Trey continued to listen to the questions Evan asked, the answers the ME gave him. It was obvious this wasn’t Evan’s first rodeo. Based on what Trey knew of the man, he’d been doing this for quite some time, which explained how he knew the right questions to ask, the professional way to respond. No doubt about it, he made Trey feel a bit inept.
“No foreign DNA found on either of them?”
“Found a couple of hairs, sent those off to the lab. Should have information back by the end of the week.”
Knowing Brantley and Reese wouldn’t be happy with that response, Trey spoke up. “We’ll need to push that through. We believe these deaths are directly related to a missing person.”
“The lab’s usually—”
“Just give me the details,” Trey told him. “I’ll get it pushed.”
The ME didn’t look as though he believed him, but he nodded. “Sure. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“Thank you for your time,” Evan replied.
The death doctor dug in his pocket, produced a small card. “If you have any other questions, feel free to contact me.”
Evan took the man’s card then led the way back toward fresh air.
“It’s not somethin’ you ever get used to,” Evan said now as they stepped outside.
Trey took a deep breath, prayed the stench of death would be washed away quickly. “No?”
“No. If you can get in the mindset that you work for them now, your only job to find who’s responsible for their deaths, it helps.”
“I’m not sure anything’ll help,” Trey admitted, grateful he hadn’t lost his breakfast, which had been a real possibility when they first stepped inside.
Of course, he wasn’t about to tell Evan that he had no desire to investigate homicides. Although he was getting better at the missing persons angle, he was figuring out he didn’t much care for that either. Granted, he wasn’t going to tell Brantley. Trey had no choice but to fight through. He figured eventually he would grow to like it.
He hoped.
Evan chuckled. “It takes time. But you did better than I did my first time in the morgue.”
“Yeah?”
“The first dozen times, if I’m being honest. I learned not to eat before I knew what the plan was for the day.”
Great.
Trey wasn’t sure he wanted to endure even one more, much less a dozen.
*
Charlie pulled up to the country club, grinning as she noticed the men and women wearing their fancy gear. White skirts or pants, sweater vests. Those little visors to keep the sun out of their eyes.
Honestly, she’d figured that was all stuff set up for television. Evidently, there was a store that sold clothes just for golfers.
“What’s funny?” Slade asked.
She looked over. “Nothing. Just checking out the wardrobe requirements.”
Slade ran a hand over his chest. “I think I’d look good in a pink shirt and a plaid vest, don’t you?”
Charlie opened the door, climbed out, laughing as she pictured Slade trading his Wranglers in for white pants. Just the thought made her laugh again.
“Have you ever been to a country club?” he asked when Charlie joined him at the front of the SUV.
“No. You?” She watched as a golf cart carrying two people and bags of golf clubs cruised down the path to the course.
“Hell no,” he muttered under his breath, his disdain for the notion making her laugh.
“You have somethin’ against golf?”
“Not the game, no. But bein’ around all this”—he waved a hand to encompass the people in the cart—“makes me itchy.”
“I don’t think all courses are quite this … pretentious,” she said when she earned a side-eye from an older man in a cart.
“Nice hat,” Slade called out to him. “I can buy one of those inside?”
The man ignored him but continued to stare.
Slade motioned toward the building. “That way? Awesome. Goin’ to buy me a hat.”
Charlie was laughing when Slade opened the door to the building, stepped back, and waited for her to go in first.
She stepped inside, felt as though she’d walked into another era. The walls were lined with dark wood, the floor with patterned carpet. There were leather sofas and chairs scattered about, short tables alongside, providing the perfect spot to sit down and share a drink.
“Might I help you?” a man asked as they approached what looked to be a reception area complete with a fancy mahogany desk and an antique banker’s lamp sitting on top.
“You might, yeah,” Slade said, almost as though it was instinct to respond.
“My name’s Charlie Miller. This is my partner, Slade Elliott. We’re with the OTB Task Force,” she explained. “And we’re looking for Cedric Hawkins. He was reported missing this morning, and we’re hoping someone might be able to assist us.”
The man walked around the desk, adjusting his fancy suit coat as he did. Although he was a few inches shorter than her, Charlie felt as though he was still looking down his nose.
“I’m Anthony Grandley the Third. I manage this club. I’m sorry to say, Mr. Hawkins is not here at the moment.”
“That’s because he’s missin’,” Slade muttered under his breath.
Charlie ignored him, addressed the club’s manager. “Could you tell us when the last time you saw him was?”
Anthony seemed to think on that, his eyes closing dramatically as he took a deep breath.
Charlie cast a quick look at Slade, saw he was staring wide-eyed at the man. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.
“I do believe I last saw him on Saturday. He stopped in for lunch.” His eyes opened slowly. “Yes. Lunch.”
Having lunch at the club just a few days after his partners were murdered? Sounded a bit odd to Charlie.
“Was he with anyone?”
Once again, Anthony did the dramatic thing, this time a shocked sigh, before answering with, “My sincerest apologies. I do believe I was wrong in the timing. It must’ve been the weekend prior. He was here with Brian Wright and Seth Jacobs, God rest their souls.”
That made more sense. “Did anything seem off with them when they were here?”
“Not that I recall. They stopped in quite frequently to have lunch or dinner, play a round of golf, or even to have a drink in the gentlemen’s room.”
Charlie wasn’t going to touch that one.
“Do you know if there’s anyone here who might know Mr. Hawkins? Perhaps they’ve seen him recently? Outside of the club, I mean.”
“It’s a bit early in the day,” Anthony said, his head tilting back in that haughty manner that had her molars clamping together. “Perhaps you’d like to come back this afternoon.”
“Actually,” Slade interrupted, “we’d like to find Mr. Hawkins before then. And for us to do so, we could really use your help. He’s currently missing. Two of his partners were murdered. We’d very much prefer he didn’t meet the same fate.”
Anthony didn’t seem at all bothered by the curtness in Slade’s tone. “I understand, sir. However, it’s unfortunate that I cannot help you at this time.”