One Deadly Sin (30 page)

H
olt wasn’t happy about letting Edie go. He would have felt better with her at his house knowing his dad was there to look out for her. But she was adamant.

“I’m going with Lucy.” They sat on the open back of Lucy’s ancient pickup, and Edie squeezed his hand. Her legs, so much shorter than his, swung back and forth in the night. Lucy had politely made herself scarce, sitting in the truck cab with the windows closed while he and Edie hashed things out. The faint strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd drifted from the radio.

“I don’t like it,” Holt said.

“Yeah, you told me. About a thousand times.”

He slung an arm around her shoulders. Something was going on with her. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. “You sure you’re telling me everything?”

She ducked her head. “I’m telling you I’ll be fine.”

He hugged her closer; the hug turned into a clinch. “Might have to hurt you if you aren’t.”

She pushed him away, jumped off, and he followed her to the cab.

“Be careful,” he said when she’d settled into the seat.

“I’ll take real good care of her,” Lucy said. She handed him a scrap of paper with her address and phone number on it. “You can always reach me at Red’s.”

“Thanks.” Holt pocketed the paper. He closed Edie’s door and watched Lucy drive off.

He spent the ride back to town trying to get Edie out of his head so he could concentrate on Terry Bishop. If he could wrangle a confession out of him Edie would be cleared.

But his thoughts kept circling back to his woman. Her wide, soft mouth, her wild, soft body. The smell of her, spice and rain and exotic promises.

He had no business offering his home to her. She was the main suspect in a series of murders he was investigating. Talk about conflict of interest. But he couldn’t help himself.

Hell, he didn’t want to.

There it was again. That danger. If he kept this up, his job, his entire life in Redbud could be in jeopardy. And it wasn’t just his life. Uprooting Miranda would be more than unkind. Children needed stability.

He pulled up to the square and parked in front of the municipal building. Sat with wrists draped over the steering wheel. Shook his head.

Would you look at him? Thinking about a future with a woman who might not have one. Unless, of course, he could figure out who killed three of Redbud’s most prominent citizens. And it wasn’t her.

Holt heard the wailing while he was still in the municipal building’s hallway. Piercing, off-key, irritating. The awful sound grew louder when he stepped into the office.

Terry Bishop sat in the middle of the room cuffed to a chair, howling like a dog who’d lost his tail. A floppy shirt hung over a wrinkled T-shirt, and his hair was pulled back into a grubby queue, which bounced as he sawed back and forth in the chair, drunk and loopy.

He grinned when he saw Holt. “Hey, Chief! How’s your tattooed lady?” He laughed, and Holt exchanged a glance with Sam, who shrugged.

“Been like this since I picked him up,” she said.

“Where was he?” Holt asked.

“Red’s.”

“How long?”

“Couple of hours, according to Red.”

“And before that?”

“Home. His aunt verified. Said he was at the Cloverleaf earlier today.”

“Hey—I’m right here,” Terry interrupted. “And I ain’t deaf neither.”

Holt turned to him. Terry wanted to talk, Holt would let him. “What were you doing at the motel?”

“Working. Running the vacuum. Like always.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know. When I was done.”

Sam came around the desk and perched on the edge. “Morning, afternoon, evening, Terry.”

Terry responded, but sullenly. “Morning.”

Holt drummed a finger on the back of his chair. So Terry could have seen Holt drop off Edie.

“Did you see Edie Swann there?”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “A little love nest for you and the tattoo—”

“Shut up.” Sam kicked at Terry’s legs, unbalancing him. “Stick to the topic on hand. Did you go back to the motel tonight?”

He glared at her, straightened himself. Suddenly didn’t seem as drunk as he had a minute ago. “Why should I?”

“Did you go back to the motel?” Holt repeated the question with more force.

Terry eyed Holt. “No.”

Holt had had enough. He pushed his chair back and stood, towering over the prisoner. “Take off your shoes.”

Terry looked as if Holt had asked him to take off his head. “What?”

“You heard him,” Sam said. “Take off your shoes.”

Terry grumbled, but used his toes to push his heels out of one, then the other of his cheap sneakers.

Sam picked one up, turned it over. Showed it to Holt. The run-down sneakers had a tread on the bottom. Holt examined the crevices. Found what he was looking for in the second shoe. Buried inside a cranny were dried streaks of red.

He looked from the shoe back to Terry. “You sure you don’t want to tell me where you were before Red’s?”

Terry looked between Holt and Sam and back to Holt.

“Did you go back to the motel, Terry?” Sam asked.

Terry remained silent.

“There’s red paint on the bottom of your shoe,” Holt said. “I bet we send it to the lab, it would match the red paint in Edie Swann’s motel room.”

Terry’s face fell.

“Did you go back to the motel?” Sam asked again.

“I didn’t do it,” Terry said.

“Didn’t do what?” Holt asked.

“Anything! Wreck her room. I found it that way. I swear. I was just going to talk to her. Knocked on the door and it opened.”

“Convenient,” Sam said dryly. “And you just had to go in.”

“I thought she might be hurt or something.”

Sam snorted. “Look at you—a regular good Samaritan.”

Terry glowered at her. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call criminal trespass nothing,” Sam said.

That shut him up.

But Holt needed him talking. “What did you want to speak to Miss Swann about?”

Terry swung his gaze over to Holt. The glower was gone. He shrank in his chair as if trying to disappear. Which told Holt he was on to something.

“You said you wanted to talk to her. That’s why you went over there, right? What about?”

Terry licked his lips.

Holt took his shot. “Something about Hammerbilt, maybe? Something important about the plant?”

Terry’s eyes opened wide. “How did you—” He recovered himself. Straightened a little. Pressed his lips together.

Holt leaned in. “What’s the deep dark secret, Terry?”

They waited. Gave Terry a few moments to think about answering. He didn’t.

Sam threw up her hands. “I don’t think he knows anything. I think he went over there with his mean streak and a can of paint.”

“Shut up,” Terry said to her. “You don’t know nothing about it.”

“I know you,” Sam continued. “I been arresting you on and off for over a year now.”

“What is it, Terry?” Holt said. “Did you go over with paint or with information?”

“Don’t bother,” Sam said to Holt. “We got him for trespassing. Paint on his shoes, we can make a case for the rest.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s the song you always sing,” Sam said. “You’re a drunk, Terry. A drunk and a screw-up.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s got nothing,” Sam said to Holt, and to Terry, up close and in his face. “He is nothing.”

“Shut up!” Terry cried. “I got plenty! And I want something for it! That’s why I went over there, okay? I know she’s got money. She’s been hounding me about the plant. She wants something, she can pay for it.”

Holt exchanged a look with Sam.

“She’s a bartender,” Holt said. “How much money could she have?”

Now that he’d blurted it all out, Terry was like a deflated balloon. “She got money from Lyle. Some kind of big cash thing. The whole town knows. Mrs. Lyle came to the bar and said so.”

“And you were going to extort some of this cash from her in exchange for… what?”

Terry shuffled in his seat. Set his jaw. Holt was tired of the runaround. He grabbed Terry’s chin. “For what?”

Terry yanked his head out of Holt’s grasp. “I don’t know!” He shot Holt a surly look. “I was just going to take the money and get out of town.”

“A drunk
and
a weasel,” Sam said.

“And how about at the church, Terry? You do nothing there, too?”

Terry stared at Holt. A flash of surprise and fear crossed his face.

“Maybe you knew something about the reverend, too. And maybe he didn’t want to pay you.”

Terry shook his head. Violently. “No.”

“You swear this time, too?” Sam said.

“It was her,” Terry cried. “The black angel. She did it. Everyone knows.”

Holt reined in his annoyance. “You see her do it?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So it could’ve been you just as much as Miss Swann.”

“But—”

“Wonder what they’d say at Red’s if they knew you were there, too.”

Terry’s gaze darted around the room. He looked like a trapped rabbit.

Holt stood and nodded to Sam, who uncuffed Terry from the chair.

“You believe me?” Terry was astonished. He rose, rubbing his wrists.

“I don’t know,” Holt said. “I need some time to think about it.”

Sam grabbed Terry’s hands and recuffed him again. Terry yowled. “What the—”

She shoved him toward the back room and the jail cell. “Just making sure we know where we can find you.”

He cursed all the way. Didn’t even shut up after the cell clanked shut. Sam returned, pulling the door between the office and the cell room closed. She could still hear Terry going at it, but the noise was muffled enough to live with.

She checked her hands. No telling where Terry Bishop had been. She went to her desk, found the hand sanitizer, and drenched her hands with it. She was pleased with the way she and Holt had double-teamed Terry. Surely Holt would understand what she’d done on the way over. She’d done it for him. For the team. He’d see that. But despite the assurances to herself, what she’d done was sitting on her like a two-ton mortar.

She bit her lip, looked over at Holt. He was lost in thought, staring at nothing. “So? What do you think?”

His gaze shifted to hers as if he’d heard her voice but not her words. She repeated her question.

“As you so ably put it,” he said, “Terry’s a drunk and a weasel. He could have gone to the motel for the money, like he said, got pissed she wasn’t there, and then wrecked the room.”

Sam nodded. “Wouldn’t put it past him.” She hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject, then just came out with it. “And about the reverend? You weren’t serious, were you? You don’t really think Terry could have killed him?”

Holt rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long, exhausting day, and he looked it. “I wish I knew, Sam.”

See, she said silently. You need help. “What happened with Mrs. Butene?”

Holt recapped his conversation with Hally Butene. It sounded like a lot of nothing to her. “So you’re no closer to figuring out what happened?”

“I’m close enough to eliminate Edie from Butene’s death.”

“But you don’t even know if that’s connected to the three we’re dealing with.”

Holt sank into the chair behind his desk. Leaned back in his usual position but seemed far from relaxed. “No.”

Sam nodded. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her heart was suddenly doing a crazy jig inside her chest.

“Something on your mind?” Holt asked.

How did that man always know what she was thinking? Not much of a poker face where he was concerned. “Not sure you want to hear it.”

He gave her a resigned nod. “Might as well, Sam. Shoot.”

She licked her lips, rolled herself toward Holt. Leaned forward. Told herself it was all for his own good and that he’d thank her. “Leaving aside what happened at the motel, why would Terry have anything to do with killing Reverend Parsley? As far as jobs go, Terry’s not exactly the town workaholic. The reverend goes, maybe so does one of Terry’s few means of employment.”

“So he has no motive.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“What about the blackmail scenario?”

“What blackmail scenario? That’s you reaching for something and coming up with smoke. If you don’t mind me saying. Besides I can see Terry trying to extort cash out of a town newcomer, especially one who’s become a pariah, but a minister? Someone well connected, with position and the power that goes with it? Terry’s not brave enough. And what about Runkle and Lyle? There’s no connection between Terry and either of them.”

Holt jerked his chair to an upright position. Picked up a pencil and started tapping it on its eraser against the desk. Not a good sign.

“So, what are you saying?”

She took the plunge. “There’s only one person connected to all three deaths. Only one person with any kind of motive in all three deaths. You know it. I know it. The whole town knows it.”

“We don’t make cases based on what the town ‘knows’ or thinks it knows.”

Sam shook her head. Didn’t want to say it, but had to. “You’re too tied up with her. You’re not thinking straight.”

“All we have is circumstantial.”

“Better than the big nothing we’ve got on anyone else.”

He jolted to his feet. Shoved hands in his pockets. Paced away. She knew she could get him to see what was right in front of his face.

“Mayor called while you were out. He scheduled an emergency council meeting tomorrow. He wants you there to report on your progress. And he wants you to call in the state.”

Holt stopped. Looked over at her as if an IED had exploded inside him. “The hell I will!” In two steps he was at her desk, braced against the edge, looming over it at her. “She didn’t do it.”

Sam remained motionless. “And you know this because…?”

“Because…” He threw up his hands. “Because I just do.”

She looked at him sadly. “Not good enough. And if you weren’t so tangled up with her, you’d see it wasn’t good enough either.”

“I’m not calling in the TBI and that’s it.”

Sam crossed her arms. Raised her chin and stared him down. Her whole life she’d never gone against a superior officer. But this was different, she reminded himself. This was for his own good. “I figured you’d say that. So I did it for you. They’ll be here tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”