Chapter Thirteen
JB joined Sheriff Davis and Kennett as they walked out the front door of the police station, each with their own look of determination.
“No one goes in my office,” the sheriff shouted over his shoulder to the patrolman guarding his office doorway. “And I mean. No. One.”
“Where we headed?” JB jogged around to the passenger side of the sheriff’s patrol car. Kennett slid into his own cruiser and shadowed along behind.
Sheriff Davis’ hand rested firmly on the wheel. “Joanie’s. Evans will catch us up with his findings before he heads home.”
“I’ve got a few questions for the restaurant workers myself.” JB had more than a few, and there’d better be answers. His brain shouted for him to respect the position he was in. This wasn’t his case, his turf, or even his town anymore. Technically, he wasn’t even a lawman at the moment. What he needed to do was follow the lead of the man who trained him years ago. “That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Figured as much. Don’t overstep your non-position though.” The sheriff grinned as he pulled to a stop in front of Joanie’s Pizza, Pub, and Pool Hall. “Ever sorry you left town? Joined the FBI?”
“In case you hadn’t heard, I quit the FBI the day Marcy got shot. Turned in my service revolver to the deputy. And just handed my shield to Truman.” He eased out the passenger door before he had to answer the real question. “He’ll get it to the right person if something happens.”
The sheriff nodded. He knew Truman’s connection to the FBI. Then he glanced at the gun holstered on JB’s shoulder. “You got a permit to carry that one?”
“Yep. I’ve got a permit for everything I’m carrying.” Of course, improvisation didn’t need a permit. And he’d learned the art of making do with what you’ve got when your life was in the balance.
As his and the sheriff’s breath fogged in the air, JB surveyed everything along the street, mentally shucking the unnecessary back out into the air. When he first started out, the sheriff had taught him the look-and-discard routine on this same street years ago. The system served him well through his undercover work.
Something was there. Something he was missing. Something to start a trail. What? He drew in a deep breath. Where? He looked again.
Joanie’s sat on the end of the 500 block of Main Street, right next door to a family-owned furniture store and across the street from Dee’s Morning Diner. Not much help there. The diner closed at 2 p.m., but maybe the insurance office on the right held an answer. Used to be a receptionist at the front desk by the window. He’d check them later.
Kennett parked his patrol car and sighted in on the same surroundings.
“Well, what do you men see?” Sheriff Davis donned his hat and rested his hand for a brief moment on the butt of his gun holstered at his waist, an assurance check the man was known for, before heading to the front door of Joanie’s restaurant.
JB’s shoulder-holstered Glock was in plain view today. Putting on a Crayton Police jacket would have been misleading, and he’d left his own jacket in his truck at the impound lot. His backup, a .38 Special, was holstered on his inner, left ankle. Hidden under his jeans on the outside of his right calf was a quick-release knife and holder. “Depends on what the workers say?”
The rookie nodded, following behind the sheriff and JB as they entered Joanie’s. Evans met them at the rear of the restaurant, his expression serious and frustrated. The report covered the happenings—food cooked, food bagged, food waiting by register. There had to be more.
Sheriff Davis pulled out his pen and notepad. “Evans. Kennett. One of you check the alley trash cans.”
“Trash cans?” the deputy asked.
“See if our artist dumped the markers in the trash on his way out.” The sheriff glared at the men. “And, one of you get out front. See what you can find out from the customers.”
The two policemen lowered their eyes and scattered in opposite directions.
JB forced a casual tone to his voice. “Evans seems the same as before I left.”
Sheriff Davis glanced at the swinging doorway. “Yep. Still questions anything he hasn’t thought of. Otherwise, he’s one hell of a good deputy. Good man, too.”
“What about Kennett? How long’s he been here?” JB remembered to slip into his conversational stance.
“Rookie’s been here close to a year.”
“Appears to have a good grasp on the community.”
“Came with good references from a sheriff up in Illinois.”
“Why’d he choose here?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Smooth, JB. But you asked one question too many to be passing time.”
JB didn’t care if he was smooth or not. Anybody could be focused on Marcy. “I’m not ruling anyone out I don’t know.”
“It’s not one of my men.” Davis’s tone held authority, conviction, and understanding. “Trust me. I’d know.”
JB scanned the restaurant as the lowering sun glared through from the outside. “Sorry. Next thing you know, I’ll be interrogating dust specks in the air.”
Starting at the front door and working his sight-field around section-by-section, he visually and mentally scrutinized everything. Top to bottom, bottom to top, stool to stool, table to table, booth to booth. He tensed. Coincidences topped the list of things he didn’t like. Convenient details were number two.
Why was the guy in the second booth still in town? Why here? Was he really having pie? Or, rather, conveniently nursing a cup of coffee while he pushed uneaten pieces of crust around a plate?
JB made no pretense of friendliness as he walked to the booth. “Who are you?”
The broad-shouldered man who’d pulled up on his motorcycle and had carried Betsy from the car earlier in the day didn’t bother to look up. He motioned the waitress for a coffee refill. “Didn’t say.”
Pushing himself where he shouldn’t go was a technique JB had mastered. Right now, he didn’t give a damn if he used tact or not. In fact, a good knock-down fight might clear his mind. He braced his arms on the table then leaned into the man’s space. “I want an answer. What are you doing in Crayton?”
The man’s jaw worked, and his expression said “back off” when he raised his head, but he kept his cool. “I don’t believe you’ve showed me your badge, officer. If you are an officer.”
JB reached for his FBI credentials, but Sheriff Davis’ firm and gentle hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. Finally, JB blew out a sigh and leaned against a stool at the counter behind him. Hell. He had no credentials. And he’d pushed too far.
Realizing he needed to let the police focus on the case, he glanced out the plate glass window. Wilson had been right, he was too emotionally involved. But, then again, how could he stay out of the way?
Sheriff Davis slid into the conversation as he sat on the cushion on the opposite side of the stranger’s booth, popping his finger on the table…tap, pause, tap, tap. That used to be the code the sheriff used to mean watch what you say. “My friend here didn’t mean anything by his questions. We’re working a case right now, and he’s just a little over imaginative.”
The man sat his cup down, glanced at the sheriff, then grinned. “Once I heard about the trouble going on around town, I figured you’d be looking for me. Seeing as I helped at the scene this afternoon.” Hands splayed in a don’t-get-excited attitude, he stood, then held out his hand to JB. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Cain Connery.”
JB grasped the man’s hand and didn’t let go. “Cain…Cain Connery. Seventh grade, I pummeled you for swiping my lunch.”
The men stepped apart, eyeing each other with memories.
“A guy’ll do what he has to when his belly’s empty.” Cain eased back into the booth. “Besides, I prefer to remember junior high when I crushed you into the ground every chance I got on the football field. Of course, Marcy was so infatuated with you, she still never gave me a second glance.”
The sheriff shuffled his pen and notepad to one hand, and shook Cain’s with the other. “As I recall, by the time you two got to high school, you’d both learned how to communicate. Good thing, ‘cause I’m not sure which one of you’d have whooped the other.”
JB grabbed a chair from the closest table, crossed his leg over the seat, and folded his forearms on the back. Yeah, he remembered Cain from years ago, but the man still hadn’t said what he was doing in town. Last JB heard, Cain and his dad had been in some trouble down in the Gulf area. Maybe somewhere along the line he’d decided to hire his gun out to the highest bidder.
Sheriff Davis leaned back as if comfortable with the whole situation at hand. “Sorry to hear your dad has gone and moved to Alaska for good. I always loved hearing his stories on hunting.”
Cain tensed, then eased. “Yeah, well…he’s got some new stories now. Like the one where the polar bear didn’t back down.”
“What made him go to Alaska?” JB remembered Cain’s old man. He hadn’t been much, but at least the guy had stuck around until his son had joined the Army and shipped out. Had never made him a punching bag, either.
“After my discharge, it seemed like every place I landed, he showed up a few months later.” Cain took a gulp of coffee. “When my job got relocated to the Anchorage office, I actually thought he wouldn’t follow me that far north. Of course, I hadn’t expected him to show up when I worked on the oil rigs in the Gulf, either.”
Kennett returned with Joanie.
“Some of the staff needs to clock out,” Joanie said. “Okay to send them home?”
“Not yet,” Sheriff Davis and JB spoke in unison.
“Looks like I’d better get out of your way.” Cain laid a ten on the table and stood.
JB stood also. He still didn’t have his answer. “If you’re gonna be in town for a while, maybe we can get together for a beer sometime.”
Cain grinned. “A beer sounds good. But don’t waste your money if you just want to know why I’m in town.”
“Which is?” the sheriff asked.
“The old man signed over the house and cabin to me. Figure I’ll remodel the house and make a few bucks when spring comes. That is if I can pick up a job for the winter.” Cain opened the front door. “Hope you guys find your man.”
Sheriff Davis, JB, Kennett, and Joanie headed to the kitchen.
“Hey, JB.” Cain stood in the half-closed doorway, motioning him over. “I asked some questions of my own when I got to town. I know you were FBI, but right now I figure you’ll do what you gotta do to protect your ex-wife. Let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the offer.” JB wasn’t quite sure what the man could do to help though. “What line of work are you in nowadays?”
Cain set his jaw, then slid his hand in his pocket returning with a small leather case. He made sure to keep it concealed between the two of them as he showed his DEA badge. “A little of this. A little that.”
Suddenly the idea of him as an ally sat real good in JB’s gut. “You just may be hearing from me.”
“Hey, that woman I pulled out of the car okay?” Cain slid the badge back in his jacket.
“Hairline fracture in her arm.”
“Not that it matters, but who is she?”
JB laughed. “Talk about wanting to know something. That’s Marcy’s older sister. Betsy.”
“Betsy? From tenth grade history class? Umm, might need to give her a call.” Cain stepped to the side as customers piled through the door. “She still appeared to be one feisty, little hellcat.” He stepped outside and pulled the door closed.
Sheriff Davis looked on from the kitchen doorway. “I ain’t telling Betsy what he said.”
“Me, neither. She barely tolerates me as it is.” JB led the charge into the kitchen. Time to move on to the next interrogation.
Thirty minutes later, the workers were clocking out, and Joanie looked as deflated as JB felt. Evans had been right—there wasn’t anything of value to be learned. Didn’t make sense. The note hadn’t magically appeared in Marcy’s sandwich box, but no one had seen anything.
Burt the cook punched his card and patted JB on the arm as he passed by, heading out the back door. “Maybe the new guy Joanie just hired’ll be able to shed some light.”
Joanie straightened. “What new guy?”