Richland helped Dane try to defuse the tension in her cubicle. She flipped through a Rolodex on her desk. She found the card she was looking for and copied a number down on a legal pad with a Sharpie. She tore off the number and handed it to the big man. “Do me a favor, Hank. Keep trying to call Morningside until you reach someone. When you do raise somebody, check to see if William Blackwell has been seen anywhere around there within the past twenty-four hours.”
Hank didn’t take his eyes off Roselita, who only sat back and smiled a pearly white smile. “Of course, Clem. I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
Hank turned to leave, and Roselita buttoned her jacket as she stood. Dane stood up and tucked the thick file folder under his arm. He removed his hat. “Just one more question, Clem. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she said with an impatient huff. She clearly wanted Roselita Velasquez out of her office.
“During your unofficial visits to see William, did he ever mention a place called the Farm? Or did he ever talk about a farm of any kind?”
Richland thought on it. “Yes. He did say something about going to a farm. He also mentioned a safari.”
“A what?” Roselita said.
“A safari. He said that Arnold took him on safaris all the time. I had no idea what he was talking about and never did get a chance to find out; Arnold would cut him off after he brought it up every time. He acted weird about it. I didn’t think much about it then, but it was strange now that I think about it. Do you know what that means?”
Dane ignored the question, put his hat on, and pulled it down low over his brow. He stayed on his own line of questioning. “Listen, I know it was a while ago, but try and remember. Did he say he was going to a farm or the Farm?”
“I honestly don’t remember, but what’s the Farm mean?”
“Maybe nothing,” Dane said. “Come on, Velasquez.” Velasquez smoothed down the front of her pants.
“If you can think of anything else, Clem, anything at all that might be of any help, please call us—day or night.” Dane took a card from his pocket and laid it on her desk.
“I suppose that means you’re not going to tell me? What the Farm is?”
Dane smiled at her. “Have a good day,” he said as he left the cubicle. Richland didn’t pick up the card until after the buzzer on the lobby door sounded and clicked shut.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Georgia sun had busted the afternoon wide open by the time Dane and Roselita finished up with Clementine Richland, and both of them groaned as soon as they opened the door and were hit with the blast of sticky heat. Dane was used to the weather that went along with being a Georgia native, but the heat in the city was an entirely different beast than the heat just a few hours north. In the city, the sun bounced off the steel and glass like a racquetball, getting meaner and more intense as the day went on. It soaked into the asphalt of parking lots like the one they were standing in now, waiting to leap out and beat the living shit out of any person who dared to walk across it. It was a humid, miserable feeling. Up north in places like McFalls County, people at least had shade trees to defuse the swelter. There was also a constant breeze swirling down from the mountains. That breeze didn’t exist in the city. Living here meant accepting that there was no natural escape from the sucker punch of summer. The only relief came from finding somewhere to hide—somewhere air-conditioned, like a car, or an office, or a box. That’s what Dane’s life in Atlanta felt like—a daily series of jumps from one box to another until he finally made it back to the one he owned. Roselita, used to the constant salt breeze of Florida, had already removed her jacket. A dark stain of sweat had begun to form along the open neckline of her silk shirt. Dane tried not to linger. She hit a button on her keys and her Infiniti chirped.
“Hurry up, Kirby. It’s fuckin’ hot.” Roselita had the engine cranked and the AC blasting long before Dane even opened the door and slid into his seat. He settled into the small bucket seat and shut the door. “Where you from, Velasquez? It ain’t Florida. Too much drawl in you for a native of that place. So where?”
“Alabama. Roll Tide. Where we headed?”
“What part?”
“What part of what?”
“What part of Alabama?”
“You writing a book about me, Kirby?”
“Maybe?”
Roselita shook her head and laughed a little. Her brain pictured them on the interstate already. She didn’t want to have a Q and A with the good ol’ boy, but she played along. “Mobile, by the Bay. Happy? Now, can we get a plan together and on the road before we start with the small talk?”
Dane settled deeper into his seat and pulled down his seat belt. He clicked it in place and put on a pair of Wayfarers. He was hanging with the FBI. He wanted to fit in. He nodded at Roselita and almost got a smile out of her—almost. Velasquez just waited for an answer.
“Let’s go to Blackwell’s apartment in Cobb.”
“I’ve already swept the place. There’s nothing there. Nothing that’s going to move us forward, anyway. What is the Farm?”
“I want to see it anyway.”
“Do you not trust me, Kirby?”
Dane took his sunglasses off. “Yes, Velasquez, I do. But what I’m hearing is that you don’t trust me. You asked. I answered. We’re still not moving.”
Roselita hard shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot.
“Were you police in Mobile?”
“No.”
“What did you do there?”
Roselita sped through a yellow light, shifted into third, pulled off Fairground Street, and made her way onto the interstate. “Why?” she said, as she weaved from lane to lane through the dense midday traffic.
“I’m just curious as to where your fearlessness comes from.”
Roselita cut off a late-model Ford Explorer and the driver, a woman, lay on the horn. “Explain,” she said, not paying the other driver any attention at all. Dane began to wonder if Velasquez drove like this through the night to be here, but he stayed on subject.
“That guy back there at DFCS. The big dude. You know he’s a handler, right? He wasn’t just some meathead paper pusher. They get some pretty bad shit in there. Inner-city gang shit. Hence the buzz-in locks and all the security. He was most likely law enforcement, too, to some degree. Maybe the same training as you.”
“And your point is?”
“My point is that you looked ready to draw down on the man. How do you know he wasn’t armed as well?”
Roselita took her eye off the road for just a second to see if Dane was serious, and then went back to cutting I-75 to pieces. “First of all, the man was a pig and he was carrying. Small caliber. Concealable. Most likely a .380 or a .22. Slight lump on his left hip. And a big boy like that? Working with juvies? He probably had a taser stashed somewhere under that Old Navy sweater-vest as well.” Roselita looked at Dane again, somewhat disappointed. “I’m curious as to why you didn’t know that, too?”
Dane scratched at his newly forming beard. “Then how did you know he’d back down like that?”
“I didn’t. But I don’t like pigs, and it was his job to protect that kid. He failed. I don’t have a tolerance for that kind of thing. So are you going to give me shit about how I handle myself in the field or are you going to tell me about this Farm now?”