Chapter 17
Logan
“Did you hear about that reporter who checked into the Sleep Over this morning? I was over at Home Cookin’ for some grub before I came in, and word is that there really is some national news chick here to investigate this whole meth story. Wonder if there’ll be more coming?”
Jock leans against Lonnie’s Camaro that we’ve stopped working on because Lonnie won’t approve the estimated repairs. Apparently he doesn’t have the cash to float the project like he thought he did when he dropped it off, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to pick it up either.
The reporter story Jock is feeding me is definitely news.
“Is that right?”
Jock sips his coffee and nods. “Heard she’s real cute too. Maybe she’ll come over here to do some interviews, and we can get a look at her.”
I cross over to the toolbox to grab a different size socket, and turn back to him. “We don’t have time for interviews. We’ve gotta get Boone Thrasher’s car in perfect condition in less than two weeks, or I’m going to lose the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had.”
His expression cowed, Jock lowers his mug. “I’m just making conversation, man. I thought it was interesting. I heard that Chief Timmons is actually trying to figure some shit out now instead of sitting around with his thumb up his ass.”
My irritation slides away at his explanation, because it’s the truth. “You’re right, but I’m starting to feel this deadline breathing down my neck, and now Mrs. Borst isn’t answering her phone so I can get an update on the interior panels and upholstery. We gotta have this car ready for paint by next week.”
He nods. “I know, Logan. We’ll get it done. We’re all puttin’ in the time.” He pauses as he walks to his workbench to set down his mug. “Isn’t Mrs. Borst cousins with Tricia Houseman’s ma? Because the other thing I heard at Home Cookin’ this morning was about the little scuffle that Tricia and your woman got into on Saturday. Think there’s any connection there?”
Fuck. I didn’t even think about that. A feeling of foreboding settles in my gut. “Shit. You’re right.”
“Maybe you ought to go see her in person and try to get that update. You’re pretty persuasive, boss.”
Rick comes out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Jesus, how long was he in there anyway? I make a mental note to stay far away.
“You ready to finally work today?” I ask Rick.
He laughs and pats his gut. “Sure am now. If I’m gonna spend a couple hours under the car replacing all the gas lines and shit, I figured I better make sure I’m not gonna be getting off that creeper every five minutes. My old lady made chili last night, and that shit is lethal.”
I shove the creeper toward him with my foot and it rolls until it stops a few inches away. “Get to it, man. I’m not paying you to spend a half hour taking a shit.”
“Got it, boss.”
“All right, you two, get to work. I’ll go track down Mrs. Borst about the interior. We need to see progress here today.”
They both salute me, and I head for the door.
* * *
I’m about to climb in my truck when I see a crowd gathering in front of the pharmacy across the street.
“What the hell?”
Figuring I can spare five extra minutes to see what’s going on, I shut my door and head over.
What seems like the entire crew of retired folks who normally spend a few hours drinking coffee at Home Cookin’ every morning gathers outside. They surround a cameraman as he records a brunette talking about Gold Haven and the recent meth epidemic.
“Can this small town recover? Or are pharmacies like this one going to continue to be targeted for the purchase of supplies to make illegal drugs?” She stops, and the cameraman lowers the camera. “Thanks, Adam. I think that’s good.”
“Do you wanna interview any of us? We got lots to say,” Rita Daws, a former preschool teacher at the Methodist church, asks.
“I’d love to make a list of your names and contact information so I can follow up with all of you if we need more background,” the reporter says. She’s probably in her late twenties or early thirties.
“I’ve got time right now,” Rita replies. “But tonight’s bingo at the VFW, so I can’t promise I’ll be available.”
The reporter’s smile tightens, but she keeps it in place. Rita can be a bit pushy, which is ironic considering her former career.
One of the three Gold Haven police cruisers pulls up alongside the pharmacy.
“Y’all should get back to your coffee. There ain’t nothin’ to see here.”
The crowd quiets, and the woman’s attention cuts to the car. It’s Ron Timmons, Gold Haven’s chief of police.
“Police Chief Timmons!” The woman steps toward the cruiser, gesturing to the cameraman. “I’m Memphis Lockwood of the Investigation Network, I’d love to speak with you about what’s happening right now in Gold Haven.”
I crane my head to the side, interested to see if he’ll actually talk to her. He’s one of those retired-on-the-job cops who doesn’t do jack. Cody would do a lot better in that position, but until Timmons decides to retire, Gold Haven is pretty much stuck with him because of his close ties with Lester Freeman, the mayor.
“I got a busy schedule at the moment, ma’am. But feel free to check with my secretary down at the station to see if she can squeeze you in.”
A few people in the crowd laugh at the obvious line of bullshit, and Timmons’s face turns a mottled shade of red, worse than it normally is from hitting the bottle on a nightly basis.
“Police Chief Timmons—” she starts, but Timmons has already rolled up his window and is driving through the blinking red light back to the police station.
“Useless piece of shit,” someone murmurs in the crowd, and the reporter zooms in on Eamon Kent, the speaker.
“Do you think that the police department is mishandling this investigation rather than trying to figure out why this town has had such a high incidence of meth-house explosions over the last several weeks?”
The camera is rolling, and Eamon is put on the spot. “I don’t know that I can say they’re mishandling the investigation so much as not doing any investigating at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. Cody Reeves is going around town trying to dig up stuff, but that’s about it.”
I back away from the crowd. The last thing I want is to show up on national news in some way that’s going to have Timmons causing trouble for me. It’s not like I have anything to add to the story anyway.
When I cross the street, I hop into my truck, and a text comes through my phone.
BANNER NYC: My box of dicks is on the way! The post office lady told me they wouldn’t deliver to Holly’s gran’s house, so I had to send them general delivery to the post office. Is that normal?
I need to take the NYC out of her contact, because as far as I’m concerned, that’s not who she is anymore. I make the change before I reply.
LOGAN: They stopped delivering out that way a few months back after some budget cuts came down. You’ll have to stop in and pick them up.
MY WOMAN: Got it. Can I bring you anything for lunch?
Now that’s more like it.
LOGAN: I’m running an errand, so I’ll grab something while I’m out.
MY WOMAN: Okay, babe. TTYL
When I slide the phone back in my pocket, it’s with a big smile on my face.