Page 18 of Girl, Reborn

Why was the next logical question, butthe word seemed inadequate in the face of such cruelty.

She thought back to Carl Jessup's hauntedeyes, the ravaged fields, the dam looming like a death sentence over LibertyGrove. All that anger, all that bitterness left to curdle in the Virginia sun.

Could a desperate farmer have done this?Maybe a group of desperate farmers? Sacrifice this big-talking city boy likesomething out of the Wicker Man?

Ella blew out a breath, feeling like she'daged a decade in the last ten minutes. Ricky Toledo lay still and silent,taking his secrets to a watery grave six feet deep and lined with concrete, butElla had never been one for letting the dead keep their mysteries. One way oranother, she'd drag the truth up from the depths and into the light. Even if ithalf-drowned her in the process.

‘Hawkins,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a lot ofwork to do.’

CHAPTER NINE

Ella slouched against the desk in thecramped office she and Luca had commandeered at the Liberty Grove precinct. TheA.C. sputtered asthmatically, and asbestos hung in the air like tinsel. Howthis joint hadn't been condemned by the health department was anybody's guess –probably some old-boy network at work, keeping the place limping along out ofpure spite.

Home sweet home for the foreseeablefuture, but that was the job. It couldn't always be Miami high-rises and L.A.mansions. Sometimes it was mold-choked backrooms and creaky small-town copshops. Hunt monsters, put them in the ground, rinse and repeat.

A glamorous life. No wonder every copshe’d ever met had a drinking problem.

But hey, being holed up in here beatroasting her ass off in the midday sun while she waited for Luca to finishcharming the locals. His pretty mug opened doors hers tended to slam in herface, so she left him to it.

Ella shook off that cheerful thought andturned her attention back to the task at hand – namely, plumbing the depths ofRicky Toledo's closet for skeletons that might point to his untimely demise.According to her online research, the man had more smiling photos than a usedcar salesman, grip-and-grin shots with everyone from elementary school cherubsto blue-haired grannies. Kid knew how to work a crowd, she'd give him thatmuch. But like any politician worth the polyester of his cheap suit, he was no doubtpacking scandals like candy on Halloween. It was just a matter of prying up theright floorboards to find where the bodies were buried.

Her eyes started to cross from readingbetween the lines of Toledo's social media pages, a study in calculatedfolksiness if she'd ever seen one. Childhood snaps of good ol' Ricky hoeing theback forty, palling around with ruddy-cheeked farmhands. Fast forward a decadeand there he was at Yale, collar popped and oozing a lacrosse bro smarm sothick you could grease a skillet with it. Rubbing elbows with the futureMasters of the Universe, no doubt learning the secret handshake and the bestway to short a stock over single malt scotch.

A meteoric rise, the proverbial rocketstrapped to his ass. One that made a brief pit stop in the public defender'soffice – just long enough to snag some photo ops with weeping widows andwrongly accused – before vaulting into Adams County politics with all thesubtlety and grace of a cannonball into a wading pool. A few terms on CityCouncil, shaking the right hands and flashing those white teeth, and he was allset to Make Bristol Great Again.

At least until someone decided to casttheir vote via murder.

Ella gnawed the end of her pen until theplastic creaked in warning. It didn't add up. There were no overt threats inToledo's inbox, no rage-fueled screeds or garden-variety crackpot keyboardwarriors. His credit card had no unusual charges, no red flags tripped with thebanks. The mistress line item was conspicuously absent, though Ella had nodoubt it existed in some tax-sheltered island haven's ledger. He was a singleman, no wife or children to speak of.

So who'd want a glad-handing empty suitlike Ricky Toledo dead badly enough to go the concrete shoes route? And whatmessage were they trying to send by dumping him in a town as dry as the Sahara?

The office door banged open and Lucasailed through with a six-pack of bottled water dangling from each hand likethe world's saddest barbells. He plunked them down on the desk.

‘What's this, planning for theapocalypse?’

Luca snorted. ‘Might as well be. If youwant coffee, you gotta use bottled water. I just got my ear chewed off by somewoman for running the tap.’

Ella fought the urge to laugh. ‘You neverbeen in a drought before?’

‘I thought they only happened inCalifornia.’

‘Apparently not. Did you find anythinguseful on the street?’

‘Loads, but it was the same old storyevery time. People around here think Toledo was as corrupt as it gets. Bribes,misusing funds, all that kind of stuff. And he was the one who championed thisdam up in Bristol. Said it would reduce water costs down here, benefit theenvironment, even create jobs. ’

Odd, Ella thought. That was the polaropposite of what she’d found online. ‘Anything solid?’

‘No. Just rumor and trust me, ithappened kinda stuff.’

Ella fished a bottle from the collectionand cracked the seal. It was tepid and tasted vaguely of nickels, but it beatthe alternative.

‘Alright, let’s go through it one moretime. Just so we're on the same page.’

Luca pushed a hand through his hair, a fewstrands falling artfully over his forehead. Damn him and his effortless coif.

‘Ricky Toledo,’ he said, ticking off thepoints on fingers. ‘Big fish in a small pond. Golden boy of Bristol with hiseye on a senate seat.’

Ella nodded, digging a finger into hertemple where a headache was starting to pound. ‘He’s from Bristol. That’s hisconstituency. Only he winds up in a dead cornfield fifteen miles south inLiberty Grove – which, by the way, is a misnomer if I've ever heard one.’

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