“Someone in Mr. Glover’s office could probably pull a home address up for you,” I said. “If you haven’t worn out your welcome with them. Or you could try out at the hospital.”
CHAPTER 20
Florence Hartley,
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 15
Driving back to Dobbs after the autopsy, Dwight swung by the SBI facility on Old Garner Road. Security greeted him by name at the door and waved him past with only a perfunctory glance at his shield.
“Agent Wilson’s in his office, Major. Want me to buzz him?”
“That’s okay. I know where it is.”
He turned down the hall to Terry Wilson’s office and saw that Terry’s door wasn’t fully latched. As he pushed it open and stuck his head in, he found Terry and K.C. Massengill locked in each other’s arms. They jerked apart as the door nudged K.C.
Terry scowled at him. “Hey, don’t you know how to knock?”
“Not when the door’s open.” Dwight grinned. “What if I’d been your boss?”
K.C. smoothed her blond hair and tugged her sweater down around her shapely hips. “We were just saying good-bye.”
“That’s a lot of serious good-bye for somebody who only works two halls over,” Dwight observed.
“I have to go to Charlotte for a couple of days.”
“And don’t tell me you and Deborah don’t ever mess around in chambers,” said Terry, beginning their usual banter. “Even when she’s not going somewhere.”
But K.C. saw the weariness in his eyes and put out her hand to him. “I’m sorry about your deputy, Dwight.”
“Yeah,” said Terry. “That sucks, man. They sure it’s suicide?”
“I just came from his autopsy.”
“Bummer. This anything to do with Tracy Johnson’s shooting?”
“Probably.”
“Y’all talk. I’m gone,” K.C. said. “Don’t forget the cat food, hon, okay?”
“Gotcha,” said Terry. “Drive carefully.”
“Y’all have a cat?” Dwight asked when the door closed behind K.C.
“Part of the package. For some reason, every woman I fall for has a damn cat. Deborah was the only one didn’t. Probably why it didn’t work out for us.”
Dwight smiled at his sour tone. “Lucky for me.”
“You didn’t come by to talk about cats, though, did you?” Terry sat down behind his desk and gestured for Dwight to take a chair.
“Nope. Just tying off loose ends. Seeing if Tracy Johnson had any real reason to pursue this Hurst business so Bessie’s granddaughter’ll stop bird-dogging Deb’rah and me every night.”
“Well, ol’ son, I went through everything we have on it. I even read Scotty’s field notes. He might not’ve pushed as hard as you or me, but this is no Gell case, Dwight. Not a single person he interviewed saw Hurst alive after Saturday evening.”
“As he was leaving the trailer park, right?”
“Well, naw, he pawned a couple of rings belonged to his stepmother around four o’clock, then went next door to the Fliptop Grill for a couple of beers, caught the end of a Braves game, and left around six. That was the last anybody says they saw him till that anonymous call a week later.”
“Kayra persuaded an old woman who still lives there to admit it was the next-door neighbor who called it in. She also told them that the nosy neighbor didn’t notice his car parked in the bushes around back till long about Wednesday.”
“Anybody see him drive in?”
“The old lady says not.”
“That’s still in line with the prosecution. They argued that Martha came home that night, found him there, and just let him have it for stealing her rings.”
“And took off for the beach the next morning, leaving him there to rot in the August heat?”
“You’re not going to start expecting logic from the criminal mind at this late date, are you?”
“What can I tell you?” said Dwight. “I still believe in Santa Claus.”
When he got back to the courthouse and parked, Percy Denning, Mike Castleman, and Eddie Lloyd were crossing the street, heading out for lunch.
“We got lucky, Major,” said Denning. “Silas Lee found the slug that killed her.”
“Really?”
He hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, and the others grinned.
