“Couldn’t there be some other explanation?”
“Of course, just not the truth.” He grinned without mirth.
“Other people at Benton had to have her passcodes. Security staff. Supervisors.”
“She knows what she did, Bryce. Press her some more.”
“We’re probably stuck.”
E.J. looked away toward the golf course. “Yeah, for now, but wait ‘til nerves work on her. Less than two days until court. I’ve settled cases on the courthouse steps, even after trial’s started. Get me that KEL drive, okay?”
Then, I remembered the recycling bin where Richard Kostas had dropped off stolen files. It was back along the shoreline where the sheriff discovered his body. I kicked myself for overlooking it. I never checked the recycling bin for the missing KEL drive. I had rummaged through the first box with the chalk mark at Turner Creek Sporting Clays. It held only spent shotgun shells. No KEL drive. I never looked inside the recycling bin with the second chalk mark. Maybe I was too excited about figuring out what Kostas had done and wanted Sheriff Tompkins to investigate. I had gone straight to her and failed to look inside the bin. Maybe the missing KEL drive was still there, though it was a long shot. I had to go back to the place where someone murdered Richard Kostas. The sun dipped below the western horizon. By the time I would get there, the sky would be completely dark.
E.J. Nielsen leaned on his golf club with both hands. He slowly shook his head. “Bryce, without Marisa Dupree coming clean, Benton Dynamics will swear out a criminal complaint right after the hearing. Not with the local yokels. The feds. There’s still time before Wednesday to sort this out, provided my client gets back what Ms. Dupree stole.”
“Understood,” I replied. “Look, I got to run. I’ll be in touch.”
His eyes narrowed as his expression grew bewildered, but I did not have time to explain my plans. There was a chance, maybe just a sliver of a chance, that I could find the missing KEL drive in that recycling bin. I got in my Barracuda and headed to the waterfront.
Near the bay, I drove onto a bumpy dirt lane. The smooth sound of tires on asphalt changed to a grinding crunch. Lean pine trees towered over the black water like sentinels. No moonlight penetrated the thick whirling clouds. Faint light from the distant town of Bridgeford shimmered along the horizon. Only my headlights penetrated the opaque, silent darkness of the wild marsh. The lane was empty, except for my car. I gently pressed the accelerator and went forward, searching for the recycling bin that Richard Kostas had used as a dead-drop, at least until someone dumped his body into the Chesapeake Bay.
The bin where I had found the second chalk mark on Saturday was just ahead of me. I stopped the car and rolled down my window, despite the cold. The lack of any sound made my nerves itch and crawl. Parking at an angle so the headlights illuminated the area, I surveyed the scene, but I still needed a flashlight. Popping open my glove compartment, I searched through a jumbled mess of sunglasses, vehicle registrations, insurance cards, pens, and tiny screwdrivers until I found a thin aluminum flashlight at the bottom. I pressed the button, and instead of a solid white beam, the bulb glowed a weak yellow. It would have to do.
Outside my car, the frigid air felt thick and swampy from humidity off the bay. Calm waves splashed against the muddy banks. In the absolute darkness, reeds and cattails rustled in the breeze. The only other sounds were my footfalls on the dirt lane. I took in the surroundings, sensing I was completely alone and miles from the town.
A green plastic lid covered the recycling bin. I lifted it off and scanned the contents with my flashlight, which was fading fast. Soda cans, water bottles, a damp cardboard box, and other refuse filled the receptacle about halfway. Perhaps the sheriff had already searched here, but from the look of the trash, I did not sense that she had. The missing KEL drive was not on top, so I had to pick out and examine the garbage in headlights. A chain held the bin to the ground and would not budge. I reached in and removed the contents, shaking each item to see if anything was inside and setting them down on the surrounding grass.
Mucking though other people’s filthy trash. Years ago, back in law school, my professors must have skipped over this lesson.
When I reached the bottom of the bin, a deep male voice growled behind me. “Don’t move an inch. Stay right where you are.”
I froze. My heart pounded as I tried to process what was happening. I had heard nothing. Who was it? Run? Turn? Fight? I slowly pivoted my head to see who had silently snuck up behind me.
“Face forward. Don’t turn around,” the threatening voice snapped. The next sound was unmistakable from my days in the Navy, and it stopped me cold — the metallic click of a round loading into the chamber of a 9mm pistol.
21
“Hands up,” the gunman said. “There’s only one chance of you getting out alive, Seagraves. Do everything I say, nice and steady.”
He knew my name. Standing in the headlights coming from behind me, I raised my arms, showing him I was unarmed. My entire core felt as if it had fallen through my feet and deep into the earth. My pulse surged as the man behind me moved closer. Focusing on slowing my breath helped me suppress a rising urge to panic.
“What’s in your hand?” he asked.
“Flashlight. Need it?”
“Just drop it.”
The flashlight plinked on the dirt
