Paul grinned. “I guess this means the Marines have landed?”
C H A P T E R
17
Saturday afternoon, 22 January
The news about Major Bryant’s missing son and murdered ex-wife had the makings of a seven-day sensation within the department, but as Deputy Mayleen Richards reminded them, “The best way to help him right now is to clear up the shooting down here so he can concentrate on what’s going on up there.”
She contacted Sheriff Poole to advise him of the situation in Virginia. Then, while Raeford McLamb and Jack Jamison batted around possible scenarios and polished off the rest of the catfish and hushpuppies, Richards called the only Overholt in the Makely area listings.
Michael Overholt.
The phone rang so many times that she expected to hear it switch to an answering machine, but after ten rings, she broke the connection.
“Maybe we should ride down to Makely and see what we can dig up.”
Jamison still had people and places to check out along the Rideout Road area, so McLamb volunteered to go along with her.
When they were fifteen minutes from Makely, a male voice finally answered the phone. “Sergeant Mike Overholt here.”
“May I speak to Mrs. Overholt, please?” Richards asked without identifying herself.
“Sorry,” he said. “She can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Is she there?”
“You a friend of hers?”
“No. I’m with the sheriff’s department up in Dobbs,”
she said smoothly. “We wanted to get a statement from her about a traffic accident she might have witnessed.
When would be a convenient time for me to see her?”
There was a long silence. “I’m getting ready to check in at the base now. How ’bout you give me your number and I’ll tell her to call you?”
Richards rattled off her mobile number, but told McLamb to keep driving. “If he’s going out and she’s there, it’ll give us a chance to talk to her without him knowing.”
Makely was in the next county south, on the way to Fayetteville and Fort Bragg, but its calling area included a narrow swath of Colleton County, and according to the county map that lay open in her lap, the Overholt residence fell inside that swath. After several turns from the main highway, they wound up in a sparsely settled neighborhood that was a mixture of small stick-built houses interspersed with older mobile homes, the kind that 15 resembled boxcars with windows rather than the newer ones that mimicked regular houses.
The Overholts’ flat-roofed trailer was set back from the road in a stand of pine trees. It was painted khaki green and someone with more enthusiasm than artistry had painted a screaming eagle on the wall beside the door. A black Subaru sedan sat in the graveled driveway. As they drove past, a white soldier in desert cammies came out of the trailer and got into the sedan.
They continued slowly along the level flat road until they spotted an empty house with a “For Sale” sign near the mailbox. Playing the part of a prospective buyer, McLamb hopped out of their unmarked car and appeared to scrutinize the roof as the Subaru passed them. Before he was fully in the car again, he saw the Subaru turn around and head back past them to the trailer.
“Did he forget something or do you think he made us?” asked Richards, suddenly conscious that their car carried the permanent plate of an official department rather than the usual blue-and-white “First in Flight” design of civilian plates. Looking in her side-view mirror, she saw the soldier emerge from his sedan, unlock the door of the trailer, and disappear inside.
“Get your notebook and pretend you’re taking notes on the house,” said Richards as she reached for her own notebook and got out of the car.
Like the trailer, this shabby little house was also sheltered by tall longleaf pines so prevalent in southeastern North Carolina. Here in January, the grass was a dull auburn brown, almost hidden beneath a thick layer of pine straw. More brown needles had dropped on the steps and shallow porch. A cool wind ruffled her red hair but the air wasn’t quite cold enough to require hat or gloves. Together the two deputies walked up on the porch and peered through the dirty windows while Raeford McLamb made a show of pointing out various ar-chitectural features.
As Richards nodded feigned agreement, the phone clipped to her jacket rang. “Richards here,” she answered automatically.
“Yeah,” said a tight male voice. “I had a feeling you were the same bitch as called before. Take your jungle bunny and get your lying ass the hell off my road.”
Richards turned and faced the trailer. Staring back at her through the large front window was the cammie-clad soldier with a phone to his ear.
“Sir, we’re here on official business. All we want is to interview your wife about an accident that—”
“Cut the crap, bitch!” he snarled. “I know why you’re here. You want to ask her about that bastard she was whoring around with while I was out there putting my life on the line. Well, he got what he deserved and so has she.”
