Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
DISHMAN LEAVES MY SIDE almost as soon as he’s dropped the missing-finger bomb.
Refusing to miss anything, I hang around Dean Griffon’s property long enough that I start to get hungry.
Just as I’m considering heading out, Chief Dishman and Gavin emerge from the garage.
I edge closer and catch Gavin saying that their swabs found traces of fentanyl and heroin in the hidden compartment.
“We also got remnants of marijuana,” he says. “Wrapped up and stored in the RV’s rooftop cargo box.”
“It’s not much to go on,” Dishman says, more to himself than Gavin. “I doubt it’ll even be enough to get the DEA interested.”
“What about Billy Shepherd?” I ask. “Was he connected to Griffon?”
They both turn toward me and Dishman says, “Miss Gore—”
At the same time Gavin answers, “Dean was Billy Shepherd’s mechanic. He’s been fixing Billy’s speed bikes for years.”
“What?” Dishman says, obviously surprised.
“My cousin lives out Billy’s way,” Gavin explains. “She told me today that at least now that Billy’s dead she won’t have to hear him and Dean racing around on those bikes anymore.”
“Okay,” I say. “So, whether Billy’s running the family drug ring or not, there’s a direct line from Billy Shepherd to Dean Griffon to Ezra King.”
“Miss Gore—” Dishman tries again.
This time, I cut him off. “Wait, just listen: Ezra King is dead. And inside Ezra King’s RV are traces of multiple drugs.
And now Dean Griffon, who went on revival trips with him, and who stored and repaired the RV for him, has been murdered.
And both of them are found dead on the same weekend that Billy Shepherd—the possible heir to the Shepherd pot dynasty—is beaten and burned to death with his finger missing.
Chief, come on, we can work this case together, share information.
You can use my experience. And I could use your access. ”
Dishman narrows his eyes at me and, for just a moment, seems to actually consider it.
Finally, he says, “Miss Gore, you’re not a cop anymore.”
“I’m sort of a cop,” I say.
“We can handle this—”
“It’s going to be a lot easier for all of us if we combine our knowledge,” I say. And it’s true. Private investigators and cops often end up working well together, both sides getting information the other can’t.
Dishman crosses his arms and says, “I appreciate the offer, Miss Gore, but I’m not putting the resources of my department in the hands of someone who can’t follow orders or protocol and will most likely end up contaminating a crime scene because she can’t be bothered to wait around for backup, warrants, or clearance from the proper channels. ”
I let out a frustrated growl, and he continues, “That stunt you pulled with the phone—”
“Was smart,” I say. “And it got us information we’d otherwise have waited weeks for.”
“Miss Gore, go back to Louisville. Tell your client—”
His voice is completely calm, and for some reason, that rankles me even more. “You just can’t admit that you’re out of your depth,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Instead of turning red or shouting at me, Dishman shakes his head and the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “Miss Gore,” he says calmly. “You need to understand something—”
But before he can tell me what that something is, Coroner Bradley comes rumbling up the drive in his big van. He jumps out, carrying his medical bag, and waves at all of us.
“You got another body?” he asks. Gavin points toward the garage.
Bradley’s even more suntanned now, after a morning on the water, than he was when I saw him at the Dairy. His mouth spreads in a dazzling grin and he says, “Well, hell, Miss Gore, you sure do know where the action is, don’t you?”
“Guess so,” I say, falling into step with him and Chief Dishman. We all head toward the side door of the garage.
“What’ve we got here, Chief?” Bradley asks, suddenly all business.
And before I can harangue him again about answering my questions, he ducks under the police tape and disappears into the scene. Chief Dishman follows him and Gavin goes trotting after them.
Left to myself, fed up with the heat, and denied access, I grumble some choice words about small-town coroners and cops and start back to the Bronco. I’m scrounging in my bag for a granola bar I’m sure I left in there a month ago when Dishman jogs up.
“Hey, you too pissed at me to give me a ride to the station?”
“Not even close,” I say, and realize it’s true.
“Thanks, I don’t want to take the cruiser and leave the guys here stranded.”
He climbs in, and as we roar back toward town with the windows down, he says, “Miss Gore, you’re not gonna go off looking for whoever it was that killed Dean Griffon, are you?”
“Of course I am,” I say. “It’s my job.”
“Well, it definitely is not your job.”
“Listen, I’m trying to work with you,” I say.
“But if I can’t do that, I still have to do what I was hired to do.
I’m not going to leave town until I know more about what happened to Ezra King.
And I think whatever happened to him had something to do with whatever happened to Dean Griffon and, probably, Billy Shepherd. ”
“So,” he says. “What’s your next step?”
I snort and say, “Beggars can’t be choosers. If you’re not going to share with me…”
He sighs, says nothing else. Recognizing the stalemate, I shrug and keep driving, thinking about what I need to do next: Find out who the driver of that silver truck on Griffon’s security footage was.
We turn onto a long straight stretch of road, and as we pass a leafy soybean field, Chief Dishman rests his arm on the window frame and lets his hand catch the breeze.
I remember my dad doing the same thing. That same sound of the air cutting around his skin, that same distracted look of wistful longing, that same grasping for something without ever catching it.
Back in town, I pull up to the station and Dishman gets out, shuts the door, and says, “Stay out of trouble, Miss Gore.”
“Annie,” I say. “Call me Annie. And, you too.”
I pull away from the station, weaving around the blocked-off streets, and finally get to the other side of the square.
I park beside the wrecker and see Tina sitting inside the air-conditioned cab, talking on the phone.
The Memorial Day festivities are going even stronger than before and I get out and lean against the Bronco as I watch the crowd.
A different band is playing on the stage, two young women with tattoos and fiddles.
People clap along or dance. Little girls twirl around, spinning in church dresses.
The heavy scents of fairground food, sweat, and spilled beer hang in the humid air.
Tina rolls down her window and shouts at me, “You hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” I answer.
“Good. I wanna hear whatever you found out but I’m starving. Corn dogs and funnel cake can only take a woman so far and I expect you’ve found the best place to eat around here.”
“You know it,” I say. “Follow me.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at Cherry Dairy. It’s packed, as usual, so Tina parks the wrecker in the big field off to the side where several other cars have already taken up space.
The afternoon heat, the drone of the cicadas, it all seems to press in on us as we order from the take-out window and then carry our food around to the picnic tables out back.
We’re just sitting down as Hollis Patton—the motel owner—catches my attention and then swishes through the grass to us, carrying his own greasy white sack of food.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, not waiting for an answer before sitting down.
I introduce him and Tina and then ask him, “You know anyone drives a silver F-150?”
“You want a list?” Hollis scoffs. “Must be nearly half the town.”
“That’s what Dishman said,” I say, as I unwrap my BLT. “I get the feeling he knows more than he’s letting on, but so far he’s not willing to share.”
“Chief’s a real by-the-book type,” Hollis says. “But he’s a good guy.”
I sigh and let myself be distracted by lunch.
The grease from the mayo and bacon soak through the toasted bread and slick my fingers as I take the biggest bite I can manage.
The thick tomato is thin-skinned and full-bodied, acidic and slightly sweet.
The crisp, salty bacon and toasted white bread crunch together with the creamy mayo and I let out a long, low moan.
“Let me ask you something, Hollis,” I say, when my mouth is finally mostly empty. “You know anything about Billy Shepherd?”
“Joel Shepherd’s nephew?” he asks. “He’s the one died in a house fire the other night, right? That’s what I heard.”
“That’s right,” I tell him. “I’m betting he’s linked to my investigation, but Dishman seems guarded where Joel Shepherd’s concerned.”
Hollis nods, solemnly, poking around in his Styrofoam container of fried catfish and hush puppies before he says, “It’s because of what happened. It’s because of what Joel Shepherd did.”
“You mean the pot dealing? The King of Weed thing?”
A bee flies between us and Hollis shoos it gently away before he shakes his head, takes a bite, crunches for a while, then says, “Connected to the pot. See, it was Dishman who brought Shepherd down. He wasn’t chief yet, just an officer.
This was twenty years ago, remember. Back then, Chief Parnell was in charge.
The problem they always had with Joel’s operation was they could never catch him moving any drugs.
I mean, it seemed like they were moving huge quantities of the stuff but no one could figure out how.
Long story short, it was Dishman who figured it out.
He narrowed down the route they were taking and when, how they were moving it in big rigs.
It was his idea to set up a roadblock to catch them. ”
He pauses to take a long swig of his drink, and Tina and I do the same.
Then he says, “But when Joel Shepherd got to that roadblock, he lost his head and charged right through it, knocked a cruiser and an officer out of the way, and kept going. The officer he hit was Allison Parnell.”