She found herself almost split in two as she shook hands with Jack Stilton.
Had he been friends with her father? Did he know more than he’d let on in his statement forty years ago? He didn’t look like the kind of guy who stayed in and watched movies with his mother.
“You’re both Marshals?” Stilton seemed dubious, probably because Bible looked like a semi-retired skateboarder and Andrea looked like she had found her pants in a boys’ clothing bin at Costco. Which was accurate.
Bible said, “We are indeed deputies with the United States Marshal Service, Chief Stilton. Hey, I bet you grew up hearing a lot of cheese jokes, am I right?”
Stilton’s nostrils flared. “No.”
“I’ll try to think of some.” Bible slapped Stilton hard on the back. “You two go ahead and get started. I gotta shake hands with my wife’s best friend. Oliver, you good?”
Andrea could only nod as Bible disappeared into the bathroom.
Stilton exchanged an annoyed look with the sergeant. He reluctantly told Andrea, “I guess let’s go on back.”
Andrea had a feeling Bible was throwing her into the deep end to see if she could swim. She asked Stilton, “Have you been the chief of police for long?”
“Yes.”
She waited for more, but there was nothing, just him turning his back to her as he walked through the door.
So much for swimming.
Stilton’s leather equipment belt squeaked as he showed her through to the squad room. The space was utilitarian, a large, open rectangle with two smaller offices at the back, one marked with a sign that said INTERVIEWS, the other marked CHIEF STILTON. A conference table and kitchenette took up one side of the open space. On the other side, four desks were cubicled behind dividers. The overhead lights were on, but no one else was in the building. Andrea guessed the rest of the force was either on patrol or at home with their families.
“Coffee’s fresh.” Stilton waved his hand toward the kitchenette. “Help yourself, sweetheart.”
“Uh—” She was caught off guard. The only man who ever called her sweetheart was Gordon. “No, thank you.”
Stilton fell heavily into a large leather chair at the end of the conference table. “All right, honey. Are you gonna tell me what’s going on or do we have to wait for your boss?”
Andrea had let the first time slide, but now, she gave him a sharp look.
“Don’t get all woke on me,” Stilton said. “They don’t honey-pie you genteel ladies down south?”
His fake southern accent sounded like Scarlett O’Hara had twisted his balls in her corset strings. No wonder people hated cops so much.
Stilton said, “Come on, honey. Where’s your sense of humor?”
Andrea dumped her duffel and backpack on the floor as she sat down at the table. She did the same thing she had done with the Uber driver. She pulled out her phone and ignored him. Her eyes blurred on the screen. She forced herself not to look up. At first, she could feel Stilton staring at her, but then he got the message. He stood up with a loud groan and went to the kitchenette. She heard the scrape of a mug as he lifted it from the shelf. The click of the coffee pot being pulled out from the burner.
Her eyes finally focused on the banner that had popped up on her lock screen. Predictably, she had two texts, one from each parent. Laura had sent a link to the Portland Art Museum’s permanent Native American Art collection. Gordon had sent a text asking her to call him over the weekend, but only if she had time. Andrea pulled up her contacts and found Mike’s number. She hadn’t forgotten what Bible had said outside the library.
She texted—WTF DID YOU TELL THESE PEOPLE????????
The three little dots floated. And floated.
Finally, Mike texted back—YOU’RE WELCOME!
“Sorry about that.” Bible let the door slam behind him. He clocked Andrea on her phone, but asked Stilton, “Coffee fresh?”
Stilton made the same broad gesture toward the kitchenette as he sank back into his chair.
“Thank you kindly.” Bible’s boots scuffed the tiles as he crossed the floor and poured himself a cup. “We don’t wanna keep you too long, Chief Cheese. Why don’t you hand us over your report and we can bring it back later?”
Stilton looked confused. “Report?”
Bible looked confused, too. “I thought you’d been here for a while? Maybe your predecessor left something we can take a look at?”
Stilton’s tongue darted out between his lips. “Look at what?”
“Your file on the judge.”
Stilton shook his head. “What file?”
“Oh, I see. My bad.” Bible turned away from the chief, explaining to Andrea, “Most times, local cops keep an active file on anything unusual that’s happened in the vicinity of a federal judge’s home—strangers hanging around, cars parked on the street too long, that kind of thing. It’s just something you typically do when you’ve got a high-value target in your jurisdiction.”
Andrea slipped her phone back into her pocket, feeling a wave of shame for taking it out in the first place. Bible was showing her how it should’ve been done. Instead of ignoring the jerk, she should’ve reminded Stilton that she was a federal agent and he was a dipshit.
Bible asked the chief, “What about suicides? You got any lately? Don’t have to be successful.”
“I …” Stilton was thrown again. “There’s been a couple of girls over at the hippie-dippie farm. One cut her wrists. This was about a year and a half ago. Then during the Christmas holidays, another one was pulled out of the ocean cold as an iceberg. Both of them ended up fine. They were just looking for attention.”
“The hippie-dippie farm,” Bible repeated. “What’s that now?”
“It’s about six miles off the coastal road, less than a mile as the crow flies. Smack on the edge of the county line.”
“The place with all the rainbow-colored buildings?”
“That’s the one,” Stilton confirmed. “They’ve been doing some kind of hydro-organic shit out there for years. Lots of international students live there during internships. They’ve got dorms, a mess hall, a warehouse. Looks like an excuse for free labor if you ask me. We’re talking mostly female students. Very young. Far from home. Recipe for disaster.”
“Hence the two attempted suicides.”
“Hence.”
Andrea watched Stilton shrug. She wanted to shrug, too. She had no idea why Bible was interested in suicides.
“All right.” Bible put his coffee mug on the table. “Thank you for your time, sir. Let me give you one of my cards. I’d appreciate it kindly if you’d let me know if another suicide pops up.”
Stilton studied the card Bible slapped on the table. “Sure.”
“We’ve got a twenty-four-hour detail at the judge’s house, in case you hadn’t noticed. Two all day long, two through the night. Me, I like to sit on the front porch with a shotgun. Call it an intruder deterrent. Off hours, we’re quartered at the motel just up the road. Give us a holler if you need anything and we’ll do the same.”
Stilton looked up from the card. “That it?”
“That’s it.” Bible clapped him on the back. “Thanks for the help, Chief Cheese.”