One Deadly Sin (40 page)

“Does your aunt Ellen know about this?” Holt asked.

Terry looked horrified. “Hell, no.”

Holt tapped his foot. Observed Terry sitting there. He had a two-day growth on his chin, a defensive look on his face. How Ellen Garvey could harbor even a small bit of affection for her nephew…

“Did you see Runkle on the day he died?” Holt asked.

Terry grew wary at the name of the dead real estate agent. “Sure didn’t.”

“Where were you that afternoon?”

Terry’s eyes darted around the room. “Working at the motel. Call Prewitt. He’ll tell you. I asked for an advance and the bastard wouldn’t give it to me.”

Holt pursed his lips. “Runkle had your address on his appointment book. Why is that, Terry? Are you sure you didn’t have a meeting with him?”

“Hell, yes, I’m sure. I don’t have meetings. I don’t know why he had my address. Maybe he saw Aunt Ellen. She’s been talking about selling the house. Maybe he met with her that day. Did you ask her?”

“I talked to her. She didn’t mention it,” Holt said dryly.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t!” He shot Holt another defiant look.

“Funny how your name keeps turning up, though,” Holt said. “First with the reverend. Now with Runkle.”

“I didn’t do anything to either one. I swear!” He jerked to his feet. “Can I go now?”

Holt held out his hand, fingers flicking a “gimme” gesture. “I want the key to the church.”

“But I need it for the morning. So I can get in early and vacuum.”

“Stop by my office. You can get it there. And return it there, too.”

Terry looked pained, but he dug in his pocket and slammed the key into Holt’s hand. “What about my papers?”

“They’re not your papers, are they?” Holt said. “They belong to Hammerbilt.”

“But—”

“Get going before I arrest you.”

“For what?”

“I’ll think of something.”

Terry shot Holt one last complaining look, but the chief took a threatening step toward him, and Terry scurried out the door.

“Why do you think Hannah Garvey hid this?” Edie asked.

“Maybe they weren’t hidden. Just stored. We’re not dealing with a full tool box here, far as Terry’s concerned.”

“But why would she store them? Keep them even?”

“Who knows? When my father retired he brought a shitload of stuff with him. Most of it’s still in boxes in the garage.”

The mention of his father sobered them. Edie took Holt back to the municipal building where he locked the file inside a set of steel drawers.

“I spoke with the head of Hammerbilt’s accounting department,” Edie said. “Maybe he can figure out what those statements are.” She scribbled Arlen Mayborne’s name on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Holt, who promised to call the plant in the morning.

Then there was nothing left to do but go home. They looked at each other from across the room, the same question burning in both their faces.

Holt came toward her. “Edie—”

She stepped back. “Thanks for my bike.”

He kept on coming. “Give me another ride.”

She moved back. “Not tonight.”

“You’re not going to make me sleep here, are you?”

“You come home with me, you know where we’ll end up.”

He closed in. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

Her heels backed up against the wall. “Yeah, that’s because you have some bizarre toss-me-over-the-ledge death wish.”

She was trapped now, and he touched her hair, pushing a strand back. His head lowered, his mouth danced nearer and nearer.

With a groan, she ducked under his arm. Backed away fast. “Stop it. If you can’t keep yourself out of trouble, I’ll do it for you.” She practically ran out the door.

“Gee, thanks Mom,” he called after her, but didn’t follow.

Free, she ran outside, revved her bike, and took off before she changed her mind.

The next morning Edie woke thinking about Holt. She lay in the bed in Amy Lyle’s house, eyes closed, conjuring up a picture of him. His smell, his taste. Morning light filtered in through her closed lids, and she held the sensations tight, locking them into memory against the day she might be far away and need them.

The specter of prison hovered like a looming storm. The kind that darkened the sky for hours before the rain finally hit. She’d been right to keep her distance. But man, it would have been nice to have had him beside her in the morning.

She dragged herself into her clothes, made coffee, and drank it in Amy Lyle’s kitchen. The note Amy had left was still on the counter, and Edie fingered it. She called Amy on her cell, and when she didn’t answer left a message thanking her. “Dinner’s on me tonight, so let me know what time works for you.”

She disconnected and went outside to check on her bike. Despite the rough treatment, she looked good. No damage, real or imagined. Edie rode over to Myer’s, loaded up with cleaning supplies, and spent the morning wiping down the grit, polishing the chrome, and making Beauty shine. She stopped for lunch, finished off the casserole, then mounted the bike and set off.

The power of the machine rumbled beneath her, the hot summer air blew against her face and breasts. It seared her lungs, fueled her brain. The roar of speed rekindled her strength, as if she could navigate through life like that, always in command, always choosing her destination, how far and how fast. The sun was out, the sky a glorious blue, and the road beckoned.

A phone call woke Holt. His eyes were gritty and his face in the mirror over the sink was stubbled and worn, but he threw some cold water over himself and took off for Berding. The same mechanic came out from under a car and greeted him.

“Tow job,” he said, pointing to the black pickup parked against the side of the garage. “Got the call early this morning from THP. State trooper found it abandoned. Thought you might be interested.”

Interested was an understatement. The pickup was full-size, it was the right color, and the front end was smashed and flattened.

“You open this?” he asked the mechanic.

“No, sir,” the mechanic said. “Didn’t touch nothing except what we needed to tow it home.”

He thanked the mechanic, got out a pair of latex gloves from his trunk, snapped them on, and opened the driver’s-side door.

First thing Holt saw were rust stains on the floor of the driver’s seat. Blood? He hoped so. Returning to the trunk, he got out his evidence kit, bagged some scrapings. He woke Sam up, gave her the VIN number, and told her to get down to the office and trace it. While he was waiting for a call back, he used a small, high-intensity flashlight to examine the rest of the interior. The force of the crash had snapped open the glove compartment and he could see it was empty. But he got several good prints off the cover. He ran the light up the seatback and seat, looking for extraneous fibers or cuts in the fabric. He felt for lumps or unusual shapes. Nothing front or back.

He’d just finished checking the truck bed and was under the hood when Sam’s call came.

“Car’s been reported stolen.”

“Where?”

“Memphis.”

Holt’s pulse picked up. He still had plenty of contacts in Memphis.

“Want me to follow up?”

“No, I got it.”

She made an irritated sound, but he was still only prepared to trust her so much. “I saw Runkle’s appointment book got turned in. Nice of you to let me know.”

“Look, it only came last night,” she protested. “Was going to call this morning and tell you.”

He didn’t say anything. Was trying to decide whether to believe her when she sighed, and said, “Watch your six, Chief.”

Right. She was one to talk. If he’d been watching his back, she couldn’t have slipped the dagger in. But he heard the regret in her voice, and knew one of these days she’d say so. And in the meantime, he still needed her.

So he kept his mouth shut and disconnected. Stared at the evidence bags he’d collected. Questions swirled in his head, and he headed for his car. Faster he dropped off the bags, faster he’d get answers.

51

E
die flew down the highway, following the curve of the country road. Patches of woods eased into plowed fields. Big black Anguses grazed against the green, as calm and content as she was exhilarated. The occasional home zipped by. Barns, pickups, horses.

All rooted to the earth she zoomed over.

She’d left Redbud in the dust behind her. Was determined to go as far as her gas tank would take her before turning back. Breathing in the hot stream as the air attacked her, she mocked her newly discovered inner Girl Scout. Because she could just keep going, couldn’t she? Dye her hair, change her name. Run.

She smiled to herself. That Holt was a bad influence. Him and his laughing green eyes. His daughter, his parents, his own deep roots.

Running was the Swanford way. But she came to Redbud to challenge that tradition. To stand and fight.

But she didn’t know it would also mean stand and die.

She watched the road race by, tempted to slink away. Avoid the consequences. The razor wire, the institutional food, the kiddie tables. The whole enforced confinement of prison. She wanted to be here, free, soaring down the road.

She heard the siren then, checked her mirrors. Blue lights coming up fast behind her.

She pulled over. Watched Agent Lodge get out of his car and walk toward her.

Damn, damn, double damn.

“Turn around,” he ordered. No howdy-do, no nothing.

Edie obeyed, groaned when the cuffs went around her wrists. “What’s that for?”

“Stealing that bike and taking off. I can get your bail revoked for that.” He patted her down, divested her of wallet, keys, cell phone.

“I didn’t steal the bike. And I was just going for a ride.”

“Uh huh.” He strong-armed her toward his car.

“Wait a second. What about my bike?”

“I’ll send someone to tow it in.”

Great. And in the meantime, it was free bait for anyone who came along.

“Look, call Holt. He’ll tell you I didn’t steal the bike.”

“Holt?” Lodge grunted. “That should be Chief Drennen. You got that man’s pants so tied up he’d say anything.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t—”

“You better hope you’re lying, because I find out Chief Drennen released that vehicle to you, I’ll charge him with aiding and abetting.” He stuffed her into the backseat of the car. “Now shut up and sit back. I hear another sound from you, I’ll add resisting arrest to all the other trouble you’re in.”

She gave the back of his seat an angry, frustrated kick and flounced back against the seat. Stupid son of a pig farmer, fish-faced frog wart, cocksucking asshole. But she didn’t say so out loud.

He’d scared her about Holt. Even with all her good intentions she always seemed back here, his life in her hands.

Once they arrived in Redbud, Lodge dragged her out of the car, pushed her into the municipal building, past the mayor’s office, and through the door that said Redbud Police.

Fish was there and rose to her feet when Edie stumbled into view. The flash of surprise in her eyes was quickly covered by professional impassiveness.

Lodge threw the deputy the keys. “Lock her up,” he said.

Sam obeyed with typical efficiency. She walked Edie through the back door to the cell room. The minute they were alone, Edie stopped.

“Call Holt,” she whispered.

Sam rolled her eyes. “The farther he stays away from you the better.” She pushed Edie forward, but she dug in her heels.

“Just do it. Tell him not to let Lodge know he released my bike to me.”

Sam’s brows rose.

“Lodge is going to ask him, okay? So tell Holt not to admit it. Lodge threatened to charge him if he does.”

Sam frowned. “But he did release the bike to you?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point. Tell him not to—”

“And you’d take the rap for stealing it?”

“I’m already in trouble. What’s a little more?”

Sam eyed her. Nodded forward.

Edie walked into the cell. “So you’ll call him?”

Sam closed the steel door and locked it. Edie clutched the bars.

“You’ll do it?”

Sam walked away.

“Wait a minute. Deputy! Sam! Call him, Sam! Call him!”

But she disappeared behind the door, leaving Edie alone in the cell.