Young Buck: A Slow Burn Small Town Romance (Green Valley Heroes Book 5)

Chapter 9

“Hey, Chief. Mind if I head out a little early?”

I popped my head into the office of Sheriff Jeffrey James, whose back was to me as he turned to face the hutch behind his desk. He was fussing with a coffee machine, the kind that had foil pods and brewed one cup at a time.

“You know you don’t need to ask.”

He didn’t turn around to answer. He wasn’t the best with “newfangled things.” He’d complained about the coffee maker ever since his son-in-law, Duane Winston, had given it to him for Christmas. He’d never really gotten the hang of it, but he used it every day.

“I didn’t want to have you looking for me in case you needed something,” I replied. “You know how long it takes to find people in this place.”

My basic work was straightforward: checking police reports for completeness, changing their status from “in progress” to “officially filed,” logging and storing evidence. It required natural curiosity, respect for procedure, attention to detail. But it also made me a ghost. Half the time, I was deep in the evidence locker, with no trace of me at my desk.

“Where you off to this time?” the chief wanted to know.

“I need to pick up a car.”

He knew about my extracurriculars. He’d found out early on, back when I was deep in my grief and searching for answers about Floyd. The six solid months I’d spent uncovering every sordid secret Floyd had kept to conceal his double life became on-the-job training that launched my PI career.

The chief trusted me enough to know I would keep my two lives separate, not abusing police resources on behalf of Sniffing Around. I trusted him to keep the nature of my side gig confidential, and I knew I could go to him if I ever really needed help.

He also knew that owning a single car wasn’t enough to maintain a good cover in a small town, and that somewhere I had a supplier. The fact that said supplier was Cletus Winston was a detail I guarded closely. Cletus had never gotten along too well with the law.

“Hold on there, Loretta.”

The chief called me back just as I was about to walk out, and motioned for me to close his office door.

“We’ve never had a real conversation about the terms of your employment, not since you came to work for me, what? Eight years ago?”

“Nine,” I corrected.

I hadn’t ever had a job apart from this job and Sniffing Around.

“I’ve had you on a lot of side projects lately,” the chief went on. “A lot of investigations. And you’ve done a wonderful job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Last week, I sat down to write job descriptions for two new investigator positions we’re creating. When I went to reread one of them, I realized it perfectly described what you do. It got me to thinking. Why would I post a job for two investigators when I could offer one to you?”

“You’re offering me an investigator job?”

He scratched the back of his neck and chuckled a little.

“I’m offering you the job you’re already doing, with better benefits and better pay. And I’m ashamed that I never offered it to you before. If you decide to take it, I’d make you head of investigations, and have a junior investigator report to you.”

The chief wasn’t wrong about how my job responsibilities had shifted over the years. I’d started as a front-desk volunteer, back when I’d still been married to Floyd. After he’d died and left me broke, the chief had made it a paid position and given me extra hours. He’d sent me to training and let me learn every aspect of case administration. He’d supplemented my regular responsibilities with investigative work when my caseload was low.

It had started out as a kindness—him creating a job to help me when I desperately needed the money. But now, the department had grown and so had I.

“How long do I have to think about it?” My head swam with jumbled thoughts.

“I’d want you to start by the end of the year. And you do know, I’d have to bring you on full time...”

He didn’t need to spell out what that meant. Serving as an officer of the law and working as a PI constituted a conflict of interest. It meant I couldn’t run investigations for Sniffing Around if I wanted to work for the sheriff. It meant I would have to choose.

“Going from hourly to full time is a real good thing, Loretta.” He was trying to sell me on it now. “You’ll get full medical, vision, and dental and a tax-deferred retirement plan. You’d get overtime, compensation for days spent in court, life insurance, paid family leave. Since you’ve been here so many years, I can allocate vacation days according to your tenure. You’d get thirty-five days of paid time off per year.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered, barely able to speak as my mind became overrun with visions, more like dreams of a different life. I’d been scrimping and saving for a future that would be complicated if I was self-employed and self-reliant. The chief had just offered me a safety net.

“I don’t know what to say.” Now I was repeating myself. The chief chuckled at my surprise.

“Take some time to think about it.” He leaned back somewhat in his chair. “Then come back and say yes.”

Green Valley’scheating bastards sometimes went to Knoxville for their misdeeds, to minimize their chances of being seen. Scumbags, on the other hand, weren’t so picky. Anything outside their partners’ view, scumbags treated as fair game. It made them bold enough to cheat right here in town. Suspected scumbag Dickie Dupree was tonight’s mark and the husband of Jackie Dupree, my client. Dickie had a wandering eye.

By my definition, cheating was anything a person wouldn’t do with their partner standing right next to them. He was on his best behavior around Jackie. But put him alone at Genie’s Country Western Bar, and his flirtatious proclivities were bold.

“Where’d you leave things with Jackie?” Clarine settled down in the seat I’d saved. She’d styled herself as I’d instructed. Tight jeans and an off-the-shoulder top with her hair blown straight. She’d gone heavy on lashes and lips.

“She’s in stage three denial,” I reported matter-of-factly. “She wants definitive proof.”

I’d already documented when and where I’d seen Dickie with other women. Jackie had yet to face the truth.

Obtaining firsthand proof was the reason why we were going undercover. That, plus I wanted Clarine to learn how to catch a cheater in the act. Dickie’s shamelessness made him the perfect training partner. It wouldn’t take much for him to bite.

“Jackie wants recorded evidence.” I picked up my drink. “So we made you into his type.”

It was hard to deny, Clarine would have an edge in this business. She was neither short nor tall. Her heart-shaped face was pretty, but not overly distinctive. Her skin tone was versatile to any combination of hair and eyes. Unlike me, she could turn herself into a blue-eyed blond. Add in her prowess for changing facial contours with smartly executed makeup and Clarine could completely transform.

“What’s my first play?” she wanted to know.

“Order a light beer,” I instructed. “It has low alcohol content and so much liquid, you can nurse it for a while.”

She flagged down the bartender and ordered.

“Now, do something small to convince him you’re interested. Follow him to the jukebox or throw him a flirty smile. After you drop a hint, retreat.”

Easing into things, she lingered at the bar for a while before making an unnecessary trip to the ladies’ room. She threw a coy smile and a comment over her shoulder at Dickie on her way back. He was bent over a billiard table, halfway through a round. Whatever she said, it caused a smile to spread over his face and for him to follow her with his eyes.

“I told him to be careful with that big stick,” she reported with a giggle.

“You can never go wrong with penis flattery,” I praised as she sat back down in her chair. “Since you walked away, he’s looked at you twice. I doubt he’ll wait ten minutes.”

“And, from there, we just record him and hand it over to the client?”

“If the sound comes out okay, yes. But you always want informational proof, in case the recording fails.”

“Informational proof?” She took a shallow sip of her beer.

“Some personal detail, the more intimate, the better. Most men who think they’ve got a shot say too much.”

“Damn, girl.” Clarine gave an approving nod that told me how impressed she was by my wisdom. It got me to laugh and relax a little and take a real sip of my drink.

“So what’s been going on with you?” She spun the base of her glass but didn’t drink.

All the waiting involved in stakeouts gave us a chance to talk. I’d never worked with a partner before, but I was starting to like it.

“I got a job offer today.”

“You have a job,” Clarine replied. “Two or three, last time I counted. Add in all that soap making you do for Sniffing Around and I’m thinking you’ve got four. Who the hell offered you something and what made them think you were looking?”

“The sheriff. He offered me a raise. I’d be working full-time for the county, for a salary, with benefits and all.”

Clarine’s eyes asked the question she didn’t need to voice. Why was I even thinking of saying no?

“I’d have to shut the business down. I can’t be a public investigator and a private investigator at the same time. County rules.”

“Well, shit.” Clarine took a longer sip than she should have for a person trying to stay sober. The news also impacted her. We’d made plans—long-term plans—for what would come of her apprenticeship.

I’d sold her on the second income Sniffing Around could offer, and promised her something steady. Long-term, I wanted her to play a larger role—to tag-team running Cheated On-Onymous meetings and cover weekend stakeouts so I could go out and get a life. But there could be none of that if I couldn’t continue training her. If I shut the PI business down, she’d be out of a job.

“You said benefits, right?” Clarine asked, softly now. “Benefits like maternity leave?”

Clarine knew about my plan. All the COOs did. I’d talked through my decision with the group. I’d rehashed how I’d always wanted a baby—how Floyd had dragged his feet for reasons I could never understand. I’d mourned twice after he died—once for the loss of my sham of a relationship and again for how far all of it had set me back.

“If I took the new job...,” I continued haltingly. “I wouldn’t get to help women start over, not like I am now.”

My voice was quiet. Clarine was quiet, too.

“Do you want my honest opinion? Sounds to me like things are turning out better than you expected. Sounds like the universe has answered your prayers. And maybe you’re so not used to getting what you want, you don’t know what to do about it when she gives you a gift this big.”

“How big a gift we talking?”

Interrupting our moment was none other than Dickie Dupree. I glanced behind myself just in time to see his hand rest on the back of my chair. He leaned in toward Clarine.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with big surprises. I’ve been known to surprise a few women in my day.” I could smell how his breath reeked of whiskey, even as he was angled toward her. “What you drinkin’, sugar?”

His usurping of her attention gave me what I needed to start the recording. I discreetly pressed a button on the device that stuck out of a side pocket on my purse. Then, I pretended to check my phone when, in reality, I was turning on the voice memo recorder. It was never a bad idea to record on two devices.

“Coors Light,” Clarine cooed.

“Come on, now, let me buy you something harder. You look like the kind of woman who likes something with a kick.”

Clarine pointed to his glass. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

He looked at the drink in his hand. “This here’s a Seven and Seven. Why don’t you let me buy you one?”

It wouldn’t have meant much if he’d said he was drinking “whiskey” or “whiskey and soda.” But specifying a specific brand would serve as further proof we’d had hard contact with him.

Clarine pretended to weigh the decision. “I gotta work tomorrow morning. How are you drinking like that on a weeknight? Don’t you have a job?”

HCs were what I called Honest Cheaters, men who didn’t lie about personal details. HCs told the truth to the women they flirted with, and saved the lies for their wives. LSSs, on the other hand, were Lying Sacks of Shit—the kind of men who invented new identities. They were often self-aggrandizing, portraying wealthier, more accomplished versions of themselves.

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” Dickie said.

“What is it you do that they let you go to work hung over?”

Dickie gave what he must have thought was an alluring smile. “I run a boat shop and I don’t need to be there on time. That’s what happens when you own the place.”

Bingo.

Dickie did work around boating, but not at a store that sold boats. He worked at a tackle shop by the marina. And he certainly didn’t own the place. I gave Clarine a subtle nod to let her know we had what we needed. She chatted with him for a minute longer before making another excuse about having to work. She gave him the number to a decoy voicemail account I managed. If he called to try to make plans with her, that would be yet another piece of evidence for his wife.

“I can’t believe how easy that was,” Clarine whispered as we left the bar and walked onto the street.

“Men aren’t that complex.”

I’d caught a dozen guys just like Dickie. He wasn’t just a man out chasing tail. He was a man whose life hadn’t turned out the way he wanted. His cheating wasn’t about his wife. It was about his need to validate himself.

“How long do we wait for his call to come in?” Clarine wanted to know.

“No waiting,” I instructed, fishing in my purse for the keys to my car. “Jackie will want an update sooner rather than later. Do you want to call her, or should I?”