“Your brother, Amos, must be exceptionally loyal,” I said. “In four years, he has gone from corporal to sergeant, lieutenant, captain, and then to major. Some might call that nepotism.”
“You smug little pissant,” yelled Frost as he slammed the table, spilling everyone’s coffee. “I’m done. You print one word about my brother, and you will feel my wrath.”
He stood up. “Peck wants to destroy that worthless rag that you call a newspaper, but I’ve kept him off your butt. No more.” Frost poked me in the chest. “If you make this personal, then it will become personal.”
Peck got up, too. “This is going to fun,” he said. “Only a dumbass screws with the sheriff.”
The waitress brought me the check after they left. I paid for the coffee and all their breakfasts. I was a dumbass.
At the Pensacola Insider offices, Mal had reined in all the editorial parts of the issue and only had a few outstanding ads. She had filled the holes caused by the last-minute cancellations with ads for local nonprofits that she kept on file. Maybe those free ads would buy us a little goodwill in the community.
“Did you give Big Boy beer last night? His burps smell awful,” she said as I passed by her desk. The dog was asleep underneath it.
I just smiled. “Let’s move the staff meeting to this afternoon,” I said to no one in particular. Everyone was in his or her own world anyway. I followed up with a group email explaining that I would be attending Sue Hines’ funeral.
At my desk, I posted a teaser on the upcoming Frost cover story to my blog, which I knew would impact his blood pressure. I did one more read through of the article, adding a few remarks about my morning coffee with the sheriff. I kept Amos Frost in the article. Then I emailed it to Roxie for copyediting. After handing off the issue to the team, I went upstairs to dress for the service.
In the rain outside St. Joseph’s Church, I stood with hundreds of others as they filed in for the service. I chose to stand in back when I got inside, surrounded by the drenched street folk that saw the funeral as a chance to get out of the downpour.
When I left my cadre of sinners who pretended to sing the hymns so the ushers wouldn’t remove them, I felt the eyes of the congregation on me as I stood in the communion line. Fittingly, the bishop ran out of hosts as I reached him. He didn’t even offer me a blessing, just a faint nod.
As I walked to the back, unblessed and without grace, I imagined Sue popping up from her casket and asking, “Why, sweetie? All we did was care for you.”
Bo and his grandparents stared straight ahead as I passed them. Nestled in between Hines and his brother-in-law sat Julie Wittman, Jace’s teenage daughter. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was crying into a handkerchief. Her uncle had his arm around her shoulder, comforting her.
Jace Wittman didn’t take his eyes off me. His eyes glinted when the bishop didn’t give me communion. Monte Tatum sat two pews behind Wittman by himself.
The bums must have held a conference while I was gone because they gave me a wide berth when I returned to my place. They probably were worried that I would hurt their reputations and future handouts if anyone in the church saw me with them.
I didn’t walk over to the parish hall after the service. Martyrdom didn’t suit my personality. Neither did three bean casseroles. Instead, I strolled across Government Street to the state attorney’s office to meet with Clark Spencer. I needed to be sure they stayed with the prosecution.
Spencer specialized in white-collar crimes and loved wearing sweater vests, even in the summer. Humor wasn’t one of his strong suits. His breath smelled of chili and onions, which meant he had eaten lunch at the Dog House Deli. The mustard stain on his tie confirmed my deduction.
He said, “Bowman Hines’ attorneys want to cut a deal. Their client says the Arts Council executive director stole the funds. For immunity, he will testify against her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Clark. He’s had ample opportunity to share that explanation before.”
I listed the opportunities on the fingers of my right hand. “When I tried to interview him for my article, when the auditors reviewed the Arts Council’s financial records, and when your investigators tried to question him. He’s guilty.”
“The death of Mrs. Hines has made the defense attorneys more creative,” said Spencer. “I think they fear her death points to his guilt, and they’re scrambling.”
“Wait a second,” I said holding up my hand. “The daily newspaper and others have been not too subtly blaming me for Sue’s mental state. Bo Hines and her brother have fed that rumor. Now, you’re saying it works against Hines.”
“Walker, not everything is about you,” said Spencer, as he scraped off the dried mustard he had just noticed on his tie. “None of us know what jurors may think about Sue Hines’ sudden death, but I agree with his attorneys. It’s a bigger problem for them than our side.”
“I thought your boss was having second thoughts about prosecuting,” I remarked.
Spencer shook his head. “I spent an hour this morning with Mr. Newton walking through the case. He is considering the immunity deal, but I think he will give me the green light to proceed.”
“This is bullshit. Bo is the big fish. He’s not this saint that everyone in the community believes he is. He is the mastermind behind the embezzlement scheme. Besides, no one knows where the executive director is. I haven’t talked to Pandora Childs in weeks.”
Clark kept his cool. “Mr. Newton is up for reelection in two
