

Special Smashwords Edition

# A New Prospect

A SAM JENKINS MYSTERY

# by Wayne Zurrl

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

A New Prospect, Copyright 2016 Wayne Zurl

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-68046-388-0

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Lynsee Lauritsen

TABLE OF CONTENTS

"A New Prospect"

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Previews

A NEW PROSPECT

by Wayne Zurl

Sam Jenkins never thought about being a fish out of water during the years he spent solving crimes in New York. But things change, and after retiring to Tennessee, he gets that feeling. Jenkins becomes a cop again and is thrown headlong into a murder investigation and a steaming kettle of fish, down-home style.

In true Jenkins style, Sam turns common police practice on its ear to insure an innocent man doesn't fall prey to an imperfect system and the guilty party receives appropriate justice.

To Bazzie.

My real best friend. This was something we did together.
Prologue

Financially, Pearl Lovejoy stood on top of the hill. Intellectually and spiritually, she foundered on a reef surrounding her unhappy existence. Had she owned a time machine, she would cheerfully turn back the clock more than forty years, erasing the greatest mistake of her life. Realistically, she couldn't turn back. She could alter her future, but so far chose not to rock her sinking boat.

Pearl thought of this failure as she drove a shiny black Lincoln up to the gates of her driveway, tapped in a four-digit code on the keypad to her left, and watched the tall, black iron gates swing inward. She began to drive toward the large home her husband designed to look like a tailored-down version of Mick Jagger's French chateau.

Passing the circle by the front entrance, she continued clockwise along winding blacktop bordered by a thick band of flowers until she came to the three garage bays that took up half the lower floor under the main house. She pressed a button on the car's visor, the overhead door opened, and she drove in.

Pearl spent that Sunday much like all the other Sundays in her life. That morning she drove to Maryville and picked up her father, retired Sessions Court Judge Minas Tipton. They attended church services, spent another hour at a fellowship gathering at the church and then went to lunch at Aubrey's Restaurant. She passed the remainder of the day at her daddy's home.

Pearl's watch showed 4 p.m. Her husband's SUV and his vintage Rolls Royce sat in the garage. He was home—somewhere in the big house, but she didn't care where nor what he did with his time.

For the first weekend of June, the weather seemed warmer than usual. She started up the stairs to the second floor intending to go to her bedroom and change into cooler, more comfortable clothes. Pearl disliked Sunday nights. Jodie, her housekeeper, had the day off. If Pearl ate at all, she would have to make something herself—for herself; her husband could do whatever he wanted.

Sunday nights weren't all that displeased Pearl. For a long time, she had complained to her father and daughter of being terribly unhappy, but no one seemed able to resolve her marital problems.

At sixty-two, Pearl Lovejoy looked painfully thin. She no longer felt even remotely attractive, although people used to call her pretty. She worried about her appearance and spent hours each week having her nails done and her blonde hair styled and colored.

Walking toward her bedroom, she passed one of the guest rooms. The door stood partially open. She thought that odd. During the summer, she made sure Jodie kept all the interior doors open wide to let the air circulate. Pearl looked inside. The bedclothes lay in disarray, the room recently used. She stepped closer. Picking up one of the pillows, she sniffed the lace-edged case. An unmistakable smell of perfume lingered on the fabric.

Pearl turned and stormed out of the guest room, down the hall toward her husband's bedroom and his office.

"Cecil, you no-account son-of-a-bitch, where are you?" she shouted, but heard no response.

She looked through the doorway into her husband's bedroom, saw it empty and slammed the door for a desired effect. Rage building inside her, she continued to his office.

"Damn you, Cecil, you had a woman here in my house. Damn you to hell!"

At the end of the hall, she reached the doorway to his office. Pearl saw him sitting at his desk, partially obscured behind a computer screen, his sallow face hidden from view. A digital camera with an attached cable sat on the desktop. The cable disappeared over the side of the work surface. She waited, seething with anger. Cecil ignored her. That only enhanced her rage.

"Have you nothing to say, Cecil Lovejoy? How in hell could you...?"

She heard herself screaming again and felt her blood pressure rise. Her face flushed. She stopped, took a deep breath and looked toward a window framed by gold brocade drapery.

"Why hello, Miss Pearl," he said calmly, as if an altercation was the furthest thing from his mind. "Y'all have a nice visit with the Judge?"

Her anger took hold again. "You show me no respect, Cecil. I have endured your sordid affairs for years, but now you bring a strange woman into my house for sex. This is intolerable."

"This is not the first time, darlin'," he said, brushing a few strands of thin sandy hair off his forehead. "You've not been this upset b'fore."

"What do you mean _not the first time_?" Her expression changed from anger to surprise. Her blue eyes widened.

"Course not, Pearly. See, what ya don't know don't hurt ya."

"I will not stand for this, Cecil. Not in my house, damn you."

Smiling again, her husband began an explanation he'd given more than once before.

"When ya decided ta stop havin' sex with me after Travis was born, I tried ta explain my manly needs. Remember? I do have needs, ya know. I'm not too old ta want a woman's company."

"Oh, please," she snorted.

"See, you're disregardin' me now just like you've done in the past. So, I found my own way in the world, so to speak."

The grin on his jowly face infuriated her. Cecil shrugged off her anger.

She watched him turn his focus back to the computer, once again ignoring her.

Stepping to the side of his large mahogany desk, she stood there as he transferred photographs from the camera's memory card to the area of his computer where he stored his personal pictures.

"Oh, Lord have mercy, Cecil, you made pictures of her." Pearl saw dozens of amateur photos of a nude woman. "Well thank the Lord. At least she's an adult."

"Pretty woman, ain't she?" he asked, as if speaking to a friend.

Pearl pushed her husband, took the mouse from his hand and double-clicked on one of the thumbnails. A larger shot of a woman's bare back came up on the screen. The woman had a good figure and a firm backside, Pearl thought. Curiosity spurred inside her to learn more about the woman, so she advanced the sequence of photos several more times. The quality of the posing and photography left much to be desired. Finally, a full frontal shot appeared. Pearl saw the model's face clearly. The woman looked directly at the camera with a sad expression.

"God damn you," she screamed. "I know this woman. She sells lightin' fixtures. How in the name o' God could you bring her here? I could abide you pickin' up whores and beddin' them in a Knoxville hotel, but I will not have you bring a local woman, someone who works right here in Prospect, into my house—for this? I warn you, Cecil. End this affair with that woman now."

"Or what, Pearly?" Cecil's voice sounded soft, not confrontational.

Pearl looked at him with a feeling of hatred. She hated his womanizing. Hated the way he spoke to her. Hated him for always wearing yellow shirts.

"Or I will make arrangements for someone to speak with her," she said, "and I assure you, it will end. She does have a husband, I believe. Does she not?"

"Gonna use one of the judge's storm-troopers ta enforce your laws, Pearl?"

"I will do what I must to maintain my dignity. I swear, Cecil, I should have left you years ago. No, damn it, I should have had someone kill you!"

Cecil laughed. "Well now, ya might could," he said, "I believe ya surely might could—then or even now. But ya know why ya won't?" Neither did he wait for an answer nor did she offer one. "Cause ya like my money too much, Miss Pearl. Yes, indeed, ya surely do. The Judge may give ya the power ya love, but it's ol' Cecil who's got the money—and ya love that cash, don't ya? I was never sure which meant more ta ya."

Cecil allowed himself a moment to chuckle.

"I die, and ya only git a pitiful small insurance policy and the bidness," he said. "Ya wanna run the bidness yerse'f? The way ya spend, ain't enough money in the whole world ta last very long. I'm jest worth too much alive and on the hoof, darlin'. I jest keep makin' money hand over fist.'' He laughed aloud at his own words.

Furious, her pride seriously bruised, Pearl rushed out of the office. She stopped in the hallway and for what she thought good measure, yelled back, "Damn you to hell, Cecil Lovejoy. God forgive me, but I wish you dead!"
Chapter One

Few people believe me when I speak about my life altering experience at the checkout in Wal-Mart.

An elderly woman with a cart piled high with groceries scurried toward the express line before I could cut her off. Life is unfair. I only needed a roll of duct tape and a package of D cell batteries. She belonged at another register.

Once there, the old girl moved slower than a Galapagos tortoise. Even the cashier showed her impatience.

Before the woman finished writing a check, her milk began to curdle.

As I waited for her to unload a half-ton payload onto the tiny counter, I noticed the headline on a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel lying on the newspaper rack. Prospect's Top Cop Nabbed in Gun Sting.

As I read further, I learned that agents of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation arrested Chief Albert J. "Buck" Webbster for selling confiscated handguns in the parking lot of a Knoxville gun show.

Stupid bastard, I thought. Lose your job, your pension and your reputation for a couple hundred dollars.

Finally, the old lady wheeled her cart of groceries toward the exit. A sergeant from McGhee-Tyson Air Base, wearing a crisp set of cammies, tapped my shoulder.

"Your turn, bud." He pointed toward the register.

I folded the paper. "Thanks. I was just taking a nap."

"I hear that," he said.

I bought the paper and headed out to my truck. With the warm sun shining on the cab of my F-150, I continued reading about Webbster.

The long and detailed article outlined how the state cops played Buck like a hillbilly banjo. Twice they bought guns from him. After that, they executed an arrest warrant in his office at the Prospect Police Department. Embarrassing would be an understatement.

The old lady at Wal-Mart didn't change my future. The newspaper did.

I used to know a lot about police work. The article started me thinking.

* * * *

The mayor's conference room in the Prospect municipal building measured about fifteen by twenty. Mayor Ronnie Shields and I sat together at one end of a long oval table in padded armchairs.

"We're pleased someone with your experience would apply for a job with the Prospect Po-leece," he said.

"And I appreciate you granting me an interview so quickly."

"You understand, Sam..." he said, "Do you mind if I call you Sam?"

"Of course not."

The young-looking mayor wore a navy blue suit and impeccable white shirt.

"Good. Please call me Ronnie."

I nodded and gave him a brotherly smile, wanting to pick a piece of lint off his right sleeve.

"As I was sayin', we need ta fill the chief's position real quick. Circumstances bein' what they are, Buck Webbster has ta push his retirement through fast as the state kin process it."

I nodded again, wondering how much the mayor's suit cost. His striped tie must have topped seventy bucks.

I learned from a friend at the county sheriff's office about Webbster getting saved by the local good ol' boy system. Thanks to friends in high places, the county DA waived prosecution with an understanding Buck would retire and leave the state. Not a bad deal when you weigh it against the idea of a convicted cop doing hard time.

"If the Council were to choose you as our new chief," Ronnie said, "would starting next Monday pose a problem for ya?"

I had discussed this new venture with my wife, Katherine, before I dropped off a resume and filled out an application a few days earlier. She thought getting back into the world after years of retirement would do me good.

"No, sir, I can start on Monday if necessary."

The mayor nodded with a big grin. He noticed the lint on his sleeve, picked it off and dropped it on the gray tweed carpet.

"There's jest one thing, Sam," he said. "The salary ya asked for is a bit more than we anticipated starting the new chief with. Is your price negotiable?"

Ronnie Shields seemed like a nice man. I decided to spare him my hard-ass act and negotiate honestly. Honestly. Not stupidly. Whenever I try to sell something, I pad my asking price.

"I know Tennessee salaries are considerably lower than those in New York," I said. "I based my request on my last year's pay up there. That was fourteen years ago. Considering the responsibilities involved here and how you need to restore confidence in the department, I thought the figure seemed reasonable."

Ronnie sat back and raised his eyebrows.

"Mr. Mayor," I continued, "you need a competent man quickly. You only recruited locally to get someone for next Monday. And I know only one other man with supervisory experience applied, a patrol sergeant. The others were all deputies or police officers. I've run sections with annual budgets of around a million dollars, and you don't have to worry about me getting arrested."

He hung his head slightly and gently rocked back and forth.

"You've got me there, Sam. I guess you had went and done your homework."

"I was a detective for a long time. Getting information comes naturally."

"I unnerstand," he said. "You've got a fine record." He tapped the copies of my application and the resume he held. "Between the Army and your former po-leece department, you got a whole bushel full o' medals. Still, startin' with eighty thousand dollars is a lot o' money for li'l ol' Prospect."

"I understand, too. But that's still less than some of the top brass at the Sheriff's office make."

He gave me a hard stare and waited.

"Okay, Ronnie, let me make it a little easier on your budget. I'll knock off ten thousand for two years if you buy me a new car."

"A new car?" He almost choked on the words.

"Webbster's car is four years old. I'd need one soon anyway."

"You shore did some homework."

I smiled and tried to look humble. It wasn't easy.

"Alright, Sam, I think the Council may approve that. Are we still talkin' about a five-year contract?"

I nodded. "With a ten percent increase on the fifth year."

A pained look crossed his face. "Okay, I'll call ya."

* * * *

Just back from taking Bitsey, our old Scottish terrier, for a walk, I stood in the living room watching two gray squirrels scampering around beneath our birdfeeder, eating the sunflower seeds dislodged from above.

My wife left for the public library where she does volunteer work. I planned to spend the morning at home. Then the phone rang, and the dog barked, making sure I heard it.

Ronnie Shields spoke to me. "I've got good news for ya, Sam —and some bad news."

Good news and bad news? You think I'm a fine guy, but you're not going to hire me. C'est la vie.

"You've got my attention, Ronnie. Give me the news—in any order."

"Well, sir, the Council accepted your conditions, and they want to hire you. Now, that's good, ain't it?"

"It certainly is." I think.

"The bad part is we'll need you to start Friday. I forgot we have a big event comin' up this Saturday that requires a po-leece supervisor. Buck Webbster is officially off the payroll as of Thursday night. I'm sorry, Sam, but kin ya he'p us out here?"

I like smooth. Ronnie gave me bumps. But I agreed. I can be a schlep at times.

"Sure I can," I said. "You want me there Friday morning?"

"How's two o'clock? I've got a meetin' with the Finance and Payroll people in the mornin'."

"Two o'clock it is."

"Jest one more thing, Sam."

"Yes?"

"Would ya mind stoppin' here next Wednesday night after work? The Council is havin' a meetin'. They'd like ta say hello."

I saw bumps. Then I got potholes. I only wanted a nine-to-five job. "Okay, what time?" I began to wonder if taking on a new career at my age made any sense. I'd hate to admit being wrong. I thought about that egotistical guy who said, 'I thought I'd been wrong once, but I was mistaken.'
Chapter Two

Friday, July 21st, looked bright and sunny. Kate would leave home at 9:30, as she did every Friday, to meet seven of her friends for their weekly mahjongg games.

After breakfast, I stood on the front porch looking east toward the Smoky Mountains. A big orange ball rose over the green pasture across the road where grazing horses chased annoying flies by flicking their tails. Closer to me, a swarm of gnats became visible in the backlighting.

I had little planned for the already warm day.

It's appropriate for a newly employed police officer to carry a serviceable firearm. A cop with a gun is like a lawyer with a code of ethics: you may not use it very often, but it's good to have around in case you need to show someone.

I went downstairs, opened my safe and checked my guns.

For my last three years in New York, I carried a Glock semiautomatic. Logically, something that allowed me to carry fifty rounds of 9mm ammunition in the gun and two extra magazines sounded like the way to go. Who wants the bad guys to have more firepower?

Although I liked the Glock 19, my Smith & Wesson revolver remained my favorite. The old .38 would make me look like an aging gunslinger, like Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda in one of their last western movies.

I took out the Smith, rubbed the blued steel finish with a silicone cloth, loaded it with six 158 grain, hollow points and locked it back in the safe. I'd carry that.

Ready to go again, all I needed was a badge and, if absolutely necessary, a uniform.

At 9:40, Katherine kissed me good-bye and asked me to wish her luck at the mahjongg tables.

I said something inscrutably oriental, something Charlie Chan would have told Number One Son. I kissed her again and told her to drive safely.

She wished me good luck with my new boss.

* * * *

After Kate left, Bitsey and I settled into the living room prepared to kill the morning with a borrowed Agatha Raisin novel. I sat in a wingback recliner and switched on the Tiffany lamp. Bitsey jumped onto one of the love seats. She made a couple of circles and hit the cushion like a paratrooper hitting a drop-zone. The effort that dog expended just to relax amazed me.

Two banks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases formed the wall on my left; a mountain-stone fireplace occupied the center of the wall. I'm very comfortable in our living room. Bitsey could get comfortable on a bed of nails.

I read for less than an hour and found Agatha wasn't doing it for me. Maybe her incessant smoking bothered me. I hate it when people smoke. Listening to her bitchy behavior during the last few chapters annoyed me, too. Or perhaps it was because she volunteered to man a tombola stand for her women's club, and I had no idea what the hell a tombola stand was.

By afternoon, I'd be a police chief. Why was I reading about a middle-aged woman butting into police business in the midlands of Old Blighty?

I tossed Aggie onto the window seat after deciding to make a surprise visit to my new police department.

Looking natty again in a jacket and tie, I thought my pick-up was no vehicle for a new boss to arrive in on his first half day at work.

I opened the overhead door to our garage where my restored 1967 Austin–Healey 3000 Mark III convertible sat waiting for me. What more could a middle-aged sports car enthusiast want? James Bond, eat your heart out. The last time I read anything about you, you drove a Saab.

Dropping into the blue leather bucket seat, I depressed the clutch, switched on the key, touched the starter, and the three-litre engine growled to life.

I headed east on US 321, turned north across the Little River and made my way via back country roads to Main Street in Prospect.

At the head of the tree-rimmed square, the Municipal Building stood as a proud symbol of small town government. The building, only a little more than twenty years old, possessed all the style and charm of the 19th century, like one of those great old Carnegie Libraries.

Inside, a visitor could find the Mayor's Office, the Planning Commission, the Budget and Finance Department and all the other sections needed to run a small city.

The necessary evils of society were also represented: the Magistrate's Court—for perpetrators of misdemeanors and minor violations—and the Police Department.

I drove around back where employees parked and where a few city trucks shared territory with the police vehicles. I didn't want a zealous cop towing away the Healey, so I parked in a visitor's spot rather than the area marked 'Police Vehicles Only'.

Inside, the PD layout looked unlike any of the old-fashioned precinct houses where I worked back in New York. No elevated desk dominated the lobby where a sergeant supervised a crew of desk officers. It looked much like any business office you might walk into.

A pretty, blonde female in uniform sat behind a large desk with a glass partition behind her. A desk nameplate read Police Officer Bettye A. Lambert.

"Hello," I said.

She looked up at me over a pair of little granny glasses.

"Oh, hello," she said, taking her attention away from the report lying on her desk. "May I help you?"

"I'm sure you can." I offered her my hand. "I'm Sam Jenkins, your new boss."

Officer Lambert stood and returned my handshake "Oh, uh...hello, Chief. What are you doin' here today? You're not due in until Monday."

The narrow reading glasses sat low on the bridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes sparkled with tiny flecks of brown and gold. A blonde ponytail swayed slightly. The color looked natural, perhaps with a little help from Miss Clairol, but natural enough for the likes of me. Her khaki shirt and charcoal green pants fit extremely well.

I figured Bettye for mid- to late-thirties and thought her face showed more than one person's share of character.

But her frown suggested that something was troubling her. I used plenty of deodorant that morning. Couldn't be me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to startle you." I offered her a smile most girls can't resist.

"That's okay." She returned a little grin, but a weak one.

"Are you having a bad day?" I asked.

"No," she answered quickly. "Oh, well, yes, I guess. But I'm okay, Chief. It's just that your predecessor came in on Monday, learned his retirement would be effective on Thursday and took sick time for the rest of the week. He left me in charge." She rolled her eyes at the word 'retirement'. "I'm just trying to clean things up and get ready for you on Monday. But...you're here today." She made it sound like I had rained on her parade.

"Can I assume Buck left you with at least a few things unfinished?"

"Yes, sir, he surely did."

She had a lovely voice, an accent that would make Scarlett O'Hara jealous.

"Look, they're not paying you to act as the police chief," I said. "Don't worry. We'll fix whatever is necessary together."

A flicker of relief showed. Her shoulders dropped half-an-inch, and some of the stress left her face.

"Sit down," I said. "Let's talk about what's happening."

She sat in her swivel chair and tossed the granny glasses onto her blotter. I took the side chair next to her desk, spun it round and rested my forearms on the seatback.

"Okay, let's start over. Hi, I'm Sam Jenkins, your new boss."

She cracked a smile, one more genuine than her previous attempt.

"And it's Sam. Sir, Chief or Your Highness isn't necessary. If you're going to be formal, I'll have to call you Officer Lambert, and I don't want to do that."

My wit and charm got a big, beautiful smile from Bettye. Sir Galahad could take lessons from me.

I told her about the mayor's plans. She explained what work she wanted to clear up. None of it sounded critical.

"Relax, Bettye. Nothing there involves preserving world peace. Work on it when you can, or save some for me."

The radio crackled, and one of the patrol cops asked to be taken out of service for a meal period.

"I'll let you get back to being the desk officer, and I'll take a look around," I said. "Is anyone else here?"

"No, sir, I mean, Sam. Three men are on the road. I'm here alone."

"Well, not anymore. Excuse me while I wander around."

Beyond the glass divider behind Bettye's desk, I saw rows of file cabinets and some computer gear, a rack of portable radios and some other gadgets necessary to the modern police department. Bettye's desk held a big telephone console, a radio transceiver and microphone to speak with the patrol cars and several computer components.

To her right, a visitor's left, I found the chief's office. Farther back and down the hall on the left, the overnight detention cells and a combination interrogation and juvenile offender room extended to the back wall. On the right, what cops call the ID room—the place to fingerprint and photograph defendants, came first. Behind that, the uniformed officers' squad room. The only squad room because we had no detectives. It occupied the largest space in the floor plan. Prospect PD in a nutshell.

When I finished my self-guided tour, I entered my new office. Not bad, I thought, as I heard my stomach growl. I looked at my watch: 12:15.

Back in the lobby, I asked Bettye, "What time do you usually take lunch?"

"Usually at one, but I didn't plan on going out today. I brought a container of yogurt."

I made a face at the thought. "That's not much to eat. I'll never make it until dinner without eating lunch. I'll go out and pick up something—my treat. Anything good close by?"

"There's Hardee's across the street." She shrugged and wrinkled her nose, as though not convinced they were good.

"How's the Chinese place on the square," I asked.

"Wah Lum? They're good," she said with more conviction.

"Wah Lum it is. You need a menu?"

"No, I'll just have sweet and sour pork, but I'll pay." She opened a desk drawer and reached for a purse.

"Not necessary. Old cop tradition—new guy buys lunch on the first day. I'll be back in a flash."

Thirty minutes later, we sat around her desk, her with sweet and sour pork and me with Hunan chicken.

"Mr. Lum seems like a nice guy," I said. "He told me he escaped from Communist China over the Canton border and lived in Kowloon before coming to the US. And like me, he came here from New York."

"You learned all that in just a few minutes?"

"Sure. He likes to talk. I ask questions."

"Well."

"So, how long have you been a cop?" I asked, as I popped another piece of spicy chicken into my mouth.

Before I finished lunch, I learned that Bettye started her career in Prospect as the magistrate's court officer.

Thirteen years earlier, her first husband, Walter Hitchens, a Prospect police officer, died one night after being run down by a drunk driver. That left Bettye a widow with two young daughters. She asked to fill Walt's spot at the PD, needing the extra salary to help make ends meet. Ronnie Shield's predecessor ordered a reluctant Buck Webbster to hire her as a cop.

"I'm sorry to hear what happened to Walt, but you're not Bettye Hitchens any longer."

"No, I'm not," she said. "My second husband, Donnie, is an electrical contractor. We have a son, Donald Junior." She sounded proud of them.

We spoke more, mostly of personal things. She didn't hesitate to admit being forty-two-years-old. I wouldn't either if I looked as good as her.

During lunch, a few routine calls came in on our 9-1-1 line, a minor first aid case, a stolen car report and a neighbor dispute. Bettye dispatched the cars like a real pro. I knew I'd like working with her.

At quarter-to-two, I was impatient and ready to hike up to the mayor's office on the second floor. Before I left, I gave Bettye an assignment.

"I don't know how long the Maharaja will have me upstairs," I said, "but I'd like to meet the street cops before they go home. Is anything exciting going on that would keep you from calling the cars in so we can all have a powwow?"

She gave me a big smile. "Sam, it's two o'clock on a Friday afternoon in Prospect, Tennessee. The sun is shinin'. There are no wrecks on the roads—'course I can call in the cars. You want them here about 3:30? That way when the four o'clock shift comes in a little early, as they usually do, we'll be right here waitin' for you."

"Lady, with ideas like that you'll be the first sergeant here in no time. You're doing a fine job being a cop. I hope I can remember how it's done."
Chapter Three

The mayor's secretary, Trudy Connor, looked to be in her early-fifties, came to work well dressed and, so far, managed to be almost friendly. My only objection—she smelled of nicotine. I envisioned her disappearing into the parking lot to sneak a smoke behind the dumpster.

Standing in the anteroom of the Mayor's office I said, "Hello, Ms. Connor. Remember me? Sam Jenkins, the new police chief?"

She smiled and nodded, giving me the impression she thought—'Of course I remember, you idiot. Do I look like I'd forget something like that?'

"I have a two o'clock appointment with the mayor," I said

She looked at a telephone console, saw a red light showing and said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Shields is on the phone right now." She looked at her watch. "And you're a little early. Please have a seat, and I'll let you know when he's free."

I watched the red light go out. It was close enough to two o'clock for me.

"Matter of life and death, Ms. Connor," I said. "He's expecting me. Important police business, you know." I grabbed the doorknob to Ronnie's office.

As I opened the door, I heard Ms. Connor say, "Mr. Jenkins, you can't!"

Ms. Connor could be trouble. I'd work on that.

Ronnie Shields' office looked like something out of Field & Stream magazine. His expansive mahogany desk backed up to a bay window overlooking the town square. A high-backed swivel chair was tucked and pleated in soft burgundy leather. In front of the desk, two forest-green leather armchairs waited to accommodate visitors. Various wildlife prints: a group of white-tailed deer, a large-mouth bass hooked to a lure, and several wild turkeys added to the woodsy atmosphere. A stuffed deer head hung on the wall, as did some sort of long and skinny, mean-looking fish. I began to wonder if he bought out the Cabela's outlet store.

Ronnie appeared cool and well groomed, like some head of state in his medium-gray suit. Although in his mid-forties, Ronnie looked young to be a mayor. Maybe that's because I'm older and still think people in authority should look senior to me. Or perhaps Ronnie just had one of those perpetual little-boy faces. He'd probably look young at ninety. His dark blond hair, in a slightly long, over-the-ears style, may have been out of fashion, but looked right for him. There wasn't a follicle out of place. He might spend as much on hairspray as I spend on liquor. If Ronnie Shields wasn't a politician, he'd make a great televangelist.

He looked toward his doorway as I thrust myself into his office unannounced.

"Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya. You doin' alright today?"

"I'm well, Ronnie. How about you?" I said as we shook hands.

"Real fine. Yes, sir, real fine."

He gave me a well-rehearsed political smile. His blue eyes twinkled. If I brought a baby with me, he would have kissed it.

The mayor pointed to one of his green chairs. I sat.

"In jest a couple minutes, Sam, I'll have Trudy come in, and I'll swear ya in. She's a notary and'll witness your oath of office ta make it all legal-like. Then, sir, you'll be our new po-leece chief. That suit ya?"

"Sounds good today. I'll let you know for sure in about a month."

That must have bothered him. He wrinkled his brow and looked at me—like George Washington might have looked at Benedict Arnold.

"Tell me," I said. "What's the big event tomorrow that requires a police supervisor?"

"Oh, the annual car show and flea market or some such thing. Later on, we'll go downstairs an' I'll introduce ya ta Bettye Lambert. She's your administrative officer. Good woman, you'll like her. She'll explain everythin' ta ya."

"We've met. I stopped at the PD before coming up here."

Ronnie gave me an embarrassed smile. "Well, I shoulda known. Yes, sir, I shoulda known you'd take a look at your new command."

I nodded and tried to seem excited.

He opened his desk drawer and spoke with enthusiasm, "Look here, Sam. Here's your badge."

He handed me a large oval shield, silver with gold detail. Getting partially up from my chair, I accepted the badge, saw the Tennessee state seal in the center and read the words, 'City of Prospect' in a scroll above that and 'Chief' below.

A few minutes later, Ronnie swore me in. Ms. Connor notarized my signature. And I became the police chief in Prospect, Tennessee.

* * * *

Back in front of Bettye's desk at 3:20, my new badge already felt familiar in my pocket, and the three day-shift sector cars were on their way to headquarters.

Officers Vernon Hobbs, Junior Huskey and Bobby John Crockett joined Bettye and me promptly at 3:30 p.m. I said the appropriate hellos, started talking about the future and generally bantering around the cop-talk officers like to hear.

I saved my full-blown pep talk until the people from the evening shift drifted in and joined us. Seven uniformed cops stood or sat in the lobby looking at me. Show time for yours truly.

"Hello to all of you," I said. "If you've not heard yet, I'm Sam Jenkins, your new boss. I won't make a speech to rival the Gettysburg Address, just a basic pitch about how I do business and how I'd like to see this place run.

"You all know the job we've been hired to do. But I'm not foolish enough to think a cop in a sector car will work a solid eight hours a day. Nobody out there does. What I do expect is for you to put the department first. I'll never ask you to polish a clean counter, but save the screwing off and Christmas shopping on duty until after the job is done.

"I expect you to have respect and loyalty for me and each other. In the big scheme of things, it's you and me against the rest of the world. Everybody loves a cop when we pick up the pieces at an accident, but you're a son-of-a-bitch when you write a traffic ticket. Few people seem to make the connection. I get paid to deal with them. I give myself the job of taking care of you. I can handle the public or the mayor with a clear conscience when we all give the job a hundred percent when it's necessary."

I noticed a couple of nods, and two or three men took a quick look at each other and smiled.

"I've always thought being a cop is a fun job," I said. "If it hasn't been that way here, I'd like it to change. If anyone ever has a problem or question about why I do what I do, stop in and see me."

I looked from one face to another and saw everything from grins to straight faces. Typical cops. But no one stuck out their tongue or threw a sharp object at me. I thought I gave a rousing speech. Knute Rockne would have been proud of me.

"Any questions?"

No one spoke up. A few heads shook. No one gave me the finger.

"Okay. Thanks for your time. Be careful out there."

Soon after I stopped talking, the day men left to gas their cars. The swing-shift people walked up, shook my hand and introduced themselves. Before hitting the road, they picked up any new paperwork they needed and a couple of warrants recently issued for forgetful members of the community who failed to answer their summonses or pay their fines. At 1600 hours, Prospect's finest peeled out of the parking lot, looking to suppress crime in East Tennessee.

After the dust settled and the cavalry rode off onto the prairie, Bettye and I were left standing in the lobby.

"Well," I said, "I'm not much for wearing a uniform, but I guess I'll need one."

Bettye nodded. I thought she might be thinking a typical womanly thing. Something like: 'Of course you need a uniform, dear. You're a policeman now, and policemen wear uniforms.' But she waited patiently to hear what I'd say.

"Did Buck always wear a uniform?" I asked.

"Yes, he did."

"Then maybe the new chief needs a new image. Tradition is good, but it's not written in stone. Right?"

"You're the boss." She smiled, indulging me.

"But I should get a uniform in case I need one. At least for ceremonies—if we have any ceremonies."

"Not very often."

"Where do I get these uniforms? I understand the city provides them."

"We use Old Town Police Supply in Knoxville. We have an account there. I'll get you the phone number."

"Thanks," I said. "Tell me about the important thing coming up this weekend."

"Just the annual car show tomorrow," she said. "They have it on that big grassy meadow in front of the Best Western Motel, the one called Foothills View. It's just down the road from the town square."

"I know where that is. Is it for just one day?"

"Just one day."

"Lucky me. Uncompensated overtime already."

She smiled again, a compassionate one.

"There are more car shows in Tennessee than Detroit," I said. "What kind is this one?"

"I've got their flyer right here." She picked up a printed page from her desk and read from it. "They call it the Smoky Mountain British Car Show and Swap Meet, hosted by The Royal Auto Legion of East Tennessee."

"I remember that one. I haven't been to it in years. I like old British cars, and I know one of the members. They used to hold that show in Townsend."

"I think they did."

"Maybe I should wear a uniform if I work with one of the patrolmen."

"Yes, maybe you should. Then you'd both be...uniform."

"I won't be able to get one for tomorrow. Any suggestions?"

"Bobby Crockett looks to be about your size. I'm sure he'd lend you one."

"Okay, I'll ask. Ah, how can I contact him?"

"I'll call him for you, Sam."

"Thanks. Oh, and what sector is the show in, and who's working there tomorrow?"

"That's the central sector. Junior handles it. His car number is 501."

"What's my call sign?"

"You're Prospect One."

"Wow, sounds important."

"Yes, sir. You're our boss."

"Ask Junior to pick me up at the car show at eight o'clock. My friend is the club president. I'll stop there first. And have Bobby leave a shirt in my office—so I'm...uniform."

"I'll take care of that for you."

I wandered around the PD and looked over my new office while Bettye spoke on the phone.

At 4:50 I stepped back into the lobby and watched Bettye clean up her desk in anticipation of closing the shop at five o'clock and switching the communications responsibility over to the county 9-1-1 center and their dispatcher.

"Before you leave, Bettye, one more question. Just between you and me, what did you think of Buck? I didn't know him, and the arrest didn't make him look too good. What kind of a guy was he?"

Bettye let out a long breath and shook her head. "Buck Webbster was a fool and a bully. Sometimes I just hated to come to work. I never worked for another chief, so I have no one else to compare him to, but in my mind ol' Buck left a lot to be desired. I never could figure out why they didn't fire him long ago."

As she spoke, she continued to tidy up all the desk items that clutter a workspace.

"Buck was never a good policeman," she said. "He really didn't know much about the job and didn't care to learn. And he sure didn't care about anybody who worked here. He seemed happy to let things happen and hope for the best."

I thought about that and nodded.

Cool. They're gonna love me in no time.
Chapter Four

I left Prospect PD at 5 p.m. as the huddled masses of municipal workers poured from the red brick building. The Healey got a few approving stares and even a thumbs-up from the city mechanic when he left his office in the garage.

I arrived home at 5:15. Even though I was gasping for a drink, I tended to the needs of the dog first.

At ten-to-six Katherine came home all smiles, telling me how she won five mahjongg games, two of which were extremely difficult combinations, whatever that meant.

After a tall gin and tonic, I needed a snack or my main meal. My first half-day on the new job left me feeling hungry. My wife, who hasn't gained or lost any weight in the past forty years, frowned at the mention of the word _snack_. She did offer an alternative.

"How about Mexican in Maryville? I'm in the mood for Camarones Pancho Villa. I'll give you my rice and beans."

She's not only cute, but good at bribery.

"You can tell me about your first day at the new job while we eat."

I approved of that idea and told her so.

"And, big feller, if you play your cards right, I might be persuaded to let you snuggle with me later on," she said.

Considering the alternatives of either mindless reality shows on the networks or Law & Order reruns on the cable stations, I decided to behave myself, be affectionate and see what developed.

* * * *

Three weeks earlier, my friend Adolph, a urologist from New York, sent me a free sample of a half-dozen Cialis tablets.

At 6:30 I popped one, thinking that Kate's promise of a snuggle wasn't just an idle comment, but sort of a bonus for going out and getting myself real job.

Sitting in the restaurant, I remembered the TV commercial—the one where two lovers sit in separate bath tubs on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, looking off into the sunset. Weird but memorable.

Following the instructions from that commercial, I didn't indulge in excess alcohol consumption after taking Cialis. I drank one twelve-ounce draft of Dos Equis. Kate, who didn't have to worry about any warning, ordered a bowl-like glass of frozen Margarita. After getting a little giggly, she held my hand on the way home.

As I topped a hill on US 321, I noticed an old Ford Tempo in the turning lane waiting to make a left onto Gateway Road. Five or six cars coming from the opposite direction prevented the Tempo driver from doing that. A short break in the cluster of westbound vehicles opened up before the last car would pass the Tempo.

For some ill-fated reason, the woman in the Ford began her turn directly in front of a new Camry going at least sixty. The old Tempo didn't have the pick-up to clear the two westbound lanes before the driver of the blue Toyota, talking on her cell phone, crashed broadside into the right front door of the Ford.

Driving in the left lane doing fifty-five, I watched the Tempo propelled backward and at an angle that would quickly intersect with us. I nailed the brake pedal of Kate's Subaru as hard as I could, immediately pulled my foot back off and simultaneously threw the steering wheel hard to the right and hit the gas. The little Outback zigged right. I twisted my upper body, now to the left, again jerking the wheel. The car zagged left, avoiding the spinning Tempo. I hit the brakes hard again and brought our car to a squealing stop in the eastbound, right-hand lane. The collision sounded deafening, the squeal of brakes loud and high pitched. I smelled rubber burning as the Subaru came to a stop. I pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, thankful I never forgot what I learned in the Emergency Vehicle Operation Clinic back in 1972.

"Are you okay?" I asked Kate who always wore a seatbelt.

She looked up at me, shaken but unhurt. She nodded. People ran out of the house just above where I stopped the car.

We had no cell phone with us. "Make sure they call 9-1-1, fast," I said.

She unfastened her seatbelt and ran up the small hill to the lawn where two adults and a teenage boy stood by looking down toward the highway.

I jumped out of the Subaru and ran over to the driver of the Ford, the closest vehicle to me. Other people drove by slowly, rubbernecking. A burly, bearded guy parked his pick-up behind the Tempo and switched on his four-way flashers. I jerked open the driver's door of the Ford—she hadn't worn a seatbelt, and the old car had no air bag.

Clearly, her head bounced off both the side window and the windshield causing great spider-like breaks in the glass now pushed outward by the force of the driver's skull. The woman's head hung at an unnatural angle, something I'd seen before in similar situations. I placed three fingers over her carotid artery, but had little hope of finding a pulse. I felt nothing.

I shook my head and looked at my bearded assistant. "She's dead. Let's go." We ran to the Camry.

Another car stopped, blocking one lane of traffic. A young man went to the Toyota and tried without luck to open the driver's door.

"We'll handle this," I said, pointing at the car door. "Back your car up about a hundred feet and put on your lights and four-ways. No one down the hill can see us up here. Try to get traffic to slow down." He hesitated. "Do it! Quickly!" He moved.

The Camry's door jammed shut after the front-end impact. The side window shattered and broke out completely. I pulled on the doorframe. Nothing happened.

"Watch out!" the big guy said.

He pulled the door open almost an inch-and-a-half, just enough to get his fingers between the frame and the jamb. With two hands locked around the frame and his foot braced on the side of the car, he pulled again and gave a loud grunt. The door moved.

"A li'l he'p here." He panted, straining against the twisted metal.

We positioned ourselves so we could both pull, and on his signal, we did. The door moved more, now almost halfway open, enough room for me to squeeze in and get to the driver. I felt for a pulse, found one and tried to open her seatbelt. The buckle had jammed. I pulled a knife out of my pocket, pressed a button and the sharp, spring-loaded blade locked open. I cut the lap and shoulder straps that restrained the driver. She moaned. The big guy slapped my shoulder.

"Hey!" He pointed to a puddle of gasoline forming around my left foot.

I nodded—he knew I understood. He jerked the door open a little more. I put my arm behind the driver's back and gently drew her toward me. She was young and lightweight. Keyed up from the excitement and with adrenaline pumping through my body, I easily extracted the girl from the car. I had her halfway out when the bearded man took over and hefted the burden from me.

We moved forty feet behind the Toyota where he laid her down on the blacktop. The big guy balled up his shirt and placed it under her head. I heard sirens, both nearby and in the distance. There were two types, the screams and yelps of police cars and the steady, high—low sound of a Rural Metro ambulance.

I looked up and saw flashing blue lights just behind the Tempo. Another man and a woman who said she was a nurse joined the big guy who comforted our victim. I got up and ran toward the source of the blue light, a white and green county sheriff's unit. A young cop with a crew cut and a mustache got out, first adjusting his campaign hat and then his gun belt. He walked slowly toward me.

"Quick, give me your fire extinguisher," I said, almost out of breath. "Then get some flares or cones down that hill to warn traffic."

"Jest who the hell you think you are?" he asked with a dose of attitude.

I hesitated for a second, took a step closer and raised my voice, "I'm the goddamned Chief of Prospect PD. Give me that extinguisher—now!"

He hustled back to his car and pulled out an oversized portable fire extinguisher. I pulled the pin, sprayed the puddle of gas and exhausted the rest of the foam inside the engine compartment, hoping to ward off a fire. The cop watched me.

"I told you—get back down the hill with some flares or cones! I don't want someone parking in your goddamn trunk at sixty-miles-an-hour." Finally, he moved out smartly.

Two other police cars pulled up, a county sergeant and a state trooper. I stepped over to the supervisor.

"Sarge, you've got one DOA in the Tempo, a critical on the ground over there." I pointed toward the victim. "A nurse is helping her. You'll need the fire department for a wash-down—gasoline's under the Camry. You also want a car with lights down the hill to the east, and you might need a couple of guys to direct the traffic." I began losing breath.

"You done this before?" He grinned as he unhooked a portable radio from his gun belt. He didn't know me, but I'm sure he recognized a cop speaking.

I smiled and nodded. "Yeah...once or twice."

The sergeant began talking to his dispatcher.

As he spoke into the radio, an ambulance weaved slowly onto the scene, the driver looking for a safe place to park. All the pros were arriving. I walked over to the trooper, gave him my name and phone number and volunteered a witness statement when the county dicks got around to wanting one. I considered my job finished.

I crossed two lanes of eastbound traffic, trying not to get hit by a rubbernecker. Feeling exhausted, I trudged up the small rise to fetch my wife.

Back on the highway, we settled into the car, and Kate fastened her seatbelt. I took a deep breath. After a few seconds, I switched on the ignition and put the car into drive.

Kate asked, "And you want to do this for a living again?"
Chapter Five

George Morgan, a personal friend and current president of the Royal Auto Legion of East Tennessee, would figure prominently on Saturday, July 22nd—my first day on patrol with Prospect PD.

An expert on vintage Triumph automobiles, George retired from his job in Iowa five years earlier to live in Prospect with his wife, Nonie, one of the local mahjong girls.

When I learned that hordes of British car enthusiasts would be descending on my town that weekend, I called George to coordinate our efforts for traffic and crowd control and to ask for a non-member's spot to park the best-looking old Austin-Healey east of the Mississippi. I'd let a few of those enthusiasts drool a little.

That morning, I drove my big silver blue Healey to the designated area, gave George the keys and dropped Katherine and her Scrabble game into the care of Nonie Morgan. Then I jumped into a marked police car driven by Junior Huskey.

Davis Huskey Jr. and I stood shoulder to shoulder, making him six feet tall. But the dark-haired kid looked like a high school coach's dream linebacker, weighing in at around one-ninety-five, fifteen pounds more than me.

Junior and I would ensure that traffic heading to the car show didn't interfere with the rest of a summer Saturday in Prospect, and we'd handle whatever jobs the county dispatcher assigned until four that afternoon. Junior, the guy with all the experience in the sector, assured me that car buffs were a law-abiding crowd, never causing even the smallest problem. Prospect, as the tourist booklets say, is on the peaceful side of the Smokies.

After a quick stop at the PD for me to change into the uniform shirt Bobby Crockett dropped off, Junior drove his big white and blue Ford Police Interceptor out of the municipal lot and turned right onto Main Street away from the town square.

Across the road on our left, I saw Hardee's lot full of parked cars and more vehicles in the drive-up lane wrapped around the building. I contemplated the fat and cholesterol in one of their sausage, biscuit, and gravy breakfast specials. But I doubted any of the patrons gave a rat's ass about either.

I brought Bitsey along for the ride. I didn't think her fourteen-year-old kidneys could wait at home while I worked and Katherine attended the car show. She sat in the back seat. The smell from Hardee's grill put her on alert.

"You think those people play Russian roulette, too?" I said, pointing toward Hardee's

"Do what?" Junior said.

I thought he missed my point. "Nothing, partner. I was just talking to myself."

Bitsey put her paws on the seat back and licked Junior's ear.

"She sure is a cute dog, Sam. How long you had her?"

"She'll be fourteen in October. When we got her from the pound, she was seven-weeks-old."

"Got some big ears, don't she?"

"Yeah, she's not a show dog. Her ears are too big, her legs are too long, and her tail isn't docked to a stub. But she's a tough little bugger."

"I like her."

"Good. I think she likes you, too."

* * * *

Later that morning, as we drove around Junior's sector checking the commercial buildings closed for the weekend, he asked, "Mind answerin' a question?"

"After all the time we've known each other—you being like a son to me, how could I refuse?"

"Shoot, Sam, we only known each other a couple days. Everybody from New York like you?"

"That's not your question, kid."

"No, sir, it's not. I wanted to ask why you took the chief's job here in this little ol' department after workin' for twenty years in such a big, busy place an' now bein' retired so long?"

Junior asked a good question—one I asked myself more than once. I could have given him the short and impersonal answer: I became bored, got tired of spending time around the house and working in the yard, and I didn't want to devote my time to selling used cars or life insurance. That was only partially true.

I'd gotten a little too obsessive about my wife. Content with the way we lived, I admit having no worldly purpose in my life. So, I looked for a companion to do all that nothing with—preferably a female companion for me to hang around with. I couldn't think of a better candidate than my wife and couldn't see why she wasn't happy having me as her buddy and constant source of entertainment. Perhaps not the most realistic outlook, but that's what I thought.

Kate, on the other hand, did all kinds of meaningful volunteer work, had her local friends and wasn't always home when I wanted that female companionship.

Bitsey, my other good friend, fell short in the area of stimulating conversation. So, to prevent harboring resentment at Kate's absences, I thought finding a purpose would be a healthy thing.

My marketable skills were limited. Being a dashing and heroic police officer once again became the obvious choice. All that was none of Junior's business, but he deserved a reasonable answer.

"Small departments are good places to work," I said. "All cops are about the same. They do the same job. Some areas are just bigger and busier than others." I shrugged. "When I learned about this job opening, I thought getting back into police work might be a good..."

A call on the new cell phone Ronnie Shields gave me, the cell phone I really didn't know how to use, cut my answer short.

"Jesus!" I jumped. "This damn thing scared me." I saw the ring volume set on maximum.

On the phone, my wife asked for my presence at the car show quickly. George Morgan intended to punch out a drunk.

* * * *

It took us all of ninety seconds to get there, bounce over the driveway cutout and drive across the flat grass to where nearly two hundred cars were lined up according to marque.

A crowd had gathered at the rear of that large square of old cars. Junior stopped the cruiser, and we double-timed toward the action. I chose one of the wide aisles for our run, past old MG-TCs, TDs and a few TFs. We cut to the right between an MG-A roadster and a similar coupe, picked up another aisle and joined the crowd who had TR-4s on their left and Jaguar sedans on their right.

I saw Kate and Nonie on the fringe of the crowd facing George who had his baseball cap off. His balding head and face shone an unhealthy crimson color.

"What's going on?" I said, looking closely at George. "Jesus, man, you look like your blood pressure is about to blow."

Kate answered first, "It's that old drunk—that idiot over there in the beach chair." She pointed to a spot down the row from where we stood. "He's been drinking since he got here and giving everyone a hard time. George only asked him to put the bottle away and sober up. Then he started creating a scene. George didn't hit him, but should have."

With George, Nonie, and Kate all talking at once, I learned that the drunk, the club's past president, Cecil Lovejoy, began drinking early that morning and continued drinking until he became plastered. While sipping his cocktails, Lovejoy yelled at any visitors who got within a few feet of his restored Rolls Royce.

George received an extra large ration of abuse when he suggested Cecil stop drinking and find a suitable place to sleep it off. Angry words flew between the two and only ended when Nonie and two men escorted George away.

I looked in Lovejoy's direction. "Besides being shit-faced, what's his problem?" I asked. "He looks like a snooty bastard."

"You don't know how much of a...jerk he can be." George wouldn't swear if a dog bit him in the ass.

Junior stayed busy getting a few versions of the same story from anyone in the crowd interested in talking.

My problem looked simple. Deal with Cecil Lovejoy, a nasty drunk who didn't work or play well with others and didn't care if he alienated all the people who attended the car show.

I whistled to get Junior's attention and waved for him to join me.

"I doubt if our intox friend here has any sympathizers in the crowd," I said, "but keep an eye on my back while I talk with this asshole." Junior grinned and nodded. I thought he found my language colorful for the Bible Belt.

Cecil looked to be in his mid-sixties with a very pale complexion. Perhaps it came with being so drunk or he was just one of those pasty-faced guys who always look unwell.

I assumed Lovejoy had more than his share of money. His silk shirt and brown worsted slacks looked expensive, and his Piaget wristwatch must have cost more than a new double-wide. With his face screwed up in apparent disgust, he appeared wealthy and obnoxious. I'd seen that look many times and rarely liked those who possessed it.

A bit flabby, with thinning light brown hair, Cecil slumped in a beach chair next to a folding table and his yellow, forty-year-old Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. On that table, a large, half-empty bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon, a dinner plate with a mangled chunk of cheese and a bunch of crackers showed me what Cecil had been doing that morning.

I stood over the old coot for a long moment before I smiled and asked, "You drink all that whiskey yourself?"

His flaccid body sagged in the beach chair, making him look like a well-practiced drunk. His glassy, faded blue eyes squinted at me with an unhappy look. Slowly, he shook his head.

I wasn't sure if he was answering my question or quietly commenting on my outfit. I used Bobby Crockett's khaki uniform shirt, but in lieu of the issue charcoal green trousers, I wore a new pair of jeans. The old Smith & Wesson revolver hung holstered on my pants belt.

"Who the hell are you?" came out of Cecil as a sloppy, almost liquid question.

"I'm a policeman, Mr. Lovejoy. People here say you've had too much to drink. You need to stop drinking now, and we'll find you a place to sober up."

"You think I'm drunk, officer?"

My vanity showed when I said, "It's Chief actually, and yes, you look and sound pretty drunk to me."

While we spoke, a woman around forty and a teenage boy walked up on my right side.

"Well par-done me—Chief you say," he slurred, sounding unimpressed. "You an Injun chief or po-leece chief?"

He started to stand, but couldn't negotiate the maneuver. Then he began laughing, either at his razor wit or his rubber legs, and ended up back in the beach chair.

Cecil flipped me a three fingered salute and continued his dialogue, "Yes, sir, Chief, sir. Y'all think I'm bein' a bad boy? Do ya?"

I ignored Cecil and turned to face the woman.

"Sir," she began, "I'm Juanita Mashburn, and this is my son, Randy. Cecil is my father. Are you goin' to arrest him?"

Juanita Mashburn was a good-looking brunette, not someone many guys would do a double-take over, but I thought she looked trim and attractive. She dressed well in conservative shorts and a print blouse and had a nice face. Her son, a thin and clean-cut kid, wore khaki slacks and a blue polo shirt—preppy clothes. She seemed embarrassed to admit the old drunk was her father.

"Mrs. Mashburn, arresting your father would waste my time. I'd rather see him go someplace, take a nap and sober up. You must know someone who owns one of those campers parked over there," I pointed toward a row of a dozen motor homes sitting not far from the display cars, "who would let him use a bunk for a few hours."

"I do, sir. Daddy's been in this club for over twenty years, and he knows most everybody. Mr. Jordan over there...he's a nice man. He'll let me take Daddy to his RV." She sounded hopeful.

Juanita turned to her son. "Randy, run over there, and ask Mr. Jordan if we can use his motor home."

I winked at Junior who now stood close to Lovejoy.

Cecil looked up at my partner and said, "Oh, got yerse'f reinforcements, huh, Chief?"

"Just a little help, Cecil. You don't mind if I call you Cecil, do you?"

"I don't give a flyin' hoot what you two call me. Piss on both o' ya."

"Alrighty then. I love a man who lets you know where you stand. Officer Huskey and I will help you up, and then we're going to walk over to your friend's motor home. Not going to fight us, are you?"

"You got he'p from my little daughter and her candy ass son. I got no choice, do I?"

Cecil slumped further into his chair. I didn't feel sorry for him.

With considerable effort, we helped our 'dead weight' to his feet. Comically, he wobbled and swayed and then attempted to regain a little dignity by sprucing up his appearance. He fumbled hopelessly, trying to put his shirttails back into his pants.

Junior and I held Cecil by the arms and helped him walk. Juanita followed in close support. Randy walked about fifty-feet ahead of us next to a chubby, middle-aged man holding a ring of keys. Mr. Jordan, the RV owner.

"I like you, Chief," Cecil told me. "You piss me off, but I still like you. You a Cherokee chief?"

"No Cecil, I'm a full-blooded agnostic."

"Ah, sure, I thought you wasn't from around here."

All that bourbon had made Cecil as sharp as a balloon.

Darnell Jordan opened his big RV to a very drunk Cecil Lovejoy. Jordan and Juanita tucked Cecil into a queen-sized bed, took off his shoes, and both may have prayed the old boy didn't vomit all over the sheets. Cecil blacked out the minute his head hit the pillow.

I thanked Mr. Jordan, Mrs. Mashburn and young Randy for their help and asked them to confiscate Cecil's bourbon for safekeeping. Junior and I walked back through the rows of classic cars.

Kate, George and Nonie all sat in a patch of shade next to the Morgan's '65 Triumph Spitfire. George's usual color had returned, and I assumed his blood pressure had dropped back to normal. I introduced Junior to everyone and asked him to make a field report using George as the complainant.

After my partner completed the paperwork, I offered to buy lunch. I marched my troop of five over to a mobile eatery called Buddy's Barbeque. We all enjoyed hand-pulled, smoked pork sandwiches, hush puppies and iced tea. I really wanted a large cold beer. Cecil did a good job stressing my patience.

At 1 p.m. Junior, Bitsey, and I hit the road, the tranquility of Prospect once again restored to normal.

* * * *

Later that afternoon Junior parked the cruiser next to a bank, shaded by the drive-up window's cantilevered roof. We sat for a while watching the traffic go by. Junior drank from a bottle of Mountain Dew, I sipped a Diet Pepsi, and Bitsey ate a hot dog from the Git n'Go convenience store.

A ratty, two-tone blue '64 Chevy pickup drove by slowly. Intermittent puffs of white smoke belched from two rusty tail pipes. Thirty years ago, I would have stopped the driver and written him a summons for emitting noxious vapors. I took another drink from my Pepsi and looked into the cab. What I saw almost made me choke on my soda.

I swallowed and coughed. "Jesus Christ, did you see those two?"

Junior laughed. Bitsey let out a single bark.

"What species are they?" I asked.

The two men in the pickup looked like leading characters from a documentary on Neanderthals. They both sported full beards and long straggly hair. One—the younger I guessed—wore his hair in a ponytail. The other one, who drove without a shirt, had hair everywhere—wild, blowing in the wind coming through the open windows. One talked; the other smiled. Both were shy a few teeth. They looked very unclean.

"Oh shoot, they's just two o' the Minton brothers," Junior said. "Cloyd, he's the oldest. He's drivin'. The other's named Normal. He's the youngest o' the family. They's eight in all. They're good boys. Don't cause much trouble 'cept when they fight 'mongst theirselves."

I envisioned a brawl among the family of those creatures and thought they might beat each other with sticks and bones.

Sounding confused, I asked, "The youngest is named Normal? What the hell did the other seven look like when they were born?"

Junior just smiled.

Bitsey finished her hotdog and stood up between us. With her feet on the seat back, she licked Junior's ear again. They did like each other.

The Minton brothers made me laugh, and I thought they paled next to some of the hard cases I had dealt with in the past. I didn't know they were just a pleasant diversion before we got down to serious business.
Chapter Six

We spent the next couple of hours cruising the sectors. We met with Bobby Crockett and later, with the only other member of Prospect PD close to my age, Vernon Hobbs.

In his mid-fifties, Vern was the shortest cop I'd ever met. He had enough grizzled, gray hair to look older than me. With thirty years of police work under his belt, I learned how much he loved his job.

"You may think this town looks like a quiet place," he said, "but lemme tell ya, half the sumbitches in Prospect cause trouble. Give yerse'f a li'l time, and ya'll think hangin' is too damn good fer'em. Ain't that right, Junior?"

My driver started to speak when Vern took that obligation away from him.

"Course it's true," he said. "I been livin' here all m' life and worked right here more'n thirty years. I know these people. Know almost every damn one of 'em." He nodded curtly to punctuate his last statement. Officer Hobbs had spoken.

I began to feel just as I did in the late 1970s when I served as a road sergeant. I remembered the old days, police cars parked door to door, information disseminated to the troops, individual bitches listened to and handled with a smile. After getting promoted to sergeant, I broke my neck to get back into the detective division, but as I thought back, I liked working in uniform. Some people spent their entire careers in patrol—it wasn't a bad life.

* * * *

Just before the four o'clock shift change, as Junior and I drove around town, the dispatcher's voice broke a temporary radio silence.

"County dispatch to any Prospect unit for a 10-17 drunk and disorderly at Howell's Pub. One victim with minor injury. Your subject's still at the scene."

Junior grabbed the microphone from the dashboard before I could reach it. "Dispatch, this is five-oh-one. That's my sector. I'll respond and handle the paper."

"10-4, five-zero-one," she said, and then asked, "Can I get a unit to assist five-zero-one?"

"Five-zera-six, Dispatch." I heard Vern Hobbs voice. "I jest gassed my car, and I'll respond from the municipal buildin'—I'm two minutes away."

"10-4, five-zero-six."

The dispatcher acknowledged Vern's transmission and, without skipping a beat, went on to send a Rockford PD unit to verify the return of a stolen bicycle.

And so, Saturday became our day for drunks. I thought Bobby Crockett would roll on that one, too. Most cops love bar fights.

Junior turned on the flashing blue lights and drove toward the bar. Heading away from the town square, we passed the Prospect City Park with its ten acres of wooded real estate, softball and soccer fields, picnic tables and a recreation of the 18th century McTeer's Fort.

I looked up at the sky as we drove southwest on a road with only a few vehicles in our way. Junior hit the siren and passed them quickly.

The bright blue sky of morning had changed to gunmetal gray in the northwest over Knoxville and Oak Ridge. I hoped the forecast of a twenty-percent chance of rain hadn't changed. I wanted my wife to put up the top on the Healey, get home safely and have a cold drink waiting for me as soon as we wrapped up the miscreant at Howell's place.

"Looks like it might rain," I said.

Junior looked over at me for a second. "Yup, it might could."

He pushed the horn button. The siren yelped, and he passed another car.

I hadn't been to a good bar fight in more than twenty-five years. I'd be a little out of practice, but it didn't sound like a first-class donnybrook with a bunch of ironworkers slugging it out against members of the local stonemason's union. Only a wimp would worry.

Vern arrived first and waited the few seconds it took for Junior and me to pull into the parking lot behind him. Bobby drove up on our bumper. Between us, we had almost seventy years of police experience. I looked from one to the other and got three slight nods. We all knew what to do. I led my troops into the pub.

Howell Watkins, originally from Ohio, moved to East Tennessee with the fantasy of being accepted into an outlaw motorcycle gang.

One of the many Harley-Davidson fans who looked at life in one of the so-called motorcycle 'clubs' as romantic, Howell had a snowball's chance in hell of being assimilated into one of the outlaw groups that passed through the Smoky Mountains during the summer months. He didn't have the right stuff. He wasn't a sociopathic, ethnocentric thug who'd fit into their subculture.

So, Howell accepted his fate, still rode his 1200CC Harley wearing a helmet that looked like something from a Wehrmacht quartermaster and opened the world's first non-smoking biker's bar.

The volume of hardcore outlaw bikers at Howell's Pub turned out to be very low, but because he served excellent food, and his manager, an expatriate Englishman named Reginald Smethurst, organized a dart league and arranged for an impressive beer list, the place flourished with plenty of normal customers.

I always thought things like Bass Ale and Guinness Stout on tap were overkill deep in the heart of Budweiser country, but choices like that kept beer snobs like me coming back for more.

The boys and I bellied up to the bar directly in front of the owner.

"Wow, I didn't know you were a cop here," Howell said. I was one of his better customers.

"I'm kind of new at it. What can we do for you?"

A few feet away, a young man sat at the bar, holding a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a towel against his left cheek. In the back of the room, a big man nursed a bottle of Icehouse beer at a table facing a monstrous television screen.

Howell said, "This here's Toby Viles," pointing to the injured boy, "and that back there is Luttrell Bivins. Seems when Toby changed the station from country music videos to NASCAR, Luttrell took exception and punched him in the face."

"Any of you know the puncher?" I asked my team.

Vern answered, "He's a bad one, Chief. Lots o' bar fights when he was younger. Hasn't been around fer more 'an a year now. Jest got outta jail after doin' nine years of a fifteen year stretch fer manslaughter. You be careful. They call him Butcher Knife Bivins."

"He stabbed a person to death?" I asked.

"No, killed him with a .357."

"I should have guessed."

Vern went on to further explain the legend of Butcher Knife. "Luttrell there was a'sittin' in that ol' bar up ta Wildwood one night drunker 'an a lord. Says he's gonna kill the next man who walks through the door. Fer no good reason, jest 'cause he wants ta. Then in walks Ben Maxwell. Luttrell pulls out a big ol' six-inch gun and puts two in his belly. Maxwell, he died on the way ta the hospital."

"You think he's carrying a big knife?" I asked.

"Never seen him with one b'fore."

I began getting the idea that life at Prospect PD might be just a little different.

"Thanks for the heads-up," I said, "I'll keep an eye on him."

"Course losin' Ben Maxwell weren't no tragedy," Vern said, "even fer his wife."

I nodded. "Okay, let's go talk to this guy. Bobby, be sure you can latch on to him if you have to. Junior, watch my back again. Be sure he doesn't have any friends wanting to intervene when we take him out. Vern, ask the NASCAR fan if he wants an ambulance, and see if he'll charge Bivins with assault."

I guessed our assailant to be in his mid-forties, about six-foot-tall and between 190 and 200 pounds. Long, dark and dirty hair showed from beneath an even dirtier mesh baseball cap. A straggly-knotted beard, hanging six inches below his chin, surrounded his face. In eighty-five degrees, Luttrell wore a plaid wool shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder seams, beneath Liberty brand, denim overalls. His arms were big and tattooed. Bivins smelled like his fashion choice might be more suited to a cooler climate.

"Mr. Bivins," I said, "the man you punched is deciding if we're going to charge you with assault. One way or the other, the bar owner wants you out of here. I'd like you to take a walk outside with me while we resolve this."

I smiled cordially, but Luttrell wasn't overcome with a need to be friendly.

Bivins rolled the sweaty beer bottle between his palms. "I ain't finished my burr yet," he said, "and I might could want anotha. I ain't goin' nowheres."

I decided not to explain double negatives and grammatical errors to him. I looked at Bobby Crockett and winked.

Howell stepped up next to me. "The kid don't want to press charges," he said, "but I want Luttrell out and don't want him back either."

Having temporarily lost interest in me, Bivins stared at the sixty-inch TV screen. A lithe and sexy Shania Twain gyrated to her music. I tried to look at Howell and keep an eye on Luttrell's beer bottle at the same time. He hadn't become hostile, and I felt safe for the moment.

"Look, Howell, if you sign the court complaint, I can charge him with disorderly conduct. He's too drunk to make bail, so you'll be okay for tonight. Ban him from the pub, and if there is a next time, just call us, and he goes for criminal trespass. That work for you?"

Howell agreed.

"Okay, go over to Officer Hobbs, and sign the papers he gives you. We'll take it from here."

As I looked at the bar owner on my right, Bivins stood up quickly. Crockett wrapped his hand around Bivins' right arm. Luttrell objected to being touched and jerked his shoulder and arm forward to escape Bobby's grip.

"Get your damn hands offa me!" he said.

The momentum of his action allowed his hand to smack me in the left tricep. I reacted out of reflex. I cocked my left arm forward and with my left fist in my cupped right hand, I drove my elbow into Bivins' diaphragm. Luttrell doubled over and began gasping for air. I pivoted to my left and smashed the side of my right fist into his temple.

Bivins hit the barroom floor still gasping for the air he couldn't get. I dropped down next to him with my knee on his elbow and bent his wrist in an old-fashioned 'come-along' hold. I had one cuff on his right hand as Bobby pulled Bivins' left arm behind his back to receive the second handcuff.

"Breathe out, you moron," I said, "before you turn blue." I slapped him hard between the shoulder blades, heard a whoosh of air and then the sucking sounds of his frantic gasps.

"Can I assume you would like to arrest him for assaulting me?" I asked Crockett. "I'll sign your complaint form while you're calling his parole officer."

Bobby smiled as he and Junior lifted Bivins off the floor. Crockett hurried him from the premises, securing him in the back of his patrol car for the drive to headquarters.

I walked over to the bar as Howell finished signing the last copy of the court informations.

"Damn fool probably never played football," I said. "Any kid knows when you lose your air like that you have to breathe out first. Right, Junior?"

He was standing next to me. "Yes, sir." he said, with a nod of his head and a big boyish grin. "Sure enough."

"Mr. Watkins," I said, "we leave you to your business. The next time I'm nearby, I'll come in for a pint of that black and tan Reggie mixes up so nicely."

"You got it. Any time. And, thanks. Thanks very much,"

I looked at Vernon Hobbs and used the Lone Ranger's old line, "Well, Tonto, our work here is done."

Vern nodded once, and like the masked man's stoic Indian companion, he grunted.

The three of us filed out of the bar into the warm afternoon.

"Ain't never seen nobody handle ol' Butcher Knife quite like that. I liked it. Yessir, I like yer style," Vern said.

"Shoot, Sam, couldn't have done better m'self," Junior said and slapped my shoulder. "Good work for a senior citizen."

"Thank you, gentlemen. Maybe one of you can write a story for AARP magazine and tell them about an old guy who's still got it."

Knocking the air out of Butcher Knife Bivins seemed to score points with the troops. I hoped the word would spread.
Chapter Seven

At 5 p.m., my entire day shift had already collected an hour of overtime and needed to head back to the barn. The British car show should have closed some time ago, ragtops on the convertibles put up and the cars either secured for the night or on their way home. Those participants who chose to remain with their friends for dinner would adjourn to Johnny Milton's Paradise Found Steak House for a meal and see the winners receive their awards.

Johnny's restaurant occupied one of the new commercial log cabins built in the shopping center next to the motel. I heard the food was good, and if you didn't mind religious Musak piped throughout the dining rooms and majestic landscape posters with biblical quotations superimposed on heavenly cloud formations decorating the walls, you'd enjoy yourself.

After a hard day on patrol, I wasn't in the mood for a long dinner and an awards ceremony. I'd leave that for George and Nonie to preside over and soak up all the camaraderie.

Katherine would drive the Healey and meet me at home. She promised not to pick up any local boys who fell in love with a sexy older woman in a hot car. We agreed on a couple of TV dinners and a bottle of wine for our evening meal.

Before my trip home, I'd pick up my new unmarked police car, a metallic gray Ford Crown Victoria with all the bells and whistles appropriate for the chief of a modern police agency.

I planned my first day on patrol to end that way. The county dispatcher had other ideas.

"County dispatch to any Prospect supervisor—emergency," the female voice said over the radio.

I grabbed the microphone before Junior. "Prospect One to Dispatch, I'm with the day tour five-oh-one, operator. What have you got?"

"Prospect One, complainant Norwick reports a 10-5 at the British car show, front of the Foothills View Motel. Victim, a middle-aged male, name: Lovejoy."

With only two days on the job, I was no expert on the local police brevity code, but I knew 10-5 meant a homicide. The name Lovejoy rang a bell, too.

"This is Prospect One. Have five-zero-six assist. I'll advise when we're 10-36."

"10-4, Prrr-ospect One." The dispatcher ended her message with a flare.

Vern answered with, "Five-zera-six, I copy."

"Hit the lights, kid," I said. "Duty calls."

"Did she say 10-5, victim Lovejoy?" Junior asked.

"Certainly did."

"Shoot, that's a murder."

"Certainly is. Ever do one before?"

"Not hardly. Folks don't git killed here in Prospect."

"We'll tell the victim and see if he agrees."

We were approaching the Municipal Building just as the dispatcher's message crackled over the radio. Junior switched on his blue lights again and circled the town square to pick up the south end of Main Street. He blasted the siren, and a red Jeep Wrangler swerved to the curb and let us pass.

"That old drunk, Cecil Lovejoy...shoot," he said.

"Stick with me, kid. I've investigated more dead people than they've got in the Prospect graveyard. I'll make you an expert."

"Shoot...my first murder."

Bitsey barked when the siren yelped a second time.

* * * *

The four-to-twelve shift had already been on the road for more than an hour. Junior's relief, Will Sparks, heard the call and rolled up to the crime scene before we arrived. I used the radio to tell the two other patrolmen on duty to stay on the road and handle the assigned calls. Junior and Vern would earn more overtime.

Bobby Crockett, still busy processing Butcher Knife's arrest, would later transport him to the county Justice Center to be held for arraignment in the morning. It only took one day for my overtime budget to slip into the red.

Junior's car bounced over the driveway and onto the field, stopping close to the remnants of the car show. I picked up the microphone again and told the dispatcher of our arrival.

"Prospect One to dispatch, ten-three-six."

"10-4, Prospect One. When you're ready, confirm that y'all want a medical examiner and lemme know who you want from the Sheriff's office."

"10-4 Dispatch. Stand by."

The Prospect city charter allows its police department to decide whether we investigate our own felonies, turn them over to county detectives or, in rare cases, give them to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.

I may have been a little rusty after my long retirement, but as a young detective, my partner and I began investigations on so many unattended deaths one year that we became known as the Grim Reapers. I figured with all that experience, I could handle the job, so I opted to do the investigation myself.

"Prospect One to Dispatch, send me a county crime scene unit and the medical examiner's team."

"Dispatch to Prospect One, do you want detectives?"

"This is Prospect One. Negative on the detectives."

After a moment of silence, I heard, "Hmm, 10-4, Prospect One."

A car club member named Michael Norwick had found Cecil Lovejoy's body and called in the murder. We found our caller standing a discrete distance from the corpse. His wife, Tammy, and another man named Jeffrey Lipsom stood with Michael to offer moral support.

Other than telling us he never saw a murder victim before, Mr. Norwick offered no other pertinent information. Junior recorded the personal pedigrees of those three people while I started to reconstruct a possible scenario and began to theorize.

Show participants later told us that Cecil Lovejoy finished his nap, walked back to his Rolls Royce and beach chair and, after breaking out a new bottle of Maker's Mark, proceeded to get efficiently drunker.

When the crowd began leaving the field, several of his club mates offered to escort Cecil to Paradise Found or back to his home, which wasn't far away. Cecil, that personable guy, told them he wasn't going anywhere, and they should all go straight to hell. Then he sank back into his chair with the comfort of his bottle.

Twenty-five minutes later Michael Norwick found Lovejoy with two fatal stab wounds in his chest. The knife used to inflict those wounds still remained lodged between his ribs—the same knife used by Cecil himself to cut the chunks of Monterey Jack he had been nibbling on all day.

Vernon Hobbs used yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the area, tying it to anything available and adding long metal stakes driven into the soft ground where necessary.

Junior Huskey and Will Sparks went to the restaurant, disturbing the Royal Auto Legion's dinner party and interviewed potential witnesses, taking the names of the participants and trying to learn if anyone knew something helpful.

I looked at Cecil, who didn't appear any more troubled than when I saw him last, sleeping on the bed in Darnell Jordan's RV.

It was the warmest part of the day. I turned to catch a cool breeze on my face and saw George Morgan walking briskly from the restaurant toward the crime scene and me. He weaved through spots vacated by some of the cars—those owners missing out on the excitement. George stopped fifteen yards away.

"Don't cross the yellow line, George. I'll come out there." I took a few steps in his direction, lifted the yellow plastic tape and stepped under it. "Howdy, George. You check with one of the cops at Milton's before coming out here?" He nodded. "Not good for the troops to think I have two sets of rules, one for friends and one for everyone else. Thanks."

"What do you know about this?" he asked. "You have any idea who did it?"

I try not to let civilians exhaust my patience. "Sure, George, but I waited for you to be here. Watch now—like Sherlock Holmes, I'll throw myself on the ground, whip out a big magnifying glass and low crawl around the grass until I find an exotic Turkish cigarette, something smoked by only one person in Blount County. Then for a theatrical effect, I'll assemble all the suspects—you included—and reveal the killer. Upon hearing my irrefutable deductions, the scoundrel breaks down and admits his guilt, explains all the loose ends, but in the end panics and tries to make a run for it, only to be tackled by my faithful assistant."

"I'm a suspect?" If it wasn't such serious business, his shocked expression would have been humorous.

"Of course, you're a suspect, Georgie. Didn't you know they hired me as a pieceworker? The more names I put on the suspect list, the bigger my paycheck."

"Can't you be serious about anything?"

"Oh, if I must—I suppose you insist? Well, try this on for size. When did Cecil come back to the show area?"

"I don't know exactly. I saw him about 3:30. I just guessed he'd been there longer."

"Did he have any arguments with anyone after getting back from the RV?"

George removed his ball cap and ran a hand over his balding head. He put some thought into my question.

"I saw him chase a young kid away from his car. The kid just looked into the open window of the Rolls. He didn't do anything wrong."

"Did you have to speak with Cecil again?"

"I didn't have to, but I did. Darnell Jordan, the guy with the RV—he owns that racing green 3.8 Jag sedan four cars over from the Rolls—he went with me to see that Cecil wasn't causing any more trouble. We found him almost asleep when we tried to talk with him."

"And what time did the crowd start thinning out?"

"By 3:30, the parts dealers were packed up and ready to go. We stopped admissions at four o'clock. At 4:30, the owners started packing up and either removed their cars or locked them for the night."

I nodded as George continued.

"We scheduled dinner for five o'clock. Most people staying over are using the motel here. I guess some wanted to go freshen up beforehand and went up there. I wasn't paying much attention. Nonie and I closed up the club tent and secured the cash boxes. There were only a few lookers around. They took the hint and left."

"Seems pretty simple," I said. "Either during, or more probably after the exodus, someone took the opportunity to stick Cecil. Now all I need to know is who. Everybody in the restaurant seem okay?"

"Yeah, I guess everybody's okay. Nonie is upset because I got hot with Cecil before, but most everyone's just shocked."

"How many people are at the dinner?"

"We had ninety-six people pay for dinner. With the club officers that goes just over a hundred."

"That's a lot of witnesses. I'll need a list of all the others who were at the show but didn't stay."

"Sure, we've got that."

"Anybody look guilty to you?" I said, acting like a smart-ass

"What the hell does a guilty person look like, Sam? You really don't think I did this, do you?"

I gave his shoulder a friendly punch. "I'd be surprised, Georgie. I'd really be surprised."

A white Ford Expedition with county Sheriff's logos on the doors pulled onto the grass with its blue lights flashing. The lights went out, and crime scene investigator Jackie Shuman walked over to shake hands.

George Morgan took that as his cue to leave. I told him I'd keep in touch and tell him how the investigation progressed.

"First day on the road and you start off by killin' one o' your citizens?" Jackie asked.

"Yeah, they also blamed me for the blizzard of '93 when I moved here."

Jackie smiled and asked, "You doin' aw rot today?"

"Not too bad. It's been a busy day."

I'd known Jackie for several years. One of the regulars at the range I visit when I feel like proving I can still shoot up a silhouette target, Jackie gave me the information I needed about the chief's job in Prospect.

A veteran of ten years with the Blount County Sheriff's Office, thirty-four-year-old Jackie represented another new colleague young enough to be my son. I remembered a lot more old-timers on the job up in New York.

"M.E. coming?" I asked.

"After a while. He's busy tonight. Maryville's got them a fatal wreck—truck versus motorcycle—on 321 nears the Willie Blount High School turnoff."

I learned that in Tennessee we have wrecks, not motor vehicle accidents.

"How nice for them," I said.

"And I'm workin' alone tonight 'cause my partner done called in sick."

"My sympathies. I heard there's a bug going around. I'll help if you pay me minimum wage."

"Shoot, ain't hardly gonna do that."

We started looking at the body. The weapon, a Gerber five-and-a-half-inch, stainless steel kitchen knife, had been pushed about halfway into Cecil's torso. A little northwest of that wound we saw another. A large blood splotch surrounded it on Cecil's pale yellow sport shirt. Gravity prompted the blood to travel down Cecil's side, spread over the chair cushion and finally onto the grass below.

"That's a hell of a lot of blood," I said. "I guess the first cut did some serious damage around the heart."

"Yep, looks like he jest laid back and bled out."

"I doubt the old boy felt much relative discomfort from the second puncture."

"Be my guess, too."

The M.E. wagon pulled off the road and stopped on the grass as we considered Cecil's misfortune. I watched the driver speaking on his radio. Jackie fetched his camera case and bag of forensic gear out of the Ford.

Two flies flitted around and landed on Cecil's cheese. He'd be their next target.

I stepped back from the body and cracked the side of my knee on the bumper of the Rolls Royce. It hurt—a lot.

"Goddamnit!" I said, sounding like a typical New Yorker faced with one of the daily inconveniences of life.

"You step in somethin'?" Jackie asked with a grin.

"No, I just smashed my leg on this goddamn bumper. Hey, don't look so pleased about it. Keep working. Don't I pay you by the hour?" I didn't see that as the perfect ending to my long day.

Jackie looked closely at the ground around the body and area just beyond it. "Must be a million footprints on this ground and too much grass to let one look any different than t'others."

"I counted them before you got here. There are more than a million."

"If you're gonna do my job, why'd you call me here?"

"Your boss wanted me to be sure you stayed busy."

"Shoot, my boss wouldn't know busy if it bit him in the butt."

"I'll tell him you said so."

"Humpf."

"Pay attention to what you're doing, son. Mr. Lovejoy here would want you to do a bang-up job."

"That's why they send me—when only the very best will do."

I watched Jackie prepare to work the scene. His movements were precise, no wasted motion. The more he moved, the more competent he looked. Over the years, I've seen many evidence technicians work, and Jackie looked like he could function efficiently anywhere.

When civilians are watching, I've always told my detectives to act professionally.

When cops are alone at a crime scene, the conversation may wander to subjects other than the victim.

I began to see one of Jackie's talents, the ability to process a scene, find the evidence and still carry on a totally unrelated conversation. I guess people of his generation call that multi-tasking.

To the casual onlooker, we may have sounded unsympathetic. Knowing a little about Cecil, I doubted any cop would spend time grieving for him. No more than a mason would cry over a broken cement block.

"You interested in goin' huntin' this year, Sam?"

"Never have before, kid. Can't think of a good reason to kill Bambi."

"I'm goin' out west ag'in with them Ledbetter boys fer mule deer. Thought you might wannna come. Venison's good eatin'."

He spoke as he walked in a spiraling pattern moving outward, away from the body. He moved in a peculiar, bent-over position, scrutinizing the ground. He reminded me of Igor, the hunchback in Frankenstein.

"Last year I had went out a'huntin' with them same ol' boys. We all took mule deers. Wyomin's perty country," he explained as he kept up his search of the grassed area.

"Thanks. I'll do my hunting with a camera."

"Suit yase'f."

He stood upright for a moment, giving an exaggerated stretch to his back. Watching him, I thought, 'Wait until you're my age, young feller.'

The morgue wagon pulled further onto the grassy field and stopped a few yards from the murder scene. I called Jackie over.

"M.E.'s ready. Remember where you're searching and come help me with the body so he can do his tests."

"I'll git my camera."

Jackie clicked photo after photo. I removed the knife from Cecil's ribs and dropped it into an evidence bag. I wrote the time, date and my initials on the plastic.

"Give me your autograph on the bag, son." I said to Jackie.

He added his initials and badge number and took custody of the knife.

"I'll engrave my mark on the knife when I do the prints back at the office," he said.

An M.E.'s assistant walked over toward the body carrying a satchel of equipment.

"You two mind me interruptin'?" he said. "If you're done takin' pitchers and shootin' the breeze, that is. I'd like ta do a couple o' tests, then pack up this here body and be on m' way."

"Shut up, Earl." Jackie spoke with a big grin. "Yer soundin' like an ol' woman."

"Damn young'uns," Earl said. "This one always gives me grief."

I ignored Jackie and answered the morgue assistant's earlier question.

"Go ahead. Jackie's got his photos. You do your thing and then make him look all peaceful like dead people are supposed to look for their funeral."

He pulled Lovejoys clothes apart to find the appropriate spot to stick a liver probe. I already knew the time of death, but protocol is protocol.

"I'll be takin' him up to the UT lab fer the autopsy, not no funeral parlor. He'll be lookin' dead when we're finished with him. You'll be getting' a re-port from them. Mebbe sometime Monday. Best give 'em a call though. Might need some shakin' up."

"Thanks. I'll do that. No doctor on call tonight?"

"Nope. Doc Rappaport, he's usually the one who comes out, he done called in sick with what he said was food poisonin'. Done et somethin' didn't agree with him. Sounds like he's a hurtin' puppy. But shoot, I done enough o' these and kin manage m'se'f ."

"I'll bet you can."

"You sure don't sound like yer from around here, Chief."

"No, sir, my first day at Prospect PD. I've been living here for a while, but I'm originally from New York."

"With the po-leece up there?"

"Twenty years."

"Lord have mercy."

"My name's Sam Jenkins. Good to meet you."

"Earl W. Ogle—call me Earl." He pronounced his middle initial "dubyah."

While Earl Ogle conducted his tests, Jackie and I measured the relative distances from the body to assorted objects for his crime scene sketch.

When Earl finished, we helped him bag Cecil and put him in the morgue wagon for his trip to the forensics lab.

Then Jackie and I continued to search the grounds and bagged and tagged everything that didn't grow. He dusted every object around the body for prints, photographed the latents, then lifted and transferred them to white cards.

Three tripod-mounted lights cast enough illumination over the grounds to make it look like late afternoon.

More than three hours after arriving at the crime scene, Jackie Shuman finished the last of his photos, snapped the pop-up flash back down on the body of his Nikon D-200, wrapped the nylon strap around the camera and tucked it into his black bag.

"I'll finish up my reports tonight, long as I don't get busy." He zipped the top of his camera bag. "You can have them tomorrow or Monday, one. But honest, Sam, I don't think I've got anythin' that will be o' much he'p ta ya. Too many people here walkin' around, and oohin' and ahhin' and touchin' the cars ta be able ta isolate any suspects.

"I'll do the prints on the knife, plate, table and such when I get back ta the office and then let our fingerprint guy run the whole shootin' match o' those and the other latents through the computer startin' Monday. That might take some time, but like I said, I doubt we'll find anythin' much worth usin'." He shrugged as he hefted some of his equipment. "Good doin' business with ya, Chief."

I helped Jackie pack up the van, and he departed.

Junior and Will had finished with the crowd in the steak house long ago. Will went back on the road, waiting to answer other calls. Junior walked Bitsey on her leash. Those two searched the guest parking area and motel grounds for clues—at time and a half. Ronnie Shields might question the necessity of putting Bitsey on the payroll.

Cecil Lovejoy would come to aggravate me like few other victims I've known. Before my investigation was over, I would have cheerfully stabbed him myself—had he been alive, of course.
Chapter Eight

The next morning, I got out of bed at 6:30 after a night of little rest. I'd fallen asleep at 10:30 and woke again at quarter-of-two.

The homicide began racing through my mind. Did I remember to do all the right things so far? A list of future things I wanted to do sprang up, one on top of the other, none getting the amount of time necessary to think them through. Would I be able to find the killer? Or would I look like a horse's ass with only a paper reputation from a place far from East Tennessee? Was two o'clock in the morning the time to think about anything more than sugar plum fairies?

When my sleep gets invaded, it's like Normandy Beach. Other unrelated things took spots in my thoughts while I tried to focus on nothingness and get back to sleep. Incidents I hadn't thought about in years rolled through my brain, things with no meaning...with no _apparent_ meaning.

I nodded off sometime after five and woke again with the alarm at six.

While Kate spent time doing her hair and getting dressed, the dog and I took a walk—over the hills, but not far away. When we reached the place I wanted to be, I began thinking again.

I felt lousy that morning. Not just the jet lag-like feeling from lack of adequate sleep, but mentally screwed up. I likened it to the times when close friends died. The same as when I received orders to go to Vietnam. Not unlike finding a notice lying in my in-box summoning me to Internal Affairs. I felt like I lacked control over my life and the new job I'd taken. I wished I could go back in time, any time other than that Sunday morning.

As a kid, I used to listen to Jack Webb do a voice-over as each opening scene of _Dragnet_ showed the lights of Los Angeles from the Mullholland Drive overlook.

"This is the city," he'd say. Then after reciting the weekly philosophical message of a world-weary detective, Jack finished off with, "My name's Friday. I carry a badge."

Well, I wasn't in Los Angeles, California. I was in Prospect, Tennessee. My name's Jenkins. And _I_ carry a badge...again.

Sunday, July 23rd, 2006. It was warm in Prospect. I was working the day-watch out of...Enough of Jack's delivery. Back to reality.

Standing on the highest point of our property, my own overlook, I stared down into a small open valley. Behind the valley, a tall mountain ridge stood like a phalanx on an ancient battlefield. Instead of shaggy, bearded Britons attempting to hold their position against an equal number of unkempt Saxons, the hillside held sweet gums, maples, red oaks, dogwoods and tall pine trees, presenting the onlooker an impenetrable barrier.

Below the tree line, Glenda Mae Waddell's rustic log home, three-car garage and long, low stables occupied a large parcel of landscaped property. Several horses grazed in the seven acres of pasture adjacent to the stables.

A carefully cultivated vegetable garden occupied the space behind me. For the past fourteen years, I devoted countless hours to rototilling, planting, fertilizing and organically spraying the crops I harvested. Using my former hourly wage as a guide, I calculated a cucumber, eggplant or tomato cost me $36.50 each.

Did I want to give up that relaxing lifestyle to be a cop again? Did I take that job because of my ego and the desire to show myself and the world I'm not too old to play detective again? Or was it hubris? Or both? Are they that different? Are they mutually exclusive?

A week before I met Cecil Lovejoy I was unemployed. I didn't know the cops I'd be working with, and I knew only a little about the city that agreed to employ me.

I remembered back to the day I retired from my last police job. I was happy to leave, glad to be making a new start in a new place. I read once how retirement, if handled correctly, could be a mental tune-up.

I'll paraphrase a quote from Forrest Gump. My former police job was like a box of chocolates. Initially things tasted sweet, most of the candies excellent, but by the time I got to the bottom of the box, I lost my taste for what I spent almost half a lifetime consuming.

I had a lot on my mind, and none of it seemed to be going anywhere.

I gave a gentle tug on the black nylon leash I held and started our trek down the hill.

Walking through the garage, I opened the door leading to the laundry room, scooped Bitsey up in my arm and dropped her into the doggie tub on my right. After wiping her wet feet, I placed the dog back on the floor and watched her prance through the kitchen and into the living room. She'd spend the next hour gnawing on the sterilized bone she used to sharpen her fangs. After that, she'd sleep for an hour to rest up for her next walk and her second nap.

Katherine and I made pancakes with freshly picked blueberries and ate them with strong coffee and the real maple syrup we purchased during a trip to New York's Champlain Valley the previous autumn.

"Tough first day, wasn't it, sweetie?" Kate asked.

"Enough action for the opening of a cheap novel."

"When you investigated crimes like that back in New York, you had a whole squad of detectives to do the work. You think it's wise to take on all the responsibility yourself?"

"You'd think I would have asked myself that as I stood over the body. The other cops are patrolmen. Kind of hard to provide that public service the people expect and lend a hand with a murder investigation."

"So what are you going to do? Can't you hand this over to the county detectives?"

"I'll do what I always did. I'll make sure the job gets done. I may not get too many days off until this is over, but I'll work it alone or with a little help where I can find it."

I thought about Bettye. She looked like a sharp cop. No reason she couldn't learn how to investigate.

"You're too much, my dear."

"Don't remind me."

* * * *

My first days at Prospect PD ended with more complications then a small-town policeman usually gets in a lifetime, and even a good breakfast didn't curtail my troubled thought process.

Even Kate thought it foolish to saddle up as my own homicide investigator before I knew where to find the PD men's room. But after much soul searching and scientifically weighing all the alternatives—actually I flipped a coin—I decided to continue on with the investigation as I originally planned.

First, I needed some moral support, something more on a professional level than what Kate already offered.

At 9:30, I dialed a number in Titusville, Florida, calling retired Detective Sergeant Joe Dolinski, my former executive officer and a guy who always stood by me through all kinds of adversity.

Joey was to me what Gabby Hayes was to Hopalong Cassidy, a faithful sidekick.

"Hello," he growled over the phone, just as he did back on the job.

"Hey, Joey, how's it going?"

"Heeey, boss-man, what are ya doin'?" His voice changed.

"Joey, what's the difference between you and me?"

"I don't know, Sam. Your fly's open?"

I remembered him sitting at his desk back in the squad. At forty, Joey's hair turned snow-white, and he wore short-sleeved shirts twelve months of the year.

"You're a smart-ass. I don't know why I still like you. I should call Frankie and tell him what's new in my life."

"You should call Frankie, boss. He'd like to hear from you. Ever since he had the stroke, he's not the same old guy. I mean, sometimes he still acts like a fool, but he's just not the same old Frankie. You know what I mean?"

I thought this conversation was going to be about me.

"Yeah, Joe, I know what you're saying. We're all getting old, huh? How're you doing? Is Lynn okay? She still working at the hospital?"

"Yeah, Lynn's okay. I'm okay, too. Three different cancers and a heart attack didn't kill me, I'm gonna live forever. Golf keeps me going, or maybe it's the vodka gimlets."

"Back to my question, Joseph: Why am I different from you?"

"What kind of question is that? I'm sixty-nine years old. I'm lucky I can remember who the president is."

I tried to refocus the conversation. "I'm employed again, and you're not. I'm going back to work, Joey. I took a chief's job up here, in a town called Prospect. It's a small department, twelve people plus me. What do you think?"

A few moments of silence passed.

"I think you're nuts, Sam. You're how old, sixtyish? Is this your second childhood? You ought to be banging your good-looking wife and having cocktails every afternoon like a civilized man. You have any idea what kind of crap cops have to go through nowadays? Nobody needs that shit. You working for them per diem? Got a contract or what?"

It took me a few seconds to process that assault.

"A contract. I gave them five years. I'll be sixty-five then. You remember Hank Lawton, C.O. at Fugitive? He worked until he was seventy."

"Yeah and Hank only lived for five years after he retired."

I wanted to scream. "Hey Joey, this isn't New York. Prospect PD doesn't handle a million calls a year like we did back on the Island. We give out Band-Aids, call wreckers and take cats out of trees. We don't even have shoplifters here."

I neglected to mention Cecil Lovejoy's conspicuously dead body.

"And goombahs?" I said. "I have to drive thirty miles just to find a good Italian restaurant. There's no organized crime here—unless you consider some of the churches. I'm gonna be like Andy of Mayberry. You know, me and Barney Fife, we keep a bullet each in our shirt pockets."

Why was I defending myself?

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said. "Hell, you were always right—about most everything. You used to drive me nuts. But remember this, Sam: Life's not a bowl of cherries. It's more like a jar of jalapenos. What you do today might burn your ass tomorrow. It's a whole new world out there. New rules. Know what I mean? We didn't get those dinosaur pins for nothing. You've been out of the business a long time."

"Yeah, Joey, I hear you."

I was so happy I made that call.

"So what do you want from me, boss? You want an assistant chief? I'm too old. I just wanna play golf."

Recruiting an assistant chief wasn't exactly what I called about.

"Hey, when are you gonna get over your Florida-phobia and come down here and see me, see us? I told you, Frankie's down here. And there's Gallagher, Jimbo, Freddie, a whole bunch of us. We could book a block of staterooms on some cruise boat and do a week in the Bahamas. Whadda you say, Sam?"

"Sounds good. Yeah, we have to do that. Sometime in the cool weather. I'll call you," I said.

I would call again, but there's no way I'd ever get on a ship with two-thousand other people.

"And, Joey, when you talk to the guys—say hello for me, okay?"

"Sure, boss, I will. And good luck with your new thing. Show those hillbillies how we did it on the real job. Kick somebody's ass for me."

"Okay, kid, I will. Listen, take care of yourself...and thanks. It's been good talking with you."

So much for my extended family support system and the pep talk I needed.
Chapter Nine

I dressed in gray slacks, a blue and white plaid shirt and my blue blazer. It was time to interview the grieving widow.

Everyone knew Cecil Lovejoy. He started his lucrative career as a real estate broker and quickly moved up the ladder to land speculator and then major developer in Blount County. Three years earlier, when he broke ground for the upscale subdivision he called Yorkshire Dales, Cecil built the first home there for his family. It stood at the end of a cul-de-sac in the center of four lots.

Driving for twenty minutes along winding back roads brought me to the Lovejoy home in Prospect. In retrospect, perhaps calling it an estate would be more correct.

I'm not up to snuff on my architectural styles, but what I found at the end of Juanita Court looked French provincial. It stood three-and-a-half stories tall, faced with sandstone-colored brick and natural stacked stone. I wondered if I should call the place a chateau, although fortified manor house may have been more appropriate.

I pulled off the blacktop road and stopped in front of two tall, black-iron gates. A stanchion stood to my left with a keypad for residents and honored guests who knew the secret numbers to open the portals automatically. A button next to a speaker allowed tradesmen and guys like me to announce our presence. I pushed the button and in a few moments, a male voice answered my hail.

"Yes?" he said.

"This is Chief Jenkins from the Prospect Police. If it's not inconvenient, I'd like to speak with Mrs. Lovejoy. It's very important."

"Y'all wait a minute," the voice said in a curt manner.

I waited, more than a minute, actually. Willing to give Mrs. Lovejoy the benefit of the doubt, I waited patiently.

Perhaps the death of her husband upset her to the point of needing medication. I hoped she'd be coherent enough to answer a few routine questions.

Without further comment from that unidentified voice, the gates began to swing inward. I suppose I should have felt honored being admitted to the Lovejoy compound, but I just felt like a cop following up on someone's heartache.

Although not overly long, the wide driveway was nicely landscaped on both sides. I saw iris, tiger lilies, day lilies; all green but without flowers. The summer colors came from several Crape Myrtles—magenta and white. Butterfly bushes and different strains of roses added more vibrance.

Lower to the ground, in graduating heights, hundreds of marigolds, asters, zinnias and dianthus decorated the verge. The Lovejoys must have employed a full platoon of gardeners.

Bradford pear trees filled the front and side gardens. The grounds would look beautiful when they bloomed, but if one of Cecil's neighbors suffered from allergies, his murder may have been justified, and my killer might be close to home.

I parked the Crown Vic and walked up to the double oak front doors expecting to meet Quasimodo the French butler. Sunday must have been Quasi's day off, so I settled for Randy, the grandson, that nice kid who dressed like a preppy.

I liked seeing a teenage boy not wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt too large for Shaquille O'Neal.

Randy led me from the foyer, down a hall, and into what a home designer might call the family room.

The whole house, decorated in expensive-looking and overly formal 18th century French reproductions, seemed incongruous in rural East Tennessee.

"Randy," I said when we reached our destination, "I'm sorry for your loss. I hope you and your family are holding up under the strain."

"Yessir, we're all doin' aw right, I guess. Momma and my Uncle Travis are upstairs with my gran'mother. They'll be down directly."

I offered him a conciliatory smile and wondered what the hell the boy and I would talk about while we waited. Digging deeply into my bag of small talk, I decided to ask him about the palatial digs his mamaw (that's Appalachian for grandmother) would be occupying alone, now that the dastardly Cecil left for the great beyond.

"This is a beautiful home your grandmother has. Do you live here with her?"

"Nosir, Momma and me live just north o' here."

"It's one of the biggest homes I've seen in this area."

"It is big, isn't it? I heard them say once it's eighty-eight-hundred square feet. I guess that's pretty big. The property is more'n four acres."

"That's a lot to care for."

"Yessir, but they have harr'd he'p."

We sat for about thirty seconds without speaking. I broke the lull with a personal question.

"Your mom told me you're seventeen." She hadn't. I looked up his driver's license information on Bettye's computer. "Are you getting ready to go back to school next month?"

"Yessir, I'll be goin' inta my senior year."

Saved from asking about his college plans, the sounds of people descending a staircase caught me with my mouth open. Moments later, Mrs. Lovejoy led the procession down a short hallway and into the family room. Randy and I stood up.

Juanita, second in line, looked sad, but as nice and well-dressed as the day before.

Travis Lovejoy, her brother, looked to be in his middle-thirties, almost six feet tall and at least forty pounds overweight. He could have been the poster-boy for Chubby's Fried Chicken. Travis gave me a clammy and weak handshake. After he opened his mouth, I knew he owned the anonymous voice on the intercom.

Travis possessed the same light brown hair, sallow complexion and arrogant face as his late father. I already learned almost no one in the world liked Cecil. And I didn't like Travis.

Pearl Lovejoy looked around my age. I'd check, of course, when I could access the computer again on Monday. The home and her appearance made me think that you could indeed be both too rich and too thin. I would have bet a pension check she was anorexic.

Her clothes looked too flashy for someone her age—expensive, but ostentatious—a bright orange and blue paisley pantsuit over sparkly gold shoes. She had hung enough real gold on her fingers, wrists, neck and ears to make Mr. T jealous. Pearl wore too much makeup and probably had her short bleached blonde hair done three times a week.

"Mrs. Lovejoy," I said, "please accept my condolences. I'm very sorry for your loss." I looked from Pearl to Juanita to Randy and ended up looking at Fatso. "I hope you don't mind a few questions."

Pearl didn't offer to shake hands. She immediately sat on a wide, ornate sofa without commenting. I returned to the chair I had previously occupied. I felt as welcome as a root canal.

To begin, I asked a question to which I already knew the answer. "What business was your husband in? Or was he retired?"

"My husband still worked," she said, exuding haughtiness unequaled in my recent experience. "He was the most successful land developer in Blount County." She spoke in a brusque and condescending manner. "He also owned and managed a large and highly successful construction company."

I guess she thought the old reprobate was successful.

"Has he had any recent problems with anyone? Problems that may have precipitated a heated argument that ended up this way?"

"My husband had problems with no one, thank you very much."

Only two questions and she sounded impatient. I looked at her for a long moment.

Without prompting, she continued. "I know of no one Cecil would consider an enemy, and surely no one would ever mean him any harm or harbor any ill feelings towards him."

I wondered if we were talking about the same Cecil Lovejoy. I only knew him for thirty minutes, and I wanted to drop him down an elevator shaft. Hell, there are people out there who harbor ill feelings against Santa Claus. Surely someone took issue with Cecil's lousy personality.

I didn't buy her answer and thought rephrasing the question might convey my disbelief. "Someone murdered your husband, Mrs. Lovejoy. Please think carefully. Did he ever mention anyone he encountered—in business perhaps—who held a grudge over something? Anything? Was he ever sued, or...I don't know... Did he ever tell you that he had a serious argument with someone?"

Her annoyance manifested itself with another condescending response to my question, one meant to put me in my place.

Pearl made a sweeping gesture with her hand, taking in the overstated room and asked, "Do you think, sir, that all this could possibly indicate that anyone out there would do anything but admire and respect my poor, dear, dead husband? Do you, sir?"

I heard the question, but I didn't answer.

Either Pearl wallowed deeply in the first stage of grief or she told me a fib. Her rationale just didn't hold water. Her attitude went past the point of wearing thin.

She then surprised me by saying, "Chief, I frankly can't understand why you are askin' me all these questions when you will be turnin' this case over to the state Bureau of Investigation."

"I believe someone has misinformed you, Mrs. Lovejoy. The officers from the Prospect Police Department and I will be conducting the investigation."

"I am sure, Chief," she said, shaking her head slightly and breaking an unattractive smile, "that you are a nice man, and you mean well, but surely you don't wish to tell me you think y'all can do as good a job as a large state agency."

"Yes, ma'am, I certainly do mean that. I have twenty years experience with a large police department, thirteen of those years as a detective or a detective supervisor. I can assure you we'll do a first-rate job investigating the death of your husband. And we have the help of the county's medical examiner and forensics people. In a small city like Prospect, a crime like this should be resolved quickly."

So there, you old bat.

Apparently my sales pitch didn't inspire much confidence. Mrs. Lovejoy arose without further comment, held out a bony hand and said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins." She then turned and left the room, leaving me blatantly pissed off.

Juanita walked with me to the foyer and the front door.

"Oh, Chief, I'm just so sorry that my mother seemed to have such a short temper this mornin'," she said. "I do believe the feelin' of stress is overwhelmin' her. I'm just as sorry as I can be. Please do accept my apologies, and know that I will be happy to help you in any way possible."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mashburn. I appreciate that. If I need something, I'll certainly call. And don't worry...we will find who killed your father."

My statement brought a tear to Juanita's eye. She wiped it with the ring finger of her right hand and smiled as best she could.

I looked up and saw Travis standing a few yards away. I nodded in his direction. He didn't return the gesture.

"Good-bye," I said, looking at both of them.

"Good-bye, Chief, and thank you," Juanita said.

Travis chose to stand mute, obviously siding with his mommy.

Joe Dolinski was correct. I didn't need that kind of aggravation. I shouldn't waste my time with a woman who didn't want my help. First, I thought if she wanted the state cops to handle the case, let them. But who was I kidding? I didn't need the hassle, but I'd never let Pearl Lovejoy tell me what to do. I signed on the dotted line. I had a contract to fulfill, and I'd stay around for the duration of the Lovejoy investigation.

I guess being granted an audience with the reigning Queen of Prospect would have honored some people, but after watching Pearl in action, I was offended. The little voice inside my head asked, "Does she really think the state cops are more competent, or do you look like you know your job too well?"
Chapter Ten

On Sunday night, I fell asleep quickly. But my sleep became fitful and restless. I awoke often, turned, flipped and fell back into unconsciousness repeatedly until a recurring dream, one I hadn't experienced in years, returned to haunt my night.

I saw myself sleeping on a metal framed bunk in an olive drab tent in the Republic of Vietnam. The canvas sides of the tent were rolled up, exposing mesh cloth that allowed a warm breeze to blow through the interior while keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

I slept in my undershorts without uniform, socks or boots close by. A deafening noise interrupted my sleep. A vibrant concussion shook the ground. I jolted up in shock, knowing immediately what happened. Enemy mortar rounds were landing inside the compound. The firebase I commanded just came under attack.

After the opposition got their range, the small arms fire, the AK-47s and crew-served machine guns and rocket propelled grenades ripped through the compound with a vengeance.

Shaking the sleep from my head, I fumbled to dress quickly, but a basic coordination problem prevented me from accomplishing that. My pants got tangled as I stepped into them. My fingers didn't function. I couldn't fasten my buttons. I began to panic. Without my clothes, I was unprepared. A C.O. can't orchestrate the defense of his compound in his skivvies! I fumbled some more. Already late, the war had started without me.

Finally, I got my pants on, my fatigue jacket buttoned and my boots crudely laced up. I ran outside into the compound.

My firebase looked like an old fort in the middle of early American Indian country. Except Indian country was a Southeast Asian jungle cleared by American engineers using Rome plows. Instead of having log palisades like something out of an old western movie, my stronghold was a large fenced-in compound.

Outside the eight-foot chain-link, rows of concertina wire and other obstacles carefully placed might discourage an enemy from attacking.

Claymore mines, set at intervals, offered one form of protection. Buried drums of 'foo gas' (jellied petrol) armed with detonator cords ready to explode by remote control encircled the fence. Numerous anti-personnel mines would stop all but those with the sharpest eyes.

Observation towers, each armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, stood in all four corners of the compound. Within the firebase, sandbag walls protected all the bunkers, the barracks, the command post, the storage facilities and the workshops.

Several mortar pits, dug into the red earth, were scattered around the base so the 'eleven-Charlie' crews could defend our home-away-from-home by raining horror on the encroaching enemy.

By all military appearances, it looked like LZ Blacksnake could withstand a big-ass attack.

Not dressed in their usual black pajamas, the Viet Cong in my dream wore baggy white suits. They looked like the Mexican peasants in the movie The Magnificent Seven. I've always wondered why.

Looking out past the compound perimeter, I saw V.C. sappers already into the wire. Hundreds more of them assembled in the woods, and still others stood behind the first assault wave, close to our fence line, all firing their weapons.

Satchel charges blew holes in our outer perimeter defenses. Things didn't look good.

A sergeant first class stood in front of my hooch with a switchboard for the foo gas. He flipped the toggles, and nothing happened. Another N.C.O. clicked the detonator for one section of the claymores. He, too, got no results.

I screamed orders to get riflemen and M-60 machine gunners into the pits and start offering resistance. No one seemed to know where to go or what to do.

I jogged to another part of the compound and dove into a bunker when I heard the scream of an incoming mortar round. It struck the earth, exploding close-by, and when the dust cleared, I resumed my journey.

After a few more steps, I stopped and realized I forgot to take my rifle. A shiver traveled up my back, but I ran on.

A staff sergeant, my heavy weapons leader, and two of our Cambodian strikers stood around an 81mm mortar like it was a foreign object.

I shouted, "Goddamnit, gentlemen, let's get going!"

They looked at me and shrugged.

I ran toward one of the towers and yelled up at the two soldiers manning the big Browning machine gun, "Swing that gun to the right. Lay down fire near the main gate!"

They shook their heads, looking dumbfounded.

No claymores. No foo gas. No comprehension. We were about to be overrun. Jesus Christ! I sat up in bed.

With my heart thumping and my body sweating, I tried to catch my breath without awakening Kate. I sat there in a general blue funk.

Of course, this incident never really happened. Nonetheless, it frightened me. Chaos crowded in all around me. I had done what I'd been trained to do, what I did best. But through no fault of mine, my world teetered on the verge of collapse. The people who were my responsibility and I hung at the end of our ropes.

My recurring dreams always assaulted me for the same reason, and they often took place in Vietnam. But they had nothing to do with a war zone or any of the places I found myself. I didn't need Freud or Jung on retainer to interpret my dream as self-doubt in my ability to accomplish a goal. If anyone else out there needed to be in control that badly, I'd like to meet them.
Chapter Eleven

On Monday morning, I walked into the office at 8:30 feeling much better than I should have after that miserable dream. Bettye sat comfortably at her desk, the computer hummed, and Prospect PD looked ready to keep the world safe for democracy.

I asked Bettye for a duty roster and saw that Vernon Hobbs, Leonard Alcock and Harlan Flatt were the P.O.s on duty.

Never a habitual coffee drinker as many New York cops were, I usually drank one cup at breakfast. That morning, I just felt like having another...and something else perhaps.

"Do we have a coffee machine?" I asked Bettye.

She shook her head. "No, we sure don't."

I made mental note to pick up a Mr. Coffee at Wal-Mart in Alcoa.

"This is a police station, isn't it?"

"Sam, that's a silly question." She looked at me the way a cop looks at a mentally disturbed person.

"There are no doughnuts," I said. "Don't you people eat doughnuts? They're an integral part of solving crimes and protecting the public."

"Uh huh," she said.

"There are no doughnut shops in town. Isn't there somewhere a doughnut junkie can get a fix around here?"

"There's Richie Creamie in Maryville. Some folks like them." She pronounced Maryville—Mur'vull.

"Aha, Richie Creamie. Sure, they sell those old-fashioned jelly doughnuts that make grease stains on the paper bags. I'll drive there tomorrow before work and buy a bagful. You like jelly doughnuts, Bettye?"

"They're okay."

No coffee, no bagels, no doughnuts. I felt like a stranger in a strange land.

Back in my office, I found a dozen mileage slips for our fleet of patrol cars. Buck Webbster had neglected to submit the last month-end vehicle report to the mechanic. A simple job really, I'd just transpose the numbers the cops gave me onto the appropriate city form and send a copy to Earl Biggins at the city garage.

Before finishing the report, I needed more information. I sauntered out the back door to the parking area to get the mileage on my Ford and the odometer readings from our two spare cars.

Barely hitting the sidewalk, I met a reporter and her cameraman. At first, I didn't recognize her, but I'd been confronted by one of the area's TV anchorwomen, Rachel Williamson.

She stuck a microphone under my nose and caught me without warning. "Chief Jenkins, Saturday there was a murder in Prospect."

I knew that.

"What so far is your progress on the case?"

I didn't comment.

She hesitated, but moved on to question two. "Are you going to turn the investigation over to county detectives?"

I smiled and remained silent.

Undaunted, she pressed ahead. "Do you have any suspects?" She spoke with a slight Pennsylvania accent.

I didn't want to talk with a reporter, or anyone else for that matter, in a hot parking lot. I wanted a minute to think how I should phrase my responses and do my best to make a coherent statement that couldn't be twisted out of context and make me look like a schmuck on the six o'clock news. I noticed the little red light on the camera. The video tape spun relentlessly. I took defensive action.

"Wait," I said, putting my hand over the microphone head.

Rachel looked shocked. I suppose no one ever put a stop to her interview before.

"Please turn the camera off," I said to her partner, a rugged-looking guy wearing a red ball cap turned backwards on his head, an old Grateful Dead T-shirt and a pair of faded woodland camouflage fatigue pants.

I made a cutting gesture across my throat with my free hand. Rachel nodded her okay to the cameraman.

I gave her a big, friendly smile and said, "Good morning, Ms. Williamson. It's nice to meet you. I'm glad you came by."

A questioning look showed on her face as well as the cutest little dimple in her chin.

"I've always thought it rude," I said, "for a policeman to push someone aside and say 'No comment' to their questions, so why don't we walk into my office where it's cool, and I'll tell you all about what we're doing. You can ask questions and take some footage if you'd like."

She smiled. It accentuated her dimple. Damn, she was cute.

Inside the station, I introduced Bettye to Rachel, and Rachel introduced her cameraman as John something-that-sounded-very-Polish. I should have paid more attention, but I was too busy looking at Rachel's off-white business suit and short skirt. She had great legs.

Under the suit jacket, she wore a dark brown, low-cut T-shirt. As a trained investigator, I assessed the situation and concluded that Rachel, who must have been forty, but looked younger, was built like a brick outhouse.

I invited her and John Whatshisnameski into my office. They sat down. John set his camera on the floor and turned his cap around.

He may have been in his mid-forties. If his combat photographer's outfit wasn't all show, he looked the right age to have seen action in some of the international hot spots. He hadn't said much yet, but I thought I could get to like the guy.

I switched my eyes back to Rachel. She looked at me and crossed her legs. _Yikes!_ I made contact with her big brown eyes. She waited.

"Okay, where do I start?" I asked rhetorically. "As you probably know, I'm new here at Prospect PD."

Rachel nodded, John stared.

"I have to admit that what I can say on or off the record isn't going to be very interesting. I haven't put out a more detailed press release because right now I don't have very much information."

I repeated the basic story already sent to all news agencies in my first statement.

"Until I receive the medical examiner's findings and photos and reports from the crime scene investigator, I'd only be speculating."

I tried another smile to see if she'd let me get away with my old-soft-shoe routine. Her eyes were very expressive. She smiled back and licked her lips. I forgot what I'd been saying.

"What was I about to tell you?" I asked.

That drew an even bigger smile. "You were about to speculate for us."

The smile made her eyes take on an almond shaped, almost Asian look.

"Of course." I regroup quickly. "I think the first of two stab wounds killed him. It looked close to his heart. The amount of blood at the scene indicated the victim bled out and died right where he'd been stabbed."

Rachel waited patiently. John looked like I should have offered him something to drink. I told her about the disturbance at the car show, something not previously included in the press release.

"How's that so far?"

"I'm sure you're correct with your ideas," she said, "but you're also right saying it's not very interesting. Could the argument have led to the murder?"

"Doubtful. It wasn't much of an argument."

She tightened up her mouth and shook her head, looking disappointed after I said that.

"Sorry," I said. "Most of these cases wouldn't make a good Movie of the Week."

"Have you interviewed any witnesses or suspects yet?"

She shifted in her seat. Her skirt, already three inches above her knee, rode up a little higher.

"Sure, only moments after we received the call, I sent two officers to interview all the club members still available. Unfortunately, no one could provide more than basic background. I'll speak with the other show participants as soon as possible."

Rachel shifted again. John looked bored—there were no bullets whizzing around his head.

I told her about my unproductive meeting with Pearl and the family Lovejoy. Then I said, "My next order of business is to conduct a complete background investigation on Mr. Lovejoy and see if there's something in his past to give me at least one undeveloped lead to work on."

"You seem to have your work cut out for you." She pushed a few strands of dark brown hair behind her right ear.

A hint of another smile formed on her lips. I could have lost my train of thought again, but she asked another question, one I could answer in my sleep.

"Would you care to tell me why you chose to conduct this investigation yourself rather than turn it over to the county detectives as most other small department chiefs would do?"

"Sure, I have twenty years experience investigating serious crimes or supervising detectives. The murder occurred in Prospect, and Prospect is my responsibility. The county support services are working with me, offering their full cooperation. And I plan to reallocate my workforce to put a maximum effort into solving the crime in a fast, professional manner."

I just love it when I rattle off all that drivel. "But, there's one more thing. Perhaps this can be off the record?"

"Uh...sure, why not? I hope it's not material to my story," she said, looking interested.

"It's probably not. I just don't want to say something to offend other police officers. In my former life, I was a good cop. I know what I can accomplish. The county detectives and I haven't gotten to know each other yet. So, for my first appearance on stage, I'd feel better doing things myself. That doesn't mean I won't raise my hand and ask for help if it becomes necessary. Technically, I'm working for the victim, and ultimately my ego has to take a back seat to what's good for him and his family."

"You sound very confident. And honest," she said.

I offered her a very personal smile. "I'm not usually this modest, but I think I can trust you, and I thought this would be a good place to end the formalities."

She neither used a tape recorder nor took notes. I'd watched her stories on TV for years. They were always thorough and interesting. That impressed me.

"Well, okay then," she said. "You've really been most helpful, and if I can speak off the record, too, you're a lot more friendly than most of the police officials I have to deal with." She blinked a couple times. Tiny smile lines showed at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm flattered, madam. I shall be your most humble and obedient servant." My James Mason impersonation never fails to be big hit with the ladies.

She laughed. That sealed it. I'd been smitten.

"Would you mind repeating a few lines again while John takes some footage of us," she asked.

I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. She rolled her eyes and made a funny face. "For the broadcast?"

"It would be my pleasure. If the film comes out good, let's make Christmas cards."

She shook her head in a nice way. It was a good first meeting.

John ended up taking lots of footage. Most would be edited out at the station, and none was a love scene starring the beautiful reporter and the dashing and clever police chief.

After that, we wrapped up the interview.

I ended with a question of my own. "What brings the chief anchorwoman and news-honcho of your station down here to do an assistant reporter's job?"

"Murder in the Smokies is big news." she chuckled, like I was someone who should have known better, "and I don't often get the chance to go on the road anymore. I didn't want to miss this opportunity."

"Oh," I said.

"And besides, I heard the new chief here was some kind of big-time ex-New York cop. I wanted to see if you were as tough as Dirty Harry." She flashed a smile brilliant enough to cloud men's minds.

My office started feeling warm.

What else could I tell her? I didn't want her to leave. Would it be gauche to see if she wanted a personal tour of the evidence locker? Or should I ask her to take a ride in my new police car?

"I've learned a lot from watching Dirty Harry," I said. "Great training films and you've given me an opportunity to say, 'You made my day.'" I offered my most endearing smile, the one I practiced and reserved for the women I fall in love with.

"Thanks for stopping by," I said. "Anytime you want to do another road trip, let me know. I'll dig up another big story. Want an invitation to the P.D. picnic?"

She laughed again. She had a great laugh. If women only knew what men would do for nothing more than a good, genuine laugh. Well, it always worked on me.

John stood there with a grin that said he might burst out laughing at any moment.

"Good to meet you, too, John," I said.

We all shook hands, and they left.

* * * *

The phone rang in the outer office as I snooped around in a file cabinet. I stepped closer to Bettye's desk.

"Sam, the mayor'd like to see you," she said.

"He say what he wanted?"

"Not to me."

"Must be about Cecil Lovejoy. I called him Saturday night."

"I guess. Oh, before you go up, are you going to Buck Webbster's retirement party?" she asked.

"He gets a party?" I shook my head. "Nobody told me about it. Am I invited?"

"There was an open invitation sent around last week. Someone got the Park Grill to open up tonight. They're usually closed on Monday. You know where that is?"

"Sure. I've been there before. It's tonight?"

"Yes, at 6:30. Twenty dollars a person. Trudy Connor is collecting the money."

"Are you going?" I asked.

"I didn't really want to, but most everyone not working will be there. So, yes, I guess."

"I hate parties," I said.

"I know what you mean. Any more than four people is too much for me."

My kind of girl.

"I guess I should go," I said. "Sort of protocol. It would only be polite to wish the old criminal good luck. Besides, if he hadn't gotten caught, I'd still be unemployed."

She smiled. "Yes, there's that, too."

I thought she looked happy to have a new boss.

"Okay then. I guess I'm going. I'll let you know what Ronnie says."

I walked out of the police department, past the courtroom and up the main staircase to Ronnie Shields' office. I passed through his grandiose glass gateway, smiled at Trudy Connor and asked, "He want to see me?"

"Yes, sir, he's a'waitin'. Go right in."

Ronnie stood behind his desk looking out the window at the town square.

"What's up, boss?" I asked in a congenial Monday morning manner, assuming he wanted to be brought up to speed on the investigation. And after speaking with Rachel I felt great.

"Sit down, Sam. We've got to talk."

A frown made him look serious. I plopped into one of the green chairs and waited.

"We're going to give this Cecil Lovejoy murder investigation over to the TBI," he said, without looking me in the eye.

I might have appeared confused because he started again before I commented.

"I know you want to do this yourself, but I've already had several phone calls—calls from important people who want the TBI to handle this case."

I started to speak, and he interrupted.

"I know you're well-qualified to investigate a murder, but Pearl Lovejoy called a few people—big people. _She_ wants the TBI to look into the case."

I let out a long breath before speaking. "Isn't it a bit unusual for a person to choose who she wants to investigate a crime in our jurisdiction?"

Ronnie closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "I regret to tell you this, Sam, but that's the way it is. I'm sorry. I know you understand what I'm tellin' you and why it's happenin'."

His flushed face signaled Ronnie's embarrassment as he waited for the steam to escape from my ears.

Finally, words came from my mouth. "Oh, I understand all right. She calls some local yokel, and he calls some state yokel, and maybe he calls some yokel in Washington, who makes calls in reverse that end up with you. TBI is called by someone, and they're told to make a quick job of this because Pearl Lovejoy is impatient. Ronnie, this is a load of crap."

"Sam, I apologize. I really do, but my hands are tied."

"Why not just tell these people to get lost. We've got this under control."

"Oh, Sam, I thought you'd unnerstand."

The pain in his expression made me think someone might have been sticking pins in a voodoo doll that looked exactly like our mayor.

"I do understand. Look, politically you don't need her or them. If you ran for re-election on the Communist ticket, you'd win hands down. The people in this town love you. You're good at your job, and everyone recognizes that. I'm telling you, Ron. You don't need these people."

The idea of knuckling under to skinny Miss Pearl and all her political intrigue depressed me.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but we do. I cain't fight them."

I accepted my fate, but desperately needed to get in another punch. "Okay, I understand. Miss Pearly says _jump_ , and the local politicos ask how high. They hope she remembers them when they need another campaign contribution."

I may be tenacious at times, but I wasn't stupid enough to waste too much more of my breath.

"Tell you what, boss, when you're talking with Pearl or any of the _big_ people you mentioned, tell them to kiss my ass in Macy's window."

"Now please don't go gettin' all hot over this, Sam." Ronnie tried his best to cajole me. "I know in all your years as a police officer you've seen things like this before—it's a way of life all over. Let it go. We can't beat these people. We'd only make enemies. You'll see. It's the best way for everyone. This is the kind of thing that makes the world go round."

"Yeah? This makes me about as happy as a toothache."

I left Ronnie, unaccustomed to one of my tirades, and stopped at Trudy Connor's desk on my way out.

I surprised her. Her hands stopped, suspended above her computer keyboard. Her eyes widened, as if something made them pop open in shock.

I guess she never heard anyone speak to her mayor like that before. Obviously, my voice carried into her reception area and disturbed her otherwise tranquil Monday morning.

I smiled nicely and asked, "You doin' all right today, Ms. Connor?"

She blinked several times, but said nothing. Then she closed her mouth, her brown eyes still as large as saucers. I tapped my knuckles twice on the polished wood desktop.

I used her given name for the first time. "Trudy, here's my twenty. Please put me on the list for Buck Webbster's party."

I peeled a portrait of Andrew Jackson from the bills in my pocket, laid it on her desk and said, "Bye now."

As I walked out of the room, she looked more surprised than Ronnie.
Chapter Twelve

Back in the office, I growled at Bettye. "Your buddy, the mayor, told me the TBI is going to take over the Lovejoy murder."

"I know, Sam." She spoke with a soothing softness to her voice and looked like she felt sorry for me. "I got a call while you were out. Two senior investigators were assigned the case. They asked me to fax them all our reports. I've got them right here, but I didn't want to do anything until I asked you."

"Oh, two senior investigators. I feel so much better." When I get aggravated, I can get snotty. Bettye didn't seem to mind. But I backed up, not wanting to alienate my closest ally.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. Thanks for waiting, but I don't think we have a choice. Are these two guys coming in to talk to us about the case?"

"Didn't say so."

That surprised me.

"Are these TBI cops so formal there's nothing about one of their cases not in their files?"

"I don't know," she said.

I kept going with another rhetorical question. "Do they think all cops write everything down on official forms? I guess they've never heard of personal notes or keeping things in your head." I didn't wait for an answer. I'd gotten annoyed and started off on a roll. "This is most singular," I said. "I don't like it above half. The game's afoot, and I aim to find it."

My theatrical performance seemed to confuse Bettye.

"What are you talkin' about, Sam?"

"Not a Sherlock Holmes fan, are you? No matter. But something's not kosher here. I think it's time for Prospect PD to run its own parallel investigation and see what turns up."

"Sam," she said, shaking her head, "you may want to reconsider that. Pearl Lovejoy has more money and more power than you know about. She can make a phone call and cause you _big_ trouble."

"No kidding? I thought we were the cops. Isn't it our job to cause people trouble?"

Bettye let another question go unanswered, but offered me another reason to leave Pearl alone. "She tried to get Harley Flatt fired because he wouldn't write a careless driving ticket to a woman who backed into her car in a parking lot."

"Harley's still here."

"Yes, but she caused him lots of problems. And she didn't stop there. The woman involved in that little fender bender, a nice old lady named Odell Brayburn, came in to complain that thanks to Pearl Lovejoy, her car insurance was cancelled."

"Pearl's a real sweetheart."

"Do you think going nose to nose with her will be worth it?"

Everything Bettye said made perfect sense. But I didn't take the job to get pushed around by a wealthy old bitch used to getting her way.

"You know what, Bettye," I said, "the best part of having a job you don't need is not caring if you lose it. It sort of gives you the ability to flirt with pissing people off and not care much about it."

Bettye went back to shaking her head.

"Some people used to call me a prima donna—they were probably right. But genuine prima donnas don't like being dismissed and ignored by old women with sons who look like the Pillsbury Doughboy. They also don't like having someone try to cut their legs out from beneath them."

She tried to speak, but I cut her off. I didn't plan on giving up without a tussle.

"Don't worry," I said. "I won't throw anyone here to the wolves if this thing goes south. I'm used to taking the heat. Besides, I think we can wrap this up quickly and smell like French bimbos before any of these _important people_ know what we're doing."

Bettye listened to the madman who recently took over her quiet, little police department and waited for him to finish.

"Do me a favor?" I asked. "Vern Hobbs seems like a guy who knows everyone in town. Track him down, and ask if he can spare me an hour tomorrow afternoon. Better call Junior, too. He started this with me, and he'd feel left out if I didn't include him. It'll be good training for the kid. And how about Stanley Rose? I heard he used to work at LAPD. Give him a call, and tell him what's going on. I could use a few people who can do some low profile investigating."

She nodded, but I doubt she agreed with my plan.

"Somewhere in here," I pointed to my head, "is an answer. I just have to figure out the best way to attack this. Yes, ma'am, I'll find a way. If you need me I'm..." I pointed to my office.

* * * *

I read over the Lovejoy case twice. It didn't take much time.

The crime scene investigator's report looked unremarkable. The M.E. confirmed all of my speculations and mentioned Cecil's liver looked like the sole of an old shoe, a testament to his alcohol consumption.

There still remained a group of club members with whom my two cops never spoke at the steak house, but I doubted they would have any more information than the others already interviewed. They would go on the back burner, and I'd revisit the crime scene.

I hadn't released Cecil's Rolls to the Lovejoy family. In New York, I would have impounded the car just to have it close by if I wanted it. In Prospect, we didn't have an impound yard. The restored car looked so clean Jackie didn't think further searching the interior would have gotten us any additional clues.

The chain of custody would no longer be secure, and nothing found after Jackie Shuman packed up and left the crime scene that night would have a chance of getting admitted into evidence because the area wasn't under constant police supervision.

All that didn't matter much to me. I felt confident Jackie found everything of potential use to me or the prosecutor, or even the TBI agents who might want to check over the scene of their murder case. And now they could take responsibility for disposing of the Rolls.

I always liked to revisit crime scenes. I wanted to stand there, get a feel for the ground, perhaps even for the person who killed my victim. I could never do that with even a small group of cops crawling over the place.

I started the long walk from the police department to the motel grounds where Vern's yellow tape still kept the area separate from the rest of the neatly mown lawn.

At the bottom of the front steps to the Municipal Building, I paused at the curb and let a car pass by.

I crossed the street and walked over the grass of the town square. Two squirrels hopped across the lawn and clawed their way up one of the old shade trees. I scanned the city center. Several people entered the shops surrounding the square. A few slow moving cars traveled the roads.

The morning started out warm. An army of cicadas sitting on the leaves and branches all hummed at once. I thought of Forrest Gump again and expected to see him sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus.

After crossing the square, I continued south on Main Street, made a few turns and in a couple of blocks I passed the steak house and approached the motel grounds.

The meadow stood empty, save for the yellow four-door Rolls Royce surrounded by plastic crime scene tape.

Cars sat outside many of the rooms rimming the motel parking lot. A two-thousand-feet-tall, tree-covered hill rose behind the two-story lodgings.

A surrey-top golf cart crossed the motel blacktop almost a hundred yards from where I stood. Linens and bars of soap were being hurried to the housekeepers who tidied up the rooms daily.

Cecil Lovejoy forgotten, life and business in beautiful downtown Prospect went on as usual.

I ducked under the yellow tape and walked to the center of the murder scene. I remembered Cecil slumped there in death. All that remained of him was the bloodstain on the grass.

The M.E.'s report stated that Cecil's blood-alcohol content scored a whopping .28—three-and-a-half times the legal limit of intoxication. Remaining conscious with that much booze in you takes a lot of practice. He probably woke up every morning a .20.

I ran everything through my head another time, trying to envision the killer approaching Cecil and what might have transpired before stabbing the old man. I couldn't get anything to click into place.

Unable to conjure up a new idea and seeing nothing at the scene to cause a revelation, I carelessly stepped back from the blood spot. Once again, I cracked my leg on the big chrome bumper of that goddamned Rolls Royce—in the same spot already sore from my last mishap. I didn't even know Cecil Lovejoy, and he was reaching out from the grave to annoy me.

I stayed for another few minutes, but failed to get any intellectual infusion or experience a divine intervention. No unfamiliar face with 'killer' branded on the forehead flashed before my eyes. Some crime scenes are more inspirational than others.

My leg hurt like hell. I should have put ice on it.

* * * *

When I returned to the office, I told Bettye to leave work early and get ready for the party. At four o'clock, I took over as desk officer. I had fun taking a few phone calls and dispatching the patrol cars.

At five, I closed up shop and drove home. Bitsey greeted me at the back door. Kate was nowhere to be found.

Being a world-class detective, that didn't stop me for long. When I learned where to find my wife, I took the stairs two at a time, to find the love of my life sprucing up her hair.

Once dark brown, Kate's hair long ago had turned salt and pepper gray. A sexy white streak accented the front. Standing in front of a bathroom mirror, she wore a pale orange t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. I've known her for a long time and have never gotten tired of looking at her; she's one beautiful woman.

"What are you looking at, Mr. Smarty-pants?" she asked.

"I'm staring at your ass, Miss Shorty-pants. You look pretty good for a girl old enough to be a grandmother." I kissed the back of her neck. "Three days a week at the gym keeps your backside looking like it belongs to a kid half your age."

"Thank you. That was nice. I am cute, aren't I?" She wiggled a little.

"Sorry about having to go out tonight," I said. "I feel like this is an unwanted obligation."

"I understand. I'm sure the mayor would like you to wish the man well in retirement."

"Buck Webbster is lucky he's not retiring to the Brushy Mountain State Prison. I wish him hemorrhoids."

"Oh, be nice. Going to a party will make you feel like one of the boys."

"Yeah, I'll be one of the boys in Prospect like General Sherman was one of the boys in Atlanta."

"You're unbelievable," she said.

I took that as a compliment.

"I'm going to change," I said. "The new South is casual, but I'd feel more comfortable with a jacket and tie."

"Good idea, sweetie. Go out, and impress them."

"You mean show them how real cops act?"

"Maybe, Samuel, you shouldn't say they're not real cops until you know them a little better."

* * * *

I wandered into the bedroom and opened my closet door. As I told Bettye, I generally hate parties, weddings, funerals or other gatherings where you have to socialize with people you may not like.

Most anyone can be personable and polite for half-an-hour or so, and I'm no exception. But after thirty minutes, I tend to start getting more honest in my conversation and lose some of my boyish charm.

Declining an invitation to the retirement party would have been rude. Although I'm not a slave to social dictates, I'm not rude...very often. And it would be a good opportunity to show the ruling fathers of Prospect they'd be getting their money's worth with the new police chief. If nothing else, I can look like a professional police administrator.

I dressed for the occasion just as I did for an appearance back in district court: navy blue blazer, yellow button-down shirt, weathered tartan tie, beige slacks and cordovan penny loafers.

I looked in the mirror and thought: Not bad for an old guy. I still wore a forty-two jacket, thirty-two pants and always tried to act less than middle-aged.

Before leaving, I stopped to kiss Kate good-bye. She straightened the gold-plated dinosaur pin I wore on the lapel of my sport coat—a gift from the Detectives' Association after completing my twenty years.

"Why do you persist in wearing this thing?" she asked.

"It's my statement. People used to sing folk songs and write poetry to make statements. All I can write that makes a statement is a prosecution worksheet. I wear this to say, 'I may be old, but I can still take a bite out of your ass.'"

"Very nice. If you weren't a cop, you'd have been a hoodlum."

"I'm glad you notice my talents. See ya later, sweetie."

She gave me another kiss for good luck.

I was off to mark my territory.
Chapter Thirteen

The Park Grill in Gatlinburg is just across the Great Smoky Mountains National Park from where we live. The road getting there is narrow and winding, just the place to drive a midlife-crisis sports car.

After heading east on US 321, I picked up state route 73 on the east end of Townsend where the tall pines get closer to the road, and the Little River runs only a few yards from the blacktop. Everyone enters the park at the same place. Your first decision comes at a spot called 'The Y', where the intersection offers travelers the option of turning right and driving to the beautiful fields of Cades Cove or turning left toward Sugarlands Visitor's Center, Gatlinburg and even 'the Forbidden City' of Pigeon Forge, with its outlet malls, fast-food joints, big city traffic and Dollywood. I turned left.

At 5:45, the sun poked through the trees at a rakish angle. Brilliant light filtered down through the forest canopy, creating a sharp light and dark contrast on the narrow, rocky landscape.

The Little River gurgled noisily over the rocks and boulders eroded smooth after years of quickly flowing water. Heavy spring rains peaked the river level at its high water mark. I'd never seen the forest looking any better.

Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Sugarlands, found a spot among the tourist vehicles and walked into the air-conditioned building to use the men's room. Stops like that become more important when you reach sixty, no matter what size clothing you still wear.

You may remember Johnny Cash singing about Gatlinburg in his song _A Boy Named_ _Sue_. "It was Gatlinburg in mid-July, I just hit town and my throat was dry" or something like that. It was mid-July, but the current eighty degrees and the slightly breezy, dry mountain air made things quite comfortable. I just hit town, but my taste buds weren't exactly parched. Johnny must have sung that during a heat wave.

That evening I didn't see much tourist traffic and arrived at 6:35, only a few minutes stylishly late. The Park Grill is another excellent example of what you can do with an oversized log cabin. There's good food, a well-stocked bar and the waitresses add to the atmosphere by wearing outfits like park ranger uniforms, complete with a campaign hat.

I saw Ronnie Shields off to my right along with a couple of the Prospect city Councilmen I knew, loitering in an area with seating for five or six dozen people. I walked over.

"Gentlemen," I said, "how are you all doing today?"

"Sam, good ta see ya. You doin' aw rot today?" said Joe Rex Wilcox III, senior member of the Council and manager of The Prospect Citizen's Bank and Trust where I did business.

The others, Ronnie Shields, who still looked a little down in the mouth, Danny Swope, a lumberyard owner, and Chester Simmerling, an insurance agent, all stood in the cocktail party position, tall glasses held waist high, and offered cordial greetings.

"Before we start dinner, I'd like to ask a favor," I said. "Would one of you mind introducing me to your honored guest?"

Feeling like a kid forced to eat a distasteful vegetable, I wanted to satisfy my obligation to meet Webbster and get that out of the way quickly.

Joe Rex, the first one back in action, answered my question. "Well, Sam, ya shore do like ta get rot down ta bidness, don't ya? I thought y'all would have already met Bucky somewhere along the line, you both being members of the law enforcement fraternity."

"No, I'm afraid not," I said. "I just thought it would be polite to meet him since I started using his chair last week."

That got a few chuckles from the boys.

"Sure thing. Ol' Bucky is jest over here talkin' with a few of the other officers. Come on, and let's go introduce ya."

I can't tell you why, but I felt an apprehension about meeting the former chief. It was protocol, of course, but the idea I harbored about his dishonesty, kept me from enjoying what I considered an obligation.

I've always believed that I'd defend a cop who worked for me if they seriously screwed up—if that occurred as a genuine, good-faith mistake. Conversely, I'd hang someone out to dry if I caught them taking a nickel for their own benefit. Where did that leave Webbster?

As I walked over to meet my predecessor, I hoped he'd just say hello and fade away into a crowd of people who had more tolerance for him than me.

When Joe Rex and I approached, I noticed Buck had corralled Bettye, Junior and Will Sparks, who all stood there listening to him. None of the three looked enthused with the old boy.

Buck looked about my age. Shorter than me by three inches and more than a bit overweight, his hair was mostly gray, poorly cut and slicked straight back, Bela Lugosi style. He went beyond having a double chin—more like a quadruple, jutting forward with an overbite. He reminded me of a stereotypical big-bellied, Southern sheriff seen in countless movies.

He wore a gray polyester sport jacket with wide lapels, a white dress shirt with a spread collar that didn't close over his fat neck and a harlequin-pattern tie terminating about four inches north of his black trousers that hung just south of his king-sized belly.

Joe Rex did the honors. "Buck, I want y'all to meet your replacement, Sam Jenkins."

Buck stuck out a pudgy hand and said, "Hit's a real pleasure, Sam. I been tole you're from a big Noo Yawk department. Welcome to Tennessee, son. I wish y'all good luck and God's blessin's."

His statement almost made me throw up.

"Prospect's a real fine place," he continued. "I'm sorry to leave, but ya know how it is, Florida and all that saltwater fishin' calls."

His handshake felt surprisingly firm, but the look in his eyes bothered me. Coupling that look with his penchant to make a dishonest dollar, I checked my wrist to see if he pocketed my watch.

What could I say? The man was a crooked cop acting like a local hero.

"Hello, Buck." I almost tried to sound sincere. "I'm looking forward to working in Prospect. I promise to take good care of your police department." I thought I'd like to hear something similar from my replacement.

He grinned and nodded, looking like a malevolent numbskull and acting like he cared.

Joe Rex saw a chance to escape and jumped on it with both feet. "Y'all must excuse me. I see someone I need to talk with."

He hurried away, probably needing more sweet tea.

Junior looked polished in a sport jacket and open-necked shirt.

Will, also in a jacket, could have been the poster-boy for the Mister Appalachia contest. Shorter than Junior by three inches, Will's reddish-brown hair crossed his forehead in bangs and looked like it hadn't been combed since his first haircut. I thought his mom and dad should have named him Opie.

Bettye wore a burgundy wrap-around dress. Her blonde hair fell just below her shoulders.

"Sam," Buck said, "I heard you already know this here little lady. Bettye jest about runs the department. Y'all be nice to her. The big fella here's, Junior Huskey. Junior's a good boy, as is Will Sparks there. Sammy, we'uns are kindly like a big happy family 'round here. Jest a big happy family."

I should have strangled the fat bastard for calling me Sammy.

"I understand...Bucky. Family is a good thing."

Just being in the same room with that oaf annoyed me.

Then, turning toward Bettye and the two other cops, I said, "Okay, children, just think of me as your kindly old Uncle Sammy...part of that big happy family."

"Sam," Buck said with a serious look, "I heard what you said, but I got ta tell ya, son, ya cain't go gittin' too friendly with the rank an' file of a po-leece department."

He spoke as if our three companions weren't present. His remark offended me; I knew how they must have felt. Who did that prick think he was, telling me how to supervise a bunch of cops?

"Show weakness, Sammy," he continued, "an' ya lose 'em. Treat 'em like a good, stern father would, an' they'll re-spect ya. Don't ya fergit now, y'all are the boss here."

I felt the tips of my ears start to burn. I took a deep breath and tried to think of something intelligent to say, but couldn't. I'd gotten angry, and I wanted to hit him. I took a step closer to the man and glared at him, hoping I'd get him to back off.

I finally understood the apprehension I sensed earlier about meeting Buck Webbster. Our inevitable confrontation, a classic struggle between two old wolves for the alpha-male spot in the pack would inevitably happen. Buck didn't want to let go, and I wanted everyone to recognize me as the new boss in town.

Why do I get myself involved in these things?

"It's been a real...experience meeting you, Buck," I said, standing only inches from him. He dropped his eyes. Of course, I wouldn't have hit him right there in the restaurant. But maybe I should have given him a quick knee to the groin no one would notice. I remember his last expression and his eyes, especially his eyes. I knew I'd made an enemy, one with powerful friends.

I felt someone touch my arm and turned a little to my left. Bettye had put her hand on my sleeve. We looked at each other. I took in a breath through my nose and let it out slowly.

"You worked for a busy police department once, Sam. I'll bet you've got lots of stories to tell. The boys here would like to hear some, and so would I."

Bettye's voice could melt the winter ice on a windshield in Buffalo. "Yes, ma'am, I've got enough war stories to choke a horse, and some even have a basis in truth." I may have made an enemy that day, but I also recognized a true friend. Bettye smoothed out an incident that could have ended up in the outhouse.

Buck Webbster was no fool when it came to avoiding a confrontation.

"Well," he said, "I guess hit's time fer me ta go an' see the mayor, see what's next ta happen here. Y'all be good now."

After he left, I looked at Junior and Will and then at Bettye. I grinned, felt a little foolish, and said, "Let's put those war stories on the back burner until one rainy afternoon when we've got nothing else to do, shall we?"

"Yes, sir," Bettye said, "that sounds fine. And then we can ask you about that li'l dinosaur pin, too."

"Sure you can. I'll make up a great story."

Bettye looked pleased with herself, and the two boys nodded.

I noticed the crowd started taking their seats, so I said, "The bartender has a beer with my name on it. How about I get you people fresh drinks before dinner?"

Bettye and Junior agreed. Will said he wanted to visit the men's room.

We moseyed over toward the bar where a few people sat on the rustic cedar stools—two couples who looked more like tourists than misguided souls there to wave good-bye to Buck Webbster and one solitary black man. A guy all of six-feet-four-inches tall and a solid 235 pounds, sat alone at the end of the bar. He looked more like a cop than a tourist. I settled onto the stool next to his.

"Chief," Bettye said, standing behind me, "This is Officer Stanley Rose. Stan's been off since you started working. Stan, this is Sam Jenkins, our new boss."

The big man looked over his right shoulder, swiveled on the bar stool in my direction and gripped my hand with something that looked like a paw belonging to Sasquatch.

"Good to meet you, boss." He spoke with a neutral accent, sounding from no particular part of the country. "I understand you were a real cop once."

"Yeah, but like that old song, long ago and far away. Good to meet you too, Stanley."

The bartender walked over and asked what we wanted. I ordered a draught of Blue Moon, he refilled Bettye's glass with white Zinfandel, and Junior took another Budweiser that he drank from the bottle. Stanley sipped from his half-empty glass and set it on the bar.

Bettye settled onto the stool next to me. Junior remained standing behind us.

"How long have you been working here?" I asked Stanley, "You don't sound like a local."

"I've been here three years. Three years in May. I'm from Los Angeles. I worked with LAPD for a while."

"So I heard. But before you tell me why you're here in Tennessee, can I buy you a refill?"

"Sure, thanks." He drained his glass and spun a massive index finger in the air to get the bartender's attention. "Another Beam and Coke."

The barman strolled over and took away Stan's glass.

"Bourbon and Coca Cola?" I said. "I haven't seen anybody drink that since I was a kid in the Army. You have a sweet tooth?"

Without skipping a beat, he put on a big exaggerated grin and said, "Yas Massah. It's a nigra thing, ya know. We likes ar sugah."

"Stanley!" Bettye said. "Stop that."

Junior laughed. The bartender dropped off Stan's drink and hurried away.

"That was cool," I said. "You went from sounding like you're from Ohio to doing a perfect Uncle Remus. If you do a song from Porgy and Bess, I'll really be impressed."

Without offense, Rose asked, "You're not some kind of a racist, are you, boss?"

His big smile showed the whitest teeth I'd seen since Farrah Fawcett did toothpaste commercials. His expensive-looking gray suit and crisp white shirt were impeccable.

"No, just a confirmed smartass."

"Smartass I can like. The last guy was enough of a racist to satisfy me for a while."

"Don't worry, partner. We'll get along famously. We've got something in common," I said. "In this neighborhood we fit in like a couple of pork chops at a bar mitzvah."

Stanley laughed, loud enough to draw looks from the other people around the bar. Then he said, "Oh, Lordy, Massah Sam, y'all shur have a way wif woids."

Bettye spoke up again. "Sam, Stanley! People are looking at us."

Stanley laughed. I needed to have the last word, and it's not difficult for me to sound like Ronald Reagan.

"Well, there you go again, Stanley, soundin' like Uncle Remus. Just like ya did in _Song of the South_."

I looked at Bettye and smiled. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Junior grinned like a little kid and seemed to be enjoying our act.

To our right, the sound of a spoon tapped against the side of a water glass drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Mayor Ronnie Shields' voice called the festivities to order.

"If I can get all y'all to take a seat, we'll start havin' dinner and wish our friend Buck Webbster a happy retirement."

"Come on, guys," I said. "Let's find seats. The pecan trout they serve here might make all this seem worthwhile."

Four of us walked toward the dining area and found empty seats at the back of the room—like the bad kids in high school.

After a few Councilmen made innocuous speeches about Buck's dedicated service to the city of Prospect, (Did no one read the newspapers?) about his expertise as a police officer, (He used to sell plumbing supplies, but got the job because his brother was a county commissioner.) and about our best wishes for his future, (Certainly not mine.) Buck made his own speech and accepted a Seiko watch that cost more than his service as a police officer was worth.

At the conclusion, I noticed plenty of dry eyes in the house. So did the wait staff; they immediately served the salads.

* * * *

The rest of the party went quicker than I anticipated, and the pecan-encrusted trout exceeded my expectations.

I met several more members of the Prospect Police Department, drank another pint of Blue Moon and said my good-byes.

By ten o'clock, the bright sky of early evening changed to dark and cloudy. The temperature felt fifteen degrees cooler than when I arrived, so it made sense to drive home with the top down.

All settled into the cockpit, I fired up the six cylinders and headed west.

Back at home, my wife waited patiently for my arrival. Actually, she seemed engrossed in a game of computer Scrabble. Not exactly a woman pining away for her absent husband, but Scrabble kept her out of trouble.

I kissed the top of her head while she sat in front of the flat screen monitor, let my hands wander down her sides until I got smacked just before doing what naughty boys do to their well-built girlfriends.

"Spoil-sport," I said and left the computer room to hang up my sport jacket and change into cooler, more comfortable clothes.

When I arrived downstairs, she handed me a large gin and tonic. "How did your dinner go?"

"Not bad. I met a few more people and had a _wonderful_ time meeting Buck Webbster. I think he's a certified imbecile. God, what an asshole. He's like someone out of a James Lee Burke novel."

"That bad?"

"Worse. After him, it won't take much to look like an all-star at Prospect PD."

"You're awful, but I love you." She kissed me on the cheek.

"Anyway," I said, "how tough can it get on the 'mean streets' of Prospect? I mean, Tennessee ain't Bedford-Stuyvesant."

"I know, sweetie, but here you don't have thousands of fellow police officers ready to help as soon as you whistle. I'm not saying you're all alone, but maybe you should be a little careful."
Chapter Fourteen

On Tuesday morning, the workers of the Municipal Building began another day governing the citizens of Prospect.

I started out spending an hour completing a few more things that the inconsiderate moron Buck Webbster left unfinished.

After a stop in the men's room, I'd put myself to work on Cecil Lovejoy's background investigation.

As I ambled back into the office, Bettye motioned me toward her desk. She held the phone to her ear.

"He just walked in, sir. Hold on, please." After she spoke to the caller, Bettye covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "A man wants to speak to the chief. He didn't identify himself and doesn't sound like he's from around here. It may be long distance. Nothing shows up on caller ID. I'll transfer it."

I answered my office phone, "This is Chief Jenkins. May I help you?"

From the other end I heard, "You don't sound like you're from Tennessee."

"Not originally. I'm from New York."

"No kiddin'? Me, too." It sounded like he was. "You on the job up there?"

"I was," I answered.

"City, Upstate or on the Island?"

"The Island," I said. "Hey, listen, I'd love to get all nostalgic with you about the old hometown, but to whom am I speaking?"

"To whom?" He laughed. "Who the hell says _to_ _whom_? Jeez. This is Ralph Oliveri, FBI Knoxville, formerly of Queens, by the way. South Ozone Park to be exact."

"I'm Sam Jenkins, Ralph. What can I do for you?"

"No, no, no, my new friend. It's what I can do for you."

"No kidding, a Fed wants to do something for a local cop? What's it going to cost me?"

I put a little humor and a pinch of sarcasm into my answer. I'd worked with guys from the FBI before.

"Ah, good old New York cynicism." He didn't sound offended. "As you no doubt know from reading Sunday's News-Sentinel, there was a homicide in Prospect recently. No?"

"Yes, I seem to remember something about that. You think someone killed that guy up in Kentucky and dumped him in Prospect? Are you guys looking at an interstate transportation of a body case?"

"Ma'done, don't get snitty on me. It just so happens we're working a totally unrelated case, and your vic's name popped up. Very interesting stuff we have here. You should come and see what I've got. You might plotz. If nothing else, it'll give you a few places to look for suspects."

Obviously Special Agent Ralph Oliveri, formerly of Queens County, hadn't heard that Prospect PD was out, and the TBI was in on the Lovejoy case. I looked at that opportunity as an obligation to screen the FBI's evidence before alerting the TBI about what they had.

Jenkins, you're a devious devil.

"Wanna give me a hint before I drive into the big city? I can be there this afternoon, like two-thirtyish?"

"No, to your first question, and two-thirtyish it is. You know where we are?"

"Sure, I'm a cop. I know everything—except who killed Cecil Lovejoy. But you're going to help with that. I'll see you at 2:30."

We both hung up.

Bettye, Stanley, Vernon and Junior, my newly formed homicide task force, promised to be in the office at four o'clock. I told Bettye about my meeting with the FBI. She said if I got back late they'd be there waiting.

I could already feel the loyalty oozing all over.

* * * *

I've always been a proponent of the old adage "What goes around, comes around." I like common sense...sidewalk philosophy. But how did that adage relate to my current world?

After I graduated from the police academy, I got assigned to a patrol precinct. As with all junior men, I'd been detailed as a footman. That's not the guy who hangs on the back of some Lord or Lady's carriage, but rather the cop who walks a beat.

My beat was on the poor end of town. Most often, I spent my tours writing traffic tickets or arresting someone for minor drug possession or something else that required little investigation. That made the bosses happy and was usually fun.

On one of those fun days, after locking up a local hoople for public lewdness, I sat in the squad room writing up the arrest when the desk sergeant walked in. He stood gawking at me as I typed a set of court informations—with more than two fingers.

"You can type?" He sounded surprised.

"Uh-huh," said I.

I had taken typing in high school because I was the only guy in a class of thirty girls.

"Lemme see your paperwork."

I showed him what I had already completed. He read slowly.

"This is good," he told me, nodding his head, grinning like the village idiot.

"Thanks," I said.

"You wanna work the desk?"

"Not especially. Why?"

"Smitty's been up there for two years. He wants out. I can use a guy who can type."

"Thanks, Sarge, but I'd rather be outside, too."

"Good, I'll tell the lieutenant. You can start tomorrow."

At first, I thought I had spoken to him in Swahili. Not possible, I don't speak Swahili. Anyway, that began my first and only six months on a precinct desk. Not only did I type the blotter, the tour reports and all the arrest paperwork for the hunt-and-peck cops, but I learned to work a switchboard and answer the phones. That's what went around. Here's what came around.

In Prospect, I take lunch from twelve until one o'clock. I'm usually starving by noon. Bettye takes lunch from one until two. From one until two I'm back working the desk—answering phones and dispatching cars. Thirty-four years and I've come full circle.

That day, I hung out at Bettye's desk, resisting a temptation to look into the drawers, when the phone rang. For obvious reasons, I wasn't overly happy, and I growled into the mouthpiece, "Prospect Police, Chief Jenkins."

"I'm glad ya answered the phone yerse'f. Can ya talk without anyone else listenin'?"

Saying 'To whom am I speaking?' got a snide remark from Ralph Oliveri, so I tried a more earthy approach, "Yeah, who's this?"

"Shane Hacker. I'm the patrol sergeant ya met at that fatal wreck 'bout a week ago."

Now the voice sounded familiar. "Sure, I remember. What do you need, Sarge?"

"More like whadda you need, Chief."

"I don't understand."

"Well, I was down to a Fraternal Order o' Po-leece meetin' other night an' heard yer name mentioned. Later on, I seen yer name on the membership list. But I ain't never seen ya at a meetin' though."

"I joined before I took this job—so I could use the FOP range in Lenoir City. I'm not big on attending meetings."

"Yeah, I heard you's retired from a department in another state. Anyways, I heard couple o' people talkin' 'bout ya. Heard somethin' ya should know."

He paused for a long moment. The silence was deafening.

"Uh-huh?"

"Feller had your job 'fore you—Buck Webbster—he's talkin' with a couple o' loo-tenants from Murr-vull PD. Buck tells these other two he needs ta come an' teach ya how things work 'round here. Says ya got yerse'f that homo-cide in Prospect an' don' seem like the type who'd be willin' ta let go when ya been tole to give it ta the TBI. Says he wants ya ta back off like."

"You're kidding?"

"So," he continued, "seems like you'll be gittin' a visit sometime soon. Figgered ya'd like a heads-up, so as ta not be surprised."

"Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the tip. If I can ever return the favor, let me know."

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind. Jest kinda fergit where ya heard 'bout Buck," he said.

"Fine with me. One thing more, Sarge, we really don't know each other—why would you go out of your way to tell me this?"

"That's easy—two reasons. I heard ya yelled at Dwayne Cluny when you's at that wreck. Anybody who tightens up Dwayne is doin' me a favor."

"Who?"

"Dwayne Cluny, that big deputy with the crew cut an' mustache, the one with the attitude problem."

"Oh, him. Yeah, I know who you mean. What's the other reason?"

"I never did like Buck Webbster. Ain't my idea of a good man."

"Okay. Thanks, Shane. If you need something, just whistle."

"You bet. Y'all be careful now."

He hung up. I needed Buck Webbster in my life like I needed another major case to investigate.
Chapter Fifteen

The FBI office is located in the Federal Building at 710 Locust Street in downtown Knoxville, not far from the Federal courts on Market Street. The building provides one stop government shopping. The FBI shares a roof with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the IRS, the Department of Agriculture, Labor Department and a few other Federal agencies with alphabetic designators.

The downtown area, called the Old City by most locals, is a small and attractive urban setting for banks, insurance companies, lawyers and some city and county departments. Compared with Prospect, there's plenty of hustle and traffic in the streets. Compared to Manhattan, it's deserted.

At 2:30 that afternoon, I found Ralph Oliveri easily enough. The FBI office looked posh by any law enforcement standards. The reception area, with three female clericals, would have been appropriate to a law firm who charged over three-hundred-bucks an hour. The receptionist listened to my story, buzzed Ralph on an intercom and gave me a professional smile before I sat down to wait.

My new friend showed up in less time than it took to cross my legs and start turning the pages of a three-month-old copy of Time Magazine.

Ralph looked about forty, five-ten and in good shape at a hundred-and-sixty-pounds or so. He wore the standard issue FBI uniform, a light gray suit, white shirt and somber blue tie. His sideburns might have been a little too long, but Ralph parted his dark brown hair on the left and combed it to the side in a businesslike manner. I think some women would find him attractive, if they liked the swarthy Mediterranean type.

I stood up as he walked through a door from the agent's squad room.

"Ralph?"

"Yes, there is but one Ralph P. Oliveri, and I am he."

From that moment, I knew Ralph and I would get along just fine.

"Let's go inside," he suggested, with a light in his eyes like that of a little boy who just found the biggest frog in the neighborhood. "I've got some news for you. This turned out to be some really cool shit. I don't know if this'll find you a killer, but when you see what I got, you'll think your vic deserved to die."

Ralph sounded interested in my murder investigation. What he showed me turned out to be very, very interesting.

For months, Ralph and some of his cronies had worked a case of Internet child pornography. They recently arrested a major supplier of smut who lived north of Knoxville in the quiet little community of Maynardville. One of the dealer's customers turned out to be none other than Cecil the Terrible.

Receiving kiddie porn is not as serious in the eyes of the law as promoting and distributing it, but Ralph and his merry men confiscated Cecil's hard drive in furtherance of their investigation.

He took me to a room with an array of computer equipment I couldn't begin to recognize a use for. Once inside, we were outnumbered three-to-one by computer geeks with badges.

"Look at some of the shit your vic had on his computer," Ralph said. "A lot, but not as much as some of the other hard drives we grabbed."

I really didn't want to see what Cecil collected, but I looked anyway.

"He's got mostly little girls," he said, "say between ten and fourteen. A couple of little boys, too. The bastard. Who knows which way this guy swung, huh? I'm surprised he didn't have pictures of a naked goat, for chrissake."

Ralph waited for me to laugh before continuing.

"The kid stuff looks like professional photography," he said, "probably not of any interest to your case, but look at these." He sounded more enthusiastic.

The computer technician clicked on one of many folders that opened up to show dozens of thumbnail photos of nude, adult females. Definitely not professional models and the poor quality of the posing and composition of the pictures made me think an amateur photographer as well.

They all looked to have been taken in the same place, a bedroom with expensive-looking, period French-style furniture. My interest began building.

"All these beauties were done with a digi-cam," Ralph said. "If your vic took all of these himself, he had a real love for indelicate poses, didn't he?"

I rolled my eyes at the less than attractive things Cecil asked his models to do.

"Those are all recent. But...Bill, scroll down so we can look at these." Ralph spoke to the technician and pointed at a series of shots near the bottom of the folder. "These are scanned snapshots or maybe Polaroids. They look what, twenty-five or thirty-years old? This girl looks what, fifteen? Totally different setting, too."

"This is cool stuff, Ralphie," I said, "but I don't suppose you have names to go with these faces?"

"No, no such luck. I gotta leave somethin' for you to do. 'Sides, having photos of adults in the buff is no crime. Nothing I care about. We are... Check that...we _were_ interested in Cecil Lovejoy's involvement with the kiddie porn. Now that he's dead..." He shrugged and let his thought trail off.

"Can you make me headshots," I asked, "the best and clearest ones to ID these ladies, for each of the five models? One full-length photo for each, too, in case I find these women and have to jog their memories about their involvement with Cecil?"

"Of course, big eight-by-ten glossies. Your tax money at work," Ralph said. "You recognize anyone here?"

"Not yet, but I'm new in Prospect. I'll ask if my local cops know anyone."

We went back to the squad room and waited for one of the geeks to print out my package of photos. Ralph took that opportunity and introduced me to a few people from the FBI. Most of them, especially Carl Harmon, the special-agent-in-charge, seemed unimpressed with a guy from a local department with only thirteen cops.

Except for Oliveri, there wasn't much conversation available from the employees at the FBI offices. At least Ralph had a personality.

Thanks to the Fed's state-of-the-art printers, I received my photos in no time. The Justice Department never spares any expense in making their agent's lives comfortable and efficient. Our tax money at work.

As Ralph and I sat at his desk in the agent's squad room, one of the technicians walked toward us on a carpet so plush it made me regret making those quarterly payments to the IRS. He gave Ralph a nine-by-twelve manila envelope. Ralph pulled out a collection of photographs, looked through them quickly and handed them to me.

"These suit you?" he asked.

I looked at them more closely—exactly what I needed.

"Ralphie, you're a prince. I don't care what everyone says about Ozone Park people, you're okay with me."

"Hey, that's South Ozone Park. We're a much higher class down there. Anyway, I hope these help. If they do—you owe me one."

"If these help, I'll buy you the best lunch within twenty miles of this burg."

"You're on. And if you make a collar with this information, I expect to collect, but no fast-food junk, right?"

"No fast-food. I'm good to my snitches, even if they are Feds."

"You're all heart."

"That's me, buddy. My crystal ball sees a defendant in my future."
Chapter Sixteen

I left the Federal building in the Old City and drove south on Route 129. Ten minutes later, I pulled into a Food City parking lot and placed my unmarked Ford far away from any of the shoppers' vehicles. I didn't want to be seen looking at pictures of nude women by the citizens of South Knoxville.

I hadn't been a hundred-percent honest with Ralph Oliveri. I didn't know any of the adult women in the photos, but the face of the teenage girl looked familiar, and I wanted to check the photo again. Her expression projected an unspoken message. It looked like she wanted to be anywhere other than in front of a camera where she'd been forced to pose. I'd keep her in mind for my list of future suspects.

* * * *

I arrived back at the PD stylishly late—a new habit of mine. Rose, Hobbs and Huskey loitered around in civilian clothes. Bettye sat at her desk in uniform. Stanley drank coffee in a Hardee's Styrofoam cup. Junior held a large plastic bottle of Mountain Dew. Vern, with an ever-present toothpick in his mouth, looked...like Vern.

I wanted quiet and privacy, but we had almost an hour to go before switching the phones and radio over to County 9-1-1.

"Let's hope no one calls," I said and closed the glass doors to the police offices. I looked at them, all standing around Bettye's desk and shrugged.

"Maybe they'll think we're closed—I don't want to be disturbed."

I dragged over one of the chairs from the waiting area, turned it backwards and sat.

"I'm sure Bettye already told you I've been relieved of responsibility for investigating the Lovejoy murder."

Everyone nodded.

"However, I've not been specifically directed to cease all work on the matter."

Bettye made a face.

"Don't make faces at me," I said. "I remember what you told me, but some things just have to be done."

She sighed. "You're the boss."

"Look, people, if any heat comes out of what I'm going to do, it's mine. I am going to ask you to help—just a little. It's strictly a volunteer thing. But if someone asks you questions, you tell them I ordered you to work on this. Understand?"

More nods. I told them about Cecil's porn collection and the FBI case. Then I continued with our own business.

"The photos I got from the FBI give us several possibilities for leads. I believe these to be photos of local people. I'll tell you why in a minute. We've got four women I want to identify. Once we do that, we can move further."

I opened the nine-by-twelve envelope with the FBI address embossed in the upper left corner and took out the headshots of the four adults. Knowing cops are the same the world over, I wanted to be spared the leers and snickers the nude photos would generate.

"Anyone know these ladies?" I asked but got no takers.

"These women were photographed nude," I said.

Junior leered and wiggled his eyebrows. Stanley gave him an elbow in the ribs.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Bettye frown at Junior's antics.

"Guys," I said. "Before we get too amused, let's think family. What if this creep put our sisters or wives in the same place he put these ladies? We'd be looking to kill him ourselves. I think we should exercise a little sensitivity here. Capiche?"

"Ca what?" Junior said and quickly got another elbow in the ribs. "Uh, yessir, sorry."

"Okay, I don't think too many citizens of Prospect own expensive, reproduction Louis XV furniture like the pieces I saw on Sunday." I took another glance at Bettye. She seemed contented. "I think these pictures were taken in a bedroom at the Lovejoy house."

I got a couple of nods, a couple of shrugs. I felt more confident than the rest of my team looked.

"Besides a total lack of clothing, these girls have one thing in common. No one is smiling. No one seems happy or willing to have their pictures taken, perhaps by Cecil, our infamous pervert."

I received all nods of agreement. Perhaps I gained a little ground.

"So, let's say Cecil forced, or by inveiglement, convinced these girls to pose nude for him. Maybe he forced or conned them into something even more repulsive." I raised my eyebrows. "What kind of leverage did he have to get these ladies into his den of iniquity?"

"Blackmail." Junior said, with a satisfied look on his young face.

"Blackmail, perhaps. Although I think the legal term here is coercion. We'll have to see," I said. "But give that man another Mello Yello."

Junior corrected me. "Mountain Dew."

"Mountain Dew—whatever. The point is, if this was a forcible or coercive act on Cecil's part, the door is open to all sorts of possibilities of a killing for cause—the women themselves, their husbands, family members or a concerned someone. Who might have learned what Cecil forced these ladies into doing? And who could be driven to commit murder because of that?"

The troops looked more enthused.

"I said this is a volunteer job. If anyone would rather not join me in this, speak now. I'll understand if you opt out, and there'll be no hard feelings."

No one raised a hand.

"May I assume you're all with me?"

I watched four heads nod.

"Good. This is what I have in mind for each of you. Bettye, do you know anyone at telephone company security?"

"No one in particular, but I'll do my best to meet someone."

"Okay, each time we come up with a new name, run their home, business and cell phones. Let's see if anyone has had contact with Cecil or any of the Lovejoy clan. And everybody gets the standard computer runs for all the usual information."

She nodded.

"Stanley, you help out with the telephone calls. Do it here, from the car when you're not busy or from home. As we need checks done, we'll pass them to you."

He nodded.

"Vern, you know everybody in the district. Look around and see if you can put names to faces. Do more looking than talking. But if you do ask questions, be sure the one you ask can keep their mouth shut when you leave."

He said, "I'll git'er done."

"And Junior, you're my assistant and the utility infielder. You'll be doing some roadwork. If I need something picked up, gotten from another agency, whatever, you'll be doing it. Bettye will be staying inside. If she needs something, you work for her."

"Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am, Miss Bettye."

"First job, kid," I said to Junior. "Do me a favor and schlep these photos back to the copy machine and make four sets of each."

"Do what?" he asked.

I sighed.

"Stanley, help me out here. Explain _schlep_."

"Don't look at me, boss. I'm from the land of fruits and nuts. We don't know from _schlep_ in California." He winked at me. I conceded. I speak an odd tongue.

"Junior, I can understand you don't speak Yiddish, but figure it out, son. Now, the rest of you, what do you know about Cecil Lovejoy? What's in his background that can help us out? Anything may be important."

Vern started off. "Few years ago, Cecil got hisse'f sued by half-a-dozen subcontractors who worked on some o' his houses. Seems Cecil agreed to a cost fer specified work, then when the workers finished, he paid half o' the agreed-on price. Said that's all the job was worth ta him."

"That was nice of him."

"Bunch o' the contractors made complaints ta us," Vern said. "We told 'em all that was a civil matter an' needed ta be taken ta court with lawyers and such."

"I remember when that happened," Bettye said. "My husband told me about it. You might want to talk to another contractor he knows...a man named Horace Colwell. Horace was an electrician back then, but he's since taken up as a general contractor. He was one of the most vocal complainants."

"I know Horace Colwell," I said. "He's done work for me. I wonder if Donnie thinks Colwell could hold a grudge this long."

"He doesn't know him too well. Just sees him on jobs now and again," she said. "But I'll sure ask."

"Good," I said to Bettye. "Look up a number for Colwell, and if you can, track him down. I'd like to get together with him sometime in the morning. A jobsite is fine with me. Early is best."

"Will do, boss," she said.

Junior, who finally figured out what one had to do when one schleps, brought our photocopies up front and collated them into four piles.

Stanley looked enthused.

Bettye shook her head, probably still worrying I'd get into serious trouble.

Vern continued to tell me that Walking Horse Realty, just across the town square, exclusively marketed Cecil's property. I was happy to hear that. I knew the owner.

Stanley drained his coffee cup, tossed it into a waste paper basket from ten feet and cleared his throat, much louder than necessary. His forehead wrinkled, and he seemed concerned.

"You have something you'd like to share with us, Officer Rose? Something for which your LAPD training gave you an insight?" I asked.

"Man, I hate to throw a monkey wrench at you, but you need to know about another person who might be one of Lovejoy's, uh...associates."

"Good God, man, out with it. This sounds serious." I let James Mason speak for me.

Junior giggled again. He'd be easy to get a laugh from.

"I don't know how serious it is, but it's more interesting now than when it happened."

"Stanley, if you don't tell me what you know, I'll wet my pants. Come on, you've got us all hanging here in suspense."

He shrugged. "Well, when I'm on the road and I've got nothing else to do, I try to write a few commercial vehicle violations. You know what I mean?"

"Sure, equipment violations on trucks."

"Right. So one day I came in here and handed Buck a whole package of tickets I wrote on one of the Lovejoy Construction Company trucks: bald tires, missing license plate, too much diesel smoke, you know. Buck hands the tickets back to me and says, 'Void them out.' I say, 'Why?' And he says, 'Lovejoy is a friend of mine and an important man in Prospect, a man who provides a lot of local jobs.'"

"Buck and Cecil were..." I almost said, asshole buddies, but in deference to Bettye, cleaned up my potty mouth. "...friends?"

"Uh-huh. Then he orders me not to bother any Lovejoy vehicles with my equipment bullshit any more. Interesting, huh?"

"Yes, it is," I said. "You know what the connection was? Any of you know? Just friendship, or...what?"

Junior shrugged.

Stan looked at me and raised his eyebrows in lieu of saying, "Three guesses and the first two don't count."

Bettye said, "Two men with big political connections."

Vern moved the toothpick he chewed around in his mouth, sniffed and voiced an opinion the others didn't. "I never did think ol' Buck was above puttin' his hand in some other man's pocket. Them 'quipment violations on a truck kin git perty expensive, 'specially when you rack up a half-dozen or so on one ve-hickle. Might be worth a businessman's while ta grease the skids ahead o' time, so ta speak."

"Okay," I said, "If Buck sticks his nose into our business over this, hand him right off to me. Don't help him, and don't argue with him. It's not your job."

We all looked at each other. My team all nodded. I wondered when the investigation would lead me to meet Buck Webbster again—in a different, less social setting than the Park Grill.
Chapter Seventeen

In 1784, Revolutionary War veteran Robert McTeer crossed the Appalachian Mountains to establish a home on the eight-hundred acres of wilderness he received in his grant from the new American Republic.

McTeer built a fort on the western side of the Smoky Mountains. Soon, more pioneers came from Virginia, North Carolina and Pennsylvania to collect their land grants as well. Those who settled near McTeer in current day Blount County founded the community of Prospect.

More than two-hundred years after McTeer cleared the land for his frontier station, I found myself facing my own challenges in and around Prospect.

I learned that Horace Colwell owned a new business with his brother-in-law, Bobby Gunn, building spec-houses on lots they purchased as investments. Currently working just inside adjoining Sevier County, in an area called Boyd's Creek, Horace and his crew started work early. I did, too.

At 7:30 Wednesday morning, I left the house and worked my way northeast toward Boyd's Creek where around the time Robert McTeer occupied Prospect, the folks there spent much of their time slugging it out with the Cherokee for control of their hunting grounds. Horace Colwell and his carpenters didn't have it as tough on the day we met.

As I told Bettye, I knew Horace since he wired our new home fourteen years earlier. In the intervening years, I hired him to do several other jobs for us. I trusted him, and we got along well.

Horace looked like an honest, hard-working man who I thought would prefer to kick Lovejoy's ass in court than to stab him while Cecil lay drunk in a beach chair. Horace always acted like a standup guy.

I pulled up to a ranch-style home under construction on Meadow View Road. A red Dodge Durango sat by the curb. Two men stood next to it, looking over a set of house plans. I walked over.

"What do you say, Hoss?" I said.

The big man turned when he heard my voice. He saw me and broke out a big smile.

"Sam Jenkins, you rogue. Whatcha doin', boy?"

Horace looked a little like country singer Buck Owens, with thinning sandy hair, a thick beard, ruddy complexion and a deep voice that would make Sam Elliot jealous.

"Came to see you, Hoss," I said. "I need to get a little information about a guy who gave you a hard time once. What can you tell me about Cecil Lovejoy? You remember him?"

"Cecil Lovejoy, that son-of-a-bitch. I read about him gettin' killed over the weekend. Glad to hear it, too. Makes me think there is some kind o' justice in this world after all."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Hey, I saw ya on the news," he said. "Since when'd you get to be a po-leece chief?"

I came to see Horace and get answers, not give them. I did the old cop thing and ignored his question.

"I heard you sued Cecil for not paying his obligations. You and a few others make a class action suit against him?"

Horace nodded. The guy I thought might be his brother-in-law stood there quietly.

"Tell me about that, and who was in it with you," I said.

"Shoot, I'll give ya all the names and addresses. Just let me get home and look in my paperwork. It's just a bunch of local contractors and me who was stupid enough to take Cecil at his word and do the work with no upfront money. We all went inta the deal with nuthin' more than a handshake."

"And what happened?"

"Come time to collect and Cecil tells us mostly the same thing. He'll pay about half of what we agreed on. Lots of hard feelin's over that, Sam. No one around here would work for him after the word got out, and rightly so. He had to hire himself a fulltime crew to build his houses. Paid lower wages and got less experience. The quality of his homes went way down. He still charged big money though. I hear plenty of his customers ended up unhappy, too."

"The number of Lovejoy fans gets bigger every day," I said. "Sounds like a guy everyone could hate."

"You got that right. But after bein' burned once, I learned. Then I got a few jobs to fix what Cecil's crew messed up. I guess things evened out. But that was what, four-and-a-half, five years ago? And, Mr. Sam Po-leece Chief Jenkins, I got me an alibi for all day Saturday. I was over to Cherokee winnin' a few dollars at them blackjack machines in the casino. Used my credit card to play, too."

"I'm glad to hear that. I didn't figure you for stabbing a man. Probably rather wring Cecil's scrawny neck, wouldn't you?"

"Probably rather blow his gat dag head off with a shotgun."

That would work.

"You think anyone who had the same problem as you had a more recent run-in with Cecil? Maybe the same thing all over again? Maybe some other dealings on a professional level that would make someone mad enough to kill the old boy?"

Horace shrugged and looked at his partner who did the same.

"How about a totally new person? You hear anything while you're on your jobs?"

"Don't know of anythin' new," he said. "Like I told ya, most of the independent contractors in the county keep clear of Cecil. But ya might look closer to home, Sam. They's some that say his wife, Miss Pearly, might like to kill him herse'f. Suppose the ol' boy's worth a perty penny in the grave."

"Pearl and Cecil didn't live in marital bliss?"

"Shoot, they's lotsa talk 'bout Cecil runnin' around the county and inta Knoxville like an ol' tomcat in heat. Might check on that. Could be some gal's husband's not too pleased with Cecil tryin' to put the moves on his wife. I cain't prove anythin' and don't even have a good ideal who it might be, but you might want to nose around a little in that direction."

"Okay, I'll do that. Hey, it was good to see you again. Thanks for the ideas, and please call my office and give the officer there the names of the people involved in that lawsuit. Okay? How about tomorrow morning? Can do?"

Horace smiled and nodded.

"Good man, Horace. Thanks again. I'll see ya."

Pleased that Colwell could account for his actions on Saturday, I'd still have Bettye check with Harrah's and verify his story.

The list of Cecil's fan club grew larger. I hoped someone jumped into my handcuffs and confessed before I had to track down all my suspects to verify their stories.

When you have a homicide that goes so far into a suspect pool, I've always found that waiting for the guilty person to feel a spark of conscience and confess may seem more possible because of the number of people involved, but it's mostly improbable.

It only happened to me once. Lucky enough to be sitting in the squad when a remorseful killer came in to unburden his soul, I never told my boss how I solved a dead case. All I said was, "Lieutenant, it was pure scientific criminal investigation." You've got to create a mystique when you can.

* * * *

The owner of Walking Horse Realty, Glenda Mae Waddell, lived across the road from us in Walland. One-hundred-percent Old South, Mae originated in "Vuh-gin-yuh." She came from one-hundred-percent old money, too.

I knew Mae was over fifty, but how far I couldn't tell and never asked. Currently between husbands, she is, according to my wife, drop dead gorgeous.

Mae's late father grew tobacco, owned sawmills and speculated in land all over the countryside between Richmond and Roanoke. When he died, he left his fortune to his only child. Mae was loaded.

She didn't have to work, but she chose to run a real estate brokerage in Prospect. Later that morning, I went to visit Mae and see what she knew about Cecil Lovejoy.

The sky showed a ceiling of gray, high-altitude clouds. The morning air felt almost cool, but the weatherman called for another day in the mid-eighties. So-called 'pop up' showers periodically drenched small areas of the county and then quickly disappeared. Those areas not getting the rain were left with humidity that hung in the air like wet laundry.

During my stroll across the town square, the air felt sticky, motionless and unpleasant. Looking around, I saw nothing of great consequence happening in the center of Prospect at 9:30.

I opened the storefront office door. A bell attached to the frame jingled. The air conditioner hit me with a blast of cold air and made me blink.

"Jesus," I said, "it feels like I just stepped into Alaska."

"Sammy. Good mornin'. How nice to see ya. You doin' okay? Like your new job? I always said you would make a fine police chief around here. Why I've told your wife..."

I didn't like too many people calling me Sammy, but for Mae, I made an exception.

"Hello, Maezy." I interrupted her, stopping a soliloquy that could go on for a long time.

"Land sakes, it's good to see you, Sam." She flashed a million-dollar smile.

She sat alone in her office. Three other desks were empty. Glenda Mae wore her blonde hair up in a French twist. Bangs covered half her forehead. Her makeup looked professionally done.

"Mae, can I talk to you about something that no one else can ever hear? Just you and me? No one else?"

"Why, honey, that sounds excitin'," she said with another irresistible smile.

I resisted.

"Important, maybe. Not all that exciting."

I explained the Lovejoy investigation, the FBI's part in it and how I wanted to show her some photos, perhaps finding a common thread with the subjects and Cecil Lovejoy.

"Why, Sammy, how can y'all say a murder isn't excitin'? My land."

Mae wore a sleeveless yellow blouse with the top three buttons open and stonewashed designer jeans that said chic like Rodeo Drive.

"Take a look at these." I handed her the four headshots of the adult women I wanted identified, holding back the older shots of the teenager. "Probably not the best pictures of our ladies, but they'll have to do. I think Cecil Lovejoy did the photography. His house is full of similar French furniture. And it doesn't look like these women were too thrilled to be involved with him. The other pictures I have show that Cecil photographed them, uh, en flagrante."

"On what?" Mae asked, looking at the headshots.

I elaborated. "En flagrante, au naturel, in the buff...nekkid."

"Well, my land, they surely don't look very happy, do they? Nekkid, you say? I always thought Cecil was a no-account swine."

"Swine? Okay. Any chance you know these ladies?"

"Honey, I know them all. Every single one. I sold them—well, them and their husbands, lots in Cecil's new subdivision, Yorkshire Dales, the one where his own house is."

See how easy life can be? You ask the right person the right question and you feel like an all-star.

"I suppose, my dear, your expensive computer can print out all their names and addresses?"

"You may assume that, suh."

"Can the wonders of cyberspace look into the minds of these women or their husbands and tell me who killed the old boy?"

"Names and addresses, sugar, yes. Solvin' murders, no. I bought a computer, not a crystal ball. You really think one of these girls may be involved in the killin'?"

"Beats me, Maezy. I don't know much of anything yet. I've got a small army of suspects, but no great ideas. I'm looking for help anywhere I can get it."

She picked up the envelope from her desk where I dropped it after showing her the headshots. I hadn't intended to give her the nude photos, but curiosity must have overwhelmed her. She looked at the pictures.

"Well, my land, they surely are nekkid, aren't they? I do suppose men would find these women attractive, don't you, Sammy? My-my, this one blonde is somethin', isn't she?"

I shrugged.

Mae slipped all the photos back into the envelope and tossed it in my direction. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and set her foot on it. The brown, alligator-hide cowgirl boot she rested on the open drawer didn't look like something she wore to muck out the stables.

She fluttered the neck of her blouse back and forth. "Is it warm in here, or is it just me?" she asked, fanning her face with her free hand.

"It's freezing in here. Have you considered hormone replacement?"

She batted the dark lashes over her big blue eyes several times. Her red lips opened for a few seconds before she spoke. "I've got more hormones than I know what to do with, thank ya very much. You're getting' awful personal with me, Sammy. Was that your intention?"

"Of course not, Ms. Waddell. I'm all business."

"You can be an evil man when you want, Sam Jenkins."

Again, she tossed me a big smile. I behaved myself—always the professional.

Mae said Cecil's lots were sold with a stipulation that within twelve months of closing, the buyers must begin construction of a home built by Lovejoy's company.

In Mae's opinion, Cecil specialized in very large and highly overpriced homes.

"However, sugar," she said, "Yorkshire Dales is _the_ prestige subdivision for miles around."

I guess that made a difference to some people.

"You think Cecil propositioned all the good-looking women who bought land from him?" I asked. "Why would these women willingly, or even under pressure, take their clothes off for the old coot? He wasn't exactly Cary Grant, was he?"

"Cary Grant? My Lord, no. He was no Sam Jenkins either, sugar."

"You flatter me, madam." I offered her a suave bow. I'd been relying on James Mason a lot lately.

"Sammy, I just love when you talk like that. Who was that? Errol Flynn?"

"Nobody special, Mae. Any idea why these girls posed for Cecil. I mean, he never asked you, did he?"

"No. And if he did, I'd o' killed that old bastard myself, Sammy. O' course, business is business, so I sold his land, but I never could abide that man. People where I come from might say he needed killin'. Whoops, that's not the thing to say to a policeman, is it?"

"Probably not. Let's get back to why."

"Ya know, let me check somethin' right quick." She took a few folders from her desk drawer.

Mae thumbed through several pages, looked in a second folder and closed it.

"This may be interestin' to you, darlin'. You know when a buyer goes to a bank for a loan or mortgage, the broker gets a copy of the report from the mortgage committee?"

"I didn't know that, but it makes sense."

"Well, seems like in each and every case, the buyers were found unqualified for the total amount o' the buildin' loan. Looks like all their savin's went for the land, and they didn't have the minimum ten-percent toward the cost of the house. Either that or their salaries weren't high enough for the bank to think they'd be able to satisfy the mortgage after the home was finished and occupied."

"Hmmm."

"A bank won't give a long-term loan or mortgage with only vacant land as collateral." She paused and looked so proud of herself.

Mae had piqued my interest.

"Okay, I'm listening. Tell me more," I said with enthusiasm.

"Well, when I got those bank notices, I thought I might lose the sales. So, I kept an eye on what happened. I didn't want them to complete the purchase later on, directly from Cecil, you understand, and me get skunked out o' my commission. I could see that cheatin' old booger, Cecil Lovejoy, trying to pull a fast one like that."

"Pretty smart, aren't you?"

"Thank ya, suh. Well, anyway, not too long after those people were denied a mortgage, I received notice sayin' they were getting' all the money they needed. Know why?"

"Not a clue."

"Well, sugar, Cecil himself co-signed all those loan applications. Now! How about that for coincidence?"

"You're sure all four couples faced similar circumstances?"

"Got all the paperwork right here." She tapped the folders on her desk.

"So Cecil could have approached the women and said he'd co-sign their mortgages only if they posed nude or whatever."

"Exactly. Each couple got their homes, and Lovejoy Land Developments, Incorporated was listed as guarantor and held the first right of foreclosure if the buyers defaulted. Now why do you suppose he'd do that for strangers?"

"That's not much different than a loan shark picking up 'laid-off' debts from a bookie."

"If you say so, darlin'."

"There's nothing illegal about Cecil co-signing a loan for someone."

"'Course not, sugar. Actually, it's to his advantage if he didn't mind takin' a little risk. He gets to sell the vacant land, and then he makes all kinds o' money buildin' the clients a home."

"Sure," I said. "For a little risk, he makes big profits."

_"Big profits_ , Sammy."

"And there is no reason the husbands of the four women would think anything wasn't kosher when Cecil made his offer to the wives."

"I don't know anything about _kosher_ , Sammy, but why would they? Cecil just looked like he was coverin' all his bases."

So, each of those four women represented couples who didn't qualify for bank money in the amounts they needed. Then behold, out of the blue, Cecil offered to co-sign their mortgages, guaranteeing payments to the bank. And all this seemed to be done for the low, low price of only a few mornings of shoddy pleasure for the old no-account himself.

What some people will do to live in a prestigious neighborhood.

Once again, the plot thickened.

"Are there other people who were rejected for the same reasons?" I asked.

"There are."

"See if you can find any good-looking women among them. But women who didn't get their loans co-signed."

"I'll look for ya."

"Great. When you're finished printing all this, give me a call, and I'll pick it up."

"Well, lucky me. I get a visit twice in one day."

To emphasize a final, but important point, I frowned to look deadly serious. "One last thing, Maezy."

She tilted her head.

"Please don't mention those photos to anyone. I don't want to ruin the lives of a few women who suffered from a lapse in good judgment."

"Sammy, darlin', my lips are sealed." She made the appropriate gesture with her two fingers.

"Okay, great detective work on your part, young lady. Thanks a lot. How about I buy you a lunch for all your help?" I got up and began to leave.

"You gonna take me out alone, or are you bringin' a chaperone?"

"Probably the latter. Wives must eat, too, you know," I said, standing by the door.

"Oh, it was my pleasure. Now get outta here, and don't come back until I finish this work for ya."

She feigned a serious look. I didn't believe a bit of it. I thought she liked me.

I yanked open the office door—probably stuck by some kind of atmospheric pressure created by the extreme differences in temperature.

Outside, the warm damp air made me think I just stepped from Skagway into a small village in Laos.

A conversation with Mae Waddell is always an ego booster. I headed for the office feeling pretty good. When I arrived there, I should have walked out.
Chapter Eighteen

I used the Municipal Building's front entrance, walked through the marble walls of the main lobby and into Bettye's area. Before I could say hello, she put a finger to her lips and motioned me back outside.

She stepped close enough for me to smell a hint of perfume.

"Buck Webbster and his brother Claude are waitin' in your office," she whispered in my ear.

"Did either one say what they wanted?"

I must have spoken too loud because she put a finger to her lips again. Women always do that.

"I'm only a woman. Why would they tell me?"

I got the idea Bettye placed Buck Webbster on a par with Heinrich Himmler, another ex-cop of dubious reputation. She didn't seem overly fond of Claude either.

"Hey, forget them. Give me a couple more weeks and I'll be whistling the theme to Wonder Woman when I see you."

"I guess they taught you how to flatter a girl up in New York, didn't they, city boy?"

She had used a little green eye shadow that morning. It went great with her hazel eyes.

"Yes, ma'am. I paid attention in that class."

She looked pleased that I came to rescue her from the evil Webbster brothers. I felt obligated to go and slay a couple of dragons.

I walked quietly into my office. Buck and his brother sat with their backs to me. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds and surprised my visitors by loudly saying, "Gentlemen."

Claude's shoulders raised an inch. Buck sat still like a fat manikin wearing a luau shirt and Bermuda shorts. His black socks and police shoes weren't exactly the correct choice for summer footgear.

Finally, both turned to look at me and then scrambled to stand up. Buck spoke first. "Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya ag'in. Want ya ta meet m' brother, Claude. Claude, this here's Sam Jenkins."

As Buck spoke, I walked around my desk. Claude extended a hand, but I stepped too far away to shake it. Instead, I frowned and ignored him. He withdrew his hand and wiped it on the leg of his pants.

"Buck, Claude," I said without inflection, nodded once to each of them and pointed to the chairs they'd been using. They sat.

I wanted to make them uncomfortable, so I said nothing, but instead looked from one to the other, waiting.

After a pregnant moment, Buck took the bull by the horns. "Sam, I done brought my brother here ta meet ya—Claude, he's a county commissioner, ya know—cause we thought there's somethin' ya need ta unnerstand."

I still said nothing, partially because I know silence makes guilty people uncomfortable, and so I'd have a moment to consider Claude.

He looked like a younger version of Buck, a bit overweight, but nowhere close to Buck's girth. Claude's hair was still mostly dark. He stood about the same height as his brother and inherited what I guessed to be the Webbster family overbite.

He wore khaki work pants and an orange polo shirt with 'Tennessee General Supply—Since 1934' embroidered directly into the cotton.

Just what we need...more legislators who spend most of their time in a plumbing supply house.

I decided to break the silence. "And what's that...Buck?" My question came with a little attitude attached.

"Well, Sam, hit's actually somethin' we're sayin' on behalf of another party, a friend, so ta speak."

"Before you waste your breath," I said, "if it's about the Cecil Lovejoy murder, I really don't want to hear it."

"Chief," Claude said, "we's afraid ya might say that, an' we jest wanted y'all ta know that this ain't nuthin' personal."

Not only did the Webbster brothers share a common overbite, but they had the same voice.

Claude continued. "Miss Pearl Lovejoy, we know y'all met her, jest feels more comfortable handin' this ball over ta the TBI folks. Nuthin' ag'inst yer abilities, o' course."

"You know, fellas," I said, "ever since the mayor ordered me to give this investigation to the TBI, which I've done, questions keep popping into my head."

I paused to take a breath. During the silence, they shot glances back and forth to each other, each of them blinking a mile a minute. Buck's cheek bulged with chewing tobacco. He held a Styrofoam 'spit-cup' in his right hand.

"Why would anyone worry if I found the killer first?" I asked. "Does the TBI need an arrest that badly? Why would anyone care if any old cop-on-the-street stumbled over this killer and locked him up? If a relative of yours got murdered, wouldn't you want the killer caught as quickly as possible?"

"Now, Sam," Buck said, "we mean ya no harm here. Yer new in these parts, an' ya gotta know, people like Pearl Lovejoy likes getting' their own ways. We're tellin' ya all this fer yer own good."

"Sure you are, Buck. Now, tell me this. Does Pearl Lovejoy lack confidence in my abilities to catch a murderer, or does she think I might get lucky? You sure Miss Pearl didn't kill the old man herself? Sure she's not trying to buy herself some insurance here?"

I never expected an honest answer.

"Now, Sam," Buck said again. "I believe yer outta line there. Pearl Lovejoy comes from a fine family...good Christians."

Claude took over. "Chief, yer a good Christian man yerse'f, ain't ya?"

"I'm a Druid actually."

"Do what?"

Claude must have heard a new word.

"Nothing. What's religion got to do with this?"

"Well, hit's kindly like when the preachers tell ya, ya got ta have faith. Ya know, Sam, we'uns ain't privy ta God's master plan, an' sometimes when we don' unnerstand somethin' an' we git confused—then we jest need ta have faith. You jest need ta have faith fer rot now. You'll see. This'll all work out fer the best. Jest let things be, an' people will appreciate what ya done. You'll make out in the long run. Believe us when we tell ya that."

I found myself giving an almost silent snort. "Claude, the only thing I have faith in at the moment is myself."

Then Buck took up his part of the double-teaming again. "Sam, jest let it be. No one will git hurt. Mebbe they's somethin' we'uns or the Lovejoys kin do fer ya...ta make this a mite more easy fer ya ta agree ta, that is."

"You know, Buck," I said, "the other day when we met I found you offensive—in the things you've done and for the things you say. Today you two come in here and come damn close to asking me to commit malfeasance and accept a bribe. That's not just offensive, it's fetid."

The Webbster boys looked confused by my use of adjectives.

"It stinks."

The light bulbs went on.

"Now hold on, Sam," Buck said. "You cain't—"

"Stop." I held up a hand. "Yes, I can. You've had your say, and now it's my turn. If you two have to report back to Pearl Lovejoy, go tell her I gave this case to the TBI—as ordered. If she asks you what I'll do next—it's none of her business or yours."

Claude shook his head. Buck dribbled tobacco juice into his cup.

"This next part _is_ your business, so listen carefully." I stopped for effect, gave them my evil eye for a few seconds and then continued. "If you ever come to me again and cross over the line by suggesting I violate the law or commit a dereliction of duty, I will personally lock your asses up. And I won't bother to prosecute you in a local court where you may have some influence. I plan on calling my new friends at the FBI and have them charge you with political corruption so you find yourselves in a Federal prison—a place where the good ol' boy network can't help you."

Claude looked about to speak, but I gave him the hand, too. "No, we're finished. Have a nice day, fellas."

I stood up. They looked at each other, stood and then turned to go.

As they left, Buck passed Bettye without a word. But just as he cleared our lobby doors, he turned and said, "Yer makin' a big mistake here, mister. Y'all better believe that."

As soon as they were out of range, I looked at Bettye and said, "Gee, I guess that went well."

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" she asked.

"Who knows what an angry man means...or what he may do?"

* * * *

At 5:30 that evening, I found myself sitting in the gallery of the Prospect Magistrate's Court. I wasn't a defendant. I was an honored guest. They hold City Council meetings in the courtroom.

I sat in one of the fold-down audience seats the gawkers of our jurisprudence system utilize daily. A dozen other citizens sat nearby, waiting for the Council meeting to kick off.

I felt impatient and uncomfortable. I hadn't worn a jacket and tie so often in the last fourteen years.

For fifteen minutes, several men and a couple women wandered in. Some took seats in the jury box, and others stood around talking. Then Trudy Connor walked in carrying a steno pad and took a chair at the prosecutor's table.

An omen?

At 5:40, Ronnie Shields bustled in like a comic making his appearance in the lounge of a cruise ship. He smiled and waved and pointed at several of the people in the audience and then stopped next to me and slapped my shoulder.

"Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya ag'in." He stuck out a hand for me to shake. "This won't take too long. The Council members jest want ta git ta meet ya."

He acted friendly enough. Our last meeting didn't hold that much jocularity. I remember thinking politicians and lawyers are all the same. They try to scratch your eyes out at noon, and then at five o'clock they invite you for martinis.

I grinned like the village idiot and sat down as he hustled up to the judge's seat—behind a raised paneled dais, in front of tongue-in-groove walnut paneling, in a room where Clarence Darrow would feel right at home.

Ronnie tapped a gavel on the desktop to get everyone's attention.

"If y'all would take ya seats," he said. "Before we git inta reg'lar bidness, I'd like ta introduce Sam Jenkins, our new po-leece chief. I hope y'all don't mind if I stray from the usual protocol."

No one objected, even Ms. Connor. I got a round of applause, but no one shouted, "Huzzah!"

Seven people made up the Council, five men and two women; no one under fifty. Everyone sat in the jury box staring intently at me. I thought I knew how Sydney Carton felt.

"Sam," Ronnie said, "Why don'tcha come an' sit next ta me up here?"

He pointed to the witness stand.

Great, just what I wanted to do—testify.

I took the witness chair, smiled and nodded at the Council members.

The mayor and a few other people said things I can't remember. Then an over-sixtyish woman stood up. She looked like Andy Taylor's Aunt Bea.

"Mr. Jenkins," she said, "I've been readin' your resume' here. It sounds like your former police department on Long Island was quite large. Is that so?"

"Yes, ma'am. Three thousand sworn personnel and almost five hundred civilians."

"Well, Lord have mercy. I don't believe even the Tennessee state po-leece is that large."

She should have counted the legs and divided by two.

"Actually," I said, "the Tennessee Highway Patrol has less than a thousand sworn troopers."

She smiled, looking somewhat grateful for my wealth of information. "You say you were a detective in a general service squad," she said. "Now jest what is a general service squad?"

I answered her while a gray-haired man with a really bad toupee' sat to her left picking at a hangnail.

"And you were a sergeant in the organized crime section. You mean like the Mafia?"

"Yes, ma'am. _They_ were the Mafia. _We_ were the police."

I got a few laughs. The old girl smiled. Then she continued. The guy with the rug kept up the attack on his cuticle.

"And then you were a detective lieutenant, a section commander. Please tell us what that means."

I did that, too. My story seemed to fascinate her and the others. Even Mr. Hangnail paid attention.

"You retired when you were only forty-six. That's very young. Why did you retire so young?"

Okay, I thought, the old girl is feeling the courtroom in her veins, and she wants to cross-examine me.

"I was eligible for regular service retirement then. I had achieved what I wanted in twenty years and I thought it was my time to go. Financially, I could do that."

So there, nosey.

"And why did you wait fourteen years to look for employment?"

"When I learned about an appropriate job opening so close to home, I thought getting back into law enforcement could be a good opportunity for me. I thought offering my experience to everyone would be a good way to repay the community."

As long as the community paid my inflated salary.

Aunt Bea looked satisfied with my answers. I wouldn't have been, but then I'm suspicious by nature.

I sat through more chatter, answered a few more questions and watched Ms. Connor record my answers for posterity.

At ten-to-seven, my portion of the festivities ended. I made the rounds shaking hands, got a few slaps on the back by the amateur legislators and left the Municipal building. By 7:10, I arrived back at home.

Kate waited patiently for me—she and Alex Trebek, who babbled incessantly on the TV screen. I thought I heard one of the contestants say, "What is the air speed velocity of a swallow, Alex?" But I was probably mistaken.

"Hello, sweetie." She stood to kiss me hello.

Bitsey woke up, jumped off the love seat, barked and discovered it was only her father returned from the wars. So, she flopped down on the Berber carpet to get her tummy rubbed.

Five minutes later, Kate, looking lovely in a red blouse and snug blue jeans, handed me a large gin and tonic.

We spent a few minutes discussing my part of the Council meeting, and then as she disappeared into the pantry, I asked, "Hey, Kats, what's for dinner? I didn't eat much of a lunch." I lowered my voice. "When will you feed me, woman?"

After my question, the lovely Katherine began an act for my benefit.

"Woman not know what time you get home. Anyway, who want to cook tonight? Not me."

For a Polish-American girl from Long Island, she did a great job speaking like a Vietnamese bargirl.

"Hey, GI you take me to Cholon? Buy me dinner? You buy me dinner—with soup, GI—and maybe later I give you boom-boom."

She smiled and fluttered the lashes over her dark brown eyes, making it impossible for me to refuse.

Kate referred to a local restaurant called The Cholon Garden. For those unfamiliar with the road map of Southeast Asia, Cholon was the Chinese section of Saigon in the old Republic of South Vietnam.

The proprietors were ethnic Chinese from Vietnam. They made the best Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai food I'd eaten since leaving New York.

Any chance of a meal at The Cholon Garden and the possibility of boom-boom later on is something no ex-soldier should miss. Especially when some very complicated business would take up much of my time in the days to come. I began thinking about all that uncompensated overtime again.
Chapter Nineteen

On Thursday morning, I spent time sending out inquiries on Cecil Lovejoy. I wanted his background information before speaking with our subjects and suspects. A primary rule of interviewing is, know the answers before you ask the questions. Knowing Cecil's prior history with people would help me to spot lies or evasions.

Then I sat in my office, trying to conjecture how Cecil made his moves on these women.

Obviously, Lovejoy would approach the likely candidates when they were alone. This solitary female, the one who wanted an unaffordable house and might keep a secret, seemed the best way for him to start.

Slithering up on his prey, old silver-tongued Cecil would test the value of his Southern charm. I could almost hear him making his pitch.

"I know how much y'all want ta have one o' my houses, and I'm just as sorry as I can be ta learn that y'all couldn't qualify for a mortgage or a buildin' loan."

The woman might think Cecil only wanted to be kind. Then he'd continue, and she'd soon know better.

"But ya see, there is a way for you, and that lucky husband o' yours, ta get that lovely home, and that's what I'd like us ta talk about."

I envisioned smiles and nods from the enthused mouse as the wily snake circled.

"There are special cases, ya know," he'd say, "where I might see my way clear ta intercede on a client's behalf and co-sign a mortgage with the bank...for someone who needed that very special favor, so ta speak."

Cecil's mark might see a ray of hope. Her dream home might still be obtainable.

"However, if I were ta go outta my way and put so much o' my hard-earned, workin' capital at risk, I'd surely like ta get an equally special favor in return. You unnerstand?"

She probably didn't. Cecil would smile like a monitor lizard and go deeper into his act.

"It's really very simple and would cost ya absolutely nothin'."

He'd pause and offer another fatherly smile, letting the idea of no cost sink in.

"Ya see, I'm a great admirer of lovely ladies, and I think you are a _very_ beautiful woman. So, for me ta co-sign your loan and make it possible for y'all to own that dream house of yours, I'd like ya ta allow me ta photograph ya in some very tasteful, but very erotic poses."

If Cecil got thrown out on his ear, he lost nothing. If she complained to someone, it was her word against Lovejoy's, and he could make up some story about her grossly misunderstanding his intentions.

If she looked interested, he'd promise her husband would never learn of their little secret. If the woman wanted the house more than her modesty, Cecil scored. We know of at least four women who we thought couldn't live without the house of her dreams.

Anyway, all that sounded plausible to me. And we'd meet those four women when our road work began the next day.

* * * *

Earlier that morning I dropped the lists from Glenda Mae on Bettye's desk. "Tomorrow morning you and I can start playing detective," I said.

Bettye looked surprised. "I'm a detective now?"

"A temporary detective."

"You surely are full of surprises, Sam Jenkins. Lord have mercy, my Donnie will be im-pressed." She added a bit more country to her accent.

"I made an outline of the questions we can ask these women. Here's a copy. If you think of anything else you want to know, write it down."

She put on her glasses and gave a quick look.

"The last three names on the list are women who were not photographed," I said, "but had their mortgage applications rejected. When you and I finish with the ladies in the pictures, you can interview the others. See if Cecil propositioned them, too."

"Okey, dokey."

"Run everyone through the computer. Look for husbands, too. See if you can get a complete pedigree on everyone."

She nodded.

"Call our three guys and give them the names that go with the faces. No need for them to keep looking until we know more."

Another nod.

"Who works the desk when you're off?"

"Joey Gillespie."

"Okay, see if you can juggle the schedule and arrange for Joey to work inside—next two days at least." She nodded again, but hadn't made any notes. "Got all that?"

"Sure do."

"Wonder Woman, huh?"

"I try my best."

By the end of the day, Bettye had finished making files on each of our photogenic women. She learned two were regularly employed, and two were not. A few more questions of Glenda Mae and some cross-referencing on the computer told her a lot about the husbands, too. Three of the men were still around, and one had since hit the dusty trail.

On Friday morning, we'd continue meeting the murder suspects. I wondered what the TBI investigators were up to. We hadn't seen them around Prospect.
Chapter Twenty

The next morning at eight, Officer Joey Gillespie opened the office and began his stint as the pinch-hitting desk officer.

Young Joey used mousse or Brylcreem or something shiny in his curly red hair. In New York, I would have said that freckle-faced kid looked like the latest in a family of Irish cops. But Tennessee didn't seem to have many of those police dynasties, so familiar in the land of the Big Apple.

I know from experience that it's more efficient for detectives to work a nine-to-five day tour. So Bettye took an extra hour getting her plainclothes outfit together.

I stood in the doorway to my office, leaning on the jamb at ten minutes to nine when Bettye walked in through the back door.

Officer Lambert wore a nicely tailored pair of black slacks, a snug teal blue knitted top and a lightweight, unbleached linen jacket. She still wore her hair in a ponytail, but fixed the sides in an upswept style, something I like, but can't put a name to. She wore a little more makeup than usual, but still not much.

Even with the sensible shoes, I thought she looked terrific.

She smiled as she walked by. "Mornin', Sam."

"Howdy, miss. Which one are you, Cagney or Lacey?"

No response.

"Mornin', Joey. Everythin' goin' okay?" she asked.

Joey nodded to Bettye, pressed the transmit bar on the desk microphone and told one of the radio cars to handle a first aid case at a trailer park.

"Boss, I hope it's okay with you," she said, "but I couldn't wear my big issue gun with these clothes. I've got this one."

She pushed her jacket back to show me a small Smith & Wesson .38 in a hip holster rather than her Glock .40 caliber automatic.

"Sure it is. You can leave all the gun fighting to me. That's why I get the big bucks."

"A gun fight in Prospect?" She sounded surprised. "We've never had one of those."

"We haven't had murders before, either."

* * * *

We scheduled our first stop with one of the working girls. At forty-six, Eva Pressley ranked as the oldest woman we'd interview.

Eva worked in the showroom at Prospect Plumbing and Lighting Supply, one of the largest stores in the city.

We entered the showroom looking like a happy couple wanting to remodel our suburban home. A young woman approached us.

"Hi, can I he'p y'all today?" she asked.

"Hello," I said, "we've already spoken to Eva on the phone. We'd like to see her."

"Sure, she's rot over here. I'll git her fer yew." The last word sounded like ye'oo.

I steered my partner to a small room where they displayed hanging light fixtures. That out-of-the-way place would afford us a little privacy when we met Mrs. Pressley.

In less than two minutes, a shapely and attractive woman greeted us.

"Hi, I'm Eva. You folks doin' aw right today?"

Eva oozed a pleasant and bubbly personality.

Without showing my badge, I said, "Mrs. Pressley, my name is Sam Jenkins, and this is Bettye Lambert. We're from the Prospect Police Department. We'd like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy."

Her expression changed from a bright smile to a dark frown.

"We'd be happy to show you our identification if you would prefer to go somewhere more private," I said.

"Yes, I guess that would be best. We have a little conference room back here." She pointed to the rear of the showroom. "I'll get a few catalogs if you don't mind, and we'll look like y'all are shoppin' with us."

Eva seemed deeply troubled. Her suntanned face blanched a little.

"Sure," I said, "that will be fine."

She stopped to pick up a large loose-leaf binder, and we followed Eva Pressley to an eight-by-ten room with a long table and several chairs.

Our plan called for Bettye to start the questioning, and if any of our subjects seemed reluctant to speak in front of a male-chauvinist-pig like me, I'd excuse myself and leave. Eva Pressley didn't object to my presence.

"Yes, I know Mr. Lovejoy," she first said. "My husband and I spoke to him about buying land and having a house built in Yorkshire Dales. That was some time ago. I'm afraid I haven't seen him since that first meetin'. After that we dealt with his lawyer and buildin' contractors."

Bettye took the G-rated headshot from our case folder and posed a diplomatic question.

"Perhaps, Mrs. Pressley, this picture will refresh your memory? There are also other photos of you that Cecil Lovejoy had on his computer. Think back carefully. There were other times when you had occasion to see him, weren't there?"

Her eyes popped open like frightened clams. "Oh, Lord have mercy, yes." She shook her head slowly. "I do believe a decision I made back then was not a very good one, was it?"

We never showed her the more explicit photo. It wasn't necessary. I felt sorry for Eva Pressley, as I'm sure Bettye did.

"Maybe not, but you can always start over again," Bettye said.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," she said. "I posed for those pictures. I suppose you want to know the reason. He said it would be so simple. All I had to do was pose for him, and he would make gettin' our house easy. He'd just co-sign our mortgage. It didn't seem so bad at the time. I guess I was greedy and wanted that house more than anythin'."

"Did Lovejoy make any other demands before he co-signed your loan?" Bettye asked.

"No, he never forced me to have sex with him if that's what ya mean. He just took pictures of me—twice."

Perhaps she was too old, and Cecil felt a great spark of pedophilia that week.

I took a turn and asked, "Did your husband ever find out what Cecil asked you to do?"

"Good Lord, no. My husband doesn't know—at least I don't think so. No, I'm certain he doesn't. If Roy found out, I'd hear about it. He can be just a bit jealous."

Eva told us, after twice in front of Cecil's camera, she seemed to be off the hook.

We learned Roy Pressley, an automobile salesman in Knoxville, who worked mostly on commission, didn't have enough guaranteed income to qualify for the mortgage necessary to build the Lovejoy 'dream house' Eva wanted so badly. But because of several good years in the auto industry and her steady salary, they found no problem keeping up their payments once they took possession of the house.

Bettye asked another question. "You understand, Eva, that we're investigating Cecil's murder. I have to be honest and tell you that what happened makes you and your husband, oh, what do they call it nowadays?" She looked over at me.

"Persons of interest," I said.

"If you were a suspect," Bettye said, "we'd take you to the police department and ask for a written statement. We're not there yet. We don't intend to make what happened public information unless we absolutely have to."

Eva nodded and looked a little relieved.

"But if more investigation leads us back to you, I'm sure you understand where this could go."

Eva nodded again, that time looking a little less comfortable.

"Now, is there anything you want to say that we should hear?"

Eva looked down at the desk, ran a hand through her honey-colored hair, looked up and forced a smile. An overhead fixture enhanced blonde highlights streaked among the dark honey.

"You know," she said, "at first, after I thought about what I'd done, I was mortified. I spent months agonizin' over what I did. It all seemed too easy. I was waitin' for some ax to fall. I hated every minute of every day. But then, as time went by, and nothin' happened, it sort of became a dead issue. I never heard from the man again. Roy never found out—I'm sure of that.

"Then I started to think what I did wasn't so bad after all. I guess I was ashamed of myself, posing nude for that awful man an' all, but when I saw the pictures he took... I wasn't ashamed of them."

Her statement sounded a little defiant. I certainly took no offense, and it seemed neither did Bettye. Eva Pressley looked satisfied that we voiced no moral judgment.

"I can assure you," she said, "that I had nothin' to do with killin' Cecil Lovejoy. My husband wouldn't be happy to learn about what I did, but our marriage is good enough for us to stand up to somethin' like that. Roy may mouth off at times about what he'd do to this one or that one, for whatever reason, but really, he's a gentle man. He would never hurt anyone or anything. Honest."

If Eva worked through the mental problems her actions brought upon her, then good for her. I hoped for her sake, ol' Roy remained ignorant of those facts.

Before leaving, I asked the inevitable question, "Can you tell us where you were between 4:30 and 5:30 on the Saturday of the car show?"

We heard that Eva and her sister-in-law Wanda spent the day shopping in Knoxville. She kept plenty of credit card receipts to prove the wheres and whens. At about five o'clock, the sisters ate dinner at Charlie Pepper's near West Town Mall. She saved the receipt from Charlie, too. I thought the women made a good choice of restaurants.

Roy Pressley presented a bit of an alibi problem. Roy and his brother, David, a recently retired Marine Corps NCO, set up at the British car show exhibiting Roy's bright red, 1961 TR-3A.

Neither of the Pressley brothers attended the club dinner or the awards ceremony. Supposedly, the men returned to the Pressley home, garaged and covered the Triumph, grilled a couple of burgers and drank a few beers. Then they waited for Eva and Wanda to return.

It seemed doubtful anyone else could verify their story.

I thought about the flimsy alibi and how Marines were trained to use their K-Bar fighting knives.

* * * *

The second of our working girls, Teena Rogers, had the week off from work. With her husband, Gary, she'd be at their home in the Yorkshire Dales subdivision.

We drove through the upscale neighborhood on streets called Pickering, Lastingham, Rawcliffe and Appleton. Cecil must have spread out a British Ordnance Survey roadmap of Northeast Yorkshire when he named the roads in his subdivision.

We turned right onto Rosedale Lane and found number 349, a large brick, two-story house with a three-car garage set at a right angle to the main structure.

The grounds looked professionally landscaped; rows of tall Leyland Cypress trees created a privacy barrier, separating the adjoining properties. I parked in front of the garage and switched off the ignition.

"Sam, look at that sign," Bettye said.

Fastened to the brickwork between the overhead doors hung a professionally made sign advising us to, 'Honk your horn. We're probably in the pool.'

Two black silhouettes of a well-built male and female flanked the wording. I looked at Bettye, shrugged and laid a heavy hand on the horn. We walked to the front door and waited.

The solid oak door opened, and a woman wrapped in a white silk kimono met us. It seemed obvious the kimono was all she had on.

According to the department of motor vehicles, Teena Rogers was thirty-five-years-old and five-feet-eight-inches tall. She looked tanned and in good shape.

I can't deny most guys would categorize her as attractive, but her Botox-enhanced lips, tangerine-colored hair and striking green eyes made her too flashy for my taste. _Brassy_ may have been a good word to describe her.

Back in New York, the guys I worked with would have taken one look at Teena and said, 'That's stuff.'

"Teena Rogers?" I asked.

"Yes, that's me. Hi." She looked us over and smiled. Teena didn't sound like a local girl.

"I'm Sam Jenkins, and this is Bettye Lambert from Prospect Police. We'd like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Come on in, and I'll get my husband."

Before she got too far, I made a suggestion. "Mrs. Rogers. You may want to speak with us alone about this."

"No, come on in. I don't mind. Hang on while I get Gary."

Bettye and I looked at each other. I shrugged again. We stepped into a big slate foyer. I closed the front door to keep in the cool air.

A few minutes later, Teena returned with a tall, tanned and slim guy with dark wet hair. He wore a white terrycloth robe tied at the waist, but open enough to show lots of hairless chest. My guess—Gary wasn't wearing any more than Teena beneath his robe.

We shook hands and followed them into the living room. Teena and Gary sat on a sofa. Bettye and I sat in upholstered chairs across from them. The contemporary furniture in the room looked expensive. Outside a pair of French doors, I saw the surface of their pool shimmer in the sunlight.

I hoped, for Bettye's sake, neither one decided to cross their legs. I started off with the direct approach.

"We'd like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy. You bought your land from him, and he built your house."

"Yes," Teena said, "We heard about the murder. We were never friendly with him, but I suppose you've found the pictures."

"Pictures?" I asked.

"Sure, Cecil asked me to pose nude for him. I assume you found the pictures among his things."

I looked at Gary. "You knew about this?"

"Oh, sure, Teena told me right after he approached her." Gary didn't speak with a Tennessee accent either.

"You agreed with Mrs. Rogers' decision to model for Cecil Lovejoy?" I tried to say that without inflection.

"Of course. We're nudists. Teena has a great body. She has no reason to hide it. If seeing her nude was a big kick for Cecil, so be it. Why not give the old man a thrill?"

"Uh huh," I said. Bettye chose to remain silent.

"Mrs. Rogers, did Lovejoy ask you to do any more than pose for the photos?"

"Oh, yeah, he wanted sex, too. I took my clothes off, and he got turned-on right away. That turned me off. I was happy to pose for him, but he acted like a real pig and wanted to start touching before we even got to know each other. That first time I had to give him a hand job just to calm him down."

That's the first time I wondered if honesty really was the best policy.

"You said first time. There were others?"

"Yes, photos twice. The third time just for sex."

"Mr. Rogers, this was all okay with you?" I tried not to sound amazed while Bettye still sat quietly.

"Officers, uh...detectives, you need to know that Teena and I have what some folks would call an alternative lifestyle," he said—like that would explain everything.

I knew exactly what he meant, but like the famous Lieutenant Columbo, I decided to play dumb. "Sir?"

"We refer to ourselves as swingers. We have an open marriage...We have sex with other people...We swap partners."

I nodded, like that was something I heard every day. "So, when Cecil Lovejoy wanted to photograph Teena nude and then have sex with her for him to co-sign your mortgage contract, neither of you objected to his request?"

"No, we didn't," he said. "Teena didn't care for him at all, but she's balled guys before that she didn't end up liking. It was an easy way to get this house approved. We had the money, but we also had a little problem with our credit rating. Teena used to have a spending problem—too many cards maxed out. Nothing major. That's all taken care of now.

"Hey listen," he continued. "I had no problem with her fucking the old guy. He asked her to dress up like a little school girl. I thought that was cool, and I got him to agree to let me watch. Cecil was an asshole, but Teena looked great. I hope you understand."

"Yeah, sure. So, uh...there we are," I said.

Oh, Jenkins, great line, you smooth, worldly devil.

"Mind if we ask where you two were between 4:30 and 5:30 on Saturday?"

"No problem. We met a couple from West Knoxville. We all had a light dinner and some drinks out, and then we went back to their place and screwed all night long. They were great fun."

"Think they'd mind confirming that?" I asked.

"Course not," they said, almost in unison.

We thanked Teena and Gary Rogers for their time and honesty. I can't speak for Bettye, but I'm glad they didn't invite us in for a swim. I couldn't look at Bettye while we walked out.

Back in the car, I turned on the ignition and fired up the engine. I watched the front door close, and I broke out laughing.

"Sam Jenkins!" Bettye slapped my arm. "Why are you laughin'?"

"It takes all kinds, Mrs. Lambert—it surely does. Did you enjoy our trip into the Twilight Zone?"

"Lord have mercy! Have you ever met people like that before?" she asked as I pulled out of the driveway.

"Actually, I have, a long time ago. I was still a patrolman then. I got an invitation to a pool party by, uh...someone similar."

"Really? You didn't go, did you?"

"No, ma'am. That's not my style."

"Good," she said. "How did you meet this person?"

"My partner and I got a barking dog call one afternoon. When we got to the house, everything was quiet. He stayed in the car to catch up on his memo book entries, and I went to the door. A good-looking woman answered. I took her name for the report, told her to call again if the dog got noisy. When I started to leave, she asked if I'd like to come to a pool party. We were on four-to-twelves, so I gave an excuse of only getting off at midnight. Not to be put off, she said the party would be going on long after that. Then I said I didn't have a swimsuit handy. She told me if I came after midnight with a suit on, I'd be the only person there with one."

"So you left, I hope," Bettye said. "Did you tell your partner?"

"Yeah, I left, and of course I told my partner."

"And?" She made the word sound like it had a dozen letters.

"Paul was a different kind of guy. He went back at midnight, invited himself in and the next day told me I missed a great party."

"Was he married?" She sounded shocked.

"No, but his wife was."

"Well, I never."

"Yep, me neither. I was always a good boy—for a cop."

So, our second possibility netted us no new suspects. I believed their story, but I'd check on their alibi personally. Bettye wouldn't react well to a second pair of swingers so early in her investigative career.

I didn't stray too far from Yorkshire Dales to find us a quick but second-rate lunch. We covered necessary ground that morning, but didn't learn much. For the afternoon, we had two women to go. Maybe we'd have more success, and I'd satisfy my claim of wrapping up the investigation quickly. Or maybe not, and we'd end up interviewing more suspects than two investigators should handle. I wondered what I'd feel like if I walked into the Sheriff's office with my tail between my legs and asked for help. I couldn't remember any surefire advice on how to handle world-class embarrassment.
Chapter Twenty-One

Bettye and I were covering necessary territory, but our progress didn't rate very highly. I called Stanley and learned the telephone work he and Junior did that morning also didn't amount to much. Then we tried lady number three, Patsy Craig—the currently single woman who lived in a more modest section of Yorkshire Dales. Patsy owned a one-story, brick rancher.

At thirty-four, Ms. Craig qualified as another very attractive woman; a petite, well-dressed, brunette, who presented a nice package.

She answered the door with her twelve-year-old son who she sent outside while we talked.

The furnishings we saw looked relatively new. The place even smelled clean, but it lacked any hominess or warmth or evidence of personal taste and style. I thought Patsy might have purchased everything from Rooms-to-Go all on one day—the quick, modern and impersonal way of furnishing a home.

Patsy told us that her ex-husband, Edsel (no kidding, just like the old car), took up with a girl in her early-twenties and fell hopelessly in love. When she hired a private detective to watch Edsel and his girlfriend, it took only one weekend to collect enough photographs to sink him in family court and net her the home, generous alimony payments and, of course, child support.

Edsel now worked hard at being a successful insurance salesman in Frankfort, Kentucky where he lived with his younger woman. With those court ordered financial obligations, he needed a successful career.

"Yes, I posed for Cecil," she said early in the conversation.

"And after the mortgage was co-signed, he asked me to pose again. That filthy old thing threatened to, you'll pardon the expression, expose my secret."

She paused to take a breath and lit a cigarette. That annoyed the hell out of me.

She seemed to have no problem with my presence, so I asked the questions. "What happened after that?"

"I got furious. I wanted to hit him, but I started thinking...what do I have to fear? At that point, he had as much to lose as I did if he went public with those pictures. I mean, wasn't that some kind of crime he committed?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "Sounds like simple coercion to me. If you complained, he could have been arrested."

"So," Patsy said, "I told him that. I told him if he tried anything funny, I'd just be embarrassed, but I'd call the cops on him...sorry, the police...and have his sorry ass locked up for threatening me or coercing or whatever you call it. So he backed off. And I never heard from that pig again."

Patsy spoke in clipped, staccato phrases and seemed almost hyper. The cigarette did nothing to calm her down. I was afraid she'd light another.

Patsy told us Edsel never learned about her secret connection to Cecil, and they were able to keep up with the house payments while still married. After the divorce, the court mandated he do so.

All this made me inclined to think we could eliminate Patsy as a suspect until she mentioned that her new boyfriend would just die and she would be embarrassed to death if the photos surfaced. Bettye wanted to expand on that a little.

"What do you think your ex would do if he found out about the pictures?" Bettye asked.

"What do you mean _do_?" Patsy said.

I took a shot again. "If the photos became public knowledge, do you think he'd claim posing for Lovejoy made you an unfit mother? Does he want custody of your son, and would he take you to court to get it?"

"Edsel Craig doesn't want anything to do with his son," she said, bristling with attitude. "He didn't even send the boy a birthday card. If the court didn't make him pay child support, he wouldn't."

"So he wouldn't even try to get custody to spite you and maybe get the court to cut down the amount of money he pays?" Bettye asked.

"He'd need a lawyer for that, right?"

Bettye and I nodded.

"And lawyers cost money?"

We nodded again.

"Edsel wouldn't spend a nickel to get his child back. If he had a son to look after, he'd have less time for that slut he married."

She talked up a good theory, but I wasn't sure it rang true. It seemed for every two steps we took forward, we dropped back at least one.

"Here's the all important question, Ms. Craig," I said. "Where were you and your boyfriend on Saturday between 4:30 and 5:30?"

"We were both here all day. We watched a DVD with my son, a Disney movie. We barbequed steaks for dinner, and when I put Danny to bed about nine o'clock, Chris and I watched another movie and finished a bottle of wine. That one was _not_ a Disney flick."

She offered a sly smile designed to make us think she and Chris were wild and crazy people. I guess she never met Teena and Gary Rogers. I remained unimpressed. I think Bettye was a tough customer, too.

"We ended up getting a little, uh...cozy on the couch. Chris stayed the night."

"Would it be silly for me to ask if anyone can verify you two were here at that time?" I said.

"No one saw us. Maybe somebody saw the smoke from the grill."

"That's not a very credible alibi, is it?"

"Gee, I guess not."

She took a final drag from her cigarette and snuffed it out in a well-used ashtray.

* * * *

Our fourth subject, Veronica Keeble, lived in a more upscale section of the subdivision. Bettye and I found ourselves in front of a large colonial that must have cost $450,000. That price tag is no big deal in the suburbs of Seattle, but in East Tennessee, money like that buys you a very nice home. Like most of the houses in Yorkshire Dales, it had lots of curb appeal. I rang the doorbell.

I've said the other three women were attractive. Veronica Keeble qualified as a certified knockout. Tall, blonde, shapely and very, very pretty, her conservative, well-dressed appearance went perfectly with the house and the neighborhood. She invited us in.

"You sound like you may have lived up around the Great Lakes," I said after a few moments of conversation.

"You have a good ear. I grew up in Chicago. I met my husband there."

"You're both from Chicago?" Bettye asked.

"Dwight is from here in Maryville. He moved to Chicago for an engineering job he got right out of college," she said.

"Have you two been married long?"

"No, four years. Dwight married his high school sweetheart after he graduated and then moved to Illinois. Right after they divorced, he and I got together. My husband is fifty-three, eighteen years older than I am.

I could understand how an older guy feeling the mid-life crunch could have fallen in love with Veronica Keeble and ditched his spouse and former life. He certainly wouldn't be the first or last.

"How did you two get back to Tennessee?" Bettye asked.

"Dwight was a victim of company downsizing. Four months before his twenty-fifth year with them, he walked in one Friday morning and found a pink slip on his desk. He'd get no pension, and he'd be out in the cold—literally. Chicago is not very warm in January."

We switched topics, and Bettye brought up Cecil Lovejoy. Mrs. Keeble admitted a vague memory of him, but said she hadn't seen him since purchasing the land. Bettye refreshed her memory with a photo. Cecil's photographic skills were truly lousy. Veronica Keeble was quite beautiful—the photos didn't do her justice.

When we reached the point of discussing Cecil's sexual affinities, she said, "I'm sorry, but do you think I could speak to you alone?"

"Of course," I said. "I'll wait in the car."

"No, I meant I'd like to speak to _you_ alone. Is that okay?" She indicated the 'you' meant me.

"Then I'll wait in the car." Bettye put a sharp edge on her statement.

My partner didn't look like she could handle professional rejection as well as I could.

It seemed like an odd request, and I wasn't sure being alone with Mrs. Keeble would be in my best professional or personal interest.

"Why don't you and I finish our discussion while we take a walk outside?" I suggested.

"Certainly. I'm fine with that," Veronica said.

Bettye went to the car. I gave her my keys, and she stayed cool in the air conditioning. Veronica and I began our walk down the blacktop street. There was no breeze, and sun felt warm on my face. I hoped my Right Guard worked efficiently.

"Okay, Mrs. Keeble, it's your dime."

"Thank you for this," she said. "I'm sorry, but I just didn't want to tell you any more in front of Little Miss Perfect. I couldn't stand anyone getting judgmental with me."

I felt sure Bettye would love to hear her new sobriquet.

"Sure, I understand. I might be the least judgmental person you'll meet today." I smiled. She did, too.

We walked slowly, and she began her story. "When I met Dwight, he was separated from his wife. She'd gone back to Tennessee. He stayed in Chicago. That was three years before he got fired. I was Roni Kozlowski back then, a working girl, if you know what I mean."

"As in the oldest profession?"

"You've got it."

Now her request began to make more sense.

"You were a carpenter?" Occasionally I'm unable to resist applying some of the old Jenkins' wit.

She laughed at that. "No, not _that_ old profession."

"I see. Sorry I interrupted." I smiled again. She continued.

"Back then Dwight and I used to get together at eight-hundred-dollars a night. Then he fell in love with me. I liked him, too. I told you he's eighteen years older than me, but there was just something nice and safe about him. He was one of the different ones, very straight and very gentle. He wanted to make love and be loved, not just hit the sack with anyone he could buy. We started seeing each other more often—off the clock, if you know what I mean."

I nodded and let her continue at her own pace.

"When he lost his job he called me before anyone else. I really felt sorry for him. He got a decent severance package, but nothing that would last forever. After he got his check, he asked me to marry him. He told me he'd sell his house in Chicago and get a divorce. He even offered to give my madam his severance check if she'd let me go."

She paused and let a smile cross over her lips. We took a few more steps, and then she continued.

"I was lucky, if you can call it that, to work for a good woman. She never acted like a pimp. She was good to all the girls. We provided an upscale service for well-heeled men. She made plenty of money, and finding replacements was easier than you may think. She and I shook hands, and we parted friends."

A red-tailed hawk swooped down and perched on the dead limb of a poplar tree only a few yards from us.

"Then Dwight learned he was too old to get another job that paid anything close to what he'd been making."

That age thing made me cringe, but I kept a straight face.

"He sold his house, not for what it was worth, but it sold quickly, and he had cash in his hand. We moved into an apartment, and he got his divorce. Finally, he found a job in a men's store selling clothes—nice job, but no money."

The sun felt warmer than I anticipated. I took off my sport jacket and with it hanging on my finger, swung it over my right shoulder.

"I wasn't exactly employable," she said, "but I did get something in a department store. Then Chicago turned out to be just too expensive."

I wondered how much she'd tell me if we sat in a bar with a couple of drinks. I didn't ask. She continued without prompting.

"We packed up, moved here and got married. We lived in an apartment for a while. Dwight looked around a lot and finally found a decent job, but salaries here are much less than up there."

She paused again, but continued to walk along. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked over at me. The dark, tortoise-shell frames offered a prominent contrast to her pale blonde hair.

"Tell me about it," I said. "I'm from New York."

"Then you know what I mean." She nodded and smiled. "We decided paying rent just wasted money, so we started looking for a place of our own. We looked at everything from doublewides to where we are now. Dwight's job sort of demanded a place to have a few house parties every year. You know, wine and dine the bosses or important clients occasionally. So we thought Lovejoy offered the best option. But, as you may already know, Dwight didn't qualify for the big mortgage we needed. Where could I work to bring in an extra salary, Wal-Mart?"

Two crows began squawking and made a kamikaze attack on the hawk. The hawk spooked and flew off toward another copse of trees down the road.

"Then that bastard called me, asked to see me and offered to co-sign a mortgage if I posed nude for him."

She began to get her dander up. I heard it in her voice.

"I wanted to spit in his face," she said, "and then I thought, who am I kidding? How different would he be from some john I met back in Chicago and considered disgusting? I thought about Dwight, how they took away his pension, how he offered to help me get out of the life and how much having a nice home meant to him. And we really loved each other. So I told myself, what the hell. Let him take his pictures. I know how to put a distasteful guy out of my mind. So I did. But he was disgusting. One of the worst johns I'd ever met. A real slob."

I turned and looked behind me. We were a long walk from her house.

"After posing for him, I started getting dressed and ready to go, and he told me he changed his mind—he wanted to have sex. I mentioned that wasn't part of the deal. He didn't care. He wanted sex before he signed off on the mortgage. I said, okay—in for a penny, in for a pound—I guess. After that, I left, and he said he'd call about the mortgage. He called all right, to say more sex. I said, 'Fuck you, Jack. You sign first, and then I'll do you again, but not before.'"

That oldest profession started to show again.

"The second time was even more disgusting than the first," she said. "He was all grunts and sweat. Uhh!" She shuddered a little before continuing. "But I had the mortgage, and Dwight would have his house."

I thought she made one hell of a sacrifice for her husband.

She continued her story. "Then that miserable prick called again and wanted more. I told him over his dead body. If he ever got near me, I'd kill him. I'm sure the sound of my voice convinced him I meant it. I've been around the block a few times and...what did you say your name was?"

"Jenkins."

"And, I know that doesn't sound too good, Mr. Jenkins, but that got him off my back. And now here we are."

"I assume your husband knows nothing about any of this, and you would rather he not know."

The look on her face made me think she trusted me with the rest of her life. It's hard to see something like that and let it go.

"I can't read his mind," she said. "He knew what I did before we married, but I assume he'd be terribly disappointed. Damn it, I'm disappointed in me. I really would hate for Dwight to think the same. I'm faithful to my husband, Mr. Jenkins. I really am. I love him. I guess that sounds pretty bad when it comes to a motive, doesn't it?"

"Mrs. Keeble, I think your husband is a lucky man. You went above the call of duty for him. I sure can't predict what he'd think about all this, and I don't want to be the one to tell him. I hope if he ever does learn about what happened, he listens to you first and then thinks about what you were trying to accomplish before he says or does anything foolish. I think you're a good woman. I hope everything works out for you and Dwight."

"Thank you." A tear formed in the corner of one eye. She took her glasses from where they sat in her hair and put them on again. Perhaps there were more tears I didn't see.

We turned around at the end of a cul-de-sac and began our walk back to her home.

"I've got to ask," I said. "Where were you on Saturday afternoon between 4:30 and 5:30?"

"Here."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"How about Dwight?"

"He went fishing in the park—all day. He got home about six. Then he showered, and we went out to dinner."

"Was he there with anyone?"

"No, he was alone, too."

We finished our conversation for the moment and walked the last fifty yards in silence. I thought she was the most beautiful and most articulate ex-hooker I'd ever met. Of course, there aren't many on my list of acquaintances, but she's still number one. We stopped in front of her door. Her short sleeve blouse looked as fresh as when we met her inside their air conditioned home. Her beige slacks didn't have a wrinkle. I hoped I didn't smell like a goat.

"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Keeble. Thanks for your time and honesty. I don't plan on mentioning anything we discussed today again...unless either you or your husband killed Cecil Lovejoy."

"I understand," she said. "I didn't kill that man, but I'm glad he's dead. The world is better off without him. And I know Dwight didn't kill him either. He would never harm anyone."

She removed her glasses again and had no problem looking me straight in the eye.

"Good," I said, "I'm glad to hear that. I really hope it's all true."

"What's your first name?" she asked.

"Sam."

"Thank you, Sam. Thanks very much for your understanding. Please call me Roni."

She shook my hand.

"You're welcome, Roni."

I can't remember what color shoes she wore, but she had the most incredibly blue eyes with long, dark lashes.

Roni Keeble went back into her home, and I got into the driver's seat of my car next to Bettye.

"Okay, Little Miss Perfect," I said, "let me tell you what I know."

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

I put the car into gear. "I'll explain."

* * * *

That day Lady Luck stood just outside our corner—we found all four women easily. No one left a note saying, 'Out to the store, back sometime later.' No one acted uncooperative, slammed the door in our faces or lawyered up. Of course, no one broke down and confessed either, but life ain't perfect.

I decided we had done enough investigating for one day and headed toward the PD. If I knew who'd be waiting for me, I would have taken half a sick day.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Bettye and I entered the PD via the rear parking lot door. She continued past my office to the reception area to relieve Joey Gillespie of his desk duties, deal with her routine jobs and look toward the next interviews she'd conduct alone.

I began to walk through my office door when I saw a man sitting in one of my guest chairs, his back facing me. I turned and walked out to talk with Joey. Before he began to speak, I put a finger over my lips to keep him from blurting out a name. I mouthed the word _who_.

Bettye handed Joey a pad from her desk. He wrote the name _Travis Lovejoy_. The three of us looked at each other. None of us knew what the Pillsbury Doughboy wanted.

I lacked the ambition to work anymore that day. Bettye and I had only stopped at Taco Bell for a quick, junk food lunch. So, not gastronomically satisfied, I felt more inclined to sit for the rest of the afternoon and think of what I wanted for dinner. Warm and weary from a day of driving, interviewing and getting in and out of a hot car, I just wasn't in the mood.

But Doughboy piqued my curiosity. Had I stirred a pot, and did something of importance float to the surface? Did Travis come in to confess to offing his daddy? I doubted that, but there remained only one way to find out. I walked into my office and greeted him.

"Mr. Lovejoy, good afternoon. I hope you haven't been waiting long." I tried sounding friendly.

He didn't rise or extend a hand. He just sat there like a sulking, bloated Cabbage Patch doll.

I circled around my desk to the big chair and sat, the desk offering a barrier of authority between us.

As I settled down, he finally chose to speak. "As a matter o' fact, Chief, I have been waitin', a very, very long time. Aren't y'all s'posed ta be here durin' the day?"

I ignored the corpulent, young twerp's impudence and smiled. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Hasn't my mother made it perfectly clear that she doesn't want y'all here at Prospect Po-leece investigatin' my daddy's murder? What more do we have ta say ta make y'all unnerstand that y'all are not to be involved in this case any-mowah?"

He pronounced _more_ like a New Yorker says _mower_.

"Mr. Lovejoy, I've tried my best to be courteous and treat you politely. Ever since I've said hello, you've responded with hostility. I apologize, I really do, for the necessity of waiting to see me, but I had other police business to conduct out of the office."

He let out a noise somewhere between a belch and a snort.

"Now, I'm unclear why you think someone from Prospect PD investigating your father's murder would create a problem," I said. "Can you explain that to me?"

I suppose the portly rich kid craved a heated shouting match, but I wouldn't accommodate him. My calm, rational, adult response to his snotty, juvenile, asshole, shit-for-brains, dumb ass, petulant, stupid, moronic statement must have confused him. I remained unmoved and unemotional. Well, almost. He just gaped at me.

Then he spoke. "Y'all have been pacifically told. This is not your case any longer. I've heard from reliable sources that y'all have continued to interview people."

Reliable sources? _Who could those sources be?_

Travis continued. "Y'all have even asked the court to send you transcripts of a lawsuit against the good name o' my father. Now what is your problem?"

As he talked himself into a mild frenzy, his voice took on a squeaky quality. I had no intention of answering that mollycoddled, ineffectual, insolent scrotum-head. But I did want to see where changing subject in mid-conversation would lead me. I tried to steer numb-nuts away from his soapbox.

"Did you work with your dad, Mr. Lovejoy, at his construction business or with the land development thing?"

He stared at me again. I smiled at him again, still trying to appear friendly.

Travis wore a white dress shirt that looked too large for him except for the neck that he buttoned and wore with a paisley tie. His fleshy jowls bulged over the strained collar. A spare tire of fat hung over the waistband of his pleated, dark blue trousers.

I hoped my face didn't betray a repressed desire to knock over his chair and step on his neck. He still hadn't replied. For another moment, I waited and thought my last question had been too difficult for him.

Then he answered, "No, I didn't work with Daddy. I work for the county."

"Really?" I said. "Where do you work?"

"I'm assistant to the Director of Budget and Finance. We, of course, report directly to the county mayor."

His answer showed an inflated sense of self-worth.

"Well, that sounds like a prestigious and responsible job. I envy you."

He just looked so proud of himself, the chubby young mutt. I began to think I needed medication to increase my patience.

"Being sort of a basically lazy person myself," I said, "I think I would have opted to ask my daddy for a job, if that is, he owned a big, lucrative company like your father. You know, being the boss's kid, I could have had an easy time of it—maybe even a no-show job." I tried to get him talking.

"Well, Chief, I'm not that way. When I was first outta college, I did start to work in the family bidness. Momma said I should try it. But Daddy was not the easiest man to work with. It's his way or no way, if you unnerstand. I do not like bein' stifled or f'ustrated even by my own father. So I sought employment elsewhere and was hired immediately."

"Well good for you. It's nice to see someone make it in the world all on his own."

I figured Miss Pearl just dropped a dime on the county mayor and landed a job for the dummy.

"I've learned that although successful, people thought your father to be sometimes, you'll forgive me...difficult, perhaps," I said.

"All important men make decisions that do not always please ever'one. And...they may have enemies, Chief." He spoke as if trying to get a child to grasp a difficult concept.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right, Travis. Do you mind if I call you Travis? I'm Sam, by the way. Everyone who works here calls me by name. I encourage all the folks in Prospect to do the same. It's much more...friendly that way," I said, trying to ooze some homespun...friendliness.

"Of course then." He tilted his head like a dog who's not sure it can trust you. "Call me Travis if you'd like."

"I'd like to go back to my previous question," I said. "Why would you or your mother think I'd cause a problem if I continued to investigate your daddy's murder? Huh?"

"As I said, Momma had the TBI called in to do that."

"I understand. And perhaps if I were in your mother's place, I too would want a large police agency to put all their personnel and resources toward solving a terrible crime against my spouse. But as you may know, I'm a police officer in the entire state of Tennessee—same powers all over. Prospect is my geographic area of employment, but I can pursue a suspect wherever the needs take me. I can certainly turn over primary responsibility for the case to the state people, and I have done that, but it would be foolish and most peculiar for anyone to want another police officer to turn a blind eye on an open homicide. Isn't that true?"

"Well, yes, uh...but...uh...well, we're thinking that, well...you know the old sayin', uh...'Too many cooks spoil the food'?"

"Broth, Travis, broth."

"Do what?"

His face got that confused look again. I knew some things were too hard for him to comprehend, the fat bastard.

"It's 'too many cooks spoil the broth.' I understand that concept—and appreciate it. But I've got a lot of experience investigating crimes, some of which were committed by genuinely bad—and smart—people. I've also got a good track record solving cases. I know how to do my job and keep from stepping on another cop's toes."

His eyes had narrowed, and he had more lines on his forehead than a roadmap of Manhattan.

"Remember that other old saying, Travis, 'Two heads are better than one?' Sometimes that's true. Here in Prospect—the place where the murder occurred—we've got thirteen heads. We know the local people. Citizens of Prospect will talk to a Prospect officer when they may not speak freely to an outsider."

His stress began showing. I watched his eyes blink rapidly. He looked like the lens of a time-lapse camera.

"Another old saying, Travis: 'Information is knowledge. Knowledge is power.' Remember that one?"

I got another blank stare from the young troll. He was probably still back there thinking about the broth.

"Aren't we just so philosophical today?" I stood and walked to the front of my desk and extended a hand. "Travis, I've enjoyed our little conversation."

He shook my hand and continued looking confused.

"I'm glad we had an opportunity to get to know each other better. I know it was a very sad time for you and your family last Sunday when we first met, wasn't it?"

He didn't answer...or nod...or even grunt.

"I want you to be assured—and tell your lovely mother this, too—that we here at Prospect PD will leave no stone unturned—but we won't interfere with those two _senior_ investigators from the TBI either, in solving your daddy's murder and bringing the culprit to justice."

The culprit? Sometimes I'm ashamed of myself.

"Uh...yes. Thank you, Chief, uh, I mean...Sam."

A strained expression and a weak smile competed to dominate his face as he turned to leave. I expected to see the shirttails half out of his pants, and a stain on the seat of his britches.

Now how difficult would it be to find out what sort of relationship young Travis really had with ol' Cecil? What would my new, chubby friend gain from his daddy's death?
Chapter Twenty-Three

I saw no exigent circumstances requiring us to investigate over the weekend. It seemed unlikely our killer would take flight. Actually, I liked Pearl Lovejoy for punching her old man's ticket, but I kept an open mind. She wasn't going anywhere, and I could always put the arm on her if I ever wrapped up enough evidence proving she did snuff Cecil. I should also mention recent overtime payments already shot that budget line for two years into the future.

So, on Monday morning, my newest temporary detective lined up her appointments and hit the road at nine o'clock. Joey Gillespie and I manned the fort.

Before lunchtime, Bettye returned. Each of the women she interviewed lived nearby and proved easy to locate.

Bettye learned that Cecil approached all three women the same way he propositioned the four ladies we had already spoken with. My imagined scenario seemed close to reality. Only those three ladies told Cecil to go scratch, took their husbands and found houses elsewhere. That ended their stories. Or at least, so we thought.

I cut Joey loose, told him to take his police car, go out and write a few traffic tickets, look for trouble and provide the public service that makes the public nervous. I'd do that if I were a young cop full of piss and vinegar.

Bettye, again in civilian clothes, resumed work at the desk. Her badge and holstered revolver hung on the belt of her slacks. She looked like Hollywood's concept of the modern policewoman. Mine, too.

Back in my office, I spread out all the Lovejoy murder information on my blotter—reports, interview notes, photos and a few scribblings I had taken here and there. I knew absolutely nothing more than I did the day before. Actually, I'd become more confused. I found more suspects to consider. No one volunteered to jump into my handcuffs. And I didn't know where to go next.

I wondered if the two senior investigators from TBI were having as much luck. I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew. Solving a murder is difficult enough, but when the victim's family fights you every step of the way, it can be a real pain in the ass.

I sat there, almost at the end of my thought, when an old adage came true—there is no rest for the weary. There's also little time for contemplation.

Bettye stood in the doorway of my office, her hand on her left hip, that hip cocked seductively to the side. She knocked on the doorjamb to get my attention. "Sam, there's a county Sergeant Elam on the phone. He's got a message for you from Judge Tipton."

"Who's Judge Tipton?"

She peered over the frames of her little granny glasses. She looks sexy when she does that.

"A retired county judge and Pearl Lovejoy's father," she said. "I thought you knew."

"That's interesting, isn't it? Will these people never leave me alone?"

She smiled and tilted her head.

"A retired judge gets a county sergeant to work for him?" I asked.

"This one does," she said, "Welcome to our world."

"Even more interesting. Some horsepower, huh?"

Bettye nodded.

"Should I talk with him or tell him to make an appointment?" I tried to sound obnoxious.

"Sam!"

"Okay, okay. I'll talk—switch the call over."

I let my phone ring twice.

"This is Chief Jenkins. May I help you?"

"Chief, this is Sergeant Billy Elam, Judge Minas Tipton's assistant. The Judge would like to meet you, sir. He invites you for lunch today at one o'clock."

"The Judge and I have never met, Sarge. To what do I owe the honor of an invitation to lunch?"

"I guess you'd better let the Judge explain that, Chief."

"All right then. Tell Judge Tipton I gratefully accept his invitation. One o'clock it is. Where do I meet him?"

"He's servin' lunch at his home. Do you know where that is?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm the new kid in town. You'll have to tell me."

He did and dictated what sounded like easy-to-follow directions. That gave me just two hours to learn all I could about Judge Minas Tipton.

I walked out to Bettye's desk. "Hey, I've just gotten an invitation to lunch at Judge Tipton's home. Pretty classy, huh?"

"Well, well, well. You surely are makin' your mark here and in such a short time. I'm very impressed by you, boss."

It looked like Bettye started learning how to be a smartass from me. She was a good student. I thought I might have to re-examine that leading by example thing.

I said, "I guess after Buck and Brother Claude fell flat on their butts, Pearl's daddy figures he'll take a run at me."

Bettye smiled, and her hazel eyes sparkled. It seemed like she was enjoying our investigation and all the local intrigue.

"So, Mrs. Lambert, like any good fly, I've got to find out as much as I can about this spider before I step into his web, don't I?"

"Not somethin' I ever heard ol' Buck say."

"Buck was one of the good ol' boys. I'm just a Yankee carpetbagger looking to cause trouble. It pays to know who you're meetin' up with before you get there. I think I heard that in one of Clint Eastwood's spaghetti Westerns."

"I hear ya, boss," she said.

"I've only got a couple of hours before I leave for this lunch date. Give me a hand finding out about Tipton. Asking Ronnie would be stirring my own pot too much. It's always better to mess with the other guy's soup."

"I still know a few people at the County Court from when I worked with the magistrate here. I'll give them a call and see if the Judge or his assistant has been asking any questions over there."

"Good. I'll call a couple people I know who can give me an opinion on him. When we finish round one, we can compare notes."

I wanted to learn as much about my potential enemy—or adversary, at least—and do what I like to do best—wing it. In the past, I'd met politicians on all levels, from a vice president down to the legion of local hacks. I conducted sit-downs with organized crime bosses, and I interviewed some really abhorrent individuals. The underlying principle of these discussions is all the same to me—you smile, look confident and act like the person you're speaking to is in the palm of your hand. And you never let them see you sweat. Piece of cake, right? I hoped so.

I quickly learned that former Judge Minas Tipton made his appearance on earth in March of 1918, making him eighty-eight-years-old.

Having retired from the bench sixteen years earlier, he'd been elected numerous times to the Blount County Sessions Court, his reputation being that of a conservative jurist. The cops loved him and called him Hangin' Judge T.

From my own lawyer, I learned that Tipton was no Roy Bean. Conservative, yes. An idiot in robes, no.

After she finished on the phone, Bettye walked into my office.

"No one at the court knows anythin' to help us," she said. "If he's lookin' into you or what you're doin', he didn't do it there or at the Sheriff's office."

"Okay. Tell me what you know about him."

"Lord have mercy. The man's been around forever. Every time he ran for reelection, he won. There was never a doubt about that."

"It seems to me that if you ran a ham sandwich on the Republican ticket in this county, it would win something."

"That may be true, Sam, but I remember him running unopposed a few times. No one else even wanted to try. Remember I said he was a powerful man?"

"Lots of powerful people out there," I said. "What makes him special?"

"Friends. You know Congressman Jimmy Dillworth?"

"Sure."

"Jimmy used to clerk for Tipton. I hear they stay in close contact. That's a connection to Washington. Pick a politician, and Tipton is friendly with him. His power comes from long ago, but as you can see, it doesn't go away with retirement."

"I'm getting the picture. And my time is almost up. While I'd like to go there with some real dirt on the old boy, I guess that's not going to happen."

"I think you know all there is, boss. What do you think is going to happen?"

"He'll ask me to back off—for good this time. If I say no, he'll probably threaten me. But what's he going to do, send me back to Vietnam? I've got a contract with Prospect. To fire me they'd have to show cause in civil court. Bad publicity isn't a politician's best friend. They probably think I'd open my mouth to the papers or TV."

"You're somethin' else," she said and went back to shaking her head.

"But I'm cute as hell."

"Remind me of that after this is all over."

One thing mentioned by everyone who offered an opinion—Judge Tipton was powerful, with a capital P—in the county, in the state and even higher. I'd have to mind my manners. I wouldn't be meeting with a local yokel. If I planned on trying a snow job somewhere in the conversation, I had to make it a proper blizzard.
Chapter Twenty-Four

I left the office at 12:30, giving myself half an hour to drive to the Judge's home.

In my car, I looked in the rearview mirror, centered the Windsor knot on the collar of my light blue button-down shirt, dusted the shoulders of my gray sport jacket, then put the Ford in gear and started for Maryville.

Driving through some of the nicer neighborhoods, I made a left on Sandy Springs Road, a main drag in that part of town, and wound my way over several scenic country roads until I found the Judge's place. Tucked away at the end of a long driveway, his home sat on a large parcel of wooded land, covered by old deciduous trees.

The large brick-faced house looked well cared for. While in the style of the post-Civil War era, it seemed to have been constructed just after World War Two. I saw a late 1940s look all over it.

I parked my car, taking advantage of the shade from one of the judge's tall oaks, and walked up to the front door. Taking hold of a massive colonial-style doorknocker, I announced my presence with enough noise to wake the neighbors. A middle-aged woman answered the door wearing a plain, but good-looking shirtwaist dress. She didn't introduce herself, so I assumed she was on staff.

"Please come in, sir," she said. "If you wait here in the parlor someone will be right with you." Her voice sounded soft and pleasant.

I hadn't heard anyone call a living room a parlor since my grandmother. She left the room, and I remained standing to look around.

The furniture looked old—genuine antiques, not just used furniture. It looked expensive, in good taste and, like the rest of the house, well cared for. I liked the decorator's sensibilities. It felt like a comfortable place, one I could easily live in.

Around the room, on tables, on shelves in bookcases and hanging in several places on the walls, I found framed photographs I assumed to be the Judge. These were all typically political 'photo op' pictures. Most of the people in the older photos were unknown to me, although I did recognize Ronald Reagan with Tipton at the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville. More recently, he appeared with state representatives, the last Republican governor of Tennessee and a former U.S. senator known to any fan of a famous NBC cop show, while a few county officials crowded around the Judge at his retirement party.

After finishing with the photos, I looked closely at the furniture and accessories. Any one of the appraisers on _The Antiques Roadshow_ might suffer heart palpitations from a proximity to that high quality, early Southern woodwork. The place impressed me. I thought I might actually like Minas Tipton. We shared exquisite taste—perhaps modesty, too.

I heard someone walk up behind me. He cleared his throat, waited for me to turn around and then spoke. "Chief Jenkins. I'm Sergeant Billy Joe Elam. We spoke on the phone."

Billy Elam looked around forty, about six-two, and although I saw a bit of an excess gut, he looked big, solid and strong enough to give anyone who decided to go round and round with him a run for their money. He wore a dark brown suit, yellow dress shirt, but no tie. He shaved his head and wore a neat, dark mustache. We shook hands. Billy was a bone-crusher.

"The Judge is on his way down," he said. "Won't be but a minute."

I thought Billy Elam seemed to suffer from terminal seriousness. I didn't get a hint of a smile from the big guy. I tried a dose of wit and charm to bring the sergeant around.

"How long have you been a cop, Sarge?"

"Sixteen years now," he said.

"A long time. Good, you'll like this. What do you get when you wrap a chain around six lawyers and drop them in the ocean?"

"Do what?" he said.

"A good start."

He didn't laugh.

"Just a joke," I said. Still no smile. "I thought it was cute."

From behind me I heard, "Ha, ha, ha, ha. Very good. Very good indeed."

I turned around and faced a dapper-looking old gent who stood there, leaning his right hand on an old-fashioned wooden cane. He looked genuinely amused. A big smile brightened his face, but his laugh sounded theatrical, a bit too pronounced and unnatural. He couldn't use that laugh often in a courtroom. It must have been a political thing.

The eighty-eight-year-old man could have passed for anywhere between seventy and a well-preserved ninety. He had a full head of neatly trimmed, white hair, wore a well-cut, navy blue blazer, light blue broadcloth shirt, pearl gray slacks and believe it or not, a paisley silk ascot at his neck.

Very classy.

Only a little shorter than me, the judge looked in good shape for a guy half his age. Maybe if we got to know each other, we could swap clothes. I'd look damn cool with an ascot.

"Chief Samuel Jenkins, I presume?" he asked with a big smile, but it sounded more like a statement.

I returned the smile and answered, "Guilty, Your Honor. But no one ever called me Samuel except my mother, and that was only after I annoyed her."

"I'll remember that and call you Sam. I'm Minas Tipton."

Not Judge Tipton—something else I liked about him. He switched the cane to his left hand and extended his right. I stepped closer and shook his hand. He had a firm grip, but not a vice like Billy Elam.

I hoped I'd have this guy's demeanor and looks when I approached ninety. Although not exactly handsome, the Judge had an intelligent face that showed lots of character.

"I heard you kiddin' Billy Joe there. I'm afraid the good sergeant hasn't got my spontaneous sense of humor. No offense, Billy, but I'm guessin' you do, Sam."

"That's me, Judge. I enjoy a good joke on occasion."

"I hear that you do. Yes, sir, I hear that you do," he said. "I also hear that Ronnie Shields finally picked himself a first-class chief for his police force. Somethin' new in Prospect, I might add. Before I invited you here, I asked Billy Joe to do a little background check on you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. There are still a few people from my past who may think kindly of me."

Oh, modest me.

"That they do, Sam. That they do. They say you were a fine cop—nineteen commendations, for goodness sake. And a good supervisor, too. Word is that you were expected to go farther up the ladder in your department, but you didn't. Why's that, Sam?" he asked with an inquisitive, fatherly expression.

"Well, Judge, I found a niche for myself. I liked the work I did, liked running my own section, and I liked the latitude most of the people in the administration afforded me with my assignments.

"They let me choose my own people, too—those who I saw as the best cops for the job we had to do. And I could accomplish something meaningful—most of the time. I became happy and contented. Moving laterally or upward never looked as attractive as it needed to."

"Very good, very good, indeed. Few people, Sam, can say such a thing of their lives. And now you're runnin' your own show in Prospect. You like it?"

"So far, yes. But the day is still young. I like the people there. The job seems to have lots of potential."

"Well good, good, real fine. As you may know, I sat as a judge for a little over thirty years. You're not one of all those New York policemen who's also a lawyer, are you, Sam?"

I felt confident Billy Joe learned I was not. "No, sir. As far as I know my parents were married when I was born—I'm not qualified to be a lawyer."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Damn good answer, Sam. Damn good answer, truly is. Most good lawyers are proper rascals, aren't they? You have the temperament for the job though. Ever think of going to law school and opening a practice?"

That laugh again. He sounded amused and sincere, but his laugh still came across as affected. It had to be an acquired trait. Maybe I should try to learn something from the old guy. After a few lessons, I might know how to act at a political fundraiser. Of course, I might also stop world hunger this weekend—but probably neither.

"I had thoughts in that direction long ago, but didn't have the spare time or the patience to go back to school then. But the idea of being a prosecutor appealed to me. Studying for promotional tests and having fun at work took up most of my time in those days."

"I understand you did well on the two promotional tests you took. Highest score on the sergeant's test and in the top ten for lieutenant. No tellin' how far you could have gone after that."

I found myself talking freely in front of this old man. He stroked my ego, and apparently, I liked it.

"If I had scored well on the captain's test I never took, I could have gotten promoted again. But after that, I lacked something necessary to get an appointment above those civil service ranks."

"What was that, Sam?"

"A rabbi."

"A rabbi? You needed to be Jewish? I'll be damned."

"No, religion wasn't a factor." I did my best not to snicker. "A 'rabbi' is what a New York cop calls a political hook, a benefactor with enough horsepower to drop a few gentle hints that they have a pet cop they want promoted to deputy inspector or higher. If the rabbi is owed a favor and they want to use it on you, you get promoted. Occasionally merit is involved, but not most the time."

"Well, I'll be damned. A rabbi, ha. Same system all over the world. We just use different names."

"Yes, sir, the more I see, the more I know things are the same all over."

"Now hold on, Sam. We're standin' here talkin' away, and I've not yet asked you if you'd like a drink. Is it too early for you?"

I shook my head.

"Good. As they say, it's four o'clock somewhere in the world, isn't it?"

I nodded to that.

"Billy Joe, make yourself one, and I'll have the usual. Sam, I've got a nice, old bottle of Gentleman Jack here if you're a sour mash drinker."

"Scotch, if you have it, please."

"Johnny Walker suit you?" he asked. I nodded.

"Billy, some of that Johnny Black for the Chief. How do you want it, Sam? Just tell Billy there."

I turned and looked toward Billy. "Just a couple of cubes, Sarge. Thanks very much."

"Come on now, Sam, take a seat, and we'll keep on talkin'. I'm enjoyin' your company."

I couldn't argue with him there—so far the old boy sounded personable, damn personable, indeed.

The judge continued with just how much he knew about me. "Young Billy here also learned you were quite a soldier, too. Good record all around. Started out as a private, got up to sergeant in a short time, commissioned as an officer after that. Had your share of medals and seemed to volunteer for everything. Reserve time after active duty. More good things said about you. I'm impressed, Sam, I am impressed."

"I think I'm impressed with Billy doing so much investigating in so little time. You want a job in Prospect, Sarge?"

Not a flicker of smile. Billy Joe needed a sense-of-humor transplant. Should I believe that background investigation started only a day or two ago?

"Billy's a good boy," Tipton said. "He's been with me a long time now, since he was only a deputy. Long time now. Right, Billy?"

Billy nodded his shaved head.

"Judge, you've been retired for sixteen years." I wanted him to know I did some checking myself. "And you still have a bodyguard. Ex-presidents don't maintain a Secret Service protective detail that long. You must be an important and respected man."

"Oh, I still keep my hat in the political arena here and there. I've got my share of friends. The sheriff is good enough to keep Billy on loan to me. He's a good boy—like a son to me. Right, Billy?"

"Yes, sir. I'm happy to be here with you."

Billy really didn't look all that happy.

As we sat there bonding and drinking the Judge's whiskey, the lady with the shirtwaist dress came in and said, "Judge, lunch is ready. If y'all take your seats, I'll serve for ya."

"Thank you, Loretta," he said. "Gentlemen, we are summoned to dine."

Judge Tipton, Billy Joe Elam and I sat in the formal dining room that adjoined the parlor. The furnishings were equal to those in the room we just left, the one I scrutinized earlier, but original oils and watercolors I'd enjoy owning replaced the personal photographs of the living room.

Loretta started all three of us off by filling our crystal glasses full of an expensive, Russian River Valley chardonnay.

"I hope you like dry wine, Sam. Personally, I detest anything sweet," the Judge said. "Sam, be honest now. What do you think of genuine Tennessee food?"

"Like squirrel and corn bread?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, Sam, there you go again. No, son, I mean all this modern deep-fried food these local rascals insist on makin'. You like it?"

His phony belly laugh began to sound right to me.

"Well, I don't mean to offend the locals—and some deep-fried foods do taste good, but I guess if I wanted to abuse my cardiovascular system in the foulest manner, I'd do it quickly and just mainline 10W–40 oil."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Well said, Sam, well said indeed. I agree, I surely do agree. I used to eat all the fried fish, fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, French-fried potatoes—what did I leave out? I loved it. But my doctor told me, 'Minas, you keep eatin' all that fatty food, and you're gonna die of cholesterol poisonin.' Ha, ha, ha, ha. So I started eatin' more healthy. I'll bet you like good food, don't you, Sam?"

"Yes, sir, good food is the best thing since 3-D and the hula hoop."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Well good. Real good. I thought so. You like Cajun food, Sam?"

Sam nodded like a good little boy visiting his kindly old Uncle Minas.

"Good. I had Loretta make us some grilled catfish, okra gumbo and dirty rice. Okay with you?"

Sam nodded again. Sam was hungry. What a nice old man—or so I thought.

The chardonnay tasted excellent. I'd remember the label and buy a bottle. Kate would enjoy it.

Loretta's catfish had a healthy hint of spice, but wasn't too hot. She made it crispy, but it wasn't deep-fried, and the gumbo scored an exquisite on the Jenkins food chart. If I didn't want to maintain my professionalism and decorum, I would have asked for seconds, gobbled it up, burped and taken a snooze on the genuine Federal Period sofa in the parlor.

After finishing lunch, we remained at the table sipping the last of our wine. Quickly, Loretta and an unnamed assistant removed all the dishes.

Then the Judge asked, "Sam, would you like a brandy before we move back to the livin' room?"

"No, thank you, sir. I'm fine. I want to get my shiny new police car back to Prospect in one piece."

"All right then. Let's go grab a seat inside and talk some more," he said.

As we walked back into the living room and found seats, I wondered how James Bond felt after having lunch with Goldfinger. Billy Joe looked taller than Odd-Job, but seemed potentially as mean and dangerous. I didn't see a steel-brimmed derby hanging on a hat rack in the entrance hall, so that was a good thing.

I should have restored an Aston-Martin instead of an Austin-Healey, just in case Billy Joe started to chase me one day. I had neglected to install the heat seeking rockets and machine guns in the Healey and felt ill prepared.

The judge made a stop at the sideboard where the liquor bottles stood. He added a couple of cubes to a short glass and poured it half full of Jack Daniels.

"Sam, I understand my grandson Travis paid you a visit yesterday," Tipton said.

Okay, here we go.
Chapter Twenty-Five

I shifted in my chair, smiled and got comfortable enough to answer the Judge's question about his corpulent grandson.

"Yes, he did. We had a nice long talk in my office."

"Come on now, Sam. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. A man of your intelligence wouldn't need five minutes of talkin' with Travis to know he's nothin' but a petulant, young pain-in-the-ass. I don't think anyone has ever had a nice conversation with Travis."

My sentiments exactly. I couldn't help smiling. "Judge, can we get to the bottom line here? I enjoyed the shit out of our lunch today. I think you're the most interesting and intelligent man I've met since I moved to Blount County. But I know I'm here for a reason. Just tell me what it is."

"Sam, thank you. Well said, well said indeed. And thank you for the compliment. It does mean something coming from you."

He paused as if gathering his thoughts—which I was sure he didn't need to do.

"You know, Sam, you've got more balls than anyone I've met for a long time. You don't get intimidated easily, do you, son?"

I remained quiet and just looked at him.

"You're not afraid of either big Billy Joe here or me, are you?"

"I've yet to see a reason to be. Should I?"

The Judge skipped answering and continued. "The truth of the matter, Sam, is that my daughter is getting upset with you. Did you know that?"

He waited for me to answer, but I took my time. "From what Travis told me, I assumed she was. Travis isn't smart enough or assertive enough to have an original idea of his own. I thought she might have sent him. Or Travis wanted to please her and tried to warn me off himself. My question is—why? Travis said she called someone—I now assume that someone was you—who then called other people with enough political clout to convince Ronnie Shields to give the Cecil Lovejoy case to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation."

The old judge sat as still as a corpse, neither confirming nor denying my allegation.

"I did as asked," I said. "They have all my reports. Now the TBI can circle their wagons, load their rifles and go look for a murderer. Good luck to them. It certainly takes the pressure off me."

Still not a flicker of movement came from either the Judge or his assistant.

"What puzzles me is why your daughter is so concerned that I'm conducting my own inquiries into Cecil's death. I'd think any victim's family would be happy to have all the enthusiastic and competent help available within the system to find the killer and give them the closure they need."

Tipton nodded slowly. "I fear you're right, Sam. You're right indeed. This is all Pearl's idea. Certainly not something Travis thought up himself. My daughter is headstrong, sometimes too much so. She's much like her mother, rest her soul. Pearl gets an idea, and she can't shake it—no matter what common sense should tell her and no matter what I say."

"Judge, your daughter offended me. It's not something I can't live with, because I understand the position she's in. She's a wealthy woman, thanks to her late husband. But it didn't take me very long to learn that Cecil was far from an ideal man."

I gave that a moment to sink in.

"Because of his lifestyle," I said, "I feel sorry for her and up to a point cut your daughter some slack with her bad manners. It's apparent Pearl valued Cecil's money more than her independence and perhaps more than her self-esteem and dignity."

Tipton took a sip of whiskey, but still didn't give away a hint of emotion. I thought he might be envisioning himself back in a courtroom, playing the wise old jurist for me.

"Obviously, she finds me defiant," I said. "I haven't rolled over for her. She's used to getting her way, and I'm not the kind of civil servant she's accustomed to dealing with. I didn't take her hints, and now here we are. As you implied, Travis is not the shiniest leaf on your family tree. But, I believe he feels a necessity to protect his mother and parrot her wishes."

Years on the bench weren't wasted on the judge. I talked, and he learned just what I knew. At that point, I didn't care. I hoped to flush something out of him.

"I'm still confused here, Judge," I said. "The TBI and all their resources are in the lead with this case. However, I'm not seeing any investigation where the crime was committed. Actually, I'm not seeing much investigating at all. On the other hand, I'm another story. My interests are piqued, and I like to work. What harm might occur if I learned the killer's identity? Pearl's problem seems unfounded to me."

"Everything you've said is, of course, true, Sam. One-hundred-percent true. Cecil Lovejoy was wealthy—you can't begin to imagine how wealthy—but he left much to be desired as a man and a husband. He was a scoundrel at best, but actually much worse."

The Judge sipped more Gentleman Jack. I glanced at Billy Joe who held his glass, but had yet to drink.

"I will admit something to you, Sam, and I don't mind if you quote me. I am not unhappy to see Cecil Lovejoy dead, not unhappy at all. I believe my daughter may have mixed feelings though. She married him when she was not quite twenty-years-old. He was twenty-two. Do the math, Sam. That's a long time to be together."

He gave a quick snort, implying the marriage lasted too long for him.

"I further admit," he said, "I was no help solving Pearl's problems at home. I regret that, but a father can only do so much to influence a stubborn woman. Why she didn't leave that son-of-a-bitch years ago I can't imagine. The money, I suppose. But as you said, what price can you pay to endure grief and unhappiness? What good was all that money to her? Her health and her soul are no longer what they should be."

I started getting what I came for. The old boy stopped listening and began opening up. We had reversed roles.

"Now that Cecil is dead," he said, "I can help her handling his asset-heavy estate. My daughter and her children will need cash to live in the style to which they have become accustomed. I can help her convert some of his property into cash. Lord knows she wouldn't know how."

I practiced my poker face while the Judge spoke. Billy Joe sat quietly, listening and watching.

"Sam, you've got all the right things to say and all the right questions to ask. I wish to God that over the years this county had a few sheriffs with your background and your ability. The fella there now—he's a nice boy, from a good Christian family. But he was never a policeman before, Sam. Never a real policeman like you. He relies on his higher-ranking deputies to tell him what to do and show him how to do it."

He drained his glass of sour mash and shook the cubes.

"How I wish this county had a man like you as its highest ranking police official." He paused and took a deep breath. "Billy, get me a brandy, please."

Billy went to the sideboard, poured from a crystal decanter and handed a snifter to the Judge. Tipton took a long pull, another deep breath and continued.

"The current sheriff is well situated and has higher political aspirations, Sam. He plans to run for some state office or possibly an even higher one. Probably thinks he can get himself to Washington some day—maybe he can. Good luck to him."

He began to look tired and took another sip of the brandy. I assumed for medicinal purposes.

"That would leave a spot open for a new sheriff. How would you like the job, son? I do believe you'd make one hell of a sheriff. I'd see to it that you get the nomination. And as you probably know that would mean you'd be a shoo-in to be elected. Talk to me about that, Sam."

"Judge, I'm flattered. You, too, say all the right things. I think you can spot an egotistical guy a mile away, and you know how to work on that. Perhaps at one time I would have jumped at your offer, like a kid promised a new pony."

He showed me his first smile in several minutes.

"I mean no disrespect, sir, but I have to ask, because I have a suspicious nature. As a cop, when someone offers me a cup of coffee or a free meal, I wonder if they just like to see me well fed, or do they expect something in return? If I accepted your offer, would you expect something from me now or in the future? Again, no offense intended, but you're not a young man, how long could you let this favor hang? Or would my soul be on account with some higher power that you are currently representing?"

"Sam, for someone not in politics you understand the system quite well, don't you? Of course, I'd ask for your cooperation with something, and I need it now. I won't ask you to violate the law or commit an immoral act. I spoke to the director of the TBI and asked him to assign people to investigate Cecil's murder. I'd like to see him do that—without any assistance or interference from you or your crew there in Prospect. The TBI people will do their job. They may even find the killer. But there's something they won't do as well. Something that if you closed this case, you may not be able to overlook. Something I won't ask you to overlook. You see, Sam, in my own way, I'm actually looking after you here. You see?"

I began to see a crystal clear picture. And the old boy claimed to have my best interest at heart. Could I get any luckier?

"I wanted those folks at TBI to handle this because I didn't know you," he said. "Oh, people assured me that you were capable enough to catch a killer, but that's not my point here, not my point at all. You and I both know what a no good rogue Cecil was, don't we? I would hate for detailed information about his private life to become public knowledge. I would hate for my daughter, with all her problems, to suffer further humiliation. I just don't know how much more she could endure. Her health is not good for a woman her age. For God's sake, Sam, she hardly eats any more. Her nerves are on edge all the time, and all this takes a terrible toll on her and the children. I worry about her, Sam. I truly worry about her."

Tipton drained the snifter of brandy, set it on the cocktail table and absentmindedly straightened the ascot that needed no adjustment.

"The reason I asked the TBI to assume responsibility for this case," he said, "was to save you from makin' a decision down the line that would perhaps compromise your own principles in not telling the whole truth—about Cecil Lovejoy's disgustin' lifestyle. As a judge, I know how certain facts may be material to a major case prosecution, and how they may have to be disclosed and become public record. Do you understand my position here, Sam?"

I think the Judge saw me as a tough nut to crack. Perhaps he thought I played hard-to-get to increase the prize I'd be willing to accept to play ball. Or perhaps he saw me as a hopeless romantic who believed in truth, justice and the American way and wouldn't give an inch of compromise to see the Pope sing _Strangers in the Night_ on the pitcher's mound of Yankee Stadium.

He still showed dignity and maintained his cool, but his frustration showed through around the edges. He had yet to plead with me, but it became obvious he wanted me to take pity on an old man and a family who knew years of embarrassment because of Cecil Lovejoy. I almost felt sorry for everyone involved.

"I understand, Judge," I said, "and I appreciate you taking the time to explain this to me. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you. Look, I'm not a heartless person. I don't seek publicity, nor do I wish to use this or any other case to show my employers what a sharp cop they hired. I'm too old for things like that. Just because I don't like your daughter, I won't engage in wholesale muckraking to vilify Cecil Lovejoy and intentionally embarrass her—or you—or the rest of your family."

I regretted not accepting that other drink he offered.

"Judge, I've dealt with some extremely sensitive matters, and no one without a legitimate need to know about those things ever learned anything from me. I don't make water cooler conversation about other people's dirty laundry."

I took a sidelong glance and watched Billy Joe pick up the Judge's snifter and refill it with brandy. The old boy had some capacity for booze.

"So," I said, wanting to hasten my flushing out process, "in declining your offer of career advancement, I ask you again to remember how I mentioned my suspicious nature earlier in our conversation. Before Travis's visit to my office, and before your kind invitation to lunch, I accumulated oodles of suspects to consider. I don't see many strong motives yet, but plenty of people to think about seriously. Now I ask myself new questions, and I ask them of you, too, sir. Did Travis have a reason to kill his father? A grandson is certainly someone to be protective of, isn't he? You seem like a man who is very loyal and protective of his family."

The Judge folded his arms, tucked his chin to his chest and looked up at me through his white eyebrows.

"At first impression," I said, "Travis doesn't seem to have the balls to kill a rabid skunk, but I've met other nonassertive people who killed someone for what they perceived to be the right reason. What would you think, Judge? You're sitting in your chambers, and I'm asking for a legal opinion from a smart and experienced jurist. Do I have at least a reasonable suspicion here?"

"Sam, you're backing me into a corner now," he said with a wave of his hand. "Yes, of course, you're right about Travis—not that he's a killer, but he lacks the gumption God gave most men. Yes, you have a right to be suspicious about him, but I know you're wrong. You're no fool, so I won't insult you and deny that I'd protect one of my own. Most men would, and I can do it better than most. If Travis killed Cecil, I'd probably throw the young fool a party. But Travis didn't kill his father—move on." He sniffed and shifted in his seat. "Next question."

"I think we're all in agreement that Cecil's death is no loss," I said, "to his family or to the world at large. But it's also damned convenient at the moment for your daughter. If I were Pearl, I might be thankful someone took the bull by the horns and terminated one of my biggest headaches. My second person of interest today becomes Billy Joe here."

Billy stiffened in his chair. The Judge slid a hand over the coffee-table top and placed it on the surface, closer to his assistant at the opposite end of the sofa. Billy relaxed a little.

"In your own words, sir, 'He's like a son to me.' So why wouldn't an adopted son help his surrogate father when help was needed most and the task seemed relatively simple?"

The Judge smiled a little, shook his head and said, "You think I had Billy Joe kill Cecil? Sam, I hope you're not someone who puts much stock in 'conspiracy of evil' theories. If you were, I'd be disappointed."

A good trick, I thought—make someone's question seem stupid, and they might back off. But it's only good if it works, and it never does on me.

"Your Honor, I wouldn't be a good candidate for sheriff if I didn't think of all the possibilities, would I?"

"Ha, ha, ha. Sam, you're something else, you surely are. Well, good, good for you."

Only three laughs. Had I lost my comedic appeal? Maybe not, he still smiled and looked cordial enough. Billy Joe, on the other hand, seemed not to like me at all.

I uncrossed my legs and sat forward in my chair.

"Your Honor, again I'll say that I enjoyed meeting you both. I thank you for a pleasant and interesting afternoon, an excellent lunch and a most flattering and generous offer. I just can't accept that sortie into the world of politics. It's not my style."

The Judge kept his smile even after I declined his offer.

"I also have to be honest and tell you that in my own way, I'll continue to discreetly investigate this homicide. I would feel remiss if I didn't. The director of the TBI will have to arrest me to stop that. But I doubt he could find a good excuse for doing so. I'd also be lying if I told you that I'll forget what your daughter has done. I tend to have a long memory, and I may even harbor a grudge."

Tipton's friendly grin changed to a disquieting frown.

"However, I don't let those hard feelings influence my decisions, and I don't act on them with rancor. If I find the killer, I may have no reason to tell the world about Cecil Lovejoy. In that case, you have my promise, I will not."

I stood up. So did Billy Joe.

Still seated, the Judge began laughing again. "Ha, ha, ha, ha. Lord have mercy, Sam, you are one straightforward and honest son-of-a-bitch. Honest to a fault." Using his cane, he got to his feet. "It was my pleasure, Sam. Truly a pleasure. I'm sorry we couldn't do business. Sorry for several reasons—not all of them selfish on my part either. If you don't care, I'd like to do this again sometime. You're good company, and I like to listen to a man who won't pander to an old politico like me. I respect you, Sam. I surely do. You be careful out there." He extended his hand.

He even gave me a friendly tap on the leg with his cane and told me to take care of myself.

What could he mean by, 'Be careful out there'? It was a local expression. Or had he meant watch my back?

It would have been easier to just tell him what he wanted to hear and then go about my business as I saw fit.

Someday, I'll stop at the Home Depot and buy a gallon of common sense.

Billy Joe and I walked to the front door. He opened it for me with all the courtesy of a diplomat. I looked at him, smiled, pointed my index finger at him and let my thumb fall like the hammer of a gun. Something Philip Marlowe called the gunmen's salute.

Billy surprised me by offering his hand. We shook again. He didn't try to crush me in his grip that time.

Instead he told me, "Good to meet you, sir. You were very nice to the Judge. Thank ya."

Had Billy Joe Elam been sincere? Did that big, humorless guy like me? Or had he, too, implied to watch my ass because when next we met it wouldn't be on such friendly terms?

I got back into the Crown Victoria. With the car still reasonably cool from the shade of the old oak tree, I switched on the ignition. It didn't blow up, so I started the drive back to Prospect.

I had consumed a generous glass of scotch and two large glasses of wine, but I felt no effects from the alcohol. The underlying tension of my afternoon with Minas Tipton dissipated the warm glow I would normally be experiencing and left me wanting another stiff drink.

It was only four o'clock, so I'd return to work. It's a good thing Bettye is nice to me.
Chapter Twenty-Six

I hung my coat on the back of the office door and, like a little kid returning from a visit to Grandma's, violently pulled off my tie to get some breathing room. I walked out to Betty's desk and just stood there for a long moment. The silence seemed too much for her.

"Well? What happened when you met the Judge?"

"You know anything about a doctor named Faust?"

"No, I sure don't."

"How about a guy named Mephistopheles?"

"Good Lord."

"A long time ago, a man named Goethe wrote a story about this Doctor Faust who met Mephistopheles. Later in the story, we learn that Mephistopheles is actually the devil, and he tries to tempt Faust with an offer of power and knowledge if he sells him his soul. Well, my dear lady, your man, Chief Faust, here, just met and ate lunch with old Judge Mephistopheles. It's a good thing my heart is pure, and my soul isn't on the auction block.

She tilted her head in a questioning way.

"Of course, it helps that I'm too damned lazy and don't want to be the county sheriff."

My last statement seemed to shock Mrs. Lambert.

"What do you mean 'be the sheriff'?" she asked.

"He told me the sheriff's job would be available in the near future. If I cooperated by leaving this murder investigation to the TBI, he'd say the word, and I'd be elected. How do you like them apples?"

"I'm afraid to ask, but what did you say?"

"I was polite, as usual."

She made a face at that notion.

"And I declined." I pointed an accusing finger at her. "You really didn't think I'd roll over and take a political job rather than doing my sacred duty, did you?"

She waited a long moment before answering. "Sam, I'm proud of you. I really am. I'm not sure many people would have done that. I am so proud of you."

I've noticed when Bettye gets emotional her eyes take on an almost liquid appearance. It's touching.

"That's how I get to be every girl's hero," I said. "And besides, I like it here. I'm getting used to you as my partner. And why would I want to move into Maryville?"

She didn't answer, so I moved away from my rhetorical question.

"Hey, something's bothering me here."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Yesterday Travis told me he received reliable information that we were still investigating Cecil's murder. He specifically said we were speaking with people. When you called the county court for the transcripts of that class action suit, one of the court clerks may have gotten word to the Judge. But how did anyone learn we were interviewing people? I doubt one of the women would complain. Or would they?"

Bettye shook her head and half shrugged.

"I'd also like to know how Judge Tipton knew so much about me—my background, from many years ago. He said Sergeant Elam did a background investigation. It would have taken Elam a month to collect the amount of knowledge he had unless someone gave him access to things I submitted with my application for this job. Do you think Ronnie would have sold me down the river if the Judge whistled?"

Bettye's eyes widened, and she looked a little shocked.

"Oh, Sam, Ronnie Shields is such a nice man. I wouldn't think he could do that. Do you really?"

"I don't know what to think, kiddo. I would hope not. But, he's a politician. I'd trust my medical insurance people before I'd bet on the integrity of a politician. How about Trudy Connor? She had access to my personnel file. Or Buck Webbster? He came out of the woodwork again and probably still has connections in this building. He owes someone for getting him off the hook in court."

"I just don't know what to say."

"I guess any one of the City Councilmen could get that information to the old man. This kind of thing makes me wonder about this place."

"Sam, I am so sorry. I hate to see this happen. I just hate it."

"Don't worry, kid. I'll watch my back. Remember, as my good friend Woody Allen once said, 'I'm not afraid of dying—I just don't want to be there when it happens.'"

"What?"

"Oy, you should ask."

She made another face at my Yiddish accent.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Sam, but do you mind if I say something?"

"Talk away. I rarely get angry when someone's being honest."

That was a lie, but I'm sure it made her feel better.

"I think you're enjoying all this," she said. "I think you like sparring with these heavyweights. You're looking forward to beating them at their own game. It seems as important as finding the killer. Am I right?"

I took a moment to think about what she said. She may have been correct. Slipping back into a groove with me against the bad guy came naturally. And I couldn't deny beating people like that would be fun.

"You could be right," I said. "Some people who know the human psyche better than I have said I'm an adrenalin junkie. Years ago, I enjoyed bumping heads with nasty people. It seemed like a game to me. Maybe I am enjoying it now and shouldn't be."

"How about another question?" she said.

"Fire away."

"You retired after twenty years. That's a lot of time, but cops who get the good jobs stay around longer. You had a few good assignments. Why did you retire when you were only forty-six?"

"You're asking a bunch of questions. Did that detective job go to your head?"

"You said I could."

"Yes, I did. Okay, I'll tell you my story. It's long, so if you want a soda or something, now's the time."

She smiled and said, "I'm fine, an' jest a-waitin' ta hear what ya got ta say."

"You don't always speak with that much accent."

She smiled again.

I shifted in the chair and got comfortable. "When I started out as a cop, I had intentions of staying on board for thirty-five years and collecting my three-quarters pay. But things didn't turn out that way. I loved my first sixteen years. Then I started working for someone I ended up hating."

My story got interrupted when the radio squawked.

"Five-zero-nine ta headquarters. I got a pickup of a minor 10-10 at the Git-n-Go parkin' lot. No PI and no need for a wrecker. This is information only," Harley Flatt said.

"10-4, five-oh-nine. I'll put you 10-28," Bettye answered.

She turned from the radio, smiled, and I continued.

"I used to work for what the newspapers called the highest paid police department in the United States. I could have fun and make a good salary at the same time. I always thought I was worth the money, but I'm prejudiced and egotistical."

"You egotistical?" she said. "Surely not."

"Don't get smart. I do the jokes around here. Anyway, recently I've thought about one of the last things that happened to me before I retired, and it makes me wonder why I wanted to do this cop thing again."

Bettye sat there, tapping a pencil eraser on her desktop, listening to my story.

"I set a record in New York State. As far as I know, it still stands. But with inflation and changing times, that may no longer be true. I could check, I suppose, but I'm not sure I really care. I was sued for two-hundred-million dollars. That's millions, with lots of commas and zeros."

"Lord have mercy." She blinked several times. "I wouldn't want that hangin' over my head every mornin'."

"Yeah, it sucked, but I wasn't alone at the time. Two of the detectives who worked for me were also named in the suit. I came into the litigation as their supervisor—the guy responsible for them and the one who sanctioned their actions. Not to be left out, the list of respondents included the county executive, the police commissioner and everyone down the chain of command to the night janitor who emptied our trash baskets."

"I guess somebody had a hungry lawyer," she said.

"Yeah, Shakespeare hit it on the head."

"What?"

"First thing we do, is kill all the lawyers."

"Do you read Shakespeare?" she asked, aghast and wide-eyed.

"Not since I was a kid. Anyway, those big guys on the list were glad my two cops and I kept notes, had all our ducks in a row and knew how to testify in court. More than a hundred of the original 170 specifications were thrown out at the first examination-before-trial. Then, nineteen months and many depositions, hearings and court appearances later, the presiding judge dismissed the remainder of the charges with an apology to me and Detectives Martinez and McGovern.

"After that, our pensions, personal bank accounts and reputations were safe and sound. And my great metropolitan police department, the tenth largest in the country to be exact, was spared the expense of an unforeseen operating cost. I'm sure they could put the cash to better use—like a cocktail party for the chiefs."

"Why did someone sue you?" she asked.

"The lawyer called it a violation of civil rights. That was a load of manure, but they tried going after us in state court rather than the usual way, through the Feds, because the plaintiff's father, a real windbag with political horsepower, thought he could score easily in the county. He was wrong, and that's one of the reasons I hate doing business with these petty politicians."

"Oh, Sam. That's awful. I'm so sorry," she said, showing lots of compassion.

I had a great listener, so I kept my story going. "When I think back, I remember the brass at headquarters looking at me with an almost frightened look in their eyes. I had upset the apple cart. I was a nice guy, and a good cop, but during that ordeal I shouldn't have expected any support or backing. It just wasn't done."

"They sound like lovely people."

"They were a breed all their own. The only guy on my side—our side—was an over-the-hill, assistant county attorney who handled civil suits, notices-of-claim and wrongful death cases, most of which got settled out of court. After all that, I decided to retire with a bad taste in my mouth."

"If that hadn't happened, would you have stayed longer?"

"Probably. Who knows? But for my last four years, I worked for an imbecile, a guy who thought his law degree made him smarter than the rest of the world. But he wasn't even a pimple on a good cop's ass."

She made a face at my remark, and another radio call came in.

"Five–eleven, headquarters. I'm 10-29 from that neighbor dispute."

"10-4, five-eleven. Your number for paper is, 06-2349."

"10-4," Lenny Alcock said.

"Sorry about the pimple," I said, "but it's true. One pleasant thing happened though. I saw him get the sack a week before I retired. He had an appointed rank of deputy commissioner, so he was a free agent of sorts and could get canned at the pleasure of the county executive. And he did."

"That made you feel good?" she asked.

"You bet. But I put in my papers anyway because I was tired and disillusioned with everyone and everything except the people I worked with. They were a good, loyal bunch. If I walked in one day and said, 'Whoops, I think I just killed someone,' any one of them would have said, 'I'll get a shovel, boss.' They were a good bunch."

"Good working with people you can trust."

"Yes, it is," I said.

"Thank you for telling me that, Sam. I hope you didn't mind."

"No, I didn't mind. You're my new partner, right?"

"I certainly am. And proud of it."

"Good, I'm glad. You're a good cop."

I left Bettye to finish up the last of her day's work and retreated to my office. I sat down and reconsidered the miserable idea I had a few minutes earlier. I knew my paranoia had slipped into high gear when I thought Bettye might have given my personal information to Judge Tipton.

I told her that story because she'd be the only one other than my wife to know about it. If something ever came back to me, I'd know from whom.

I hoped my thoughts were unfounded. I'd seen pictures of Mata Hari. She and Bettye looked nothing alike.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

I began the next day by making a wall chart of all the people I considered suspects in Lovejoy's murder. I don't usually do something so theatrical, but I've recently seen TV cops do it, and thought I might be missing out on something if I didn't give it a try. My list of people had grown to be formidable. All the suspects showed diversified reasons for possibly snuffing Cecil. I ended up with a tension headache. 10:30 seemed too early for a drink—even for me, so I took a fistful of Advil and hoped the headache would go away.

If I started retracing my steps, re-interviewing people and then conducting new interviews of others, I'd need a squad of experienced detectives to help out.

Of course, some of my frontrunners, like Miss Pearl herself, Travis, the son without gonads, and even Billy Joe Elam, would only tell me to go pound salt and decline my invitation for a chat. It was their right.

So, where did that leave me? I spent a couple of hours going through the drill and only made my job look more difficult. Then fate stepped in and gave me a reprieve from a task I didn't look forward to, especially on a hot and dry July morning.

Bettye stepped into the doorway of my office looking fresh and perky. Then she told me, "Juanita Mashburn's on the phone. She said she wants to speak with you. Said her son's gone missin'. She's about hysterical, Sam."

As soon as I picked up the telephone, Juanita began dropping bombs on me.

"Mr. Jenkins, Randy's left home. This mornin' he wasn't here when I got up, and his car's gone. I've called his cell phone time and time again, but he won't answer. I'm afraid somethin's happened."

I listened to her words between sniffles and soft sobs. Juanita cried, but she did a good job of holding back any of the hysteria she may have felt and told me her story.

"Forgive me if I ask questions that sound intrusive," I said, "but I have to know the whole story to get an idea how to help you find Randy."

"Uh-huh." She sniffed again.

I envisioned her doing serious damage to a box of tissues.

"Did you two have an argument last night or recently? Anything that may have prompted him take off on you?"

"No, sir, Randy and I are gettin' along just fine. He's a good boy. I never have to come down on him for anythin'."

"Perhaps he made plans to go somewhere with friends, and you've forgotten about them. Have you called around to speak with his usual crowd or their parents?"

"Sir, Randy doesn't have a lot of friends, only a couple of boys from school. I spoke to all of them and their parents this mornin', and no one's seen or heard from him."

"In my own case, my parents were always the last to know what I was up to. That makes me ask if it's possible Randy may have taken off to, uh...be with a girl? Did you find a bunch of his clothes missing? You don't think he tried to elope or something like that, do you?"

There was silence on the line. Then I heard more sniffles, and the sound of Juanita wiping her nose. Then she cried again. I assumed she needed time to compose herself. I waited.

"Mr. Jenkins, I think I need to tell you somethin' very important." Juanita paused again to catch her breath. She sounded almost on the verge of hyperventilating. "Sir, for some time now, I've known that Randy wouldn't be havin' a girlfriend like other boys his age." After another few moments of silence she continued. "He and I have spoken about this, and I'm okay with what he's told me. Sir, Randy's...gay."

Remember what I said about liking smooth? If I read my horoscope, I'm sure there would be some mention of bumps, potholes or even sink holes for the month of July.

"I can only imagine what a young man might feel like once he's acknowledged something like that." I spoke with as much compassion as I could project. "Has Randy come to terms with what his life is going to be like?"

"Yes, sir, I think he has—for the most part. He's not ready to let the rest of the world know all about it, but he's able to accept what God's planned for him."

"Sorry again, but could he have gone off with another boy?"

"No, I don't think that happened."

She paused again. I didn't hear the sniffles or any audible crying, so I assumed she was trying to formulate a way to tell me something important.

"Recently, my father learned about Randy bein' gay. Daddy, bein' the way he is...was, I'm sure he's the last person Randy would want to know about him. Daddy confronted Randy, made fun of him and made him feel just awful."

She took another sniffle break.

"I tried to stop it," she said, "but my father is not one to be stopped when he's having fun at someone else's expense. I felt so sorry for Randy, I could have just died. Daddy actually threatened to tell everyone in the family and anyone else who'd listen, that Randy was...oh, God have mercy, he used the word _queer_."

I waited again for some full-blown crying to pass.

"He was horrible to my son, Mr. Jenkins. I just hated it. Randy tried not to show how much he hurt, but he cried and ran from the room."

"When did that happen?"

"About a week ago."

Just before Cecil left for the happy hunting ground.

"Did you find out how your father learned about Randy, or do you know if he told anyone else before he died?"

"I don't think he told anyone, and he didn't say how he learned. I don't know for sure."

"What I'm going to ask now may sound dramatic, and it may scare you, but I have to know what you think. Could Randy have any thoughts about suicide?"

She answered quickly. "Oh, no, I don't think so. He's never said anything about that. Randy's been kind of quiet since he had that run-in with Daddy, but I think I would have noticed if he looked depressed enough for that to be on his mind. No, I don't think so."

"Do you keep a gun in the house, or does Randy have access to one?"

"No, sir, even Randy's father didn't own a gun. We've no need for one."

"Is Randy's father living at home?"

"No, sir, he got killed in the First Gulf War, back in '91."

"I'm sorry I had to ask. I didn't mean to bring back bad memories. Is there any other man Randy would talk to about this—a teacher, a minister or your brother perhaps?"

"Oh, Lord have mercy, no. Nobody would talk to Travis about anythin' serious, and I can't think of anyone but me that Randy would talk with."

"Okay, let's keep our fingers crossed and hope his car just ran out of gasoline, and he's waiting for a ride to a station. I'll have my officers search all around Prospect. As soon as we're finished on the phone, I'll go out there myself and start looking. If you hear from Randy, please call Officer Lambert at our main number as soon as you know anything. I'll have her call his cell phone periodically. You should, too. What is that number?"

She told me.

"I'll keep checking in with you and Officer Lambert throughout the day. Now, can you give me a description of his car and the plate number?"

I took the information on the boy's car and listened to a few of her ideas about where Randy might go. I did my best to keep her hopes up.

I didn't want to put out an alarm over the county police radio network just then. I asked Bettye to call each of the on-duty patrolmen on their cell phones and give them orders to look for Randy Mashburn.

If I was a seventeen-year-old boy with a monumental problem hanging over my head, and I may have murdered my grandfather because he was a world-class turd who just complicated my life, where would I go to mull over my future? With a few ideas of my own, I'd begin my search.

Before I hit the road, I said, "Bettye, make sure the Three Musketeers have all the new info we got on those four women, their husbands, that one boyfriend and the ex-Marine. But tell them just to take an occasional look at these people. They shouldn't speak with anyone yet, but let the suspects see them. We may find out being watched makes them nervous, and someone will do something stupid. I don't know if any of that will do any good, but at least we're doing something. Okay?"

"Okey dokey, boss."

"Right now, finding Randy Mashburn is the top priority. As you hear from the cops on the road, get progress reports and pass on the information so no one duplicates efforts. If the evening shift comes on duty before I get back, tell them to hop on this one."

"Yes, sir."

"Can the phone company get a fix on the kid's cell phone if you ring the number?"

"If he has it on, maybe. But, Sam, there are so many dead spots around here because of the mountains, maybe not."

"Give it a try, but I guess old-fashioned police work is all we've got. Anyway, I hate technology."

She smiled and indulged my technophobia.

"Don't you worry, Sam. I'll take care of everything."

"I thought you might." I winked. "As Rick said to Louis in Casablanca, 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

"Yes, sir. I think so, too."

* * * *

July in the Smokies can be crowded. Millions of tourists visit the National Park and stay in the motels, campgrounds, rental cabins and B&Bs in all the surrounding towns.

If you wanted to be alone in the mountains during July, you needed to find a place the tourists didn't frequent. Randy drove a car, so my job wouldn't be easy, but I had to start somewhere.

There's no shade in the parking lot of the Municipal Building. Waves of heat distortion hovered above the blacktop behind my car. The shimmering surface of a puddle-like mirage appeared just before a sidewalk separated the car park from Main Street. I sat on a sizzling driver's seat, touched a steering wheel that burned my hand and switched on the ignition. Turning the air conditioner to maximum and the fan on high, I left Prospect and drove toward Townsend, waiting for my car to cool.

I'm a little old to assume the mentality of a twenty-first century high school boy, but I tried to put myself into Randy's head. First, I checked Dry Valley, a quiet spot with plenty of trees to park under and contemplate the future. I liked that place. The lonely valley affords visitors plenty of privacy, but Randy wasn't there.

He also hadn't driven up to Rich Mountain Road, a scenic stretch with great views that twisted through Townsend as a paved rural lane and turned into a limited access, gravel road when it crossed over the national park boundary. Strike two. I checked two more equally secluded and equally shady places—strikes three and four.

After my first attempts at finding his hiding place proved ineffective, I thought about that man shoveling sand against the tide. I hadn't eaten lunch. When I don't eat on schedule, I get cranky.

After noon, the temperature soared—much higher than the WNXX TV weatherman predicted. I sweltered every time I stepped from the car, and the air conditioner strained to keep the interior cool. I began heading west and planned to drive along the lonely eighteen miles of the Foothills Parkway, a winding mountain road owned and patrolled by the National Park Service.

The parkway begins off Highway 321 where Walland, Townsend and Prospect meet. It runs along the ridge of the Chilhowee Mountains and snakes its way down to the community of Tallassee, where US 129 follows the shore of Chilhowee Lake.

I love to take the Healey up on the parkway and make use of the serpentine road by drastically exceeding the speed limit. That day in the Crown Victoria, looking for Randy, I drove slowly.

Halfway through the eighteen miles of park road, I found the Look Rock Overlook on my left. Parked with the top down, in the only shady spot available, sat a solitary Honda S2000 roadster. The vanity plate said RANDY-M. No one occupied the little car.

I hoped Juanita had been correct, and Randy entertained no thoughts of suicide. If he did, Look Rock offered the perfect place for it. I parked and walked to the observation platform, hanging there, cantilevered, hundreds of feet above the rocky valley below.

From that vantage point someone could look south, through the soft blue haze, toward Abrams Creek and over the mountains into North Carolina. In the opposite direction, West Miller's Cove, a place that gained recognition for its world-class and worldly-priced Blackberry Farms Inn and Restaurant waited for all the well-heeled tourists. All around me, I saw evidence why the Cherokee called these hills the Great Smoky Mountains.

Leaning on the guardrail under a hackberry tree, Randy Mashburn looked quiet and thoughtful. At the top of the five steps over the platform, I cleared my throat to announce my presence. I stepped down next to him. He didn't turn.

"A little cooler up here in the shade, isn't it?" I asked.

Randy looked at my face, recognized me, nodded slightly and returned his gaze to the hazy blue folds of the mountains separating Tennessee from the Carolinas.

"Your mom's worried about you. Were you thinkin' about heading home anytime soon?"

"I don't know," he said, sounding bewildered. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and rested his elbows back on the guardrail. "I don't know what to do. I suppose she called you. Did she tell you the whole story?"

"She didn't tell me much," I lied. "Only that she thought you were upset, and she's worried about you. She said it was unlike you to take off without telling her or leaving a note. Anything you want to tell me yourself?"

"Oh, man, it's a long story." He shook his head and closed his eyes. "It doesn't matter anymore. I may as well tell someone."

"Sometimes that helps." I shrugged, wondering what I'd hear next. "I've got time, and I can be discreet if I have to."

Randy went into detail about acknowledging his homosexuality. He spoke of his confusion, the initial shame, his attempts to accept his lot in life and the few clandestine liaisons he had with other boys.

He said he attempted to handle things by himself, afraid to tell anyone or even think of getting professional help to resolve his conflict. Initially, telling me the story looked difficult for the boy. But after a few minutes, his body language showed discussing it provided relief.

He said his mother had been unconditionally supportive, understanding and loving when he finally confided in her. Ultimately, he thought it possible to foster up the courage and come out of his closet prison. Then, as he began feeling emotionally better about himself, up stepped Cecil with his threats and set the boy's mental progress back to point one.

Randy stared at me for a long moment. His blue eyes glassed over, on the verge of tears. Perhaps uncharacteristic of me, I felt uncomfortable with what he might next tell me.

"So, what do you think?" he asked.

I smiled, trying to lighten him up a little. "Wow, when you started, I thought you were going to tell me something really horrible—like you're left-handed."

He smiled, too, a good genuine smile. Sometimes my offbeat humor paid dividends.

"Nosir." He shook his head and used the back of his hand to wipe the corner of his eye, "I mean what do I do? You know."

I hate it when people ask for a dose of Jenkins philosophy.

"Randy, I'm not going to tell you your life will be easy. The entire world isn't ready to accept gay people as it accepts heterosexuals. But you are gay. It's who you are. It's a natural occurrence. Nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe someday you'll find someone who'll love you, and you'll have a partner to live your life with. Who knows?"

He kept looking at me, nodding. I guess I had said something right.

"Right now your mother loves you. She's proven that. You're her son. She accepts you as you are and not what someone else wants you to be."

A smile crossed his lips. I thought he liked what he just heard.

"I've heard from many people that your grandfather wasn't the easiest guy to get along with." That was one hell of an understatement. "What he thought and what he said are no longer things you have to worry about. So, now you have to become your own person, and maybe you'll have to be a tough guy, someone who's able to live with the things nasty people like your granddad say to you in the future."

"You know," he said, "I'm responsible for what happened to my grandfather."

That's the moment a detective waits for. Bingo, you just talked a confession out of a suspect. You didn't have to smack him around or scare the daylights out of him to do it. You gained his trust, and you let his need to confess take over. But was that a good confession? Did Randy really kill his grandfather? He didn't say that.

I'll admit I just put him on my list of possibles, but I never had any big money riding on him.

I listened to him pour his heart out to me, explaining a very important aspect of his life. Perhaps I gained his trust, and now he wanted to confess to me. Or perhaps I hadn't, and this was a red herring. It seemed too easy.

Homosexuality, although frowned upon by many (especially in this neck of the woods) is no longer an offense—the Supreme Court says so. He told me he was gay; he didn't confess to a punishable crime. Although difficult for him in the beginning, coming out of the closet would not be an end to the boy's life.

In my experience, you have to really sweat a teenager to make them 'fess up to any illegal conduct. Most seventeen-year-old kids would deny stealing a bag of Doritos if you caught them with a mouthful of chips.

So, after becoming my buddy, would Randy in general conversation say, 'Hey, Sam, guess what? I whacked my papaw. Want to write this one up for me? Gimme the statement, I'll sign.'

The one thing that confuses a jury most is having the wrong person confess. Even worse is when two people confess to the same crime, and they weren't acting in concert. Juanita Mashburn also occupied a spot on my hit parade of suspects. The old photos of the fifteen-year-old girl I got from Ralph Oliveri looked an awful lot like a young Juanita.

I didn't want Randy claiming to be the murderer to protect his mother. I also didn't want two people getting on a witness stand, both saying, 'Hey, I did it.'

With a total lack of corroborating physical evidence, I stood on dangerous ground if people started going on record with their confessions before I wanted to take them. Confusing? You bet. This is why I get the big bucks.

Under those circumstances, I did something I normally would never do. I interrupted the kid's free flow of information.

"Randy, I think we need to see your mom before we do anything else. Let's secure your car, put the top up and lock it. I'll have an officer bring it back to town for you. We'll take my car to your place."

As we drove down the mountain, Randy asked only one question: Did I intend to arrest him? I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk much. I needed time to think about everything he said and juggle that with what I had learned elsewhere. I didn't doubt the young, nude girl in the old photos was Juanita Mashburn nee Lovejoy. Cecil, the miserable bastard, had been taking pictures of his daughter, and if I guessed correctly, he did a lot more. But I needed to find out for sure.

My train of thought broke when I found a Prospect PD cruiser sitting near the Parkway exit road to Highway 321. I gave Randy's keys to Officer Len Alcock, told him to get another man and bring the roadster back to the PD parking lot.

As Randy and I started the trip to his mother's house in the northern, hilly section of Prospect, my cell phone rang.

Katherine spoke to me. I stopped the car and stepped outside to make the call private.

"Sam, Nonie just called. She said the TBI people arrested George for killing that man. They claim there's evidence of animosity between the two for a long time, and that weekend George just snapped after the big argument."

"Oh, shit. Where is he now?"

"They told her they were taking him to the Blount County Justice Center to process the arrest and put him in a cell overnight."

"Their theory sounds pretty thin to me," I said. "But if an arrest is all they want and they aren't too concerned about a conviction, it would do. Sure," I started thinking out loud, "make an arrest, close the case, and let the chips fall where they may in court. If George is acquitted after trial, they still have a closed case, and they'll blame the jury for letting a killer go free. Pearl Lovejoy gets her quick results, and the politicos can expect a nice contribution for their efforts on her behalf. I'd hate to believe the D.A. would entertain that arrest, but I'll never underestimate the power of the politician."

"That's nice for Pearl Lovejoy, but who pays for George's lawyer?" Kate asked.

"Did Nonie get a lawyer yet? Doesn't matter—call her back. Tell her to call Joe Costello in Maryville. Everyone says he's the best criminal attorney around. Look in the phone book for his number so she doesn't have to. If she's already called someone else, have Costello contact them and wave them off. Got all that?"

"Yeah, boss," she said. "You think George will be okay here? He is innocent, isn't he?"

"Yeah, I'll tell you what I learned today and what I think when I get home. I'll try to get all this squared away pretty soon. Gotta go now. Bye, kiddo."

So, I thought, that's why no one saw the TBI agents conducting an investigation. They concentrated on George Morgan as the killer and worked hard to find something to fit their theory. Typical tunnel vision. They only focused on interviewing members of the car club who could tell them about past arguments between George and Cecil. But could those arguments have been hot enough to make George want to kill the man?

The TBI never explored any of Cecil's other misdeeds or looked at his other enemies. Talk about narrow-minded. Or did I disregard a possible suspect because he's a friend?

Once again, I thought Joe Dolinski had given me sound advice. I really didn't need this.

* * * *

We parked in front of Juanita and Randy Mashburn's brick-faced home. The house sat on a street that rose high above the main road. From the southeast facing deck at the rear of the house, they had a beautiful view of the Smokies. I wondered why Juanita and Randy weren't destined to just sit on the deck in the evenings, sip their sweet tea and be free of the mental tyranny fostered on them by Cecil Lovejoy's perversions and threats.

Surveyors platted out the subdivision before the trend toward postage-stamp lots became popular. Each of the attractive houses on the quiet, winding street sat on roughly a half-acre of ground. Not too much to maintain, but enough to keep the lives of the residents relatively private.

We entered through the unlocked front door.

"Mom. Mom, come here please," Randy called.

Juanita met us at the edge of the living room wearing a navy blue tank top, khaki shorts and sandals. Her eyes looked like she'd been crying since we last spoke—probably a lot. She began crying again and threw her arms around Randy. After administering a bear hug on the kid, she smiled and looked at my face. Silently she mouthed the words, 'Thank you.'

"Randy," I said, "give me a few minutes to speak with your mother?"

The boy looked at me and nodded.

"Why don't you get yourself something cold to drink?" I suggested. "We won't be long."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Chief," Juanita said. "What am I thinkin'? Can I get y'all somethin' ta drink? You're lookin' very warm, too."

"No, ma'am, I'm okay for now." I looked over my shoulder. "See you in a few, Randy. We'll give you a shout." I turned my attention back to Juanita as Randy left the room.

"Thank you, Chief," she said. "Thank you so much. Does he seem ta be okay?"

"Yes, I think Randy will be fine. He seemed a little confused and told me he blamed himself for what happened to your father."

Her eyes widened, and she stared at me for a long moment. "He said what?"

"He told me he was responsible for what happened to your father. He asked if I would arrest him."

"You don't think Randy killed Daddy, do ya?"

She began crying again. I looked over at a modern grandfather clock standing against the wall. Five to four—I didn't have time to hang around and get too deeply into Randy's guilt with Juanita. I wanted to visit George Morgan's lawyer before the close of the business day and work on getting Georgie sprung.

"I have to think about that," I said. "And you do, too. I want you to speak with him. Tell him you're glad he's home. He loves you, and from what he told me, he thinks you're doing a good job of being a mother."

She nodded and wiped her eyes with a tissue.

"I'm sorry, but I have to leave now because someone is sitting in jail for something he didn't do. I have an obligation to help him. But I want to speak with you again—soon. Is that okay with you?"

She hesitated. "Speak about Randy?"

"Yes and about things in general."

"Yes, I guess so."

"Good. How about tomorrow? Late morning perhaps?"

"Momma wanted me to go with her to the funeral home. They just released Daddy's body, and she has ta make the arrangements. Would the next day be alright?"

"I suppose it will have to be. How's 9:30 Thursday morning?"

"Yes, sir, that'll be fine. And thank you again for bringing Randy home."

"You're welcome. Your son's a nice boy. Tell him I said so."

As I left the Mashburn home, I thought the shorts Juanita wore didn't only show off a pair of good legs. Finding Randy and my visit with his mother began putting everything into perspective for me.

I began my drive west. I wanted to get to Joe Costello's office quickly, but my gas gauge told me to stop at the city pumps. After a day of looking for Randy Mashburn, I was running on fumes—in more ways than one.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

I pulled into the municipal lot and stopped my car behind a PD cruiser parked at the gas pump. Stan Rose crouched under the car's hood checking the oil while the automatic pump filled the gas tank.

I walked up next to him and said, "Hey, mister, you solve the murder yet?"

He took his hand off the dip stick and stood up, hitting his head on the hood of the car.

"Jesus, you scared me," he said. "White people ain't supposed to sneak up like that."

"Sorry, I had an uncle who was a Mohawk. He taught me to walk like an Indian."

He used two hands to slam the hood, rubbed his head and then looked at me. "I'm sorry, too. I haven't been able to find one thing to call a clue. But I'm still trying."

"I'm pressed for time right now. I've got to get into Maryville before five o'clock, but I want you to do something for me. I'm out of gas. Give me a minute, and we'll talk."

"Okay," he said. "I'll be waiting over there." He pointed to a row of empty parking spaces less than a hundred feet away.

I pumped a tankful, didn't bother checking the oil and drove the short distance to pull up next to Stan's car.

His window rolled down, and he flipped me a casual salute. I returned it, acting equally casual. A detective wouldn't salute the president; a uniformed cop's protocol still seemed a little foreign to me. I hadn't been a patrol sergeant since gasoline cost half-a-buck.

Looking at Stanley, I realized just how big he was. Anyone making a full-sized Ford look small is formidable.

"Okay, boss," he said, "what's shaking?"

"I found Randy Mashburn and took him home. I wanted to have a long talk with him and his mother, but I learned the TBI arrested a guy named George Morgan for the Lovejoy murder. Morgan is no more guilty than you are. I've got to catch his lawyer and tell him about the pictures I have."

"You know he's not guilty because?"

"I think I just figured out who killed Cecil. Now I've got to see if we can prove it."

"One of the four women in the pictures is the killer?"

"No."

"Gonna let me in on your secret?"

He scratched his short hair and seemed hot and tired. His khaki uniform shirt looked pale next to his dark skin.

"Soon enough," I said. "But right now I've got to see a lawyer about a scam."

"Boss, I hear you talking, but I'm not sure I understand what you said."

"Tell Bettye the boy is back at home. Have her contact the rest of the guys, and cancel the search. Tell her I'll call her as soon as I can."

Stan nodded. I gave him the gunman's salute and put the Ford into gear.

Since the beginning of that investigation, people like Pearl Lovejoy, Judge Tipton and even that fat bastard, Buck Webbster, were all doing a bang-up job of bending or breaking the rules for their own advantage. I thought it might be time to do a little playing out of bounds myself. I caught all of them, but there was no reason to think they'd catch me.

* * * *

As I drove west, I took out my new cell phone and fumbled around trying to get my home number to ring. I didn't run off the road and get killed, so I considered myself lucky. By pure accident, I got a connection and after three rings, Kate picked up.

"Hey, Kats," I said, "did Nonie hire Joe Costello to represent George?"

"She did," Katherine said. "I've been on the phone with her several times today. She's upset, and George is still in jail. What's going on?"

"I'm guessing they've scheduled him for arraignment tomorrow morning. With any luck, I can put a stop to that after I see Costello. I'm...no, forget it. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay, love. And hey, Sammy—thanks for calling. I love you."

"You too, sweetie. Know what? You did a great job today. You should be a cop's wife—thanks. I'll see you later."

I never played a game quite like the one I wanted to try on Joe Costello. In New York, I never had to. I never shrank from bending rules, but I never knowingly broke several laws just to make a point either. As I drove on, I thought I heard Bob Dylan's nasal voice singing, "It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, for the times, they are a-changin'.

Costello's law offices occupied a large, converted Victorian house on a side street near the old courthouse in Maryville. I parked in the lot adjacent to his building, put on my sport jacket with my badge holder hanging from the top pocket and took the envelope of FBI photos inside.

His receptionist dropped her phone receiver on the cradle, looked up at me with a great smile and asked if she could 'he'p' me. After having a rotten day, I felt frazzled and really struggled to act human.

"Hi, I'd like to see Mr. Costello. I have information for him that I think is beneficial to an innocent person." I tried a big smile and hoped my cryptic message hooked her curiosity. How could she resist? I'd die if she said, 'Sorry, you need an appointment.'

But she didn't. She picked up the phone and buzzed an intercom. I turned away to give her some privacy, but looked at her from the corner of my eye. She was a lovely girl: late twenties, long dark hair, pretty face, a dark blue jacket over a light blue T-shirt. I thought Joe had great hiring standards. Maybe she could even type.

The girl placed the phone down, looked up at me and smiled again. I wondered how she liked me so far.

"Sir, if ya could wait about two minutes, Mr. Costello will be right with ya."

For lack of anything wittier to say, I settled for, "Thanks" and turned to look out the window between the Venetian blinds.

Expensive-looking green drapes flanked the window frames. Above the glass, similar material hung classically swagged on a cornice.

In about 120 seconds, I heard a door open and turned in the direction of the sound.

"Hi, I'm Joe Costello," he said. "How can I help you?"

We walked into his office. Instead of hiding behind his desk, Costello took a seat in one of his client chairs and turned to face me. I stood for a few seconds, surprised to be doing what I intended and then moved the second chair to sit facing him.

He was short, trim and couldn't have looked more Irish if he carried a plate of corned beef and cabbage in his hand. His navy blue suit looked expensive and business-like.

"Mr. Costello, I'm Sam Jenkins from the Prospect Police."

His smile showed several thousand dollars of dental work. He had a good tan and dark, curly hair.

I reached into my pocket for the wad of bills I carried, peeled off a five and handed it to him. His face showed the appropriate curiosity.

"I want to retain you to perhaps, in the future, represent me in a criminal matter which I'd like to discuss."

He nodded and continued looking at me with interest.

"Today, I may commit an act of official misconduct or whatever you call it in Tennessee. I'm more familiar with the laws in New York. In the next few hours or days, I may intentionally commit additional acts of misfeasance or malfeasance. I may need legal counsel."

Costello said nothing. He seemed content listening to my unusual request.

"An agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation gave me these photos."

I handed him the eight photos of the nude females that my villain, the despicable Cecil, had taken.

He accepted the envelope, but didn't open it.

I continued my story. "I believe them to be exculpatory evidence in favor of the man TBI investigators arrested for the murder of Cecil Lovejoy."

That got a raise of his eyebrows. He opened the envelope and looked at the photos.

"These photos," I said, "and many others were extracted from Lovejoy's computer hard drive. The four women and their husbands purchased land from Cecil Lovejoy and contracted with him to build them homes they couldn't, according to the banks, afford. Lovejoy coerced the women to pose for explicit photos, and in some cases have sex with him, in compensation for his co-signing their mortgages."

"Interesting. You're sure of all this?"

I nodded.

"Photos of this nature would be at least embarrassing to those families if they became public knowledge," I said. "I've identified the women and will produce those names if necessary. I'm sure you can see a reasonable doubt of that defendant's guilt may be inferred because these women or their families also have a motive to silence Cecil Lovejoy."

"You got these from the FBI in Knoxville?"

"Yes, a couple of days ago. I've not given any pictures to the TBI and don't contemplate doing so. I believe the defendant's attorney would like to see them. I also have good reason to believe that attorney may never learn of the existence of these photos through the usual channels of discovery. I'd prefer not to explain why."

He tilted his head, and a smirk formed on his face. He looked at the five-dollar bill he held between his thumb and forefinger.

"So, please have your secretary—what's her name by the way?—write me a receipt for my retainer, and if I need you, I'll call. But as a favor, would you see that a Mr. George Morgan's attorney sees the pictures?"

Costello grinned. He knew a cool ploy when he saw one. Establishing an attorney-client relationship with Costello would keep his mouth shut about the source of the FBI photos. I never said I knew he represented George Morgan, and apparently, he didn't see a conflict of interest.

"Her name is Stephanie," he said. "Five bucks isn't my usual retainer, but under the circumstances... Hang on a minute, and I'll have her type up a receipt."

He disappeared into the reception area. A few minutes later, he returned.

"Thank you," he said, pointing at my badge, " _Chief_ Jenkins, uh...for your business. I'll take care of these photos and see that they're properly utilized."

"Good, I thought you would," I said. "And thanks for your time."

He handed me a receipt for my five dollars. We shook hands, and I left.

In the reception area, Stephanie and I exchanged smiles again. If I had a son, I'd tell him about Stephanie.

In the parking lot, I started my car for the drive home. If I wanted any more mental anguish, I'd think about the stupid thing I just did to get my friend off the hook and take a shot at the Lovejoy camp. I hoped to hell I had all the right ideas, and George was really innocent.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

I passed the Brown's Creek shopping center on my left, crested a small hill, passed the 1st Tennessee Bank and leveled off for a mile. Switching on my police radio, I passed an auto junkyard on my right, the road dipped, and a steep section of US 321 stretched out ahead of me. Beyond the roadway, on the horizon, Chilhowee Mountain stood prominently on the right and Ellejoy Mountain on the left.

The afternoon air felt cooler and looked crystal clear. An orange sun hung in the sky behind me. Stark definition of the trees on faraway slopes and the depth of shadows in the mountain folds offered a landscape photographer an incredible opportunity.

I moved a little faster than the rest of the traffic. Just west of an area called Lem's Corners, I drove up on the tail end of eleven motorcyclists grouped closely together. Seven of the bikes held drivers and passengers. Four other bikers rode solo. Of the bunch, four towed small, enclosed trailers painted to match the cycles. All rode Honda Gull Wings and belonged to the over-fifty crowd, not exactly an outlaw gang. They probably intended to settle into a motel near the park or the Tremont Camp Ground, run by the National Park Service.

Someone in the pack must have made my car as an unmarked police vehicle—everyone cruised at fifty-five. I used my left signal and passed them at a little over sixty.

I looked at my watch. Five after five. I used the radio to contact Bettye.

Still at her desk after closing time, Bettye keyed the microphone. "This is Prospect Headquarters. Go ahead, Chief."

She was a stickler for radio etiquette and did her motherly best to keep us boys in line. I tried not to annoy her with overfamiliarity on the net.

"This is Prospect One. You've already heard from Officer Curly. Contact Officers Larry and Moe and have them disregard previous instructions relevant to the surveillance of those subjects in the photos. Also, I assume you've informed all on-duty personnel to discontinue the search for that errant youth from earlier today. That situation is resolved."

"10-4...I think."

"I have something to discuss with you regarding a case. I'll 10-13 you later this evening. Prospect One, out."

"10-4, Prospect One. I'll wait for your call." Then she went right into a normal station sign-off message.

"Headquarters to all Prospect units, the time is 1709 hours. This station is 10-28 until 0800 hours Wednesday. County Dispatch will handle communications. Prospect headquarters, out."

* * * *

At 5:20 p.m., I arrived home after a long, frustrating day. I parked the PD car in my driveway turnaround and entered the house through the garage. Everything in there looked neat and orderly. The brooms and tools hung on racks as they should. I saw no clutter on the floor. I walked between my clean truck and Katherine's shiny white Subaru. The light metallic blue Healey sat on the right of the three-car garage. Life there was under control.

Inside in the cool tranquility of the house, the tension of the day began to dissipate. If I asked myself, "Do I need this job?" the little voice inside me would have replied, "What would Juanita, Randy or George be doing if that asshole Buck Webbster handled this case?" The answer jumped off the page. I found no way to argue with that.

Rather than debating with myself, I found more interest in the bottle of Glenfiddich sitting in our liquor cabinet.

Katherine stood in the kitchen drying a tall glass. Bitsey wagged her tail and gave a short, throaty bark to greet me.

Kate turned to me and kissed my cheek. "Hello, Sambo."

"Hi ya, Kats. What's shakin'?"

"You okay?" she asked. "You look tired."

"Yeah, I'm fine. After you make me a drink, why don't you call Nonie, and tell her Georgie should be out tomorrow morning. I doubt he'll even get arraigned. I think this whole business is over. He'll be free tomorrow."

"Will he?"

"Yeah, have her call Joe Costello early in the morning—before the nine o'clock arraignments calendar, and he'll tell her what she has to do. At least she'll have a more peaceful night if she knows what to expect."

"You have this thing solved? Did you make an arrest?"

"No arrest, but this issue is dead...like Cecil Lovejoy. Case closed, as far as I'm concerned. We'll talk about it over dinner."

"Yes, you'll have to explain this one to me, but George is off the hook? You're sure?"

"Yes, Tonto, my work here is finished. How about that drink while I put away my gun and silver bullets?"

"What are you havin', Kemosabe?"

"Scotch, two cubes, in a short glass," I said, then made my way upstairs to put on a clean shirt and leave my gun and holster in the drawer for the night.

When I came downstairs, she handed me the beverage I requested.

"I missed lunch today. That's unacceptable. What's for dinner?"

"I was pretty busy today, acting as your liaison officer with my troubled friend. I didn't take anything out of the freezer. Sorry."

"Ugh! I'm starving. I won't last too long."

"How about Mexican again?" she suggested. "El Jibarito is just ten minutes down the road, amigo. I even wore my cowgirl outfit to make the decision easier for you."

Kate's hair looked perfect, her makeup appeared fresh, and she wore a pair of tight blue jeans and a sleeveless, denim blouse that looked very sexy. Not exactly from the Dale Evans collection, but I guess it represented Western wear to a Polish girl from Long Island. As usual, the waiters would fawn all over the beautiful senora and pretend I didn't exist.

I took another long sip of the Scotch already cooled by those two little ice cubes. With the day over and the solution to the murder in the palm of my hand, I felt relaxation begin to creep over me. Being gainfully employed again, I needed practice managing the stress of a police job. So far, whisky was the handiest tool.

With a little luck, everything would work out to a satisfactory conclusion. My 'mop up' mission was all that remained. That peaty brown water from the River Fiddich made me feel better. It warmed my stomach and began to release the remaining tension from my arms and shoulders. I rolled my head around and heard more cracking than when a fat man sits on a bag of pretzels. My mind slipped into overdrive. I saw enchiladas poblanos in my future; I could almost taste the chicken and mole' sauce.

"Good idea, sweetie," I said. "I'll finish this drink, and you can drive. I'll buy you a big margarita when we get there. Come, muchacha, we ride. Arriba!"

* * * *

Later that evening, I called Bettye and told her about the conclusion to our investigation being in sight. In the morning, I'd need phone calls to be made and taken and someone to stay in the office while I diddled around on the road. With luck, my latest strategy would begin and end in the next day or two.

George might be released unconditionally, or he might be arraigned and eligible for bail. Joe Costello would either work a deal with the D.A. to release George prior to arraignment, based on the new, mysteriously obtained evidence, or he'd arrange for a bail bondsman to put up the cash for George's release. I felt confident the first option would be the more likely scenario.

If my idea came to fruition, all would be well. If not, things might backfire, and I'd look like an idiot. And I had no plan B in mind.
Chapter Thirty

I arrived at the office a few minutes after Bettye. For a moment, I watched her setting up for a day's work. She noticed me and returned my stare with a questioning look. At eight o'clock, the Municipal Building is usually empty. Police personnel are the exception.

"Hi," I said.

"Good morning, sir."

Bettye tried waiting for me to speak again, but my silence must have annoyed her. She didn't wait long.

"Well?" she asked. "You were gone a long time yesterday. What happened? Sam, are you goin' to have a job after this? What did you mean, by the way, errant youth? If you're goin' to use words like that on the radio, you better get us a new dictionary. Why are you in this early? What if—?"

"Whoa! Time out." I gave her the football referee's hand signal. "You sound like our friend Glenda Mae. Don't you Southern girls ever come up for air?"

She frowned, wrinkled her nose and looked at me for a few seconds before speaking.

"Seriously, Sam, are you goin' to get into trouble over...whatever it is you've done? I didn't get much information from Stanley or from you last night."

I gave her a serious look. "Who would dare censure me? I am champion of those caught in the undertow of life. My thoughts are pure, and my deeds are just."

"Who said that? Laurence Olivier?"

She could be sarcastic if necessary.

"No, I did."

"You're a piece of work, Sam Jenkins."

"But I have a kind face."

"Are you going to tell me what happened, or did you plan to keep me here all day just to try out some new jokes?"

Oooo, very sarcastic.

"Gee, can I assume our honeymoon is officially over?" I said.

She chuckled at that.

"This is a long story, and I have to be at arraignments before nine o'clock. Listen and save your questions for later. I'll be back and tell you everything. Right now, you need a quick version of what happened, as do the other guys, so after I leave, you can call them, explain a little, and have them stand down. Everything's under control."

She acted perfectly, sat down, crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap, waiting for my explanation.

"I found Randy Mashburn up on the Foothills Parkway, in no trouble, just in a quiet spot thinking about his future. On the phone Juanita told me Cecil learned the kid is gay and threatened to out him to the whole Lovejoy clan and anyone in East Tennessee who would listen."

"Oh, Lord have mercy."

"Randy agreed to return home. I drove him, as you probably know since his car ended up in our lot. What you don't know is that I think I've figured out who killed Cecil Lovejoy."

"Stanley told me you said that. Are you going to explain?"

"Yes, but it's complicated. I need to find out a few more things before I have enough evidence to make anything public."

"And where did you come up with this new idea?"

"From what I heard and saw yesterday. Keep your fingers crossed. As soon as I cover a few bases, I should have this all wrapped up."

"Well, bless your heart. But you won't tell me what you think?"

"Remember, we aren't supposed to be investigating. What you don't know, you don't have to tell anyone who asks."

"Why do you get involved in things this way?"

"I have a personality flaw. Look, yesterday the TBI people arrested George Morgan for Lovejoy's murder. I only found out about it late yesterday after his wife called Kate."

"George Morgan, your friend? The man from the car club?"

"Yeah, it sounds bogus to me. I think they're using George as a patsy to satisfy Pearl Lovejoy and her father. He only had a flimsy motive, but the big argument at the car show made him look bad. They're grasping at straws."

She nodded, agreeing with me again or just encouraging me to explain more.

"But I have a feeling George's attorney recently uncovered exculpatory evidence to create enough reasonable doubt for the District Attorney to drop any charges the TBI filed against him."

"And how would you know all that?"

"Don't ask, and don't tell anyone else if you're suspicious. I'll come back here as soon as I leave the Justice Center, and we'll talk more. I'll explain everything."

"Sam, you are amazin'."

"I have an important loose end to tie up and need to see Ronnie Shields. Make an appointment with him for eleven o'clock. That should give me plenty of time at the court. Tell Trudy it's a matter of life or death, and I can't be put off."

"Suppose he's busy?"

"I have faith in you, my darling. Move heaven and earth to achieve your quest."

"Was that Lawrence Olivier?"

"James Mason. Pretty good, huh?"

"You're quite an experience, Sam Jenkins. You surely are."

"See you later, kiddo."

Personally, I never thought the two senior investigators from TBI ever found enough probable cause to charge George and make a summary arrest. But that's only because I'm one of the sharpest and most modest cops I know.

I didn't want to tell Bettye, or anyone else, about my new suspicions. I'd be grasping at straws myself, and I didn't want to explain my stunt of handing the photos over to a defense attorney. Things would work better if no one had to lie to defend me—or turn me in to the mayor if they didn't see things my way.

* * * *

Just before 9 a.m., the Blount County Justice Center began to come alive. A few deputies and court officers walked around the hallways. Civilian workers started arriving and made their ways to different offices. The arraignments part of the court opened up to handle those defendants arrested late the previous afternoon and during the overnight tours. Two corrections officers led a few defendants into the courtroom—George Morgan wasn't one of them.

I stood in the hall outside the assistant district attorney general's office for a long time. Without seeing him make an appearance in the courtroom, I assumed Joe began his pitch to an ADA with the power to grant him a deal. I waited impatiently.

Then I learned Joe Costello lived up to his reputation as a tenacious and crafty lawyer. Using Cecil's photos, he convinced the on-duty ADA to 'unarrest' George Morgan prior to his arraignment. No kidding, _unarrest_ is a real legal term. The ADA saw the handwriting on the wall and chose to save the people of the state of Tennessee the expense of a trial most likely ending with an acquittal.

It was after ten o'clock when Costello walked into the hallway. He saw me and smiled. I fell into step next to him as he headed out of the building.

After hearing a short explanation, I spoke. "Earned your money this morning, didn't you?"

"Yep, got me another satisfied customer."

"And the TBI will leave George alone now?"

"Would seem silly for them to get embarrassed more than once."

"Good. It's a shame George had to spend money for this, isn't it?"

"Sometimes the system sucks, but it's the best we've got."

"I hear you."

"I never told George how I got the information I used to get him unarrested," he said. "I assume you haven't told his wife either."

"No, I haven't."

"Good. And is it safe to assume you didn't charge him for what you did on his behalf?"

"Yeah, of course," I said.

"So, I guess with a friend like you...he got a good deal."

"Better than nothing."

"Those photos came to me at a time when I was under the attorney-client confidentiality rule. That's what your five bucks bought ya."

"Good. Thanks. I wish I thought of that."

"Yeah, right. Probably wasn't all that ethical, was it?

"Probably not, but what the hell? I'll live with that."

"Yep, me too."

"Had some moral value though."

"I think it did," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"May I make another assumption that you'll want to hold onto these for safe keepin'?" He offered me the nine-by-twelve envelope holding the original pictures obtained from Ralph Oliveri, boy G-Man.

"You may assume that, Counselor. Some coincidence you represented the guy arrested for Lovejoy's murder, huh?"

"Yep, amazin'. And thanks for that retainer. It covers my gas money this mornin'. If you need me to keep ya outta trouble, ya know where to find me."

"Oh, yeah, my five bucks. I was meaning to talk to you about that."

Costello laughed and waved as he closed the door on his black Lexus. I watched him drive from the Justice Center parking lot and through the green traffic light across from Blount Memorial Hospital.

I stood there for another moment in the morning sun. I felt relaxed again. So far, so good, I thought. Jenkins one; other guys zip.

It was time to see the mayor and find out how Judge Tipton learned so much about yours truly in such a short time.
Chapter Thirty-One

As I walked up the marble staircase to the second floor, the idea of my personal information being traded among those who actively sought to stymie my investigation nagged me incessantly.

I hated the thought of Bettye being responsible, but I couldn't continue to have her within the loop if she leaked information to Minas Tipton, or even worse...to Buck Webbster.

Ronnie Shields probably knew about my unauthorized investigation, but hadn't mustered up the courage to tell me to stop doing something legal and proper. Without ceremony, Ms. Connor announced me, and I soon sat in one of the green chairs with that snarling fish staring down at me through glassy yellow eyes.

"Ronnie, I'm sure you've heard I made progress on the Lovejoy murder."

He grimaced, but said nothing.

"Maybe _progress_ is the wrong word. I seem to have created a tidal wave some people are unhappy about."

"I thought we agreed the TBI would handle the investigation," he said, his normal campaign smile conspicuously absent.

"We agreed they would take primary responsibility for the case. And I gave them everything I had. But I continued to look around in my spare time. We never crossed paths. It seems they decided to look in other places. I don't think they pursued the proper avenues."

"Yes, well." Ronnie didn't look overly happy with my diligence.

"I met a guy named Minas Tipton. I assume you know him," I said sarcastically.

The mayor nodded.

"During our conversation, I learned he possessed way too much personal information on me than his assistant could have gathered in only one or two days. That troubles me...greatly. Where do you suppose he got that information?"

He looked at me, frowned, but didn't answer.

I shifted forward in my seat and tried to bore a hole into his head with my eyes. He blinked first.

"You don't think it was me, do ya?" he asked.

"Tell me it wasn't."

"Sam, I assure you...I'd never...I mean, I wouldn't. Your personal history...I consider that highly confidential."

"Good. Now you and I have to figure out who gave it to Judge Tipton."

"Sam, are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." He hung his head slightly and shook it. I think a hair or two slipped out of place. A virtual disaster.

"How many people in this building had access to my file?"

"Why, I...ah..."

"How about Trudy?" He looked shocked. "Or Bettye?"

"Trudy or Bettye? Surely, Sam, you don't suspect—"

"As Inspector Clouseau said, 'I suspect everyone, and I suspect no one.'"

"Do what?"

"To whom did you give my applications and resume'?"

"Well, Trudy got them directly from me. Oh, Lord have mercy, you don't think...?"

"Where did it go after Trudy?"

"Why, ah, Human Resources would use it to create your personnel folder."

Human Resources? Why the hell can't people call it the personnel department?

"Who in Human Resources?" I asked.

"Well, we'll have to ask Trudy."

"Okay, will you, or shall I?"

He jumped on that question with both feet. "Me, me, I'll ask her. I don't want you interrogatin' Trudy."

"Under the circumstances, Ronnie, I'm prepared to do whatever I think necessary to find out who your mole is."

"Mole?"

"Let's find out who had my file, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Gimme a minute to speak with Trudy."

Five minutes later Ronnie returned. "Lord have mercy, Sam. I think I know what happened."

"Tell me."

"Trudy gave the paperwork to Lola Rey Trickett, a clerk in Human Resources."

"And why is that important?"

"Lola Rey is niece to Reynelda Trickett."

"You lost me."

"Sam, Reynelda used to be Minas Tipton's administrative secretary over to the courts."

"Aha!"

"Sam, I'm—"

"Yeah, right. Let's talk to Lola Rey."

"Now?"

"No time like the present."

Ten minutes later, Lola Rey Trickett sat in the anteroom outside Ronnie's office.

"To get this done as quickly as possible," I said, "I suggest you let me speak to Lola Rey."

"Now, Sam, you cain't go treatin' her like a criminal."

"I've had a lot more experience with things like this than you. I'm not a bully. I know how to question women."

"Oh, Lord have mercy."

I opened the door and stepped into the anteroom. Trudy Connor sat at her desk typing away on her computer. A thirty-something-year-old blonde sat in one of the chairs against the wall.

I smiled and said, "Ms. Trickett, would you step inside, please?"

She walked into the Mayor's office looking as guilty as hell. Or scared. I couldn't tell which. Maybe both.

I let my smile linger, pointed to a green leather chair and asked her to sit. Ronnie remained behind his desk. I stood.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Sam Jenkins, the new police chief."

"Hello, Chief."

"Please call me Sam." She nodded. "May I call you Lola Rey?"

"Yessir, you may."

"Okay, Lola Rey, I need to know something very simple. Did anyone come to you asking to see or copy my personnel file?"

"Sir, why would you think I'd—?"

Who answers a question with a question? Guilty people.

"Stop!" I said. "Please don't lie to me. You don't do it well. Who did you give my personnel file to?"

I heard my voice rise. Ronnie slid down in his chair a few inches. Lola Rey looked shocked.

Like fifty percent of the women in the county, Lola Rey was blonde and slightly overweight, with what's locally referred to as 'big hair'. She tried to change her expression to one of indignation, as if I asked an offensive question. Then she looked at Ronnie.

"Mr. Shields, I don't know what he's talkin' about. Honestly, I don't."

"Lola Rey," I spoke before Ronnie could stick in his unwanted two cents, "There's no other person on earth with the opportunity to copy my file. And there's not another person in this building whose aunt used to be Judge Tipton's secretary."

She looked down at the hands in her lap.

"Hey." I said. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, young lady."

She turned her brown eyes up and stared at me. Two tears ran down her right cheek.

"Look, Lola Rey," I said softly, "I know what you did. I even know why you did it. All I want you to do now is admit you took the file. I don't want to punish you. I just want to know it was you and not someone else."

She looked back at her hands and said nothing. I glanced over at Ronnie who sat as low in his chair as physics would allow. If anyone saw the look on his face, they'd think I just eviscerated the girl.

"Lola Rey, I can insist that you take a polygraph test. If I do that and you lie, I'll have to charge you with perjury." That was a bit of an exaggeration, but what the hell? "Then you'll lose your job, end up in court, and after that, I won't care." I pulled another green chair next to her and sat. I lowered my volume and smoothed out my voice, like the old family doctor explaining how to overcome a social disease. "Look, just tell me the truth, and I'll ask the mayor to let you go back to work or take the rest of the day off or whatever."

She looked back at me, tears now streaming down her chubby cheeks.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, you copied my file and gave it to your Aunt Reynelda?"

"Yes."

"Thanks. Wait outside with Trudy for a couple of minutes."

I opened the door for her. She took the same chair she had used moments before.

I closed the door and looked at Ronnie.

"Sam, did you hear yourself?"

"What?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. A few more hairs broke loose from the spray that bound them together.

"What do you want me to do with her, Sam?"

I could have smacked him for asking that.

"Boss, I honestly don't give a shit. She violated your trust. Transfer her someplace where she can't get into any more trouble. Fire her ass. I don't care. What matters to me is that someone I trust had nothing to do with this—that's all."

He shook his head again and resorted to the phrase he uses for all occasions. "Lord have mercy."

"I think the Lord may want to advise some of these God-fearing people not to play dirty pool with a guy like me."

Rather than strangle Ronnie, I took a breath and told him what I'd do for the rest of my morning.

"Thanks for your time, Ronnie. Now I've got to go downstairs and find a way to apologize to someone I haven't yet openly offended."
Chapter Thirty-Two

I don't often act contrite, especially if I feel that way. That must be my defense mechanism.

I walked into the lobby. "Hey," I said to Bettye.

She looked up and said, "Hey, your own self. What happened up there?"

I grabbed her side chair and spun it around as I tossed my jacket at one of the other chairs in the waiting area. I missed, but sat down anyway.

Bettye shook her head, stood and walked over to pick up my jacket. She looked at me again, shook her head once more and hung my coat on the rack behind her desk.

"You remember us kicking around the question of how Judge Tipton got hold of my personal information?" I asked.

"Of course."

"It wasn't difficult to figure out once Ronnie and I followed the path of the paperwork."

"Really?"

"I guess you know Lola Rey Trickett?"

"Yes." She took a second and then sighed. "Of course. Her aunt. I feel so stupid. I should have thought of that."

"She admitted what she did."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"I don't know and don't care. I'm just glad I found out who it was."

"I understand."

"There were a few possibilities. I'm glad I know."

I began to feel like a kid caught with a copy of Playboy magazine as she looked at me.

"You didn't think I would have done that, did you, Sam?"

"Don't be silly. That thought never crossed my mind."

"Really?"

"Hey, it's a well-known fact—no one with hazel eyes could ever do something like that." I smiled for her like a little boy.

"Mister, with a line like that you must be some fisherman."

"Most people don't use the word _fisherman_. You're quite the lady."

"Thank you, sir."

Time to change the subject and make amends.

"Did you bring your lunch?"

"I have yogurt, yes."

"That'll keep. Things are going my way today. How about I buy lunch again? Want Chinese?"

"Okay, but you don't have to buy."

"Yes, I do. It makes me feel heroic. What do you want?"

"Sweet and sour pork."

"You had that last time."

"I know."

"Lord have mercy."

Forty minutes later, Bettye closed up half of her meal and put it in the fridge. Five minutes later, I finished my home-style tofu and bagged up the empty container when the phone rang. Bettye answered.

She told me Rachel Williamson was calling for information on the Lovejoy case. She handed me the phone and walked away from her desk.

"Hello, Chief. Thanks for taking my call so quickly." Rachel spoke with a bubbly voice we don't usually hear during her newscasts.

"You're welcome, and it's Sam. I'm not much on formalities."

"Okay, Sam. Not Harry?" She chuckled at that.

"No, Harry uses a big .44 magnum. I only carry a little .38."

"That sounds dangerous enough to me."

"I'll be careful and won't shoot myself in the foot. How can I help you, Rachel?"

"I heard the man arrested for the Lovejoy murder was released without being charged. We learned that the TBI had picked him up and lodged him with Blount County. The next day he was gone. I don't understand. They're not giving us any official information."

I hoped to skate away from my recent shenanigans without making any public explanations. After all, I no longer held responsibility for the case.

Did I want to refer Rachel back to the TBI, the district attorney or speak with her myself? I couldn't control the TBI or the DA. Twenty years as a cop taught me not to trust reporters—no matter how good they looked. But no information or information slanted by someone else is bad information. If she kept digging, somebody might start asking questions about George Morgan's release. I decided to see how Rachel would react to my tap dance routine.

"There's a little sensitive information involved here," I said. "And I guess I'd rather not explain over the phone. Can I come to your office and answer your questions?"

"Normally I'd say yes, but we've got a crew of painters and spacklers all over the place. It's not very quiet in here right now. I'd drive down to Prospect, but I have my news intro to do at 5:05 and then the show at 6:00."

"I understand. I just finished having lunch and I don't have any appointments until tomorrow. Why not take a quick drive down to Chesapeake's. That's not too far from your station. I'll buy you a drink and tell you all I know."

Well, almost all.

"That sounds almost theatrical, meeting a guy in a bar for information. Maybe we could make a movie about this." I imagined her smiling as she spoke.

"I'll do my best to act like a hardboiled Hollywood detective. When you get there, come to the bar, and look for a tall guy with a fedora and a trench coat."

"I'd recognize you anywhere."

"Okay, I can be there in half an hour," I said.

"Don't hurry. I'll need a little time to clean up a few things, and then I'll drive down. How's 2:15?

"See you then."

I hung up and looked at Bettye who had come back to the lobby. "I'll be going up to Knoxville, but one thing before I leave. Call Pearl Lovejoy, and say I'll be at her home tomorrow around eleven o'clock. Do whatever you have to do, and let her know this is not a request. No lawyers. No Daddy. And specifically tell her I don't want her son, Fatty Arbuckle, there either. She might know I'm scheduled to meet with her daughter tomorrow morning and think this is important."

* * * *

Chesapeake's is exactly what it looks like, an upscale, classy restaurant on the right side of town. It reminds me of something from the Northeast. When I tell people from New York about it, I say it's like being back in the world. Guys my age usually understand what I mean.

Inside, the paneling is rough and dark. The booths are upholstered in aged red leather. Paintings and prints hang on the walls, depicting typical scenes from around the tidewater regions of Maryland and Virginia. Nautical doodads: boat wheels, fish nets, brass hatch-plates and other memorabilia are strategically placed so you think you're eating in an old boat house or a ship's chandlery. The food is good enough to rate an honorable mention in any traveler's handbook.

At 2:00, I sat on a stool at the end of the twenty-foot bar sipping a beer. A framed print of six canvasback ducks landing on a foggy bay hung on the wall behind me. 1940s music played from hidden speakers.

Most of the lunch crowd had finished their meals, and the restaurant looked sparsely populated. No other customers sat in the barroom.

In between drying glasses, restocking bottles and tidying up the shelves, the bartender stopped by to strike up a conversation about the Knoxville Smokies, the local minor league baseball team. I admitted not having a clue about what they were up to. He looked disappointed. I told him that when the Dodgers left Brooklyn I promised myself never to watch another baseball game.

"When did the Dodgers leave Brooklyn?" the young man asked.

"1957. I felt betrayed. Ebbets Field was so easy for a kid to get to."

"I really look forward to the baseball season," he said.

"I understand," I said.

He nodded and polished a wine glass with a clean white towel.

Luckily, it wasn't football season. Failing a quiz on UT football is a serious offense in East Tennessee. I'm not a spectator sport kind of guy.

Rachel Williamson walked into the restaurant five minutes late and came directly to the bar.

"Hi," she said, pushing a stool out of her way to stand next to me, "Have you seen a good-looking guy with a hat and a trench coat?"

Her eyes took on that almond-shape again.

"I gave them to the hatcheck girl. She can't resist me." I used a Humphrey Bogart voice that would make Frank Gorshin jealous. "Tell me, sweetheart, why's a classy dame like you meetin' a gumshoe like me in a place like this?"

She laughed. I wasn't sure if she found me entertaining or couldn't wait to use her next line.

"Was that supposed to be Clint Eastwood?" She kept on smiling.

"I don't know why I even speak to you young people." I tried to look offended. I wasn't.

She tried again. "I was just kidding—Edward G. Robinson, right?"

I gave in to her gorgeous smile.

"You've made me forget. Some other actor—I think, doing Philip Marlowe, or was that Sam Spade? I can't remember. Anyway, thanks for coming. What can I get you to drink?"

She wanted a glass of chardonnay. I waved to my new friend, the baseball fan, and asked for one from Kendall-Jackson.

Rachel and I adjourned to a small table in the cocktail lounge. I carried my beer; the bartender brought her wine. We sat in heavy wooden captain's chairs. The lighting was soft and indirect. Tommy Dorsey and his band played _I'll Be Seeing You_. I knew the words, but I didn't sing along.

I raised my glass. "Cheers," I said.

We both took a sip.

My friend Bogie asked her, "Okay, sister, give it to me straight—whadda you wanna know?" She seemed ready to get down to business, ignored Bogie and looked like she wanted to ask questions.

I got interested in her red pantsuit and white T-shirt. The low-cut top looked similar to the one she wore on the day we met at the PD. I'd have to focus on my professionalism.

She began by saying, "All this business with your murder case is confusing, and no one has anything to say. What's happening?"

"Sounds like a simple question," I said, stalling.

I thought I'd begin my answer by bobbing and weaving around the truth like Sugar Ray Robinson in a fight ring. Then I looked at her sitting there, expecting me to tell her a straight story. I had no reason to trust her, except for her reputation as a good reporter and my own ability to judge a person's character.

"I'm sure you want to hear the truth," I said. "But I have some reservations about saying a few things. I'll tell you what I know to be facts. When I get to the part where I'm guessing, you have to understand it's only a guess and not for publication."

She gave me a little smile, nodded and took another sip of wine. She was no stranger at manipulating guys like me.

"I'll tell you the whole story," I said, "but all I say right now has to be off the record until we agree on what's reasonable for you to use on the air."

She nodded again, "Okay, I'll respect that. And don't worry, I keep my promises."

I believed her, but said, "I really hope so. I'd get upset if I misplaced my trust."

"Don't worry." She touched my hand for emphasis.

I started my saga from when the TBI took over the case. I went on and on. Again, she took no notes. Either she had a recorder in her purse or her memory was as good as mine used to be.

Somewhere in midstream, I signaled for two more drinks. I continued, speaking about the women in the photos, the cheated building contractors, the complaints about poorly constructed homes, and then I got to George Morgan's arrest.

"What evidence did they have to base the arrest on?" she asked.

"I don't think they had any hard evidence. Sometimes cops get too hung up on that old motive, means and opportunity crap equaling guilty. I like to win when I get into court. You don't build up a world-class conviction rate when you arrest people based on weak or sketchy evidence. I never saw them having anything close to a strong case against Morgan—circumstantial at best."

She listened patiently, occasionally sipping her chardonnay.

"It was my obligation to give the defense that exculpatory evidence, the photos of the nude women. Bypassing the TBI and the district attorney was a judgment call on my part. That won't make me too popular with either of those factions, but too bad." I gave a little shrug.

"Why did they arrest him then? Why not wait?"

"Who knows? Political pressure maybe? Some other motive I'd rather not speculate on? Maybe times have changed and 'probable cause to believe' has taken on a new meaning?"

She raised her eyebrows. Her dark hair framed her face nicely. Someone knew the style suited her well.

"Are you going to continue the investigation?" she asked.

"No."

"You're not? Why?" She tilted her head, gave me a skeptical look and sipped more wine.

"It's no longer my case." I thought I sounded a little miffed.

"Sam, you don't look like the kind of guy who'd let that stop him. And you don't seem so thin-skinned that having your case given to the TBI would hurt your feelings to the point of sulking."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Am I sulking?"

She dismissed my question with a shake of her head. "Who do you think killed Lovejoy?"

"I have an idea who did it."

"Who? Are you going to arrest them?"

"I'm not sure I could put together enough evidence to make a good arrest. And now we get into the stuff that has to stay off the record."

I explained things in general terms, not naming Juanita. I never lied to Rachel. I just limited my explanation to about ninety-eight-percent of the truth. It would be okay I told myself as I crossed my fingers.

"I have two basic thoughts on this subject," I said. "One is based on not having any physical evidence directly linking this woman to the murder. What I believe to be true is based on my own reasonable suspicion. Remember what I said about probable cause to believe? That's what you need to make a legal arrest. Reasonable suspicion is close, but no cigar."

She played with her glass a little, turning it around on the coaster. Her actions looked very feminine and could get distracting.

"All the ideas I came up with are based on things I believe to be true. Lovejoy sexually abused this woman as a child. He took explicit photos of her as a teenager. Recently, I think he tried to extort sex from her. These things are all bits of circumstantial evidence. Interesting to a cop, but not necessarily damning to the suspect. Certainly better than what the state cops had on George Morgan, but not good enough for me to arrest her."

She nodded. I took a long pull on my schooner of beer.

"The second thought involves some inevitable courtroom mumbo-jumbo. With a good defense attorney, she could get a jury to believe she acted with justification or under duress. Both are popular defenses under these circumstances."

I shrugged and continued. "I'm not so sure I'd controvert either one. So why waste time arresting her, only to see her go free later? I already know what would happen. Even if no one on the jury wanted to let her go free—that's unlikely but possible—she could certainly establish that she acted with extreme emotional distress. Wouldn't the threat of exposing a secret unless you engaged in sex get you distressed?"

Rachel agreed, sipped a little more wine, and looked at me with her intense brown eyes. If nothing else, I held her interest with my law theory lecture.

"Once you establish that, you're no longer guilty of intentional murder. Someone in her situation found guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter might get off with only probation, or at least she should."

I got another tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed. She looked skeptical. I took another long drink of my beer.

"Come on," I said, "take a look at our victim—the guy's despicable. Child pornography. Child molestation. Rape by coercion—you name it. And I never got that deep into his past."

Rachel nodded thoughtfully.

"So, who was the real victim? That same good attorney should be able to convince a sympathetic jury the defendant suffered more. Maybe I'm getting soft, but I don't plan on taking this woman into custody and sweating a confession out of her to seal up my case. I'd rather remind her of that constitutional right to remain silent and urge her to exercise it."

"This police business is more complicated than one may think," she said, "especially if the cop has a conscience. I really don't know what to say. How about the TBI? What do you think they'll do?"

She gave me an inquisitive look and seemed interested in the possibility of an arrest. But if asked to guess, I'd say she felt concern for my suspect and not the victim.

"I can only assume what they might do," I said. "I don't think they'll pursue another suspect. That would only make them look foolish for arresting George Morgan prematurely. The last I heard, the FBI said thirty-six percent of the reported homicides in this country go unsolved. What's one more or less?"

"Then I guess it's time for us to decide what I should say, isn't it?" she asked.

"Why not throw the ball into TBI's court? If they choose to remain silent on the subject...let them. I think you should respect the privacy of four women who would agree they committed terrible errors in judgment getting involved with a guy like Cecil Lovejoy. And I think we both should consider the fifth woman as most likely guilty, perhaps with legitimate, mitigating circumstances. But like a judge with discretionary powers, we should let her off with already having served time—figuratively speaking."

"Are you always this protective of the women you run across?" she asked, with another smile that lightened up the conversation and did a lot to put my mind at ease.

"I read about King Arthur once. Chivalry seemed like a good thing."

"I see."

The smile accentuated her high cheekbones.

She said, "When we started this conversation we made a deal. As I told you before, I keep my promises. I'll say something like, 'The investigation continues,' and leave it at that. If you change your mind and make an arrest, I hope you'll call me first."

She placed her hand on top of mine. That did a lot to make me feel more confident I'd placed my trust in the right person.

I nodded and drank the remainder of my beer. I had a feeling I'd be calling her first with all kinds of police business.

"Maybe someday I'll need the services of a chivalrous knight," she said. "I wouldn't want him disappointed in me."

I tilted my head forward slightly, in what I perceived as a courtly gesture. "Your actions are most appreciated, milady. Would you care for another chalice of wine?" I used my most knightly British accent.

"Oh, I've had two already, sir. Would you have me go on television drunk?"

"That's nothing new. Don't you remember the old Dean Martin Show?"

"Dean Martin had a TV show?"

"You see what I mean about you young people?"

She laughed.

After spending time with Rachel, I felt like a high school kid again. I only hoped my new girlfriend didn't do something that would have me sitting in the principal's office.
Chapter Thirty-Three

I arrived at the Mashburn house a few minutes early. The garage door had been left open. Juanita's white Acura sat on the left side, and Randy's Honda was missing.

I didn't feel good about what I planned to do that morning. I told Rachel I had no intention of sweating a confession out of Juanita. But a confession was exactly why I came. I didn't want loose ends surrounding Cecil's murder, and my hunch wouldn't resolve anything. What I'd do with that confession was anybody's guess.

After a little obligatory chitchat about Randy, she offered me a cold drink that I declined. We sat quietly looking at each other for a moment. I felt embarrassed having seen pictures of her nude without her knowing. Anxiety began showing on her face. I thought I'd wait a few more seconds and then try a little trick from Interrogations 101.

"Juanita, before I came to Tennessee, I worked as a policeman in New York for twenty years. That's a very busy place for a cop. I spent most of my time there as a detective. During those years I cleared more felony crimes—serious stuff—and arrested more people than your mother has on her Christmas card list, and I assume that to be considerable."

She gave me a nervous little smile while she squeezed her hands together, Lady Macbeth fashion.

"I became very good at piecing together all the things I learned during an investigation." I took a deep breath. "I don't believe I ever arrested an innocent person. If I convinced myself beyond a doubt they were guilty, no one else ever questioned my results."

She offered another nervous smile and a nod. Nice people who commit crimes usually fall for my subtle scare tactics. Hard core dirtbags require additional work.

"The other day in Knoxville, I met with agents of the FBI. Has your mother told you about the Federal officers who seized your father's computer in connection with a child pornography case?"

She shook her head and mouthed an unspoken 'no'.

"Among pictures of some very young girls and boys that he had gotten from a porn dealer in Maynardville, there were older photographs. Photographs I think he took himself. I believe those were pictures of you as a teenager."

"Oh, God, no." She covered her face and repeated, "No, no, no," until the last word became barely audible. A single tear ran down her right cheek.

After wiping her eye with a tissue from her pocket, she sniffed and began twisting her hands again. Juanita didn't look as sinister as Shakespeare's description of Lady Macbeth.

"I looked at those pictures, and I recognized you. I'm sorry. I really am. I apologize for looking at them."

She didn't comment, but she nodded slowly as she looked at the floor.

That was a tough patch for the woman, but I had to trample all of her defenses. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook slightly as she sobbed. She reached for a tissue box on the lamp table next to the sofa where she sat.

"Besides photographing you," I said, "I believe your father molested you—often. I need you to tell me about that."

She hung her head, still not looking at me, and began to nod again, twisting her hands together silently, either deciding whether to speak or not, or just composing in her mind what she wanted to say. I waited.

"Yes, sir." She spoke very quietly and slowly.

Looking off to her right, she dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues.

"He began forcin' me to have sex with him when I was twelve. We lived in an older house closer to Maryville then."

She shuddered slightly and crossed her arms over her breasts protectively.

"He made pictures of me, too. Those snapshots must be somewhere in the new house. I don't know. It stopped when I was eighteen...when I went away to college. Then I got married and..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence. I understood.

"Tell me again what happened when your father learned Randy was gay," I said. "Besides harassing your son, he didn't only threaten to expose Randy, did he? Didn't he demand something from you to insure he'd keep quiet?"

I wanted to make it seem like the worst was out in the open, and everything else would be anticlimactic and easy to explain. In court that would be called leading a witness, but I wasn't in court.

She took a second bunch of tissues from the box and dabbed at her wet eyes. She looked up at me, blinked a couple of times through her tears, and forced a smile. She wore shorts and sandals again and sat with her feet turned inward—pigeon-toed, like a pathetic, little girl who just lost her kitten.

I felt genuinely sorry for her. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her everything would be all right. But I wasn't sure she'd ever be right again. And I learned long ago no matter how kind and appropriate a gesture of comfort may be, cops can't risk being that human in today's litigious society.

"He told me," she said, "that if I wanted him to keep Randy's secret, he and I would need to start havin' sex again. Lord have mercy, he said we had to make love."

She shook her head and almost laughed at the irony.

"Can you believe it, _love_? He didn't know what love was. He was awful and disgustin'. I've hated him since I was a little girl."

Juanita paused, took a couple of exaggerated breaths, rocked gently a few times and picked up her explanation.

"I only went back to the car show to help him get home. I just hate when people see him that drunk. It makes Momma feel so bad, and I hate that, too."

She stopped for another break. Her hands still wrestled with each other. There were enough balled up tissues on the floor to stuff a small pillow.

She continued by saying, "When he started wakin' up at the show, he got to be his old self again. He started actin' mean and hateful, remindin' me of what I had to do for him to keep quiet. I argued, and he grabbed me and hurt my arm. I just couldn't go through that again. I couldn't. Can't you understand? I had to put a stop to it."

She reached over to the end table on her right and took a third bunch of tissues from the box. She wiped her eyes and her runny nose. Any eye makeup she applied earlier had long ago disappeared.

"Did you hurt your leg on his car bumper after you stabbed him?"

"How could you ever know that?"

Her question, spoken so softly, made it sound like she just woke up.

I tapped my left knee. "I have a bruise there, too. Same bumper, almost the same place. I got it when I stepped away from your father's body."

She forced another half smile. "This is just like the police shows on TV. You've found me, and I confessed. Are y'all goin' to arrest me now?"

I only returned her stare. I hadn't made up my mind yet and didn't answer.

"It's okay. I don't much care. Just please help me take care of my Randy." She spoke with a soft, sleepy voice. It seemed as though she no longer worried about her future.

Genghis Khan would have felt sorry for Juanita at that moment. If I didn't get things over quickly, I'd need a few tissues myself.

I thought for a few seconds, cleared my throat and tried to pull off my next move with some grace. "Juanita, it's always been difficult for me to view someone like your father as a victim. He was murdered, yes, but the circumstances around that act confuse me."

My statement must have confused her as well. Juanita's face showed an expression of absolutely no comprehension.

"The older I get, the more trouble I have deciding how justice can be served in a case like this. To me, you, and Randy to some extent, are victims who can never be compensated for your losses."

Juanita paid no attention to the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She glued her glassy eyes on mine as I spoke.

"The law provides defenses for people like you—things called justification and duress are only two that I'm thinking about and making myself consider. That may best be left to the lawyers and the court, and it may not be any of my business as a cop to think about, but I do it anyway. I know how the system works."

She sat so still, I couldn't even see her breathing.

"Did you know that your mother and her political friends forced me to give this case to the TBI?" I asked. "Your grandfather, the Judge, helped her arrange that. Their actions were unethical."

"No," she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head from side to side. "She never told me any of that."

"I think your mother knew what happened, and she wanted to steer me away from you."

I didn't think that, but if she believed her mother cared, it might make her feel less alone. I can be a heartless bastard, but even I couldn't tell her Pearl's only interest was avoiding public disclosure of Cecil's failings.

"Or at least she had a good idea of what your father was doing and the probable result. I don't particularly like your mother. I don't like how she interfered with my business. She injured my pride and caused me problems. But I don't want to do something to spite your mother and end up causing more damage to you than your family has already done."

I knew I'd confused her. I offered a lot of information, and she anticipated a punch line, but didn't have a clue what I might say next.

"I can't guarantee that state investigators won't come to question you, but I doubt they will. I've been told this is their case—not mine, so I'm not going to arrest you. I think you've already been punished enough."

She looked up at me and said nothing. Her eyes widened; they looked watery and bloodshot. I had nothing more to add. I got up, patted her shoulder and saw myself out.

I hadn't studied Tennessee law enough to pinpoint what offense I just committed, but it probably wasn't more than a Class A misdemeanor or low-grade felony.

Allowing the Lovejoys to keep a low profile in this affair looked like everyone's general idea all along. But I stepped on a few toes and made a few enemies along the road to where I then stood. I hoped like hell no one found out about my shenanigans before they swept everything under the rug.

I learned who killed my victim, but I still had things to do before I could say my portion of the case was closed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

This time a female voice answered my page from the gates in front of Villa Lovejoy.

"Chief Jenkins to see Mrs. Lovejoy," I said.

"Yes, sir, she's expectin' you."

The gates opened. I rolled up the 150 feet of driveway leading to a blacktop loop in front of the entrance.

All the flowers and other plantings glistened, still shiny and wet from the automatic sprinklers that watered the grounds each morning. The Lovejoy gardeners took no time off to mourn Cecil's demise. Someone had removed all the dead flower heads from the plants, and any weed arrogant enough to sprout up in the decorative beds had been terminated with extreme prejudice. I assumed Miss Pearl commanded the agricultural troops on the estate.

Several black-capped chickadees hopped about in the flowerbeds. Three red-breasted robins walked along the wet grass and picked the ground for earthworms. It seemed like a good day to tighten up Pearl Lovejoy.

I parked, rang the chimes and met a middle-aged woman I thought to be the housekeeper. Money didn't ooze from her pores, so she couldn't have been a family member.

"Good mornin', sir," she said. "Will ya follow me to the family room, please?"

She led me through the house to the room where I originally met the grieving family. The Widow Lovejoy waited quietly on a sofa, looking dreadfully Southern. A tray with a hand-painted pitcher and two glasses sat on the cocktail table in front of her.

"Good mornin', sir," Pearl said. "Care for a glass of sweet tea?"

She extended a hand, palm upward, toward an easy chair across from her, inviting me to sit.

I accepted her offer of tea and sat down. I remained quiet, spending a brief moment looking at her.

Her face appeared more wrinkled than I remembered. She wore a brightly colored summer pantsuit made from a shiny material. It must have been expensive, like everything else she owned, but it didn't fit well. It looked too large. Her slender limbs seemed lost under the thin fabric. Even heavy makeup didn't cover the dark semicircles beneath her cobalt blue eyes. Pearl Lovejoy appeared tired and beaten.

"Jodie, give Chief Jenkins his tea," she told her housekeeper.

Jodie poured a glass almost full and placed it on a coaster sitting atop King Louie's lamp table to my right. I smiled and nodded a thank you as she left the room.

I didn't touch the tea, but I leaned forward in the chair with my elbows resting on my knees, my fingers intertwined, and I spoke earnestly to Miss Pearl.

"Mrs. Lovejoy, I'm not here to question you. And I'll only take a few minutes of your time. But I suggest you listen very carefully to what I say. Before I leave, I'll make another suggestion. It would be in your best interest to do what I tell you. Are we clear on that?"

She nodded once, but said nothing. I wouldn't want to play poker with Miss Pearly. She showed no expression or emotion at all. Pure ice. She was a tough customer for a skinny old broad.

"Yesterday, the innocent man arrested for your husband's murder was released from custody and his arrest voided. Through those state agents, you caused Mr. Morgan and his family unnecessary anguish and expense. You should be ashamed of yourself. So should the Director of the TBI."

Not even a blink from Pearl.

"You neglected to tell me that last week Federal agents confiscated your husband's computer as part of their ongoing investigation into child pornography."

That statement didn't change her expression either.

"Perhaps you thought that wasn't material to our murder inquiry, but you were wrong. As in any cesspool, Mrs. Lovejoy, things have a way of floating to the surface of an investigation."

Even a nasty remark didn't get her to flinch.

"I've had a long talk with your grandson and then with your daughter. I spoke to Juanita a second time this morning. It was an interesting conversation. You need to speak with her as soon as possible. You might learn something very interesting—if you already don't know. You also need to tell both Juanita and Randy that you love them. I think that's very important right now and, under the circumstances, the least you should do.

"And lastly, Mrs. Lovejoy, this is the part you should pay particular attention to. You need to call whatever political piss-ants your father spoke to before and suggest that the investigation into your late husband's death may be long, complicated and perhaps fruitless. The TBI's efforts might be better spent elsewhere. I, on the other hand, will keep this case open. There is no statute of limitations on a homicide. The killer can be arrested at any time. You understand what I'm telling you?"

Again she nodded without expression. She looked like I just told her it may rain tomorrow, and she didn't care.

"But as you once pointed out, Miss Pearl, the Prospect Police Department is a small organization with limited resources. There are some who may believe we're not competent enough to solve major crimes. I don't happen to agree. But I'm a busy man, and I can't guarantee I'll have time to give every open case my personal attention."

I paused again to let my message sink in. I hoped she understood, but I couldn't read any comprehension in her face. She hadn't moved an inch.

I picked up the glass of tea and took a small sip. The syrupy sweetness almost gagged me. I shuddered and had thoughts of a diabetic coma.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am," I said. "I'll see myself out."

As I stood and buttoned my jacket, she spoke.

"Livin' with Cecil was very difficult, ya know."

It took me a few seconds to respond to her.

"I wouldn't begin to imply I know how you feel. I learned a lot about your late husband over the last week. I believe what you're telling me."

"I'm a Tipton, ya know. My family came here long, long ago. This area was still part of North Carolina then, before the American Revolution."

I nodded, surprised she'd explain anything to me, but interested in what she had to say.

"No Tipton should get a divorce. It would be unseemly and much too common. So I stayed with Cecil for forty-three years. He wasn't always like you saw him."

I didn't think it was time to give her a psychology lesson on her husband's latent tendencies waiting to be unleashed.

"I think you caused yourself to suffer greatly during those years," I said. "Family appearance is important, but that suffering spilled over onto your children and even your grandson."

"You're right, of course," she said, still with flat affect.

"Yes, ma'am. Please say hello to your father for me. When we met, I liked him."

I had nothing more to say. Neither did she.

* * * *

Guys like Buck and Claude Webbster and the others who spoke up for Pearl Lovejoy's cause couldn't make it through questioning without showing the telltale afflictions guilty people exhibit during times of stress. They'd blink, fidget, tap the arm of their chair, stop a pattern of movement at the wrong times or just show inappropriate reactions to simple questions.

A good cop doesn't need a polygraph in his hip pocket to know when someone is full of shit. Miss Pearl represented a whole different story. Nothing moved her. I used the term _pure ice_. I meant it. But I believed her to be more troubled than just unemotional. Words like psychopathic and sociopathic came to mind. She seemed totally egocentric, and I thought she lacked a conscience and the ability to discern right and wrong. Minas Tipton said his daughter's soul had been damaged. Maybe we were both correct.

Pearl Lovejoy never thanked me when last we saw each other. I didn't expect she would. She remained expressionless as I turned and walked away. I never looked back.

* * * *

"Are you going to get an arrest warrant for Juanita?" Bettye asked later that day after I explained some of what happened.

"No, I don't think so."

"Really?"

I owed Bettye an explanation, but I didn't want to tell her everything—as I said, for her sake. I didn't want to put her in a position where if someone—a senior investigator from the TBI, for instance—asked her, she would either admit she knew Juanita confessed, or she'd lie to protect me. I rationalized and thought I'd only be telling her one or two little white lies.

Or would I only be omitting a truth or two? That would be okay. I'd cross my fingers again.

"All I have," I said, "is an educated guess—a hunch—everything is purely circumstantial, except for the bruise on her leg."

She looked at me as if I came out of left field with some over-the-top theory. "What bruise?"

"There's a bruise on her left leg. Like the one I have. I banged my leg on the bumper of Cecil's Rolls—twice. I've got a big black-and-blue bruise just below my knee. So does Juanita."

"Perty clever. Sounds like proof ta me, darlin'." She smiled at her 'country' expression. It was the first time she called me _darlin'_.

"Yeah, very perty. Remember, her old man sexually abused her for six years when she was just a kid. And he wanted that to start all over again. I'd only embarrass myself if I used the words I think are appropriate to describe that skell. Maybe he deserved to die."

"What's a skell?"

"Guys like Cecil Lovejoy."

"Oh."

Her smile turned into a questioning frown. I had five years to explain all my New York expressions to her. One a day would be enough.

"Let's look at the law books. I'm sure you know as well as I, in Part One of what the American Bar Association calls their Model Penal Law, there are defenses guilty people can use to get off the hook. I can't count the number of times the bad guys use them to their advantage and circumvent the system."

The radio squawked, and Bobby Crockett in unit 507 said he would be out of the car for a minute at the Git-n-Go market. Bettye acknowledged the call and turned back to me. I continued.

"Maybe this is a time we should let them work for someone justified in stopping unspeakable things from happening to her. Besides, I've been told to back off this case. They don't want my opinion."

Bettye just looked at me for a moment—expressionless. Then she shook her head; her ponytail swayed from side to side. Her smile returned. She looked nice.

"What am I goin' to do with you, Sammy?"

"What?"

"You're beginnin' to remind me of Li'l Donnie."

"You told me your son is eight years old."

"I know that."

"Jeez, Betts."

The phone rang and saved me from further scolding.

"We're closed," I said. "Let it ring."

"It's on your line. Caller ID shows it's your home number, probably your wife."

"Okay."

She handed me the phone.

"Café Americain, Rick speaking," I said with a familiar lisp.

Bettye giggled. Kate spoke to me.

"Then I have the right number," she purred. "I wanted to let you know, Mr. Blain, that Nonie Morgan called. Georgie got sprung early this morning, and now he's on the lam."

Kate's always been pretty quick responding to my nonsense.

"On the lam?" I said.

"I thought Lauren Bacall would say something like that."

"Wrong movie. Get your dames straight, doll-face."

"Oh. Anyway, they wanted to thank you, and I wanted to know if you'd be coming home regular time today."

"I'm almost finished here, sweetheart. I won't be too much longer. But I've got to take Claude Raines out and pick up the usual suspects."

"Okay, swell," she said, "if ya need anything, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't ya?"

"I sure do, and here's lookin' at you, kid."

"See ya later, Humphrey."

I handed the receiver back to Bettye and shrugged. She smiled. I noticed the overhead lights in the office made those little gold flecks in her eyes sparkle again.

"I guess we're about finished with the Lovejoy case?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yes, we are."

We both stood up.

"Oh, by the way," I said. "I really appreciate your help with this. I guess I needed a partner."

"You're welcome, sir. I'm happy to be your partner."

"I hate to say this, but since we were never supposed to be investigating this thing, I can't submit an overtime request for the extra hours you worked after the TBI took over."

"Don't worry about it, Sam. I don't need the extra pay. I'm just glad I could help you."

"Hey, just because I alluded to it, do you think you're Wonder Woman?"

She certainly was built like Lynda Carter.

Bettye just smirked.

"That's not how it works," I said. "I can't get you pay—this time—but I can give you a day back—and I want to. When you need the time off, I'll cover for you. Just go about your business and if nothing happens, we're okay. If you run into the mayor's wife in the mall or something equally horrible happens, call me, and I'll write in a sick day."

"You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"

"Sure, I've done stuff like that for years."

"Do you do anything that won't get you into trouble?"

"Not often, but sometimes."

"That's very nice of you, but—"

"No buts. I want you to take a day off, whenever you'd like. I'll remind you—plan on it."

"Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am. And if we ever have to work a regular day off again on an investigation, you don't have to wear your uniform." I realized that sounded inappropriate...and stupid. Bettye giggled again. "I'll rephrase that," I said, "so I don't sound quite as foolish and inept with language."

She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes. Mrs. Lambert was having fun at my expense.

"I meant you may certainly come to work wearing civilian clothes if the circumstances so dictate. Understand?"

"Oh, okay."

"Now, if you have something to do at lunch time, take as long as you'd like. I have fun dispatching the cars. I'm happy to do your job."

"Thanks, Sam. I do have a few errands to run. I promised Li'l Donnie to make his favorite for dinner tonight—a meat loaf with roasted onions and mashed potatoes, and I have to stop at the store and take everything home."

"Sounds like the kid has a good appetite."

"Yes, he does."

"And the meatloaf sounds good. Okay then, go out, and do your thing. I'll watch the store while you shop. And thanks again."

* * * *

Satisfied with how I handled the case, I thought I'd put it to rest. Tomorrow promised to be a new day, new crimes to solve and new dragons to slay, if I wanted to capitalize on the medieval persona Ms. Williamson gave me. At home, I decided to start off by making my wife a nice dinner.

I oven roasted a mix of red, yellow and orange peppers, fresh asparagus and red onions with olive oil and garlic. A pot full of pasta called casarecce sat bubbling on the stove, ready to be drained. I combined everything in a big wok, added a little more oil and some white wine and let them meld together.

I filled a skillet with fresh shrimp and sautéed them—again in olive oil, with white wine and minced garlic. Shrimp need only two or three minutes to cook properly—no more. Finally, I added a liberal sprinkling of chili powder to the whole concoction.

When all that looked done, I divided the goodies, added some Romano cheese and called Katherine to dinner. Who wouldn't enjoy that?

After the meal, I poured us each another glass of wine from the magnum bottle of Cavitt pinot grigio, a lovely Italian import I bought on my last foray into a Knoxville liquor store. We adjourned to the living room.

"You know," I said, "twenty years ago I'd never let Juanita Mashburn off the hook for killing her father, regardless of his status as a miserable bastard."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

The floor lamp on her right made the sliver streak in Kate's hair shine.

"Yeah, it just wasn't part of the drill. I always used discretion, but murder was murder."

"Do you have any idea why you changed your way of doing things? Why was this case different?"

"Good question, sweetie. Maybe I don't need to prove anything any more? There are no statistics needed to keep the squad looking good. Maybe I'm just getting old and have to make a statement. I think the system sucks, and she needed a break in life."

Kate took another tiny sip of wine from a glass still mostly full.

"Shitheads who commit violent home invasions may only do five years because prisons are overcrowded. Brutal rapists and sodomites go free because a defense lawyer can tell a jury the victim slept around a little. I won't even mention what wise guys who rat out their associates get away with. Here, the so-called victim was a lousy low-life, and the perpetrator was a pitiful victim. Maybe it's about sticking my nose into the system to get some real justice."

"Sammy, do you think by allowing Juanita to go free she'll go out and commit another crime and harm someone?"

"I seriously doubt that."

"Then maybe, my love, you made the right decision based on compassion and understanding. Maybe the system needs more guys like you?"

Kate paused, tilted her head and continued. She can smile with her eyes and often does. She thinks it's subtle. That evening she found it amusing to quote something famous for me.

"You know, of course, Gandhi said, 'Be the change you want to see in the world.'"

"I'm familiar with that quotation," I said, like I used it daily.

"You are?" She sounded surprised.

"Sure, it's a very gentle way of saying shit or get off the pot."

"Oh, Sammy, you've got such a way with words."

A Simon and Garfunkle CD played on the stereo. The boys sang the tale of Richard Cory. It made me think back to when Kate and I were kids on Long Island—driving around in my '62 MG-A roadster with the top down. There is no better stimulant to the memory than music.

And I couldn't help thinking, if Cecil Lovejoy had done like Richard Cory and put a bullet through his head, he would have saved lots of people a lot of grief.

"You rarely hear them play these guys' music on the radio any longer. Too bad. They did some great stuff," I said.

"Their music falls deaf on the ears of the modern world," my wife opined.

Women can be very philosophical creatures.

A few hours later, I hit the pillow feeling pretty good and ready for an undisturbed night's sleep. Guess again, Jenkins.
Chapter Thirty-Five

Overnight all my good ideas and intentions went down the toilet. I experienced another disturbing dream. Not one from Vietnam or any one of the lower socioeconomic communities where I used to work. Instead, I saw myself in a clean and comfortable office at Prospect PD.

I sat behind my desk typing—on an ancient, manual Smith-Corona, just like those we used in the squad thirty years earlier. But I was stark naked. And business as usual went on all around me. No one seemed to notice my lack of clothing.

In mid-paragraph, Rachel Williamson walked into my office unannounced. I took off my glasses and looked at her. She wore a tan Burberry trench coat belted at the waist. Her dark brown hair looked perfect. Someone spent a lot of time and energy arranging her bangs into a casual, uneven line.

"Hello, Sam," she said.

"Hello, Rachel."

She unbelted her coat, shrugged it off onto the floor and stood there naked. She gestured for me to come from behind the desk and join her. I circled around the side and leaned against the front edge looking at her.

My earlier comment about the brick outhouse now sounded too conservative. Rachel was a _really_ good-looking woman. I thought my nightmare may not be terribly disturbing after all. I just hoped her husband didn't own a gun and didn't show up in the office.

She came closer and then pressed up against me, putting her hands on my chest and looking up into my eyes.

I'm usually not comfortable when someone is closer to me than three feet. But I didn't mind Rachel invading my personal space. I began feeling amorous. Then she stepped back and frowned, put a serious look on her face and pushed a microphone near my mouth.

Where the hell had she hidden that?

"Isn't it true a local woman confessed to the Lovejoy murder, and you refuse to tell anyone?" She spoke like one of those reporters I've never fallen in love with.

I looked up and saw we were no longer alone. Personnel from the police department and other city offices stood or sat in my room gawking at me.

Stanley Rose leaned against the wall grinning. Junior stood next to him giggling. Vernon Hobbs' intense, blank stare went right through me. He worked a toothpick around his mouth, from one side to the other. Bettye looked at me with a disappointment mothers reserve for naughty children. Ronnie Shields seemed exasperated and tried desperately to loosen his collar. Ms. Connor shook her head knowingly and showed an expression meaning she had my number all right. More workers stepped into my office, creating a small mob scene.

I used to say I hate getting caught with my pants down, but that went beyond ridiculous.

Rachel stepped back, put her hands on her hips and said, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

I woke up. The glowing, red digital display on the clock radio showed 3:18 in the morning. Next to me, Katherine breathed softly. Bitsey, only a few feet away on her bed, lay there zonked out and snoring.

I lay awake for twenty minutes looking for an ending to the dream. I couldn't go back to sleep. I couldn't find a finish for what I saw happening to me. Other things began running through my head. My brain started operating at more RPMs than my engine could handle.

I looked at the clock again and saw 3:55. I felt wide-awake. I turned over and put my hand on Katherine's hip. I moved closer and put my arm over her side. Gently, I rubbed her tummy. She made a soft, sleepy moan. With my face at her pillow, I tried to visualize anything quiet, peaceful and relaxing. I heard the clock downstairs chime four o'clock, then 4:30 and then five o'clock. Sometime after that, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I felt confident that I could still survive a good old-fashioned street fight, a shootout, assorted natural disasters and even an all-out terrorist attack. But I worried about the spiders and scorpions crawling around inside my head causing those invasive dreams.
Chapter Thirty-Six

Three days later, I received a card from Juanita Mashburn that included a note. In a neat, little-girl-like handwriting, she thanked me for my kindness and understanding and the help I offered on the day her son went missing. She hoped God would bless me.

Just yesterday, I saw Randy Mashburn driving his S2000 with the top down along Sevierville Road. He waved and smiled. I gave him a thumbs-up.

A day after getting Juanita's note, I received a large fruit basket delivered to the PD. The attached note bore the signature Judge Minas Tipton (retired). The text said, "Welcome to Blount County. Best of luck in your chosen career and endeavors." A bold stroke underlined chosen. He addressed the envelope: Chief Samuel Jenkins. I wondered if the old geezer remembered what I said about the name Samuel. Had I annoyed him? Was he acting parental? Certainly no telling unless some day I asked him.

Kate volunteered to take the fruit basket to the nursing home in town. I appreciated the gift, but the old folks could use a treat more than we could. I thought that donating the fresh fruit might be a good start at ridding the county of scurvy.

One morning, Stanley Rose, Junior Huskey and Vern Hobbs sat with Bettye and me in my office. We discussed most of the intrigue involved in the case. Stanley and I drank an expensive concoction made from the fresh Kona beans and a few macadamia nuts I brewed up in my new coffeemaker. The other guys drank soda at 9:30. Bettye decided she'd try a coffee. She liked it. We all ate old-fashioned jelly donuts from Richie Creamie.

It turned out to be a good discussion, but again I decided a few things were best left unsaid.

I took Glenda Mae and Kate to lunch at Miss Daisy's Café in Townsend the next day. Mae flirted, Kate laughed, and I behaved myself. We all ate salads.

Later that week I took Ralph Oliveri for an expensive lunch at Chesapeake's to imply I appreciated his help. We both ordered the Maryland crab cakes and pints of Cherokee Red Ale from the tap.

"Did you make an arrest on that Lovejoy case?" he asked.

"No, gave it to the TBI. They screwed up and collared the wrong man. I've no idea where they are now."

"So why the lunch? I thought it was contingent on an arrest."

"I wanted to thank you properly. Your heart was in the right spot."

"No kiddin'?"

"Sure, we should have a good working relationship. You may need a favor someday. I may need a favor someday."

"Why don't I trust you?"

"You're too young to be so cynical. Try that spinach Maria. It's excellent."

He did. "Yeah, you're right, I never had it before."

"Stick with me, buddy. No telling what doors will open for you."

"So how long were you on the job in New York?" he asked.

"Twenty years and five minutes, Ralphie."

"Do I detect an attitude here?"
Epilogue

I devote about twenty-five percent of my basement to what someone might gratuitously call my office. File cabinets, storage boxes, book cases and a desk all share wall and floor space.

Across from my desk, some of the material objects from my earlier life hung on the wall. Old photos of me in the Army form a collage, as do photos of the first house Katherine and I built on the North Fork of Long Island. A shadow box with the medals and badges I earned as a soldier hung next to another with the badges and commendation bars I received at the police department.

When I retired, I received a watch and a lapel pin for my twenty years of time and trouble. A month or two after I left New York, the county sent me a framed proclamation stating I served faithfully for twenty years and qualified for regular service retirement. I've never worn the watch. You've heard the story of the dinosaur pin.

None of those police mementos meant very much to me. An antiqued brass plaque set inside a cherry wood frame, a gift from the people at my last command, told another story. I looked at the inscription.

In appreciation of your professional demeanor, ability

and excellence in supervision during our careers as investigators.

Most of all, we salute you for your understanding and compassion,

and for being one of us.

A valued friend forever.

Even a lifelong tough guy could get emotional over that. I felt pride—they spelled everything correctly. I looked at my watch, an old Rolex Submariner, a souvenir I purchased at the China Fleet Club when I took R&R in Hong Kong.

I recently sent it away for a tune-up that cost me more than I paid for the watch back in 1969. I heard Bob Dylan singing again. _'...your old road is rapidly agin'. Get out of the new one if you can't lend a hand, for the times they are a-changin'_

I planned on working at Prospect PD for five years. Then maybe I'd quit, apply for Social Security and receive another pension.

I hoped to like the crew at Prospect as much as I liked the boys and girls back in New York. We were off to a good start.

The End

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To find more adventures featuring Police Chief Sam Jenkins, visit www.waynezurlbooks.net or

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PREVIEW!

Leprechaun's Lament

Sam Jenkins Mystery, Book 2

Wayne Zurl

Chapter One

Monday, October 2, 2006

I dialed a number at the William R. Snodgrass Tennessee Tower on 8th Avenue in Nashville and reached the local Office of Homeland Security. After a brief shuffle, the operator connected me to a woman with information on how local government agencies could obtain grants to pay for enhanced security—one of the "bennies" of our Patriot Act.

"Do you foresee a problem in Prospect, Chief Jenkins?" she asked.

"Not specifically. I just thought your idea of conducting background investigations on civilian employees who work with a police department was a good one."

"Oh, we've said that?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I like your thinking. I also believe there's grant money available to finance these investigations. With a small police department like mine, there'll no doubt be a necessity for overtime."

"Oh. You're looking for financial assistance, not personnel to conduct the investigations."

"Correct. If you've got the cash, I've got the cops."

Wendy Clabro chuckled. "You make it sound like you're leading a band of mercenaries."

She had a nice voice. I wondered if she looked as good as she sounded.

"I'm willing to work for nothing," I said. "To protect and serve is enough reward for me, but I like to take care of my officers as best I can."

"Should I really believe that?"

Oh, yeah, great voice.

"I'm a cop...would I lie to you?"

"Chief, you sound like an All-American hero. I'd enjoy meeting you some day."

I was looking for grant money, not a personal relationship.

"Call me Sam. Everyone does. I'm here Monday to Friday, nine to five or by appointment. There's always fresh coffee, and my desk officer tells me I have a nice smile."

Sometimes I have difficulty controlling myself.

"Your desk officer?"

"She's a shameless flirt."

She laughed again. "I hear it's beautiful in the Smokies this time of year. Maybe I'll stop by one day—just to see where the grant money goes, of course. Right now though, I'll bet you want me to send you the format for making a grant proposal. I really don't see a problem getting you an approval."

"Just what I wanted to hear, Ms. Clabro. Thank you."

"Please, Sam, call me Wendy."

I gave her my email address and thanked Ms. Clabro for her help and encouragement. We chatted for a few more minutes, and I ended by telling her she was doing a fine job keeping Tennessee and all of America safe for democracy. I dropped my telephone back onto the console feeling confident I could still schmooze my way around the bureaucratic system and glad I sounded younger than I often felt.

But the simple job I thought would be a walk in the park became a nightmare I never saw coming.

About the Author

Wayne Zurl grew up on Long Island and retired after twenty years with the Suffolk County Police Department, one of the largest municipal law enforcement agencies in New York and the nation. For thirteen of those years he served as a section commander supervising investigators. He is a graduate of SUNY, Empire State College and served on active duty in the US Army during the Vietnam War and later in the reserves. Zurl left New York to live in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee with his wife, Barbara.

Zurl has won Eric Hoffer and Indie Book Awards, and was named a finalist for a Montaigne Medal and First Horizon Book Award. He has written seven novels and more than twenty novelettes in the Sam Jenkins mystery series.

Author Links:

Author website: http://www.waynezurlbooks.net

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/#!/waynezurl

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/waynezurl

Other books by the author at Melange

From New York to the Smokies

A Leprechaun's Lament

Heroes and Lovers

Pigeon River Blues

A Touch of Morning Calm

A Can of Worms

Acknowledgments:

I'd like to thank several people who assisted me in taking this from an idea to a story good enough to be published.

Elayne, my sister and proofreader.

My comrades at TheNextBigWriter.com who stuck with me through all the chapters, offering ideas and spotting my nits. They are alphabetically: Sandy Anderson, Lee Carey, John DeBoer, James Hawkins, Dirlie Herlihy, Diana Hockley, Christina Howard, Carolyn Kuczek, Micheal Maxwell and "Crazee Sharon".

Also Available  
From Melange Books

From New York to the Smokies

A Sam Jenkins Mystery

By Wayne Zurl

Five mysteries spanning more than four decades in the life of career police officer Sam Jenkins.

THE BOAT TO PRISON—set in 1963 when a teenaged Jenkins and his friends attempt to foil a plot to kill a Long Island union leader and keep Sam's shop steward father from doing hard time.

FAVORS drops readers into a New York of 1985 when Lieutenant Sam Jenkins mounts an unofficial investigation to learn why one of his civilian employees isn't overjoyed about her promotion to police officer and uncovers a history of unreported and unspeakable crimes.

ODE TO WILLIE JOE, ANGEL OF THE LORD, and MASSACRE AT BIG BEAR CREEK brings the reader up to date with three adventures of Chief Jenkins and the officers of Prospect PD, a police department serving a small town in the Great Smoky Mountains of east Tennessee. UFO sightings, a serial killer on the loose, and the most brutal murders and feud between mountain folk since the Hatfields and McCoys pushes Sam to use every trick he's learned in a lifetime of detective work to resolve these incidents on his "peaceful side of the Smokies."

Family Ties

A John Seraph Mystery

C. G. Eberle

John Seraph's life is jeopardized when he begins looking for a missing woman and learns she was involved with one of his brothers and a New York State Senator.

Family Ties recounts how John Seraph is asked by a former classmate to help find his missing sister, because John's father is Stefano Angelo, head of the local organized crime family. John has not seen or dealt with his family in over three years since he walked away from them over moral differences about the criminal organization. John agrees to help and in the course of his investigation he learns a disturbing secret about the missing girl which leads him to her workplace and confronting New York State Senator Kingsley Addar and then his own brother Michael. As John digs deeper his life becomes endangered, but he is determined to learn the truth and see justice served.

