“Come through here.” Parnell led her through a hallway that went from front to back of the house and ended in the kitchen. There was furniture here—one card table and one battered folding chair. On the counter sat two photos—one of three children, and one of a high school football team. Parnell gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”
Casey chose to stand, looking out the sliding door into the back yard. The swimming pool she’d seen was empty, its bottom caked with leaves and dirt, and the swings on the swingset hung limp, water pooled in the plastic seats. A pole with empty birdfeeders tilted toward the ground, and a broken birdbath, its top cracked in two, crumbled beside it.
And Casey thought
“What do you want?” Parnell stood beside her, shoulders sagging, no spark in his eyes.
Casey set her bag on the card table and pulled out the photo of him taking the package from Owen Dixon. “That’s you.”
He glanced at the photo, looked back out the sliding door, then slumped into the folding chair. “Where did you get that?”
“The trucker who was killed on Sunday had it.”
“Evan. I knew he was up to something.”
“You knew Evan?”
“Sure. He was one of the guys, you know? I mean, the ones you run into at truck stops or picking up a load. Another independent operator, like me. Nice guy.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Can I get you some water?” Casey didn’t wait for an answer, but walked around the counter to the sink. She searched through several empty cupboards before finding a stack of plastic cups. She chose one, rinsed it out, and gave him a drink.
He sipped gingerly. “Last time I saw Evan, he was asking questions.”
“About what?”
Parnell looked down at his drink. “Class A.”
“The trucking company. You work for them?”
“Off and on. Whenever they call.” He looked blankly at the equally blank wall.
“But don’t you get called by other companies? As an independent operator you can work for any outfit you want, right? Isn’t that how it works?”
“That’s how it works.”
“Places like Southwest Trucking? Tom Haab?”
He nodded. “Sure, I’ve driven for them. I like driving for them.” His voice was wistful.
But he hadn’t driven for Southwest for a couple years, Tom had said. “How often does Class A call you?”
Parnell gave a little laugh, devoid of humor. “Not as often as I need. Obviously.”
“When was the last time?”
“A week ago. No, two weeks. Long enough.”
“And what did you haul?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Electronics. Televisions, I think. I’m driving again this Friday.”
Casey pushed the photo toward him on the table. “And what is Owen Dixon giving you in this photo?”
He bit his lip and looked away. “Nothing.”
“I see.”
He blinked rapidly. “Nothing that matters to
“Or to the cops?”
“Cops? You said you weren’t—”
“I said I wasn’t from the bank.”
He stood up so quickly his chair banged backward onto the floor. “What do you want?”
She held out her hands. “Whoa. I’m not from the cops, either. Relax. I’m sorry.”
His hands twitched more rapidly now. “I think you should go.”
“How did you get started with Class A Trucking, Mr. Parnell?”
“Please go.”
“Did they call you? Or did you call them?”
He stumbled around his chair and back down the hallway toward the front door. Casey put the photo back in her bag and followed. “Mr. Parnell? Did they call you?”
“They called me, okay? They called me and offered me a job. I took it. All right?” He swung the door open and stepped to the side. “Go now.
She hesitated, wanting to ask more about Owen Dixon and Randy Westing, and whoever it was that told them what to do—that boss Bruce Willoughby wouldn’t name.
Parnell jerked his hand toward the door. “Go.
Casey walked past him, stopping in the doorway. “If you want to talk any more, please call me. Okay? You have my number on your phone.”
His eyes widened, and he patted down his pockets. “My phone? On that phone?”
“Remember? I called you?”
He whimpered and ran back into the house, still searching his pockets. She heard a door opening, and Parnell talking to himself as he hunted. “What if they
“Tragic case.” Death sat on one of the flowerbed’s raised brick borders, playing a violin. The melancholy tune hovered in the air, a perfect accompaniment for the depressing surroundings. Casey listened, waiting for Parnell’s return, but when he didn’t come back after several minutes she headed for her car, getting in without too much personal trauma.
Death stopped playing. “Did you happen to take a look at the photos in the kitchen?”
“Sure. His kids, and a football team. Is his son old enough for that?”
“Hardly. He’s only six.”
“So who was it?”
Death ran the bow across the strings. “Parnell.”
Casey blinked. “He’s got nothing in the entire house, but puts a photo of his high school football team on his counter?”
Death filled the passenger seat. “It’s really very sad. Some men just can’t mature past high school.” The violin shrank to adjust to the interior of the car, but the tune was just as mournful.
“Let’s go see what that database can tell us about our new friend, Pat Parnell,” Casey said. She turned the key and backed away from Parnell’s wasteland of a home.
Chapter Nineteen
The trip back wasn’t as bad as the trip there, but that was probably because Casey was thinking more about Pat Parnell than she was about driving the trunk.
“I think you do better in that seat than this one,” Death said, bowing a riff on the violin. “You’re going a whole forty-
“
Casey couldn’t figure out exactly what had Pat Parnell so freaked out. He was afraid of cops, looked like hell, and about had a conniption when she mentioned her number being on his phone. She had to wonder—which came first? His deterioration or his job with Class A Trucking? He was obviously losing it—not only his health and sanity, but his home. How long could he keep that truck in the driveway? Unless it was paid off.
“How much would a truck like that cost?”
Death laid down the violin. “Don’t know. A lot, I would think.”
“So how can he afford it?”
“Seems to me he’s keeping it for last.”
