Page 47 of Long Gone

“I expected to hear from you again,” he said with a laugh. “Figured I should be prepared for your questions.”

“Then I suppose it’s not a surprise that I’m calling to ask if you searched either of the properties Hugo Burton owned at the time of his death.”

“You mean like search for a body?”

“Or anything helpful.”

“Well, first of all, the Sunny Point property is over five hundred acres. Do you know how much manpower that would take?”

“So that’s a no?”

“I never said that,” he grumbled. “I asked if you knew—never mind.” He didn’t sound happy. “The answer is yes. We searched both properties, but I admit that we didn’t canvas them like we would if we were looking for a missing kid or person.”

“But Hugo Burton was a missing person.”

“We believed he’d ran off. We’d found his car in Little Rock. Do you know how much money a search like that would have cost?”

I didn’t answer. I had no idea how much it would cost here, but back in Little Rock it would have taken a small fortune.

“I take it you found something,” he said quietly.

I’d agreed to keep him updated on my search, but something felt off. I wasn’t sure if it was my general paranoia and distrust at work, or whether my instincts were kicking in. But hiding what I knew for at least a few days wouldn’t cause any harm. Not after five years.

“Just asking questions,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“I see,” he said, obviously not believing me.

“I promise to let you know if I find anything important.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he said grudgingly.

“I do have one favor to ask,” I said, my brain fixating on the abandoned car. “Can you get me any information on Burton’s car at the Little Rock airport? A report about how it was found and photos?”

“I already gave you information I shouldn’t have yesterday,” he said, his voice tight.

“Then let me come into the office and look at them. I need to have a better understanding of what I’m working with.” When he didn’t respond, I pushed a little harder. “If you were working this case, wouldn’t you want to see them?”

“I did work this case,” he snapped back, but it wasn’t full of venom. More like exhaustion mixed with defensiveness. “Remember? Five years ago.”

“And you needed that information,” I said. “Just like I need it now.”

He cursed under his breath, then said, “I’ll see what I can do. If I let you have it, I’ll send it in an email.”

“Thank you, Detective Jones,” I said, meaning it. He could have chosen to be a complete asshole and not share anything with me, yet he was cooperating. I felt guilty that his openness hadn’t eased my suspicious nature.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he grumbled. “I said I’d see what I could do.”

“Yeah. Sure. I understand,” I said and hung up. I knew he was going to send it, though, which made me fall back into the trust him camp.

I really needed to quit flip-flopping. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Back in Little Rock, I’d been known for my calm, meticulous investigations. I didn’t get riled up. I followed the trail and let my instinct drive me. But my instincts seemed to have shriveled up.

I just had to trust they would come back.

I wanted to search the property, but I also wanted to talk to Skip Martin, so I searched for the number for the Ford dealership and called, asking for Skip.

“May I ask who’s calling?” asked the man who’d answered.

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