Another Man's Ground--A Mystery, page 6
“I’m going to bed.”
CHAPTER
8
Sam and Sheila huddled together at the computer monitor on her desk, pointing and arguing. They apparently had differing opinions regarding which areas needed to be searched, and the satellite photos weren’t helping any.
“We’re going to need to look at this stretch of creek that’s upstream from Kinney and Miles,” Sam said, jabbing at the screen.
“What about over here?” Sheila pointed at a different section of the screen. “Screw it. Let’s just do them both. That way the whole area’s covered.”
Sam nodded. “So we’re looking for, what—the illegals, and also evidence relating to the death and possible murder of the John Doe. We’re going to—”
Sheila chuckled. “Honey, I got a feeling we aren’t looking for the illegals.”
“Why not? They’ve got to be in those woods somewhere.”
“Not necessarily,” said Hank.
They swung toward the open doorway, where he was leaning against the jamb.
“You haven’t seen a real disappearing act until you’ve seen someone who knows it’s the only way he’ll get to stay in this country,” he said. “They’re long gone. They’ve caught rides somehow, or hiked the miles overland into town, or if they have the skills, they’re hunkered down somewhere in the woods where we’ll never find them.”
Sam looked skeptical.
“Plus,” Hank continued, “our job as local law enforcement is to investigate a suspicious death. Not to chase a bunch of immigrants around the woods.”
Sheila shot Sam an I-told-you-so look. He retaliated by leaving her to finish the search warrant paperwork by herself. Hank smiled as she glared at Sam’s retreating back. Then he explained how he wanted the paperwork worded—very broadly, so they’d have authority to look for anything in that stretch of forest that might possibly perhaps be evidence that could maybe somehow pertain to the body in the crevice. Sheila scowled at him.
“That’s a lot easier for you to say than for me to do,” she said. “You can’t use the word ‘maybe’ in a search warrant application.”
“True,” he said. “But I have full faith in you to figure it out.”
More scowling, and some muttering about stupid stripped trees. Hank suppressed a grin. No point getting her more riled up. He turned to leave.
“You going to check on the Mexican kid?” she asked. “You better make sure he gets a good breakfast in that holding cell.”
Hank shook his head. “Nah, he’s not in holding. He’s staying somewhere. Safe and warm and not a jail. He’ll be fine there for a few days.”
Sheila nodded and then did a double take. “Dear God. You didn’t take him home with you, did you? With the kids there? Maggie’ll kill you.”
Hank burst out laughing. “What, now you think I’m an idiot? Of course not. I know Maggie would kill me—justifiably—if I brought a stranger home in the middle of the night.” He stood up. “But there are places that specialize in lost travelers. He’s doing fine.”
* * *
Hank set down his coffee cup and smiled at the man across from him. Tony always made a great brew. He was a broad-chested man with thick dark hair cut close to his head who at the moment was dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. Hank never got used to seeing him without his collar.
“As you can see, he is much improved,” Tony said. The pájaro was in the next room, curled up in a blanket on the couch and listening to a Latin-music radio station while he ate a bowl of soup.
“Thank you for taking him in, especially so late at night.”
“It is my pleasure. He is welcome here for as long as he wants.”
“About that,” Hank said, “I need you to make sure he doesn’t leave. He’s a witness, and I can’t have him disappearing back into the underground.”
“I am not a prison, Hank.”
“I know, I know. But he didn’t do anything wrong, and I’d hate to have to put him in a real prison just to keep him from running.”
Tony smiled. “You are starting to sound like a politician, my friend.” He continued as Hank groaned. “How is that going, by the way?”
Hank slouched in his chair and swigged his coffee.
“You know, the religious vote in this part of the state can be very important,” Tony said. He looked shrewdly at Hank. “It might help for you to be seen at church.”
Hank looked sheepish for a second, then countered with his own sly grin. “Who’s the politician now, Padre?”
Tony wagged his finger at him. “Oh, no. If I were a politician, I’d tell you to go to a Baptist church. Much bigger, many more votes.”
Hank laughed so hard he had to set down his coffee mug. “That’s the best joke I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Oh, no,” Tony said again. “I mean it. You need to think seriously. At least go to your father-in-law’s Presbyterian church once in a while. Go everywhere. I’d rather have you go to Protestant churches and get elected, than come just here and not be,” he said. “I have to live in this county, too.”
Hank stared at him in surprise.
“Hey,” Tony said, “it’s the age of practicalities. Who am I to judge?”
Hank grinned. “What about my immortal soul?”
Tony looked over at the teen, who was now delightedly playing with the priest’s cat. “I’ll have a word with the boss. I think you’ll be okay.”
* * *
There were three increasingly annoyed voice mails from Darcy on his phone. He sighed and hit the call-back button.
“Where have you been?”
“Fighting crime.” He really just couldn’t help himself.
She gave an exasperated snort. “You are supposed to be at PFI here in Springfield with your wife to look at cowboy hats. I am currently standing in the hat department. By. My. Self.”
Oops. He really needed to start looking at his calendar every morning. At least Maggie had forgotten, too.
“Oh, and look, here’s your lovely wife now.”
Great.
He heard Darcy greet Maggie, and then a muffled conversation ensued that Hank prayed did not involve them deciding to pick a hat without him. He waited for Darcy to get back on the line, and his gaze landed on the Daily What’s-It newspaper box on the sidewalk down the street from the church.
“So,” Darcy said, “we’ve decided—”
“I thought you’d be interested to know,” Hank interrupted, “that I was doing an interview. A media interview.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Really?” she finally said. “What—”
“So I apologize,” Hank interrupted again. “I didn’t mean to stand you up, but I thought it was really important to be quoted and I didn’t want to put him off, because you’ve said that it’s important to be accessible, and he’s got a deadline, and—”
Darcy gave that delighted little trill he was coming to recognize meant he’d done something right. “Well, that is just wonderful. Superb. Was it the Post-Dispatch? The Star? I’m so pleased. You have been listening. I’ll need to log this in the media-coverage folder. Of course we can reschedule the hat shopping. You have prioritized well, Hank.”
Hank rolled his eyes and then quickly got off the phone before Darcy realized he hadn’t told her anything solid about the interview. Then he immediately started scrolling through his contacts for the kid at the Daily What’s-It. It took him a minute to remember that he never called from his cell phone in case the kid had caller ID at the local newspaper office. Cardinal cop rule: never give out your cell number. But dire circumstances warranted dire actions. He bought a copy of the paper, dug through it to find the newsroom phone number, and dialed.
“Branson Daily Herald, this is Jadhur.”
Hank identified himself in entirely too jolly a manner, silently cursed himself for it, and then forced himself to take a deep breath. He was helped out by Jadhur, who was clearly stunned to get an unsolicited call from the sheriff.
“Um, how are you, uh, Sheriff? It’s, uh, nice to hear … um, can I help you?”
He should have spent two minutes planning what he wanted to talk about before he called, Hank thought. It was going to have to be the only thing that had happened lately.
“I wanted to clear up a few things about that emergency call yesterday out in the northwest section of the county. While we did need a large number of personnel, no deputies were injured. We did recover one unidentified deceased person.”
He heard Jadhur typing away on the other end of the line. Then silence. Jadhur’s brain was now working as fast as his.
“I appreciate that,” Jadhur said. “I would have hated to get that incorrect. So … how about we go over a few more details? Just so, you know, I get everything right.”
Hank consoled himself. Jadhur certainly would have found out about the body during one of his regular calls to the pathologist to check on recent local deaths. He wasn’t really leaking anything. Plus, wasn’t it a leak only if you weren’t supposed to give out the information? He was the sheriff. He could give out any information he wanted. He didn’t need anyone’s permission. Therefore, no leak. And no way Darcy would find out that the interview had happened in not exactly the order he’d told her it had.
So he confirmed that a body had been found in an isolated stretch of woods in the northwestern part of the county by a member of a work crew. He left out the undocumented Mexicans, the slippery elms, and especially Jasper Kinney. This was supposed to benefit him, not stir up sentiment against him. Good grief, maybe Darcy was getting through to him after all.
CHAPTER
9
The good Dr. Whittaker was taking his sweet time. It had been two days, with no word yet on a cause of death. And certainly no ID.
Hank straightened his tie and made sure he’d pinned the badge on firmly. Instead of searching for evidence in the woods with his deputies, he was going to a Rotary Club luncheon. Dry chicken, limp salad, too many handshakes, not enough sincerity.
“Don’t forget your speech.” Maggie turned him away from the mirror and gave him a kiss. “You’re going to do fine.” She re-straightened his tie. “Is your speech in your pocket?”
“Yes.” It came out as a growl, not a word.
She grinned. “Don’t be a baby. This is part of the deal. It’s called campaigning. It’s only for two hours. Even you can be charming and sociable for that long.”
Doubtful.
She gave him that raised-eyebrow look that meant she knew exactly what he was thinking, then turned him around and steered him toward the front door.
“Let’s go, Sheriff. You can sulk later.”
* * *
Maggie worked the room like she was running for Congress. Of course, she knew everybody already—she’d even gone to school with half these people’s kids. But as he stood near the windows clutching a Diet Pepsi, he had to admit that wasn’t the only reason. She was warm and funny and kind and brilliant, and beautiful in her light green spring dress with her long brown hair down around her shoulders.
And he was a moron. Hiding in the corner behind a glass of soda, when all he had to do was follow her. He pushed off from the wall and joined her as she talked to an old man in a blue cardigan that had to have been knitted by the woman across the room with a scarf the same color draped over her shoulders.
“Hello,” he wheezed. “Margaret here was just telling me that you have many years of experience from up in Kansas City.”
“Yes, sir,” Hank said. “I was a member of the police department before we moved down here to Branson.”
“I’d imagine our little town is a bit boring for you.” He paused to wheeze again. “All that exciting, big-city crime up there.”
“Oh, no, sir. Not at all. Community policing has always been my passion. I feel it’s much better for me to get to know the people I serve. After all, we’re neighbors.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Darcy listening as she adjusted a flower centerpiece at a nearby table. She shot him a delighted glance before heading off to check the seating arrangements. Maggie, on the other hand, gaped at him. He’d kind of surprised himself, too, to be honest.
Finally, Wheezer tottered over to his scarved companion. Hank hoped the old guy wouldn’t die before the election. He turned around and stumbled into—
“Oh, hey, Lovinia.”
A short, slightly plump woman with gray hair and bright purple glasses stood in front of him.
“Sheriff,” she said with a smile. “How are you holding up? I don’t imagine campaigning is really your thing, is it?”
“Not really. I’d much rather be seeing you out at a crime scene.” He stopped. “That wasn’t what I … I didn’t mean…”
Lovinia burst out laughing. “I know what you meant. And me, too. I’d much rather be out at something exciting than about to listen to some boring campaign speeches.” She winked at him. “Of course, there hasn’t been anything good lately. Unless that body out in the woods up north of Branson turned into something…?”
She trailed off and raised an inquiring eyebrow. He grinned.
“I half expected to see you out there,” he said.
She sighed. “I tried. There was no way in that wasn’t clearly trespassing and that didn’t require a mile hike through the wilderness. In my younger days, sure, but now, not quite as doable.” She gave him a jaunty grin and started to move away.
“Wait.” Hank stopped her. He wanted to show Maggie that he knew at least one person in the room after she’d introduced him to so many.
“Maggie, this is Lovinia Smithson. She lives just west of Branson. Lovinia, my wife, Maggie.”
“How do you do?” Lovinia extended her hand. “I’m the old lady who listens to the police scanner and shows up at crime scenes. Your husband is gracious enough not to tell me to get lost.”
Maggie laughed and asked how Lovinia was enjoying her retirement in Branson.
“Pretty well. I’m much happier now that winter’s over, and I can get out hiking in the beautiful weather,” she said. “And I tutor over at the Branson Hills After-School Program. That’s a lot of fun.”
“Oh, were you a teacher?” Maggie said.
Lovinia laughed. “Good Lord, no. I couldn’t handle a whole class of them. One or two at a time is all I can do.”
“Two at a time is all we can handle, too,” Maggie said, nodding at Hank. “And even then, we feel outnumbered.”
Lovinia laughed, that big, infectious chuckle that had lightened Hank’s heart at so many crime scenes.
“I wouldn’t know about being outnumbered at home,” she said. “I never had kids. All for the best, though. Walter and I had a great time, just by ourselves.”
Maggie offered condolences on Walter’s passing. Hank was amazed she remembered. He’d only mentioned once long ago that Lovinia’s husband had died about a year earlier—shortly before he’d become sheriff. But then, Maggie’d always had a mind for that kind of stuff.
“How are you getting on, out there in the house by yourself?” Maggie asked. “If you ever need a hand with anything, please just let us know. We’d be happy to help.”
“Oh, I’m just fine,” Lovinia said. “I spent my life around a whole lot of people, so the peace and quiet is kind of nice at this point .”
She shifted her gaze back to Hank.
“Now, you two’d better get back to drumming up votes,” she said. “You’ve already got mine, so don’t waste any more time on me.”
She sailed off toward the bar and Maggie turned him toward a couple in their sixties whose daughter had been one of Maggie’s grade school friends. Hank was in the middle of an unexpected hug from the woman when he saw Gerald Tucker enter the room.
“Well, haven’t you done well, Maggie dear,” the woman said. “So tall and … rugged-looking.” She gave Hank a charitable smile. “My Lauren, of course, married a lawyer. They’re up in…”
Hank nodded automatically at the conversation as he positioned himself to watch Tucker chat people up on the other side of the room. GOB appeared to have bought some new clothes. Hank was damn sure he hadn’t owned such a nicely tailored wool suit before he became Gallagher’s personal pet.
Insubordinate asshole.
It took an elbow in the ribs from Maggie for him to realize he was scowling. He slapped on a smile and followed her around several tables, steering well clear of Edrick Fizzel in the process. Of course the Branson County commissioners would be here. He thought he saw the other two standing over by the windows. And he certainly knew Fizzel, whose ruddy face had gotten much too close to his own during several arguments about the Mandy Bryson case in February.
They slowly made their way around the room, avoiding any contact with Fizzel or Tucker. It worked fine until Hank, in an effort to get around a woman headed straight for the Good Ol’ Boy, turned and came face-to-face with Henry Gallagher.
“Well, hello, Worth.” Gallagher had never—not once—addressed him as Sheriff. And they sure as hell weren’t on a first-name basis.
“Gallagher.” He didn’t move. Let Branson’s Leading Businessman be the one to walk away.
Branson’s Leading Businessman obviously thought the same thing. He stayed put as well, nonchalantly sipping on his iced tea. The crowd bustled around them. Hank took a swig of his now-warm soda and studied the glass. He could see Darcy gesturing at him over from near the podium. He ignored her. Gallagher flicked nonexistent lint off his shirt cuff and stirred his tea. Hank tried not to fidget.
And then, like an angel of mercy—or a boxing referee—a short, compact man with a clipped mustache and a tailored navy suit stepped in between them.
“Gentlemen. Wonderful. It’s time to begin. If you’d come up to the head table, Sheriff, we’ll get you seated. And Henry, if you’d go ahead with your welcoming remarks while lunch is being served, that would be great.”
What the—?
The referee stood aside so Gallagher could move between the tables. As he passed Hank, a reptilian smile flashed across his thin face. “I can win an election, Worth. Can you?”
