Chapter 29 Jagg
JAGG
After following Sunny home, I headed back to Frank’s Bar, where I was greeted like a bad rash.
Still, my little display had rattled the crowd enough that I got a confession in under five minutes.
According to Sandy, the waitress, the overweight redneck was the one who keyed Sunny’s truck.
So, I drove to his house, dragged him out of bed by his hair and fined him five hundred bucks—because a broken nose just wasn’t good enough.
I’d gone to bed with visions of Sunny Harper—legs around my waist, curls in my face.
By sunrise, I was behind my desk, coffee in hand.
The morning was spent catching up; the afternoon, at Julian Griggs’ autopsy.
The temperature hit ninety-eight by noon, and the dress shirt I’d thrown on felt like a straitjacket.
Funerals and autopsies were the only times I wore button-ups.
I’d rolled up my sleeves halfway through the Y-incision, but it didn’t help.
I’d been in a constant state of damp all day.
I’d sat through dozens of autopsies, and while child cases were always the worst, one where the victim’s face was blown off came close. Jessica Heathrow, our ME, didn’t bother softening the blow. “Helps light a fire under an investigation,” she always said—and she wasn’t wrong.
Griggs had died from a single shot to the head. Scratches and bruises on his torso backed up Sunny’s story that he’d attacked her—but didn’t help prove someone else had intervened and pulled the trigger.
Ballistics was still pending to confirm whether the casing matched Sunny’s gun. I hadn’t heard back from the art investigator Briana Morgan, Sunny’s father Arlo Harper, or the prison warden overseeing Kenzo Rees.
And I was no closer to finding the Black Bandit.
Next stop was Donny’s Diner for a side of gossip and some food.
Donny’s was packed with both locals and tourists in town for the Moon Magic Festival. Calls to the station were up more than fifty percent. The heatwave, the looming full moon, and the festival energy had the whole place buzzing like a live wire.
I’d just made it to the corner of the counter when—
“Detective Max Jagger.” The southern accent was as thick and slow as the syrup on the plate next to me.
I turned to Mrs. Berkovich, the town’s unofficial watchdog, gossip queen, and moral compass—tilted permanently south.
She had a talent for showing up at the worst possible times and delivering the worst possible news with the glee of a schoolyard tattletale.
Everyone in Berry Springs groaned when they saw her coming.
My appetite vanished.
“Ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me now, son. What’re you and the other police boys doin’ to keep these hippies under control?
Saw two of ‘em sleeping on the square last night. Right there against the fountain. Probably smoking dope and conjurin’ up some spell for another Slayin’ in the Park.
I spent this mornin’ cleaning my shotguns.
” She squinted. “I want them out of here. The whole damn town smells like patchouli.”
My gaze flickered to the gold cross around her neck. A forgiving God, indeed.
“Are they bothering you personally, Mrs. Berkovich?”
She lifted her brows with an attitudinal shrug. “All I know is ever since these beatniks came to town, something’s been eating the flowers on my front porch. All my plants, close to death.”
“You think the hippies are eating your front porch flowers?”
She scowled. “They eat all sorts of weird natural stuff.”
“So do deer, Mrs. Berkovich.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll shoot to kill next—”
“Hold on there, Annie Oakley. Stop. I’ll drive by your house the next few evenings. Keep your sawed-off shotgun away from the windows and under your pillow where it belongs.”
She lifted her chin and nodded. “Thank you, son. By the way, I ran into Patricia yesterday.”
I stilled, no way on earth had I heard that correctly. I turned fully.
“You say Patricia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My mother?”
“You got more than one, son? Hell, wouldn’t surprise me these days.”
“What was she doing in town?”
“Ahhh, guess you didn’t know.” Mrs. Berkovich’s eyes sparked, sensing gossip like stink on pig. “Said she was lookin’ for houses.”
God himself could have walked through the door and I wouldn’t have been more surprised.
“Looking for houses? Here?”
“Yep. Mentioned she tried to call you a few times, no answer. Asked how you’ve been doin.’ I figured she’d paid you a visit after that.”
No, Patricia Jagger knew better than to knock on my front door. Although, I realized then that her increased—unanswered—calls must have been because of her pending visit.
Should’ve changed my damn number.
“Well, lock up your husband.” I said. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Berkovich.”
I turned back to the counter, feeling the woman’s eyes burning a hole into my back. Jagger family drama. Add it to the list of crap I had to deal with that day.
A shoulder nudged into my arm. I took a step back, cocked a brow and watched Louis Smith, the town’s plumber, shoot me a glance sharp enough to cut glass.
Food. I just wanted some damn food.
I maneuvered my way to the only open stool in the middle of the counter.
“Seat’s taken.”
I tilted my head to the side, my patience officially obliterated.
“Is it?”
“That’s right,” Bob Powell, a local farmer, sipped his coffee without gracing me a glance.
“By who, Mr. Powell?”
“Ain’t none of your business, Detective.”
I stepped forward, nudging two truckers out of the way.
“You got something to say to me, Bobby?”
“Yeah, son, I do.” The old man turned on his stool, coffee in one hand, the other sliding to his lap. I kept my eye on it. “I got a problem with you busting Cowboy Billy’s nose last night at Frank’s.”
“Do ya now? You’re gonna have a bigger problem if one fingernail touches the gun you’ve got on your belt.”
He sneered, pulled his hand away. “Billy wasn’t causin’ no harm, Jagg.”
“He was drunk and bullying an innocent bystander.”
“Innocent bystander? Is that right? Was innocent bystanding what that white witch was doing when she put a bullet in Pastor Griggs’ son’s face?”
I leaned forward. “Bite your tongue old man.”
“Ah, look who’s finally decided to respect women.” He chuckled. “Figured after what your mama—”
The moment I lunged forward, two arms wrapped around my waist and heaved me off my feet.
Colson’s deep voice vibrated in my ear. “Say one more word, Jagg, and I’ll throw you through these windows. I’m not fucking kidding.”
I was pulled through the front door, where a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk.
Shit.
Colson grabbed my elbow and yanked me to the side of the building. I jerked my arm away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He threw his hands up.
“I can’t. I can’t do this right now. I’ve got a pregnant insomniac at home waiting for her biscuits and sausage, blueberry double stack, cheese grits, T-bone steak, and extra-large chocolate milkshake.
I don’t have time or patience to deal with your antics or try to figure out why you’re so hellbent on sabotaging your career—”
Saved by my ringing phone. I yanked it from my pocket, glanced at the name, then looked at Colson. “Since I’m causing you so much trouble, I guess I’ll get the hell out of your way, then. Enjoy your pancakes.”
He muttered something as I pushed past him, ignoring the stares from the windows. The gossips should thank me for giving them something else to talk about for the evening.
I answered the call as I slid into my Jeep.
“Thanks for calling me back.” I fired up the engine.
“Sorry it took a while. Had a financial review to prepare for.”
“Prisons get enough of tax payers’ money.”
“Wardens don’t. Anyway, what can I do for ya?”
“Kenzo Rees. Does that name ring a bell?” I asked.
“Does botulism make you vomit?”
“More pain than vomit, actually.”
“You’ve had botulism?”
“Mongolia isn’t known for its sanitation standards.”
“Damn, dude. I sometimes forget you were a SEAL.” Wish I could. “Anyway, yeah, what’s got you hunting down Rees?”
“I’ve got a case that Rees is loosely linked to. His former girlfriend was recently attacked in a city park. Does the name Sunny Harper ring a bell?”
“Sure does. Rees wrote her a few letters the first few weeks of his sentence.”
“Letters? You mean, mail?”
“Yep. We still check all the incoming and outgoing mail. Some prisons don’t. We do.”
“What did they say?”
“Short of it, he was going to kill her. Finish the job when he got out. Blamed her for making him hit her and for getting thrown in jail.”
My pulse kick-started. “Did she see them? The letters?”
“Hell no. I’ll have to check, but I think it was only two letters total. We showed the prosecutor, addressed it with Rees, and it stopped. Guy was crazy the first few months of going in. The letters are still in his file.”
“I want to see them. I’d like anything you can give me on him.”
I pulled onto Main Street and immediately clocked the change.
The Moon Magic Festival protesters had doubled—maybe tripled—since I passed through thirty minutes ago. But it wasn’t just the numbers that were different. The tone had shifted.
Gone were the handmade signs with clever slogans and glitter glue. These weren’t innocent protests anymore. The chants were louder now, angrier. Fear had crept in, sharp and raw, like the heat pressing down from the sun overhead.
One woman stood on a milk crate in front of the courthouse steps, waving a Bible in one hand and a poster in the other that read:
“The Pastor’s Son Was Killed—Who’s Next?”
Other signs followed suit:
“Shut It Down Before More Blood Is Spilled.”
“Witchcraft Kills.”
“Keep Our Town Safe.”
People weren’t just protesting anymore—they were accusing.
“No problem,” the warden said, “I’ll get you whatever you need as long as it doesn’t involve that satan spawn coming back here.”
I swerved off of Main Street, hit the brakes. “What do you mean, coming back here?”
A brief pause, then, “Sorry, guess I thought that’s why you were calling. Kenzo Rees was released eight days ago.”