crossed a line and he wasn’t getting even a toe back over it.’ Linda Bird lit a cigarette without asking permission; David glanced at Sheriff Hollis, who let it slide.
‘Did Jimmy hold a grudge?’
‘He really wanted that job back – Patch was a good man, easy to work for most of the time, and doing odd jobs for him wasn’t too much hard work – but Jimmy’s pride got the best of him. He talked about screwing Patch over.’
‘How?’
‘Flattening a tire, sugaring his tank. Kid stuff.’ She tapped ashes into a coffee cup. ‘He sure as hell didn’t mention murder. Jimmy don’t even like to spank our four-year-old. I’ve never been afraid of him and if he could go off and kill two people just like that’ – here she snapped her fingers – ‘Then I don’t know him. And if he’s gone dangerous, I want police protection for me and my little girl.’
A patrol officer stuck his head into the interrogation room. ‘David? Your other appointment’s here.’ David nodded and the dispatcher shut the door.
‘You got a suspect?’ Linda asked.
‘It’s on another case,’ David said.
‘Aren’t you the busy bee?’
‘How’s the marriage?’ Sheriff Hollis set down his pen.
A pause. ‘I filed for divorce last week. He knew it was coming.’
‘So he might have reason to leave town.’
‘He might. Although he’d hate to leave our girl, Britni. He does love her – I give him that, even if he don’t got the sense God gave a goose.’
‘Why’d you file?’ David asked.
‘Irreconcilable boredom.’
Randy Hollis leaned forward. ‘If Jimmy calls you, Linda, what do you do?’
‘Tell him to stay the hell away. If he’s innocent in this, then he should come forward. If he’s guilty, give up. For Britni’s sake. Is this all?’
‘Judge Mosley’s conducting an inquest. He may call you for a statement.’
‘He’s okay,’ she said with a contemptuous glance at David. ‘A judge’s robe ain’t the same as a uniform, doesn’t make a man turn mean.’
David felt his temper rise. ‘You be clear on this, Linda. Your husband calls you, you don’t offer him any help. You don’t want to be an accessory. I don’t want to be charging you. Putting your little girl through that grief.’
‘Try it without proof,’ she said. ‘This ain’t Red China.’
She wasn’t going to get small, David saw, so he asked Linda Bird a few more questions he already knew the answers to and dismissed her. She left and David had his hand on the door when Sheriff Hollis said, ‘David. About Lucy Gilbert.’
‘What?’
‘Are you just taking another statement or questioning her as a suspect?’ Asked like he didn’t know the answer, and David could tell he did.
‘Questioning her.’
‘Why?’
‘She and Suzanne Gilbert are Patch Gilbert’s only relatives. They stand to benefit from his death.’
‘That aside, what you got on her?’
‘She runs a disreputable business.’
‘You talking about that psychic hotline thing?’ Hollis said. ‘How’s that disreputable? My mother calls it, says the girls on the phones are real nice and insightful.’
‘You like your mother pissing away her Social Security on phone psychics?’
‘She can piss her money how she pleases. I heard Lucy Gilbert’s dating Whit Mosley.’
‘So?’
‘His Honor’s not a big friend of yours, is he?’ Hollis capped his pen, gave David an unexpected frown.
‘We get along fine.’
‘No, you don’t. You’ve never gotten along with him. Never made the effort, far as I can see.’ Hollis stood, wadded up his page of doodles. ‘You got a reason to suspect Lucy Gilbert, a solid lead, you go for it. You questioning her because she’s the girlfriend of a guy who’s a pain in your ass, forget it. I won’t have an officer of mine abusing his position.’
‘I resent that. Deeply.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to resent it shallowly, David,’ Hollis said. ‘We clear?’
‘Crystal.’ David kept his voice steady. ‘I need clarification on some items in her statement. That’s all. In fact, my friend Judge Mosley and I are supposed to drive in together to Corpus for the autopsy results and to meet with the forensic anth team.’
‘Good. Keep playing nice.’ Hollis left.
David Power unclenched his fingers. Odd. Hollis was a Democrat; Whit Mosley had been elected on the Republican ticket, although Whit looked more like a guy who’d gotten lost and had wandered into a Green Party meeting and stayed for the fashions. Why would Hollis take Whit’s side? But he saw it then: both of them from old Port Leo families, the old moneyed families of the coast that didn’t include the Powers. Old family allegiances meant more than political party lines.
It wouldn’t buy you an inch with him.
He stepped out into the hallway. Lucy Gilbert stood there, along with an older woman he presumed was her attorney. The lawyer gave David a predatory glare, like a barracuda who’d missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
No sign of Whit. It surprised him; he thought Whit would be here, steam pouring from his ears. Perhaps, David decided, that was best for the moment. But he turned his friendliest smile toward Lucy Gilbert. You just make one teeny misstep, bitch, you had a thing to do with these murders, you’re mine.
‘Miss Gilbert? Thanks for coming in. I just had a few questions on your statement you gave the police. If y’all will just step this way
…’
Patch Gilbert’s older niece, Suzanne, lived in a grand development called Castaway Key, a series of streets and private docks that few born and raised in Port Leo called home. Her house sat facing St Leo Bay, and in the summer afternoon the bay hummed with craft: sailboats slicing the waves; jet skis buzzing like maddened bees; a pleasure boat loaded with urban weekenders cutting near the shore, extra-bad eighties dance music drifting from its deck. Whit rolled up the window.
Castaway Key was not aptly named. Many houses went for a quarter million and higher. Whit supposed anyone dressed like Robinson Crusoe, ambling along Castaway Key’s resort-named streets – such as Hilton Head Road or Cozumel Way – would be summarily brought to him on charges of vagrancy.
Suzanne Gilbert’s house was white and modern, and it glittered with windows large enough to drive a car through. Delicate palms and sprawling bougainvillea filled the beds near the curved stone driveway. Brightly painted Mexican tiles spelled out the house number. Suzanne, an artist, seemed flush rather than starving. Or maybe Suzanne was house-poor, and this mansion was a symptom of her supposed financial woes.
His cell phone beeped as he parked. ‘This is Judge Mosley.’
‘Judge. Hi. This is Linda Bird. I’m Jimmy Bird’s wife. I think you know who he is.’
‘I know we want to talk to him, ma’am.’
‘Well, I just talked with that prick David Power. I don’t want to talk to him no more, and the sheriff said I might have to talk to you. So I’m talking because’ – she paused – ‘I find the deputy to be irritating.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘New Orleans. I think if Jimmy has run off he’s gone there. Couple of times last month I hear him, late at night on the phone, talking, saying, Alex. I thought it was some drunk friend of his. They love to get tight and phone each other. Like goddamned teenagers.’
‘I see.’
‘Then the phone bill comes. We don’t know people in New Orleans but there’s three calls there, late at night. I pay the bills, as I have the job. I ask him about who he’s calling, he says it’s a mistake. He’s a bad liar. I
