The Branson Beauty (22 page)

“Where are you going?” Danielle asked again, reaching across the little table to clutch Chad's jacket sleeve.

“Somewhere. Doesn't matter.” He tried to dislodge Danielle's hand from his arm. “I've gotta go. I'm gonna be late.”

Late for what? Danielle upped her crying a notch to near-wail. Everyone in the shop had stopped even pretending to do anything but watch the production. Chad, looking around frantically, turned a little too far around in his chair and met Hank's gaze over the newspaper's edge. His jaw dropped for a split second and then he ripped his arm away from Danielle's grasp and bolted for the door.

Well, that is certainly the sign of a guilty mind, Hank thought as he tossed away the newspaper and lunged after him. Friends of a dead girl with nothing to hide did not take off at the sight of a cop.

Chad pushed chairs into Hank's path as he made for the door. Wood clattered against the hard linoleum floor, and Danielle let out a genuine shriek. Hank jumped over one upended chair but got the next one directly in the shins as Chad heaved it back toward him. Swearing, Hank shoved it aside and kept after his quarry, who had made it to the door.

They went through it seconds apart, ripping off the jingle bell as they burst out of the coffee shop. Hank reached out, his hand millimeters from the leather jacket. Then Chad turned on the speed. His long legs stretched out, seemingly covering yards with each stride. Hank dug in. He was not going to let someone outrun him. Not on this case.

Chad sprinted around piles of snow in the parking lot and onto busy Glenstone Avenue. Tires started squealing as drivers slammed on their brakes. Hank plunged into the traffic, right in front of a sedan that swerved to miss him and crashed into the curb. A quick running burst got him across a lane just in front of a delivery truck. The wash tugged on his windbreaker and almost broke his stride. He paid no attention, all of his focus on putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. The cold air refused to travel very far into his lungs. All he could hear were the rasping gasps in his throat. And all he could see was the black jacket in front of him.

Chad made it across the street and looked to be heading for the mall. Hank knew he had only the nice flat parking lot left to catch him. If the jerk got into the mall crowded with shoppers, Hank would never find him. He lengthened his stride, and the overtime schedules, the insubordinate employees, the political pressure—they all fell away. And the jacket got closer.

Chad reached the doors. He shoved a guy out of the way, yanked one open, and slipped inside. By nothing but luck, it happened to be a disabled power-assist door. Triggered by Chad's yank, it swung wide open, and Hank tore right through. The seconds gained were all he needed. He launched himself at Chad.

He got his arms around those long legs and they both hit the ground. Chad smacked against the shiny floor, and Hank could hear the wind knock out of him with an explosive sigh.

“Chad Sorenson, you are under arrest.” The last word caught in his raspy throat and he gasped for a minute before he was able to get his breathing under control. He used the time to dig his knee into his suspect's back and admire the scuffs now decorating the leather jacket. He shifted in order to get the handcuffs out of the holster on his belt and stopped at the collective gasp that arose.

He looked up for the first time and saw that he was surrounded. About a hundred people stood around him, many balancing packages, all of them staring at his right arm. He realized that the windbreaker had ridden up as he reached for his cuffs, making his gun visible.

And then he realized that he was a wheezy, unshaven guy wearing an old wool hat and a crappy windbreaker. And he was sitting on a well-groomed, expensively clothed kid with movie-star looks, who was beginning to moan theatrically. And since he was in southern Missouri, he'd put money on the fact that he wasn't the only one here with a gun. Odds were that at least two or three concealed carries stood in his audience. He saw a guy to his left reach toward his waistband, and Hank quickly raised both of his arms out to the sides. He identified himself and said—looking directly at the guy to his left—that he was going to slowly pull out his identification. Once he did, the crowd began to mutter excitedly. The guy to the left stepped forward and examined his badge closely. He gave a nod, and Hank got a spontaneous smattering of applause. That's a new one, he thought as he was finally able to cuff Chad and haul him to his feet.

It took twenty minutes to get back to his car, between explaining everything to mall security and walking all the way back across the parking lot. This time, he used the crosswalk.

Chad said nothing until Hank guided him head down into the backseat.

“What am I under arrest for?”

Hank smiled as he leaned down toward the car so they were at the same eye level.

“Resisting arrest.”

“You were going to arrest me before?”

“Well, no. Not until you ran.” Before he'd run, Hank had nothing solid enough to connect him with Mandy's murder. He still didn't, but now he could keep Chad in one of his nice, new jail cells until he found something.

“So…” The kid interrupted his thoughts. “How could I be resisting an arrest that wasn't going to happen?”

Hank grinned. “I've always liked the lack of logic, myself. Never seems to faze a judge, though. So you might as well get comfy. You're going to be my guest for a while. Now,” he said as he slammed the door in Chad's face and turned toward the strip mall, “I'm going to get some coffee.”

 

CHAPTER

19

Hank's main office voice mail had four calls from different TV stations and two from the kid at the
Daily What's-It
, which didn't even come out every day, so how was Hank supposed to take it seriously? He paused for a moment, then wrote down the kid's callback number. He at least had made an effort to cultivate Hank as a source after the county commission had appointed him sheriff. He showed up at the Forsyth office pretty regularly, and he handled the police blotter with more flair than Hank would have expected of somebody so young at such a rinky-dink paper.

Hank didn't like him enough to give out his cell number, though. That was sacrosanct, and that was why the kid had been forced to leave a voice mail just like the yahoos from TV. Now, Hank knew those people didn't care about you at all until something big happened. Then they were in your face with their highlighted hair and their Channel Twelve windbreakers. Gave him indigestion. Up in KC, the policy had been to avoid antagonizing them, then politely pawn them off on the public information officer. As the Branson County Sheriff's Department had no PIO—heck, there weren't even enough deputies to adequately staff a murder investigation—he had no one he could pass them to. But, he thought with a smile, as I am now the boss, I can make my own rules. And, he decided as he walked down the hall to the break room and poured the first cup of coffee from the fresh pot, his first revised media relations directive would be that he was allowed to blithely ignore anyone with a satellite truck.

He walked to the interview room where he'd left Chad Sorenson and considered him from behind the two-way mirror. The kid sprawled casually in the hard plastic chair, one arm thrown over the back and his legs stretched out in front of him. But his right heel was doing a quick tap on the floor, and his jaw was clenched so tightly that Hank could see the muscles quivering.

Good.

He went in and sat down at the table across from the kid. And waited. Chad started to sit up straight, but then thought better of it and forced himself into nonchalance again.

“What do you want with me, man?”

Hank took a sip of coffee and just stared at him.

“What? I didn't do anything wrong. I want a lawyer.”

“If you didn't do anything wrong, why do you want a lawyer?”

Chad glared at him. “I'm not some country bumpkin idiot. That shit won't work on me. I have the right to a lawyer.”

Hank took another sip of coffee. Chad shifted in his seat. Apparently appearing so relaxed took a lot of effort. His jaw muscles trembled. Hank waited.

“What do I tell him—when I call? I'm charged with resisting arrest?”

Sip. “Yep.”

“That's it?”

“Yep.”

Chad really did relax at that. His foot stopped tapping and his jaw slackened. Hank put down his coffee cup.

“For now.”

Chad's eyes widened.

“I'm not done with you.” Hank leaned forward over the table. “You were running for a reason, and I think it has to do with a dead girl on a boat.”

Chad recoiled in shock, which was exactly Hank's intent. He couldn't ask the punk any questions, but he could ensure that the time he spent waiting for his lawyer was passed in a state of extreme agitation. He stood.

“Someone will come and escort you to your jail cell. You will stay there until you see a judge about bail. And since it's five
P.M.
, that won't be until tomorrow. So sleep tight.”

He walked out without a backward glance.

*   *   *

Hank's legs and his feet hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure blisters were starting to form on his heels. He stuck them even closer to the fire and wiggled his toes. That prompted a giggle from behind his easy chair. Maribel poked her head around and grinned at him. “Hi,” she said, as she crawled into his lap. “Mommy said you were tired, and I should come check on you.” She eyed him critically. “You do look tired. Did you take your nap today? Benny didn't. That's why he had to go to bed early. Grandpop said he was almost as grouchy as you've been lately.”

Nice. Thanks, Dunc. Hank leaned back as his daughter chattered away about her day, and looked around the room. His easy chair on one side of the fireplace, and Dunc's on the other. The couch positioned against the far wall and his beloved stereo system along the opposite one. He'd bought it back when it made sense to pay good money for good speakers, when bigger was better. And back when he was single—when deciding what to spend good money on was still his decision. He'd never admit it out loud, but that was why he'd fought to put it here in the main room. A little declaration of independence.

The built-in bookshelves were packed with Dunc's albums. He'd been delighted when he figured out that his record player would hook into Hank's system, and Hank had to admit, Johnny Cash did sound pretty good coming out of his speakers.

But right now, it became blissfully quiet. Maribel, worn-out from her busy four-year-old's day, had fallen asleep on his chest. He looked into the fire, burning briskly in the huge river rock fireplace. It took up the entire back wall, except for the tall windows on either side looking out into the woods that made up his backyard. Hand-built out of local stone by the original owner, it was a one-of-a-kind. It was what had sold him on the house.

Well, that and the separate bed and bath for Duncan, tucked far away down in the basement. Maggie had been worried it would be too isolated, that it would send the wrong message. Hank had pointed out that they were both giving up jobs in Kansas City and moving down here in order to take her father in, and if he didn't get that message, they might as well forget the whole thing.

Of course, they were also sending a message to themselves, and they both knew it. What they had been doing was not working. A police detective and a surgeon did not lead calm, scheduled lives. They got home late, they got called out in the middle of the night, they forgot to pick up the groceries. And they couldn't find child care that was able to handle that. No one could. Unless you had a live-in grandparent who doted on the two children you didn't have enough time for. So they moved. And they didn't talk about it.

Maribel shifted on Hank's chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his still-unshaven cheek on the top of her head. Maggie tiptoed out from the kitchen and waved his cell phone at him, mouthing “Sheila.” He thought for a moment and then shook his head. He pointed down at Maribel and then toward the bedrooms. She nodded and took the phone back into the kitchen. Just as quietly, he rose from the easy chair and carried his girl to bed.

*   *   *

“Well, I've finally sorted out the mess you made of the schedule,” Sheila said.

Hank thanked her and moved to hang up the phone.

“Not so fast,” she said, even though she obviously could not see him reaching for the end button. “Most everybody's back where they're supposed to be, although you're going to have to find an extra twenty grand out of the budget somewhere to pay for all the overtime you've already done.”

That meant going to the county commission. Hank felt sick.

“So, everybody's back on regular shifts, except we're short one deputy for tonight's graveyard. I haven't been home in three days, and Tyrone can't survive more than two by himself. He's probably eaten nothing but cereal since I left.” That didn't sound like a bad thing to Hank, and he doubted that Tyrone much minded, either. But his wife obviously did. “So I'm going home. And that means you're going to have to do it.”

Hank stood there on his aching feet and looked around his nice cozy kitchen. Then he did hit the end button.

*   *   *

He took two-lane Highway 248 north out of town, into one of his favorite parts of the county. All sorts of hilly forest, and once he got past the Ozark Mountain Highroad and onto 160, well, that was when it got entertaining. Turn down one side road and you were in a community of huge new mansions, with broad lawns, three-car garages, and elegant brick façades. Turn down another one and you were in the middle of a mobile home park, with junk cars, metal awnings, and the only bricks around propping up the sagging corners of the double-wides.

He cruised through a neighborhood of McMansions, most of which had their security lights blazing. It certainly helped in a neighborhood with no streetlights. The new version of country living, he supposed. He turned the squad car around in a cul-de-sac and was heading out when something darted across the road. He slammed on the brakes and slid across the road, plowing into a snowbank on the opposite side. If he'd been going just a little bit faster, he might have managed to do a complete 360, which would have been fun. As it was, he forced open his door against the snow and got out to survey the damage. The bank had actually cushioned the blow—only the left front had really hit the snow. He was contemplating whether he would need to push it out, or if he could get away with just putting the car in reverse, when he sensed something behind him, watching.