Chapter 28 Dom
DOM
We left the Buffaloberry Hill Sheriff’s Substation empty-handed. Granger, the local deputy, my old friend, was out on a case.
Later, I tried to give Sheriff Colton a call. His wife answered. The poor sheriff was hospitalized for a herniated disc. I wished them well, but it didn’t change the fact that the one man I needed wasn’t available.
I had to think. Fast.
We had a late lunch outside the county, someplace where Autumn’s face wasn’t plastered everywhere. The food at the café was fine. It was not Fredo’s Pizzeria and not Mrs. Sutton’s pies, but it’d do.
While waiting for dessert, I pulled up the sheriff’s office directory, scanning names. Whitaker was there. A handful of others, too. But I needed one in particular.
Autumn shifted beside me, watching my phone screen. “What are you looking for?”
I turned the screen toward her, showing her a name and a photo. “We need to talk to this guy.”
She frowned slightly. “Another deputy?”
“He’s heading up the Deborah Sinclair case,” I said. “Which means, for now, they’re treating the armed robbery as a separate incident.”
She hesitated. “Can we be sure he’s not another Whitaker?”
“He’s older. Experienced.” I leaned back slightly. “That could be good or bad. But if we give him something, something that helps his case, he might be more inclined to listen. And let’s hope that means he won’t push the sketch against you.”
I knew how cops worked. They were possessive of their cases and competitive with each other. And my gut told me Deputy Boone wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Whitaker.
Our ice cream arrived. One bowl, two spoons. She slid the bowl toward me, but I shook my head. She needed it more than I did.
My phone buzzed. It was Buffaloberry’s own Deputy Granger, who probably knew the inner workings of the sheriff’s office better than I ever would.
Granger’s voice came through. “Heard through the grapevine you’re back in town. Word is, for good this time?”
“That’s the plan,” I replied.
“You were looking for me?” Granger said. “Tell me you haven’t forgotten you owe me a beer, Powell. I’ve been parched.”
I huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t forget. I just figured you’d be too busy keeping Buffaloberry Hill in one piece.”
“Barely.” He clicked his tongue. “You’d be amazed at how many crimes get committed when folks run out of ranch dressing.”
“That sounds about right.”
“So, you finally calling to settle your tab?” he kept teasing.
“Not quite.”
“Knew it,” he said. “Go on, then. What’s got your lawyer brain ticking?”
“Just got back from Hamilton. Was looking for Colton.”
“Ah, poor bastard. You heard?”
“Yeah. Herniated disc. Spoke to his wife.” I exhaled, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Ended up talking to a Deputy Whitaker instead.”
Granger let out a short, unimpressed sound.
“Whitaker.” He stretched the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“That rookie’s got a reputation. They call him White Lightning, the fastest case closer in the office.
Kid moves fast, I’ll give him that. But there’s no shortcut for experience.
I’ve been in this job for thirty years, and I know when someone’s too eager for his own good. ”
That tracked.
“He made the posters?” I asked. “The sketch of that ‘wanted woman’…that was him?”
“That’s him.”
“Who reported the robbery?”
“No idea. All I know is some guy claimed he was held up at gunpoint on Blodgett Pass Trail. Whitaker got hold of it, figured the suspect was dangerous, and ran with it.” I heard him shift. “You know how these sketches are. Hell, it could look like anyone.”
I glanced at Autumn, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way she barely touched her spoon. I ran my thumb over her palm, the way I knew would calm her.
“Here’s the thing, Granger,” I said. “I might know who she is. And I know a hell of a lot more.”
Granger made a short noise of acknowledgment. “Why didn’t you tell Whitaker?”
I pressed my lips, then revealed, “No. And I don’t plan to.”
Autumn’s body pulled taut, and I gave her a slight squeeze, a silent message that said: I’ve got this.
I added, “How old is that kid anyway? Sixteen?”
Granger laughed. “Twenty-four, but yeah. Looks like he’s still waitin’ on his letter from Mickey Mouse Club.”
Autumn and I smiled at each other.
“Look, Granger. I’m not saying the guy’s dirty, but he’s got an attitude,” I said. “I was a lawyer long enough to know that cops with an attitude are almost always a liability.”
“Here’s hoping my attitude hasn’t landed me in Dominic Powell’s bad book,” he quipped.
“You’re a good Buffaloberrian,” I replied, then pressed forward. “So, this deputy, Boone, the one handling Deborah Sinclair’s case. How is he?”
“They call him Old Hound Boone.”
I let the name settle, considering. That told me a lot.
“Can I trust him?”
Granger made a low sound, the kind of noise a man makes when he’s weighing his words.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “We went through the academy together, same year. Boone’s a straight shooter. If there’s more to this, he’ll listen.”
That was all I needed.
“Then that’s where we’re going next,” I said.
“You heading back to the sheriff’s office now?”
“The sooner, the better.”
Granger let out a grunt. “Hold up. Let me call first, make sure he’s there. Give me a second.”
A few moments passed, then Granger came back.
“He’s in. Just one thing. Don’t mention the fact that his initials match his nickname. Owen Henry.”
Old Hound. Owen Henry. Who cared? I just needed him on our side. Because we had a hell of a mess to clean up.
Back in Hamilton, Deputy Owen Boone was waiting for us. His uniform sat comfortably on him, not stiff and pressed like Whitaker’s. This was a man who had worn the badge long enough to understand the difference between what’s written in the books and how the job really worked.
They called him Old Hound, and it fit. He had the kind of eyes that had seen it all, the kind that could read a man like a roadmap. I just hoped Boone wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions. Because a guy like him, once he locked onto something, didn’t let go.
Boone nodded as we approached. “Deputy Granger told me you’ve got information.”
I nodded back. “This is Autumn Jones.”
He motioned to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
I sat beside Autumn, keeping my posture loose. Relaxed, but ready. Boone looked solid, but I’d been in enough law enforcement offices to know that even the good ones could turn when things got complicated.
“Miss Jones was at the Blodgett Pass trail on June second,” I said, watching him carefully. “That’s a few days after Deborah Sinclair disappeared.”
He didn’t move. No tell, no reaction. Just a measured breath as he processed the information.
Finally, he said, “Okay, Miss Jones. Walk me through it.”
I gave Autumn a small nod.
She sat straighter. “I saw a man burying a small duffel bag. He had a dog with him—”
Boone leaned in slightly. “What kind of dog?”
“I don’t know the breed. But black and white, with a short coat and big ears.”
His mouth tightened.
“That could be Miss Sinclair’s dog.”
I raised my eyes. “It is.”
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise, not excitement. Just confirmation, like he’d already pieced it together and was only waiting for me to say it out loud.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“The dog’s in Idaho Falls,” I said. “Well taken care of. Miss Jones’ mother has her.”
Boone rubbed a hand over his jaw, weighing his response. I could see the thought process happening, the calculations.
“I should take her back to Miss Sinclair’s parents—”
Autumn tensed beside me. “No, please. Don’t take her away.”
He glanced at me, then back at her.
I kept my voice even. “She’s been with Miss Jones for a while now. They’ve bonded. She saved Miss Jones, and Miss Jones saved her. The dog’s not just evidence, deputy.”
He held up a hand, his tone patient. “Let me finish, Mr. Powell.”
I bit back my next words.
He explained, “Miss Sinclair’s parents…they’re not that fond of the dog. Grief’s a strange thing. They blamed the animal for their daughter’s disappearance. Said she had a habit of running off, playing hide and seek.”
I rubbed Autumn’s hand. Lulu had been playful, but she never wandered far from Autumn.
“Please, Deputy,” I said again.
A long pause. Then he nodded. “Fine. The dog stays in Idaho Falls. But if I need anything—tracking, behavioral assessment, whatever—she comes into custody. Understood?”
Autumn bowed her head, tension seeping from her shoulders. I put an arm around her. “She’ll be okay, sweetheart,” I murmured.
The old deputy tapped his fingers on the desk. Back to business. “All right. This man you saw buryin’ the duffel, what’s his story?”
Autumn inhaled, steadying herself. “He saw me watching. When I ran, he opened fire.”
Boone sharpened instantly. “He had a weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Were you hit? Did you receive medical treatment?”
“He missed,” she said. “I had other injuries. Buffaloberry Hill Hospital patched me up. But I never took a bullet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Boone stared into the distance, like a hound picking up a scent. Then his focus snapped back to her. “Did that man ever catch up with you?”
“No. I ran far enough. But the dog, Lulu…she found me later and stayed with me.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Six foot, thereabout. Lanky. And the way he moved,” she explained, “I mean, his neck…he barely turned his head. It was stiff, like he couldn’t look over his shoulder.”
Boone’s eyes sharpened. He folded his arms, listening closer now. “Could’ve been an old injury. Could be fresh. Either way, it tells me something. If he’s got limited movement, that’s a physical marker we can use. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He then pulled out a topographic trail map and unfolded it on the desk. “As best you can, show me where you saw him bury the bag. This is the trailhead.” He tapped the map with his pen, orienting her.
Autumn studied it for a moment, then pointed to a spot.