He slid the card into his pocket as the chief pulled him up the steps.
As I watched Colson, McCord and Arlo disappear into the station, I added another to-do to my morning. To figure out what the hell was going on between Sunny and her dad.
14
Jagg
The night had faded into a crystal clear morning without a cloud in the sky. A thin fog swayed above wilted grass, the evening’s cooler temperatures burning away with what the radio just told me was already eighty percent humidity. Could’ve guessed that, though, because even with the wind whipping around my Jeep, my ass was sweating against the leather seat. I really needed to get the AC fixed. Ass sweat at seven-thirty in the morning never lended itself to a good day. The summer air was thick and cloying. Another three-figure day on its way.
And a full moon coming.
I pulled into the town’s square, already a bustle of activity. Donna Jo was watering flowers outside her hair salon, Tad was wiping down the rocking chairs in front of his tool shop. A wave of bicyclists passed by, getting in a quick workout during the coolest part of the day. A few cowboys on horseback trotted past, going to and from their business. Subarus topped with kayaks on their way to Otter Lake. And then, there was Donny’s Diner, not a parking spot open, not a booth unfilled.
Not a single person talking about anything other than the Slaying in the Park.
I had no doubt word had already gotten out about the evening’s events and it was only a matter of time before the citizens of Berry Springs found out the victim was the pastor’s son. I had a feeling they wouldn’t care too much about the other victim. Survivors had a way of being forgotten faster than the dead. It was something that always bothered me.
I ground my teeth as I drove by the diner. Cowboy hats topped the red booths. The legendary waitress, Ms. Booth, who knew everyone and their dogs, leaned over a table, filling coffee and spreading the gossip. Two people waited in line at the front door.
I made a mental note to stop in later that morning and get the bead on what the gossips were saying. I’d solved more than a few cases just by sitting in the corner booth for an hour. Amazing what people said when they thought no one was listening.
I stopped at the only stoplight in town, in the center of the square, where a Wrangler-wearing Stetson was nailing something into a tree next to the fountain. I squinted, leaned forward.
City council meeting 6pm tonight -
CANCEL Moon Magic Festival!
Keep our town safe!
My eyes rolled into the back of my head. They were at it again. The cowboys versus the hippies in yet another undoubtedly hot debate about canceling the annual festival. Every year, half the courthouse filled with cowboy hats, the other half beads and braids arguing about free speech. The cowboys didn’t want Berry Springs to be a part of anything that suggested promotion of witchcraft. The hippies told them to go fuck themselves. Every year, the meeting ended with a call to the cops and no resolution.
The tagline ‘Keep our town safe,’ suggested this year was going to be different. Two homicides leading up to the festival might just give the cowboys enough ammunition to get the thing shut down. Fear is a powerful thing.
Regardless what came out of the meeting, one thing was for sure—it would be the shitshow of all shitshows and I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.
I hung a right off Main Street onto a narrow road lined with quaint shops, restaurants, bars, and bakeries that catered to the tourists. The shops were ornate buildings, nestled between the trees that lined the road. The cul-d-sac ended at the edge of the woods that surrounded the city park. The street was the most recognizable area in Berry Springs, second only to Donny’s Diner. The locals had dubbed it, “Tourist Row.”
It also happened to be the location of Seagrave’s murder and the Cedonia Scroll heist.
I rolled to a stop next to an old, weathered sign that read Mystic Maven’s. I didn’t bother locking my Jeep as I slammed the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. I dipped my chin at the pair of Goldendoodles walking their owner.
“Mornin’ Detective.”
“Morning, Ms. Addington.”
I quickly pivoted onto the pebbled pathway that cut between the buildings to avoid small talk that would start with “I heard…”
I yanked at the collar of my T-shirt, cursing the sweat already beginning to bead. Damn humidity. In response to Colson’s advice to “button-up,” I’d gone above and beyond my usual uniform and chosen my thinnest grey T-shirt with pit-stains, ripped khaki tactical pants, and my most scuffed pair of ATAC boots. He’d be proud.
I slowed, scanning the ground, the edge of the buildings, the rooftops. Although I’d been to the spot countless times since the shooting, my gut told me I was missing something. To look deeper. And I always listened to my gut, aside from when it told me to get some rest.
It had only been three hours since I’d left the station, and as you may have guessed, I didn’t take Colson’s advice to get a solid night’s sleep. I’d gone home, reviewed case notes over a double whiskey, caught the scores on ESPN, followed by an ice-cold shower to bring me back to life. The sun was beginning to come up when I forced myself to lay down on the couch sometime after five-thirty. I might have slept, although I’m not sure. It was that weird state of either dreaming or thinking. Finally, I got up at six-thirty and started the coffee.
A mosquito the size of a taxi buzzed around my face as I kneeled down. Blood-stained rocks still colored the ditch where Lieutenant Jack Seagrave took his last breath, although fewer than the day before. Probably some sick teenagers wanting a piece of memorabilia from a cop killing. I picked up one of the rocks and turned it over between my fingers, my mind racing.
How did it connect? The Black Bandit, the cursed scrolls, the blue sedan, the Voodoo Tree? Sunny Harper?
Lieutenant Seagrave had been shot six times.
Six.
I’d seen plenty of gunshot wounds over the course of my life, the majority were one, maybe two hits. Rarely had I seen six.
One or two suggested desperation, fear of getting caught, or a simple, quick kill. More than two suggested emotions. That it was personal. That it was no coincidence.
I had Darby pull the list of cases Seagrave had worked during the last year of his life, and, as suspected, that list would take days to comb through.
Could it have been a revenge killing?
But who?
The Black Bandit. Everything looped back to the Black Bandit, I was sure of it.
I ran my fingers through my hair and sat back on my haunches.
Something was in the air, aside from biting gnats. I could feel it in my bones.
I glanced over my shoulder where Ms. Hoffman’s birdwatching camera had recorded the video of the Black Bandit, along with the moment Seagrave had fallen to the ground. A few more damn inches and the camera would have caught the whole show. Unfortunately, we only got his foot. His scuffed, brown loafer sagging after life left his body.
Too early.
Way too damn early.
“Well, mornin’ there, Detective.”
I turned to see Hazel De Ville padding down the pathway. Beams of sunlight sparkled through her long, dreadlocked silver hair. She wore a brown skirt to her ankles with rope sandals to match, and a tie-dye T-shirt that read Stay Weird.