At the mention of the word “cousin,” Jackson’s face flushed beet red, and for a moment he remained speechless.
Commissioner Mitchell seized the moment. “If I could ask the chairman’s indulgence,” he said in his laconic vocal cadence, “could someone, maybe staff, share with us what information has been inappropriately leaked?”
“No, we cannot!” Jackson fumed in his chair, practically bouncing in his seat. “It’s bad enough that it’s all over the press. Discussing it here in a public meeting would only make things worse!”
“Begging the chairman’s pardon,” Mitchell said with a drawl, “if it’s already public knowledge, how would—”
“It just is, that’s all,” Jackson said, a bit deflated.
“I’m just a little bit confused,” Mitchell said. “How’s the sheriff supposed to know what leaks to track down if we don’t tell him which ones are of concern to us?”
Jackson spun in his chair to face his colleague again. Veins pulsed on the side of his skull. Lehigh wondered if he might have an aneurysm on the spot. “Just what are you trying to prove here, Desmond?” Jackson said. “Are you on the side of the leakers, or on the side of prudent, professional law enforcement?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side.” Mitchell winked at Lehigh. “Just trying to get at the facts.”
Lehigh smirked. He had few moments of joy when testifying before the commission, and fewer still when a commissioner went to bat for him against the chair. He’d have to remember to send Mitchell a nice bottle of Oregon pinot noir for Christmas.
“Okay, you want facts? Here’s the facts behind the leaks,” Jackson said, scanning the dais to meet each commissioner’s gaze in turn. “The defendant’s attorney has been crowing in the press about contaminated evidence. How would they know about contaminated evidence unless someone in our sheriff’s department told them? Huh?”
“Could any of the leaks have come from the prosecutor’s office?” Mitchell asked, facing Lehigh.
“Well, that’s always a possibility,” Lehigh said. More than a possibility, he wanted to say. A damned certainty.
“And there’s tire track impressions that, to my understanding, has led the defense to issue subpoenas to every tire and car salesman in the county, wanting detailed, confidential sales information, at great cost,” Jackson went on. “And witness testimony that puts the defendant in the area at the time of the murder—” He stopped, as if remembering something. “Well, never mind that, but those other things—”
“What’s that about a witness?” Lehigh asked, but his question got lost in the burst of voices surrounding the Chair, as every commissioner on the dais suddenly had something to say about this revelation.
“They saw him?” one asked. “Who saw him?” asked another. “Did he have the gun with him?” “Was he covered in blood?”
The banging gavel brought the cacophony to a halt. Jackson stood, towering over his colleagues. “I can see that we’ve lost all sense of order and propriety here.” He glared at each elected official in turn. “Clearly we won’t be getting anything else done here today. Sheriff, I expect you back here in a week with a detailed report on the steps you’re taking to put a stop to these leaks. Understood? Good. Now. The commission is in recess for ten minutes. I gotta go to the men’s room.” Jackson rushed past his colleagues through a side door heading to their offices.
“A witness, huh?” Lehigh mumbled. “What else do I not know about this case?”
***
WADSWORTH GREETED LEHIGH at the door to his office when he returned from the Commission meeting, a sour expression on his face. “Got a minute?” he asked.
Lehigh noticed the big man’s concerned expression and waved him into his office. “What’s up?”
Wadsworth furrowed his brow. “Where’s all your stuff?”
Lehigh grinned. “I decided you were right. I can’t risk any more negative press, so before Bruce Bailey could do another exposé on how I’m getting a free place to live on the county’s dime, I moved everything back to my place.”
“You’re living in your house? I thought it burned down.”
Lehigh shook his head. “Nope. Camping. Right on the hill above my house.” He took a deep, satisfied breath.
“That sucks.”
Lehigh laughed. “No way. I love it. I haven’t slept this good in months. So what’s on your mind?”
Wadsworth sighed and sat down. “Have you heard about the Everett Downey real estate scandal?”
“Another one?” Lehigh said. He searched his memory. “No, but I haven’t exactly been glued to the TV. What happened?”
“Nothing,” Wadsworth said. “That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Wadsworth grimaced. “I set up our man with some bait. He didn’t bite.”
Lehigh blinked. Finally he remembered their plan to uncover the mole. “Winthrop, or Wills?”
“Donnell. I set him on a research task. He reported back to me, as I instructed. No word to anyone else.” Wadsworth shook his head in disgust.
Lehigh spun around once in his chair. “That’s good, right?”
“Well, it’s good for Donnell,” he said. “Unless he was on to me. But I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Good, he’s clean. So, on to the next one?”
“I guess so,” Wadsworth said. Silence hung in the air a few seconds.
“It sucks, trying to trap people,” Lehigh said.
“Big time.”
“Do we have another option?”
Wadsworth shrugged. “We could just wait and see.”
Lehigh considered it. “I’m getting killed by Jackson, and I’m pretty sure Ferguson is feeding him his bait. Waiting’s not a good option. We’ve got to figure this out.”
Wadsworth nodded, his expression glum. “Okay.” He stood. “But if it isn’t Wills—”
Lehigh snorted. “Then it’s one of our most trusted people...and I have much bigger problems.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The drive up Brady Mountain Road held no appeal for Lehigh that evening, partly due to the fact that he had yet to stock up on food, and the prospect of repeating his dinner of squirrel stew held no appeal. He’d had his fill of Shirley’s Cafe for lunch on an almost daily basis, and hated the chains along the highway. That didn’t leave him much to choose from.
His phone rang as he considered his options, reverberating over the speakers the County had installed along with some fancy hands-free gizmo that gave him directions, answered phone calls, and showed him images of whatever was behind him when he backed up. He read the Caller ID on the dashboard screen: Julia’s cell phone.
“Yeah, Julia? You working late?”
“I’m on my way home, but I just heard something I thought I should tell you. Do you know that Chinese restaurant near the motel?”
“Yang’s? You bet.” Chinese sounded good, actually. Much better than squirrel. “Something happening there? A fight or something?”
“Not a fight, Sheriff. But...let’s just say, you should stop in and see who’s in there...together.”
“Any clues?” He spotted the restaurant’s neon sign ahead in the distance.
“Let’s just say, it might explain a few things. Gotta go, I’m driving.” She hung up before he could press her any further.
He pulled into the lot and parked near the exit, facing out, in case he needed to engage in hot pursuit. With the night cooling down, he left the windows rolled down and gave the dogs a couple of biscuits to tide them over, then headed toward the restaurant’s front door. Before he got within 50 feet of the door, a couple exited the restaurant, arm in arm. They looked familiar. No surprise there—everyone knew everyone in Clarkesville—but the combination of this particular man and the woman did surprise him. In a heartbeat he knew this was the couple Julia had called him about.
He ducked between a couple of SUVs in the parking lot to get out of their plain line of sight and peeked through the windows of one to get another look at them.
The man, round in shape, wore a beige deputy’s uniform. Lehigh recognized him in an instant: Bobby Wills. Not someone he wanted to bump into on the street at the moment.
But the identity of the woman on his arm made the trip worthwhile. Average height, slender to the point of stick-thin with flowing dark hair, people often mistook her for her cousin—a mistake that would infuriate both women.
Teresa McBride, the secretary of County Commission Chair Elliott Jackson. Stacy’s much-younger cousin.
Lehigh ducked down to avoid being spotted but kept them in view. The couple walked closer, arms wrapped around each other’s waist, engaged in conversation in low voices, punctuated by giggles. Bobby pulled her close, kissed her, and said something in her ear that made her giggle louder and swat him. “You’re so bad,” she said, but her tone of voice said otherwise.
“I’m so bad,” he said. “And so, so good.”
“Stop!” She giggled again. “At least wait until we get home.” They walked further, right past a crouching Lehigh, their bodies close together top to bottom. “Anyway,” she said, “I need you to tell me that thing again. Before I forget.”
“Hush!” Bobby glanced around, but apparently didn’t spot Lehigh. “People might hear you.”
“No one’s here,” she said. “Come on, just tell me. So I can get my mind off of it. And onto you.” She giggled again and kissed him. He giggled, too, and whispered into her ear.
“What was that?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand,” Bobby said. “Just remember. Okay? Now tell me. Whisper.” He held his ear close to her mouth. A moment later he nodded. “Good. Perfect. Just like that, okay?”
“I will,” she said. “Now take me home already, will you?”
They moved out of earshot, then got into a brown Chrysler four-door sedan the size of a small yacht. Typical McBride vehicle. Bobby got in the passenger side, and Teresa got in behind the wheel. Moments later they exited to the main drag toward downtown.
Lehigh waited until they left to stand. What he’d just seen confirmed it: Bobby was the mole. He made a mental note to thank Julia and placed a quick call to Wadsworth.
***
“WE NEED TO PROVE IT,” Wadsworth said when they met in Lehigh’s office the next day. “Conclusively.”
“Agreed,” Lehigh said. “And soon. What’s the plan?”
“Same as before. We plant information that only he knows—something juicy, something he can’t resist—and let him hang himself.”
“Like?”
Wadsworth smiled. “What does Jackson care most about in the whole world?”
Lehigh drummed his fingers on the desk. “Besides himself, you mean? The leak, I guess.”
“Exactly,” Wadsworth said. “We tell him that we’ve found the source. But we don’t say who. Then we wait for Jackson to pounce, and boom, they’re caught.”
Lehigh smiled. “You’re devious,” he said.
“That’s a good thing, right?” Wadsworth said, in a mock-hurt tone.
“That’s a very good thing,” Lehigh said.
***
“SHERIFF?” JULIA POKED her head in Lehigh’s office door. “There’s some gentlemen here to see you from the district attorney’s office.”
Lehigh shook his head. “I believe you misspoke, Julia,” he said. “There are no gentlemen in the D.A.’s office.”
Her eyes widened, and shadows filled the space behind her. Moments later, Ray Ferguson burst past her into the room, flanked by his usual cadre of bland, short-haired men in dark suits.
“You’re going to fry for this, Carter!” Ferguson stabbed a long finger in the air at him. “Fry, I tell you!”
“Good morning to you too, Ray.” Lehigh closed the files he’d been working on and darkened his computer screen. “Please, come in.”
His sarcasm appeared lost on Ferguson, who leaned over Lehigh’s desk, finger still stabbing the air. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Sheriff. Aiding and abetting a fugitive is a felony offense, and you’re going down for it if it’s the last thing I do!” His face flushed red, and his eyes appeared ready to pop out of his head. Behind him, his suited lackeys slid into chairs, leaving one in the center for The Reverend.
“What fugitive? What the heck are you jabbering on about? Julia!” Lehigh craned his neck around Ferguson’s tall frame but couldn’t see if his secretary had remained in the doorway. His phone rang a moment later, ringing once for an inside line, and he gestured to Ferguson. “’Scuse me a sec.”
“Don’t you take that—” Ferguson paused and took a deep breath.. Lehigh pointed to a chair and turned away from him.
“Sheriff,” said the voice of Julia on the phone, “Portland federal marshals are on the line. They say it’s urgent. It’s the chief himself, all the way from Portland!”
“Oh, no,” Lehigh said, a sense of foreboding washing over him like a wet mattress. “Put him on.”
“This is hardly the time for a phone call!” Ferguson reached out to grab the receiver from Lehigh’s ear. “We have urgent business to discuss here!”
“You either need to shut up,” Lehigh said, “or get the hell out of my—Oh, hello, Chief. What can I do for you today?”
“We have a man here in custody in Multnomah County,” said the marshal in his ear, “from your part of the world. According to our information, the man is under travel restrictions by court order. He was attempting to flee the state—had a flight booked to Washington, D.C. We can hold him a day or so, but then we’ll need to arrange his transfer to you.”
Pounding pain seared from one side of Lehigh’s head to the other. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Please.
He hated to ask the next question, as he already knew the answer—as did, he suspected, Assistant District Attorney Ray Ferguson. But he had to hear it to confirm his worst fears.
“What’s the name of this fella you apprehended at the airport?” Lehigh asked, staring at Ferguson. Surprise and recognition lit up in Ferguson’s eyes, and a cruel smile crossed his lips.
“According to his ID,” the marshal said, “the man’s name is George Lindsey McBride. You know him?”
Lehigh dropped his face into his hands. “Know him?” he said with a sigh. “I guess you could say that.”
***
“WELL, AT LEAST YOU convinced Ferguson that it wasn’t your doing,” Wadsworth said once the D.A.’s pinstripe-suited army left Lehigh’s office. “What the heck got into your father-in-law, anyway? Running off to the east coast for a ‘fundraiser’ at a time like this? What was he thinking?”
“If I only knew what made that man tick,” Lehigh said, slouching in his chair, “my life would be a lot simpler pretty much all the time.”
“Folks like him just think they can live by different rules, I guess,” Wadsworth said.
Lehigh scoffed. “Old George has spent most of his life making up the rules. I guess he thinks he can just make up new rules now.”
“Well, speaking of breaking the rules,” Wadsworth said, “I’ve seeded our boy with some ‘top secret’ information. We’ll see how soon it hits the light of day.”
Lehigh nodded. So far as he could tell, Bobby Wills hadn’t caught on to the fact that they suspected him of the leaks. “What kind of info did you lay on him? Nothing too prejudicial, I hope.”
Wadsworth shook his head. “He ‘found’ a copy of a sales receipt to an ammo store in Twin Falls with George’s name on it,” Wadsworth said. “A store that doesn’t exist, in a file labeled ‘Top Secret—Sheriff’s Eyes Only.’ My guess is he’ll leak it first, ask questions later.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Lehigh said. “Seems like a lot of people would be inclined to believe a story like that—and it might be awfully hard to convince them otherwise.”
“Nah,” Wadsworth said. “I’ve got the whole thing documented in a sealed file. Ruby witnessed it for me, and I trust her implicitly.”
“She knows?”
Wadsworth shrugged. “I felt I had to bring her in on it. He does report to her, after all.”
“Hmph. Okay.” Lehigh sat up straighter in his seat, but an unsettling suspicion nagged at the back of his mind. He couldn’t put a finger on what bothered him, exactly, so he shook it off. “Okay. So now we need to arrange a transport for him. It’d look bad if I go, so how would you feel about a day trip to Portland?”
Wadsworth’s face curled into an ugly frown. “I was afraid you’d lay that one on me. Okay, I’ll take Donnell with me.” He stood, and gave Lehigh a long look. “You gonna be okay?”
Before Lehigh could answer, his phone rang. “Depends,” Lehigh said with a wry grin, “on who this is.”
Wadsworth shuffled to the door. “Better you than me, my friend.”
Lehigh let him exit before answering the phone. “It’s your wife,” Julia said. “Shall I take a message, or—”
“No, patch her through.”
Moments later, Stacy’s voice greeted him. “What’s this I hear about my father being arrested in Portland?” she said without preamble.
“He tried leaving the state, apparently,” Lehigh said, “despite being under court order not to leave the county.”
“He told me that you said he was free to go wherever he wanted,” Stacy said.
“Never happened,” Lehigh said.
“Something here doesn’t add up,” Stacy said. “My father wouldn’t just lie about this.”
Lehigh stared at the phone in disbelief, then returned it to his ear. “You’re saying your father, a life-long politician with ambitions to higher office, who’s been accused of murder one, wouldn’t lie? I’d put him at the top of the list of people with motive to lie.”
Stacy’s voice took on a more conspiratorial tone. “This looks like a setup to me.” She paused. “Why would he say that you told him he could leave?”
“I don’t know, Stacy.”
“I don’t know either, Lehigh.” She paused, and her voice took on a worried tone. “It just seems that every time I turn around, it looks like you’re somehow involved in something that hurts my father and my family.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.”
“The only thing that I know is what I see,” she said in an even tone. “It’s like, how did you put it with regard to the evidence against him? ‘It looks bad.’ Well, it looks bad for you, from where I sit.”
Lehigh’s heart sank, and he let out a deep sigh. “I hear what you’re saying. But things are not what they seem. Okay?”
The line remained silent a long time. Finally Stacy broke the silence. “If my father goes to prison because of you,” she said in a voice that sounded near tears, “I will never be able to forgive you.”
The line went dead, much like the feeling creeping into Lehigh’s heart.
