'Family enemies?'
'None.'
'Business partner who wanted to cash out but couldn't?'
'Burke ran the hardware store. Still does. No partners. No unhappy ex-employees. We did our job. I did my job.'
'Background checks on the family?'
'You're not listening to me. We did our jobs. There were no outstanding debts. Wife didn't have a boyfriend who might want easy rent off the husband.' The sheriff's expression became a bit more sure and arrogant. 'And it wasn't me.'
His chin was up, dignified, daring Crease to judge him. Not knowing that Crease was a bent cop himself, and had seen a lot of his brothers in blue pocket a hell of a lot more than fifteen g's. It almost made him laugh.
He began to cool down. He lit another butt.
'What time did the 'nappers say they'd do the trade?'
'They said to get there by one p.m. and wait. Your father said he'd handle it alone, didn't want to endanger the girl.' Edwards couldn't help scowling. 'Didn't want any backup. If you're really on the job you know that breaks every rule there is.'
Crease knew it all right. 'What made you bust into the mill when you did? My father said six hours went by. Why'd you get up right then?'
'It was closer to four. He got there late. He told everybody he arrived at the mill at noon, but it was after one, he'd already missed the chance to get any kind of a drop. He stopped at a liquor store first to load up, left the satchel full of money that Burke had given him right in the passenger seat. I had a bad feeling right from the beginning and I was watching him.'
Edwards began to tremble and Crease handed him the Dewars to help calm his nerves. All of this rage, and Edwards was a near carbon copy of Crease's old man. He watched the sheriff take a good bite, saw his eyes roll up in pleasure and relief. Edwards let out a deeply satisfied, nearly carnal sigh, the same way Crease's father used to do it.
'It was getting dark. I had parked back on one of the trails and left my flashlight in the car. I wanted to make an on-site evaluation of the situation. Make sure your old man hadn't passed out, check and see if the kidnappers had already slipped away.'
'You didn't want him to blow the collar.'
'That's right. I wanted the girl back. I didn't want him to botch the set-up and ruin his life. But he did.'
Crease couldn't get back into that now. He needed clarity. 'Why'd you walk in the front door? That seems stupid to me.'
'The sun was to my back. I wanted anybody in the mill to be blind. I wanted the perp but I didn't want to get shot for it. By the 'nappers or your old man.'
'Why didn't either of you see the girl until the last second?'
Edwards had nothing to say to that. His expression twisted again. Crease understood why he would've blamed his father entirely for everything that happened. The missed opportunity, the screwy rendezvous, the dead girl. His mentor had let him down. He was green, and he'd done the right thing the wrong way.
'You're not going to solve this,' Edwards told him. 'Would you want me to?' Crease asked.
'Hell yes, clear the books for me. But this one's long gone, and your father was a part of it.'
'You too.'
'Only because I couldn't save her.'
He knew Edwards was right.
He'd never get to the end of it. He'd run around town chasing his tail, like he did when he was a kid. It was a holding pattern. He wasn't a gold shield detective, had never worked homicide. He could trip over the 'nappers five times in an afternoon and wouldn't know it.
'Okay,' Crease said, and that was the end of it for now.
Only Edwards didn't think so. He said, 'Fair warning, kid. You and me still have business.'
'All right.'
'I don't care if you are on the job. You're not getting away with this, treating me like this in my own home.' Crease half-expected him to say, Messing with my jigsaw dog! 'I owe you. There's no way you're walking away from this now. It's going to catch up with you. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon.'
Crease reached into his pocket, handed Edwards back his gun, and said, 'Why wait?'
He sat there within arm's reach thinking of how many ways he could kill the sheriff before the guy got a shot off.
Crease could use the knife he'd pulled off Jimmy, or the butterfly blade he'd taken from the foul-up Tucco hired. Or he could draw his own. 38. These podunks would never be able to match the bullet to him. Or he could just reach out with his hands and squeeze Edwards' neck until the man turned purple and blue and then black.
He waited, all these scenes of murder running through his mind. And he wasn't even mad at the guy anymore.
Edwards just sat there, his mouth open, napkins up his nose.
Eventually Crease got bored, stubbed the butt on the corner of the coffee table, stood and got out of there.
Chapter Seven
The Bentley with tinted windows started following him as he turned the corner onto Main Street. It wasn't exactly an undercover vehicle. A few cars were around, some foot traffic on the sidewalks, shopkeepers out front. It was as good a place as any to get the next bit of business out of the way. He pulled the 'Stang over, climbed out, and leaned against it while the Bentley drew up behind him and parked.
Cruez lumbered out of the driver's side. He went six-seven, a man-monster weighing maybe three-fifty, with a face like a lump of clay that a class of emotionally disturbed children had pounded the hell out of. He liked using a. 357 long-barrel Magnum. In his hand, it looked like a derringer.
Cruez had saved Crease's life twice and Crease had returned the favor a couple of times during bad double- cross deals over the years. Crease knew their shared history wouldn't stop the monolith for a second if Tucco gave the word. Cruez was an insanely loyal dog to his master. All the bosses had a guy like this. He was imposing enough to keep away the minor troublemakers, rough enough to do damage when he had to, and huge enough that he could block a few bullets while the big cheese ran for cover.
This was going to be a scene.
Tucco was already drawing it out, taking his time getting out of the Bentley. Showing Crease that nobody could ever get away, he'd follow you down any rabbit hole, even if it led to Vermont. Cruez stood at the back door of the Bentley, opened it, and waited.
The seconds ticked off. Crease didn't feel like watching. He very much wanted to see Morena and was afraid the weakness was showing in his face. He was out of cigarettes so he stepped up the curb to a nearby convenience store and asked for his brand. They were out. He asked for another. They'd never heard of them. Finally he just pointed to a pack and paid.
Cruez was in the same spot, the back door of the Bentley still open, Tucco still inside with Morena. Man, the drama. Where the hell would any of them be without the drama. All of this and nothing was going to happen today anyway. This was just the second push.
Finally Tucco slid free from the car. Today he was dressed like a Wall Street stockbroker in a four thousand dollar black suit, long leather coat tugged to the side so you could see the suit, nice shades. He and Cruez and the car looked as out of place in Hangtree as they might've in the Mississippi Delta.
Tucco stood 5'3', going about a hundred-thirty pounds of bone and wiry sinew. He had a slight Spanish accent that he consciously affected so he could sound like a Spanish Harlem tough. Otherwise he sounded as uptown as anybody in a white collar. Truth was, he'd been hand-fed by maids and grown up with a view of Museum Mile in Manhattan, the son of two highly successful stockbrokers who made their biggest hauls every time the
