Chasing Shadows Page 7

“Yep. And, well, even that turned out not to be stolen…old man O’Leary just forgot where he parked it.”

  Does he never stop talking?

  Recently, Bill Marshall, one of the department’s other detectives, had retired, leaving a void in investigations. Hobbs had been picked by the Chief Deputy, who not-so-coincidentally happened to be his uncle, to fill the vacancy. The Chief Deputy had assigned Hobbs to Avery for training due in large part, she’d heard through the grapevine, because David Bishop, the department’s third investigator, had threatened to quit rather take on the role.

  Assisting Avery in the stolen vehicle investigation was Hobbs’s first involvement on a case and he’d been chattering non-stop since they’d left the police station. Actually, he’d started before they’d left. Hobbs had followed her around the station, hounding her every move. At first, she thought it was great that the young man was eager to learn and was more than happy to teach him the basics of investigations. But then, sitting in her office as she entered the Knight’s stolen Ford Mustang into the NCIC database, Hobbs had begun to talk. First about the scene the Knights had made at the inn. Then he’d started reminiscing about the similarly loud and obnoxious couple from Huntsville that he’d pulled over for speeding a few weeks prior that had coincidentally also been driving a Mustang. He had followed that up with a monologue on the Ford Mustang in general and where it stood in his personal ranking of sports cars.

  In mid-morning traffic it was a twenty-two minute drive from the station to the west side of town, where the Harvest Moon Café and, hopefully, their witness was located. By Avery’s estimation, the young police officer sitting in her passenger seat had been talking for at least twenty-one of those minutes.

  “I’ll tell you what, Detective Smith, I’m still not entirely sure how he managed to drive the tractor that far and then make it back to his house without remembering he’d driven it off in the first place, but I guess Jack Daniels will do that to a person.”

  Avery plastered on her best smile—the one she normally reserved for judges and defense attorneys—before looking over at Hobbs. “You know,” she said, “typically I like to use the time before questioning a witness going over the facts of the case quietly in my mind so that I cover all the bases. Quietly.”

  Hobbs bobbed his head. “That is a really good idea, Detective Smith.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad. “I’m writing that one down. You have no idea how much I appreciate this opportunity. You know, I’ve always wanted to go into investigations. Right after I got out of the academy, I asked Detectives Bishop and Marshall to shadow them, but they’ve never let me.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Avery murmured, turning her attention back to the road. Realizing she was just about to pass their destination, Avery took a hard left off Main Street and into the parking lot of the Harvest Moon Café. Surprisingly, she had no problem finding an empty space near the front door. Glancing at the time on the Impala’s dash, Avery supposed it was late for breakfast and still too early for lunch.

  Her eyes caught Hobbs, who was still writing in his notebook. She sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt over her irritation with his enthusiasm. It was obvious that he was eager to learn, just as she had once been. Unlike Avery’s own time as a rookie in Atlanta, there were few opportunities available in Bethel Springs for Hobbs to expand his knowledge.

  Avery cleared her throat. “When we speak to the witness, it’s important to let her speak as much as possible and not prejudice her with any information we’ve been given.”

  Hobbs looked up from the notepad, a confused look on his face. “How do you mean, Detective Smith?”

  “Eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable. I’m sure they taught you that in the academy. So we have the description from Dennis Knight of the perp. Rather than question the night clerk’s girlfriend about whether she saw a man with dark hair and a red jacket, we’re going to make it an open ended question—did you notice anyone walking out as you were walking in? Then we ask for her description and compare it with what we’ve been given,” Avery said. “Could be she saw him but picked up on some other aspect.”

  “Like what he smelled like?” Hobbs snickered.

  “Exactly,” Avery returned the smile. “You laugh, but we cleared a string of armed robberies that way when I worked in Atlanta. We picked up the guy we thought was good for it. There was a ton of circumstantial evidence, but he’d worn a mask each time. But, all of the victims had said that the assailant had a weird smell. We did an in-person line-up and they picked out our guy. Turns out he had a thing for eating tuna-horseradish sandwiches, which caused epically awful bad breath.”

  “Wow,” Hobbs said, notating his pad again. “See, Detective Smith, that’s the kind of thing you can’t learn in a book. Seriously, thanks for giving me this opportunity.”

  “Not a problem.” She reached down and picked up the hand mic of the police radio that took up the majority of the Impala’s dash. She depressed a button on its side before speaking. “Dispatch, zero-twelve and—” She frowned and glanced over at Hobbs. “Sorry, what’s your badge number?”

  “One-oh-eight,” he answered.

  With a small nod, Avery continued, “One-oh-eight will be ten-six at the Harvest Moon Café.” Not waiting for a reply, Avery slid off her seatbelt and opened the car door. Hobbs followed suit. “And remember what I said,” she said, stepping out of the Impala and meeting Hobbs at the front of the vehicle. “We work together. You can call me Avery.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Deputy Hobbs answered and then fell into step beside Avery as they walked to the restaurant’s front entrance. “You can call me Hobbs, that’s what the guys on the force do. But, I guess if we’re on a first name basis, you can call me Trey. That’s what all my family and friends do, on account of me being a third.”

  “A third?” Avery arched an eyebrow. “A third of what?”

  He gave a lopsided grin. “You know…a third. My daddy was a junior and I’m a third. Actually, it’s Thomas Fauntleroy Hobbs III. My granddaddy was Thomas and my daddy was Tom,” he explained. “So, having the worst middle name in the history of the world, everyone has always called me Trey. Like the Spanish word for three.”

  “I don’t know, Fauntleroy’s not all that bad. Isn’t it Donald Duck’s middle name, too?” Avery smirked and gestured at Hobbs’s head. “You kinda look like him with that haircut.”

  He laughed and ran a hand over his buzz cut. “Gee thanks, Detective Smith.”

  “Avery.”

  “Avery,” he repeated as he opened the front door and motioned for her to lead the way.

  The smell of coffee and fresh baked bread filled the air of the café. Like many of the restaurants in town, the Harvest Moon Café was locally owned and operated. A particular lunch-time favorite of Avery’s, it was a quaint little place, with its rustic decorations and farm-to-table menu. She scanned the café’s dining area, hoping to see the pink-haired waitress they’d come in search of, but came up empty.

  “I think—” she began, stopping abruptly as a familiar face caught her attention. She swallowed and then surprised herself by saying, “Hobbs, why don’t you see if you can round up a manager and ask if Jordan is on duty. If she’s not, see if we can get some contact info on her.”

  “By myself?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be good experience for you. I’ll be just over there,” Avery said, motioning to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, “saying hello to someone I know.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I’m trying to diet a little, so I think I’ll just have...um…let’s go with the country-fried steak.”

  “What vegetables do you want to go with that?”

  “Give me the fried okra and the hash brown casserole—can you put extra cheese in that? Oh, and throw in a biscuit. And a sweet tea to drink.”

  The petite waitress, who wore a red-checkered apron over her dark clothes, gave a smack of her bubblegum and nodded. “Sure thing. You want hone
y butter to go with that?”

  “That’d be great,” Chuck Jackson answered, handing the waitress his menu.

  Sitting across the table from the husky real estate agent, Cam decided that the word ‘diet’ had a decidedly different meaning in Alabama than it did in California.

  “And how about you, sugar?” the waitress smiled down at Cam.

  She squinted at the menu. Everything on it looked designed to conspire against any hope she had of ever fitting into her wardrobe again. “I think I’ll go with a vegetable plate. How about the squash—”

  “You want that fried or with butter and onions?”

  “I don’t suppose I could get it grilled?”

  The waitress smacked her gum again. “Grilled? No, sugar,” she said, giving a little sideways glance to Chuck. The real estate agent that had been referred to Cam by one of the ladies in Loralyn’s Sunday school class grinned back but didn’t otherwise comment. Cam frowned, feeling the knot on the back of her head threaten to begin aching again. In the week she’d spent in Bethel Springs since the funeral, she had discovered the majority of the people in town fell into one of two categories—those who recognized her from the show and wanted to take a picture with her while excitedly recounting their favorite episode, and those who didn’t see anything past her west coast accent. The waitress fell into that later category. “Sorry, but we don’t make it that way in these parts.”

  “How about the—” Cam was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing from inside the purse that sat beside her on the bench. She didn’t have to look to know who was calling. Shaye, the associate producer of her show, had already texted twice and called once that day inquiring on when she was going to “wrap things up” and come back to work. Ignoring the sound of the phone, Cam frowned down at the list of vegetables. “Do you have anything that is not fried or smothered in butter?”

  The waitress peered over Cam’s shoulder, smacked her gum again, and pointed at the bottom section of the menu. “The green beans,” she said. “Those we season with fatback.”

  “I’d go with the fried green tomato sandwich,” a familiar voice broke in.

  Cam matched the waitress’s startled flinch, quickly looking up, surprised to see that Avery Smith had walked up to the table unnoticed.

  “It has a light breading, so it’s not as heavy as you’d think,” she continued, nodding a greeting to the waitress.

  “Uh, okay,” Cam said hesitantly. She shifted her attention back to the waitress. “I’ll take that with a Diet Coke.”

  The waitress took Cam’s menu with a nod, pausing to smile at Avery before heading back toward the kitchen.

  Cam shifted in her seat to face Avery full on. The tall police detective was casually dressed in a lightweight black jacket that she wore open over a tan-colored polo. Both the shirt and jacket, Cam noted, were emblazoned with an enormous gold star encircled by the words Brooks County Sheriff.

  “Detective Smith, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Cam said in what she hoped was a cool tone.

  Avery gestured behind her. “I’m in the neighborhood on business and saw you sitting here.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of the jacket, revealing the half dozen or so items that were fastened to her black leather duty belt. One of the little leather pouches held a pair of handcuffs, another what looked like a small recording device. Cam’s eyes, however, were drawn to the pistol that sat casually off Avery’s hip. She’d never been that close to a gun before, and was a little surprised by how large it was. She glanced up at Avery, wondering if she’d ever had occasion to use it.

  “I didn’t want to intrude,” Avery said, “but I figured I probably wouldn’t get a second chance to see you before you left town to, um, apologize for the other night.”

  Cam was momentarily at a loss for words. An apology from Avery Smith was the last thing she’d have expected after their encounter almost a week ago. They stared at one another in awkward silence before Cam finally found her voice. “Please,” she said, “don’t apologize. I think we were all over-tired and well…it’s okay.

  Avery nodded and then shifted her gaze from Cam to the portly man sitting on the other side of the table. “Chuck,” she said simply.

  The real estate agent gave a curt nod in return. “Miss Smith, always nice to see you again.”

  The smile Avery gave the man did not reach her brown eyes, Cam noted. There was some history there, she mused, and one did not have to be psychic to pick up that it wasn’t a pleasant one.

  “Mr. Jackson is helping me make the necessary arrangements to put Aunt Loralyn’s house on the market,” Cam supplied, suddenly feeling the need to explain her lunch partner.

  “Ah, I see. For some reason I’d have thought you’d be long gone from Bethel Springs by now.”

  “No, I’ll be here for a bit clearing up my aunt’s estate.”

  “Well, good luck with it.” Avery shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe—”

  “Detective Smith?”

  As Avery turned at the sound of the voice, Cam craned her neck to see a young police officer rapidly approaching. He was tall, with his hair cut tight around his head. He wore an eager, almost excited expression.

  “The, uh…” He flicked his eyes quickly to Cam and then back to Avery, lowering his voice before continuing, “The witness is working today. She’s back in the manager’s office now waiting on us to talk to her before her shift starts.”

  Avery nodded before looking back to Cam. “Duty calls,” she said. “Have a good lunch and I hope everything goes well with settling the estate. I know how difficult that can be.” A thoughtful expression crossed her face and she added, “And, my condolences, again, on your aunt.”

  “Thank you,” Cam replied as Avery turned to go, the young officer following close behind. She watched quietly as the pair disappeared behind the door to the kitchen, still somewhat taken aback by the interaction.

  From across the table, Chuck cleared his throat loudly. “You know the Smith family?”

  Shifting back in her seat, she shrugged one shoulder. “Vaguely. We went to high school together.”

  He nodded sagely. “They’re a nice family.” His forehead puckered as he continued, “Although a little peculiar. I helped old Mrs. Smith sell her son’s house after he and his wife passed a few years ago.” He shook his head, frowning. “Terrible thing, that.”

  Cam was surprised to hear that Avery’s parents were dead, thinking it odd that Loralyn had never mentioned that tidbit along with all the other town gossip she’d relayed.

  Chuck cleared his throat again. “You do know that, uh, Detective Smith is a uh…”

  Cam arched an eyebrow. Something in his tone told her that Loralyn wasn’t the only one in town with a penchant for gossip. “She’s a what?”

  “Here’s y’all’s drinks.” Cam didn’t look up as the waitress sat the two glasses down on the table, instead pinning Chuck with an icy stare. “Your food will be out in just a minute,” the waitress chirped.

  “Thank you,” Chuck muttered, his eyes darting from Cam to the waitress and then back again.

  Cam waited for the waitress to walk away before asking, “Now what were you saying about my good friend Avery Smith?” She tapped her fingers quietly on the table as she waited for Chuck’s response.

  Chuck’s cheeks flushed and he quickly picked up his glass of tea, taking a long swallow of the amber liquid.

  From what little time they’d spent together, Cam had picked up that the real estate agent was adept at reading people. It was, after all, an essential trait to be successful in business, and from what she’d been told, Chuck was the leading agent in Bethel Springs. If he was as perceptive as she imagined he was, then Cam imagined he’d picked up that he was dangerously close to losing her business.

  “Nothing of any importance,” he said, shifting in his seat. He sat up a little straighter before continuing, “Now, about Loralyn’s estate…we have a couple of different options to
consider on the sale.”

  Just what I thought. Cam took a sip of Diet Coke and sat back, only half-listening as Chuck began to talk about the benefits of an estate auction versus a standard sale. She wasn’t sure if Chuck was just a gossip or a full-blown bigot, but either, she decided, would go a long way in explaining Avery’s attitude toward him.

  From inside her purse, Cam’s cell phone began to ring once more. She reached in and picked it up, muttering, “Damn it,” under her breath when she saw it was another call from Shaye.

  She looked up to see Chuck looking inquisitively at her. “Sorry,” she said. “You were saying?”

  “Is there anything I can to do help?” Chuck asked, looking eager to make amends for his earlier faux pas.

  Cam sighed, shaking her head as she dropped the phone back into her purse. “Not unless you happen to have a haunted house floating around out there somewhere.”

  Chuck cocked his head to one side, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then leaned conspiratorially into the table. “Well, actually…”

  ****

  “Well, that was pretty much a bust.”

  “Sometimes a lead pans out, sometimes not. We still have the night clerk to speak with.”

  “You don’t sound as if you think that’s going to go anywhere.”

  Avery shrugged as she approached the Impala parked outside the Harvest Moon Café. They’d spent the last hour talking to their pink-haired witness. While she had noticed the quarrelsome couple who owned the stolen Mustang enter the Cottonwood Inn, she’d not seen their suspect. “It may, it may not. In this situation, with no real witness to identify the perp, I think the most likely scenario is that if it’s found, it’ll be in some random traffic stop.”

  Looking dejected, Hobbs nodded. “I remember one of the instructors saying something along those lines when I was in the academy. Only something like a third of all stolen vehicles are actually recovered.”

  “That sounds about right, for this area anyway. But, you never know. A friend of mine in college had her car stolen our freshman year. It was a real beater, something like an ’82 Toyota. It turned up four years later in Oregon. Cops there found it abandoned on the side of the road. No idea how it got all the way from Georgia to Oregon.”