Page 113 of Buried Too Deep

I need you to meet me in my office at the church in 30 minutes. Do not be late.

Sage looked around the study. Had the old man installed cameras of his own? Was Sage being watched right now?

He was tempted to tell the old man to fuck himself, but he wanted to know where he stood. He was armed and now he had evidence on the old man. He wasn’t sure what the photo meant, but he’d find out.

He’d begun to put the folders back when he found two manila envelopes in the back of the safe. One held cash—stacks of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. There were five stacks of fifty. Twenty-five grand in all. The year on the bills…twenty-three years ago.

Lots of things happening twenty-three years ago.

If the money was connected to Jack Elliot’s death, he wanted no part of it, so he put the envelope back.

The other envelope contained more photographs, all of the same girl. Most seemed to have been taken from far away, with a long-range lens, maybe.

They started when she was a toddler, playing on a jungle gym on a playground. Another was the same girl at about age eight. She wore a Girl Scout uniform and sat at a table outside, selling cookies. There was a photo of the girl in a formal dress with a corsage strapped to her wrist. Another of her walking down the street, an older woman at her side.

Sage captured all the photos with his phone.

This girl was the source of his grandfather’s distraction.

This girl had something to do with Cora Winslow.

This girl could bring Alan down.

Now Sage just needed to find out who she was.

Closing the safe, he hurried out of Alan’s study, out of the house, then caught a cab home. He’d come back for the chop shop’s Corolla later, if it was still there.

He needed to change his clothes and do his grandfather’s bidding.

He should be nervous, but he found himself only curious.

What had the old man done now?

Houma, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 12:05 P.M.

“I hope this goes better than the bank did,” Cora grumbled as she freshened her lipstick. She was nervous about seeing the detective in Houma.

Today she’d be asking harder questions than she had on previous visits. Today she’d be asking for photos.

At least she had support. Three of their team had accompanied her—Phin, Val, and Burke. Val was driving the bullet-resistant SUV and Phin was in the back seat with Cora, SodaPop at their feet.

Burke followed them in his truck. If the black Camry or any other vehicle started to tail them, Burke would herd them away, so that the local cops could pick them up.

“The bank didn’t go badly,” Val said. “I’d have been shocked if they’d handed you the statements from your father’s account. There’s always paperwork.”

There had been. Stacks of paperwork. And Cora had read every page before signing. Phin had stood watch over her while she’d pored over each document the bank handed her. Burke stood guard inside the bank, Val outside.

No one was getting to Cora on their watch.

Their investigation on Cora’s behalf had started out as a way to get to whoever had shot Joy. Now, it was personal for all of them.

Cora sighed. “I honestly thought that all I’d need to do is prove I was Jack Elliot’s daughter and they’d at least give me a printout of the transactions.”

The bank said they’d get back to them in a few days.

Plenty of time for Clancy to get a subpoena, dammit.

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