Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) Page 8

  “What are they?” Melanie asked as I gazed at the two objects in my open palm.

  “Shell casings,” I replied, glancing around thoughtfully.

  “Maybe the hunter we met at the lake yesterday?” she suggested.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. Except that hunting season, even the illegal kind that was performed on posted land, had been over for six months. The brass casings I held in my hand were barely even dirty.

  We scoured around and found a dozen or so brass shells, all within a six-foot radius. I stuffed them in my fanny pack, because I really didn’t want to take a chance on any of the puppies picking them up, and stood for a moment near the edge of the ring, scanning the surrounding terrain until I saw what I was looking for. I snapped on Cisco’s leash, picked up one of the PVC weave poles to use as a walking stick, and told Melanie, “Wait here just a sec.”

  I walked a few dozen yards into high grass, swinging the weave pole in front of me to scare away small creatures, until I came upon the broken bale of hay, slightly damp from yesterday’s rain and hastily scattered. Cisco sniffed curiously, but didn’t find anything interesting. I poked around with my pole, turning over clumps of hay, until I saw a smear of red.

  “What’s that?” Melanie said at my elbow.

  I jumped. “What are you doing here? There could be snakes!”

  “You scared them all away,” she said, unconcerned as she peered around me to examine the pile of hay. Pepper bounded forward to chew Cisco’s ear, and he ignored her. “What is it?”

  “A target,” I said, pointing at the smudges of red paint on the clumps of hay. “Somebody’s been target shooting out here, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet it was that guy with the weed eater.”

  “You’re probably right.” The only thing was, I had been around guns all my life, and those casings didn’t look as though they belonged to any handgun or rifle I had ever seen.

  I glanced at my watch. “Come on, show me what Pepper can do. And then we’ll have to hurry if we’re going to be on time for orientation.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “Counselor Bill said those of us who got here last night are supposed to kind of be in charge of the others, show them around and stuff.” Melanie liked to be in charge. “So we’d better hurry.”

  I chuckled as she and Pepper trotted back to the ring, Cisco watching alertly after them. I dug the shell casings out of my pack and tossed them as far into the weeds as I could, out of the reach of curious dogs. I saved one, though, to show to Buck when I got back. I wasn’t entirely sure why.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wyn had convinced Buck shortly after she agreed to come back to the department that being seen together outside the office while in uniform was a really bad idea, at least until after the election was over. That meant they didn’t have meals together while on duty, even though he often had lunch or breakfast with the other deputies during the day. They didn’t pull their vehicles close in parking lots to catch up on business or just pass the time as he did with the other guys. They did their communicating by phone or radio, where anyone could hear. And most annoying for him, they never interviewed witnesses together, gathered evidence together, or examined scenes together, even when they were working the same case—which was most of the time. Wyn was the best partner he’d ever had, back when they had both been deputies and ridden together. She saw things he didn’t, and some of his best thinking had been done out loud, to her, riding the roads and patrolling the highways of Hanover County. She was still the best partner he’d ever had, and he still did his best thinking out loud to her, only these days, most of the time it had to wait until they got home.

  That was why he was surprised to see her come into Miss Meg’s Diner a little after seven in the morning, glance around until she saw him, and then start his way. The diner was busy with the bustle and clatter of the breakfast crowd: the smell of coffee and eggs, the rattle of dishes, the buzz of voices. Buck had taken his coffee over to Buddy Hall’s table, who was head of the Chamber of Commerce, and had scheduled a meeting with him later that day to talk about the parade schedule. They were both glad to save themselves the time, and they got the last minute details on the parade schedule ironed out while Buddy finished up his pancakes and Buck waited for his toast and eggs.

  “The only thing is,” Buddy was saying, “we’re going to need to close Main Street for about an hour tonight to get those big banners up over the reviewing stand. Generally, we’d do it the night before but with it falling on a Sunday and all we couldn’t find anybody to drive the cherry picker unless it was tonight. Sorry about the short notice.”

  Buck nodded. “As long as it’s after closing time for the stores there shouldn’t be much of a problem. I’ve got Jeb Wilson’s people coming Sunday anyway to check out the parade route, so it’ll be better to get as much set up in advance as we can. I’ll send a couple of patrol cars over. Call me when you know what time you can get the cherry picker because we can’t reroute traffic more than an hour. It’s Friday night, you know. ”

  “I’ll check as soon as I get back to the office.” Then he grinned. “It sure is something about old Jeb, isn’t it? Whoever would’ve thought he’d amount to anything? But folks sure are worked up about him coming to town.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Buck agreed, and that was when he saw Wyn.

  She was working a week of nights—it was her turn in the rotation—and had that weary, just-coming-off-shift look common to all night shift workers. Her dark bun was a little messy, her uniform tired, and her eyes looked puffy and sun-shocked. Buck had worked plenty of night shifts himself and knew the feeling.

  She said, “Morning, gentlemen,” as she approached and Buck started to stand up.

  “Everything okay?”

  She waved him back down. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I saw you through the window and thought I could save myself some paperwork by giving you my report in person. But if you’re busy …”

  “Just finished,” Buddy assured her, tossing back the last of his coffee as he stood. “You all go on with your business. Let’s get somebody over here to clean up these dishes.” He waved at the waitress who was already on her way over with Buck’s order. He slipped her a couple of dollars as she gathered up his dishes and wiped the table with a cloth. “Buck, good seeing you. Glad we got this out of the way. Ma’am …” He nodded at Wyn. “Have a good day.”

  Wyn slid into the chair Buddy had vacated and the waitress said, “Back with coffee in a minute, hon.”

  Wyn started to protest, then shrugged. The waitress was already gone.

  Buck speared his eggs, watching her. “Must be important.”

  “Kind of.” She frowned a little. “Maybe. I just thought you’d want to know. Les and I happened by the White Lightning Saloon last night—bar fight, didn’t amount to anything, the report’s on your desk—and guess who happened to be sitting there at the bar sipping whiskey like it was soda water? Reg Connor.”

  Buck spread jam on his toast. “Fell off the wagon, did he?”

  “Right.” Absently she reached for a piece of bacon from his plate. “Like there’s ever been a wagon to fall off of. That man’s never been to a meeting in his life.”

  “Particularly one that’s held on Monday night,” Buck reminded her. “I called around to every AA group in a hundred miles. A few on Tuesday, lots of Fridays, no Mondays.”

  Wyn crunched down on the bacon. “So it seemed like a good chance to talk to him about what he was doing Monday night, since we know he wasn’t where he told his father he was, and whether he might have any ideas about the identity of the victim in the car, or failing that, whether he might have any ideas about who might want to steal his father’s car and set it on fire.”

  Buck took another forkful of eggs while the waitress brought Wyn’s coffee. She patted Wyn’s shoulder just before she left and said, “You gonna want some breakfast, honey, or do you two want to share?”

  Wyn glanced guiltily at the bacon
between her fingers and then put it down quickly on her coffee saucer, blushing. “I’m not staying,” she said.

  “Holler if you change your mind.” The waitress sailed off to her next table.

  Buck said, amused, “There’s no extra charge for sharing. You want some toast, too? I’ve got plenty.”

  She scowled, her blush deepening. “This isn’t a date. Everyone is staring.”

  Buck glanced around and no one, as far as he could tell, was staring. He said, turning back to his eggs, “Speaking of dates, when are we going to have one?”

  She sat back in her chair, her shoulders stiff. “That is completely inappropriate.”

  He moved his gaze deliberately to her hand. “You’re not wearing it.”

  “I told you, not at work.”

  “Wyn,” he said patiently, “everybody knows about us. The guys at the department know about us. Buddy Hall knows about us. The waitress knows about us. What’s not appropriate about being honest?”

  She said, “Have you talked to Raine yet?”

  Silence was her answer, and a quick shifting of his gaze. Her lips tightened, and she, too, looked away for a moment. The silence lingered.

  Then he picked up his coffee cup. “All right,” he said. “Go on. What did you get out of Reggie?”

  Her expression settled into thoughtful lines, and she picked up the bacon again. “It was the weirdest thing,” she said. “He just kind of laughed and shook his head and he said, ‘You think that’s your biggest problem, Deputy?’ or something like that.”

  Buck lifted an eyebrow. “That drunk, huh?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least not from what I could tell. The bartender said it was his first. Of course, we don’t know how much he had before he got there but … no. He didn’t seem drunk to me. It was just like … I don’t know. Weird.” She frowned and crunched down on the bacon. “Then he seemed to get with the program and said that he hadn’t been anywhere Monday night, that his dad was confused, medication, blah, blah, and as far as he knew the car hadn’t been driven since Sunday church. He said the bedrooms are on the back side of the house and they wouldn’t have heard anything if someone came in the middle of the night, and the first time he noticed it was gone was when he phoned in the report. About what you’d expect. And then—this is the interesting part—when I asked if he had any idea who the victim might be, the one who was found in his dad’s car, he got real quiet and just kind of stared into his drink for a while, and then he said, ‘Nobody worth knowing.’”

  Buck looked at her, his attention quickening.

  “That’s what he said. I wrote it down, and Les was with me. ‘Nobody worth knowing.’”

  Buck frowned. “That is interesting.” He put down the last piece of toast. “I checked on the preliminary forensics last night before I left. It was definitely a homicide. The victim had a forty-four caliber bullet hole in his skull, dead before the fire.”

  Wyn took a breath. “Wow. If we were TV cops, we’d be hauling Reggie in for questioning right now.”

  “At the very least.”

  “I wonder if he knows that.”

  Buck said, “I wonder if he cares.”

  Wyn said, “It’s not our case.”

  “No evidence, anyway.”

  She picked up her coffee cup. “Yeah, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Buck, “and I think I’ll give that state investigator a call, maybe point him in the right direction.”

  “The thing is,” speculated Wyn, sipping her coffee, “until we know who the victim is, we can’t begin to come up with a motive.”

  “But if we had a motive,” Buck countered, “we might be able to figure out who the victim is.”

  Wyn was thoughtful, sipping her coffee. “Nobody local.”

  “Probably not. Someone would’ve come forward with a missing person’s by now.”

  “Which is why it’s not our case.”

  “Among other reasons.” Buck’s phone vibrated in his shirt pocket and he took it out, glancing at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured. He pressed the button and answered, “Lawson.”

  “Sheriff, this is Pete Bennet, state police.” The voice sounded wary, not quite as comradely as it had been in previous conversations. “We might’ve caught a break on this vic in this car burning. Nothing for sure yet, still running it through the databases, but there was a cell phone in the car … could’ve been his, could’ve belonged to the perp. We were able to retrieve enough of the serial number to come up with a name. Carl Brunner. Mean anything to you?”

  Buck frowned. “Not off hand. I’ll do some checking when I get back to the office.”

  Bennet gave a small grunt of consent. “We just got in a record of the last week’s phone calls. One number showed up twice—incoming and outgoing. Turns out it belongs to a deputy of yours. One Jolene Smith. We’ll be talking to her, of course. But I just thought you’d like a heads-up.”

  As he spoke, Buck’s face grew stiller, and the lines around his lips grew tighter. Wyn put down her coffee cup, watching him.

  Buck said, with an effort, “I appreciate that. Do me one more favor if you will. Give me an hour. Let me see what I can find out.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. It’ll take me that long to get out there anyway.” The last word was broken by a buzz on the other end of the line. “Hey, hold on a minute. That might be my confirmation on the ID.”

  While he was on hold, Buck turned the mouthpiece to his jaw and told Wyn tersely, “They think they have an ID on the victim. Carl Brunner. Familiar?”

  She shook her head. “Do you want me to check into it?”

  “You may not have to.” The knot between his brows deepened. “Seems our own Deputy Jo might have known him pretty well.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “What?”

  But Buck turned his attention back to the phone as Bennet came back on the line. “Sheriff, looks like we both just saved ourselves some trouble.” The words were innocuous, but his voice was tight with frustration. “Seems like that name triggered something on a federal database. They’re taking over, and I’m spending the weekend barbecuing and watching fireworks. Hope you get to do the same. But Sheriff,” his tone grew somber, “I’d keep that deputy under watch if I were you. I’ve got a funny feeling she’ll be getting a visit from a man in a suit before long.”

  He disconnected, and Buck put the phone back in his pocket, his expression distant and preoccupied.

  “What?” Wyn demanded.

  He looked back at her, still frowning. “Our stolen car just became a federal case,” he said. “And I’m going to find out why.”

  Wyn said, “Federal? Why?”

  “Gotta go.” He stood abruptly and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. He barely stopped himself before bending to kiss her absently. Instead he gave her a wry apologetic smile. “Fill you in later. Thanks for stopping by. Get some sleep.”

  She lifted her empty coffee cup and replied, “Fat chance of that.”

  But he was already gone, and the bell that clanged on the door that shut after him had a particularly angry sound.

  It took him five minutes to get to the office. The change of watch was in progress; night duty going off, day shift coming on. He waved off the night commander with his report, he ignored the messages that were thrust at him, and when his deputies, oncoming and off-going, saw the expression on his face, they got out of his way. He found Jolene getting ready to go on patrol and he said to her brusquely, without stopping, “My office.”

  She looked surprised, but put Nike in a down-stay under her desk and followed him. When she crossed the threshold, he said, “Close the door.”

  She complied, and he stalked behind his desk then turned to face her. “Who is Carl Brunner?”

  Her face changed, muscles going slack, eyes growing dark. She sat down.

  He placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward, his anger, deep and quiet, boring down on
her. “And who the hell,” he demanded coldly, “are you?”

  It took a moment for her to reply. “It was him then?” She looked shaken, or as shaken as it was possible for a woman with completely inscrutable features to look. “In the car, it was Brunner?”

  Buck said distinctly, “Answer my question.”

  Her lips compressed. She looked momentarily uncertain. Then she said, “I need to make a phone call.”

  “Put it on speaker.”

  He sat down behind the desk but didn’t take his eyes off her. She took out her phone and dialed a number. A man answered with a curt, “Manahan.”

  Jolene held the phone away from her face, mouthpiece pointing toward her. “Agent Manahan, this is Jolene Smith. I have Sheriff Lawson here. He asked me to put you on speaker.”

  There was barely even a hesitation. “Yes, Sheriff. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

  Buck had no idea whether that was true or not. “What agency are you with?”

  This time the hesitation was distinct, ringing with things carefully left unsaid. “I’m with the FBI, Sheriff, Charlotte Field Office.”

  Buck frowned. He was accustomed to dealing with the Asheville office, the resident agency that served the western mountains. If they were sending a guy from Charlotte, something big must be going on, and he had a bad feeling it was connected with Jeb Wilson’s visit. Manahan’s next words only made that bad feeling worse.

  “I’m on my way down with members of the task force to fill you in. Meantime, Officer Smith can tell you what she knows. I’m not comfortable going any further on the phone. Officer Smith?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  She disconnected and put the phone away. Buck glared at her, his back teeth clenched against the volcano of temper that was so close to eruption he could taste ashes on the back of his tongue. Jolene felt his fury and her nostrils flared, shoulders squaring in self-defense.