Page 87 of Love Me Fierce

Fuck!

When will my past quit doing this to me? Messing with my judgement. Making me second guess myself.

I need to apologize to Vivian. But how can I do that without coming off like an asshole?

My desk phone buzzes. “Rumsey,” I answer.

It’s our gruff crime scene tech, Walker. “It’s your lucky day, deputy.”

“Oh?” I could certainly use some good news.

“Got a partial off that Taurus.One. The rest of the interior was wiped clean like I thought.”

I whip out my pocket notebook and flip to a fresh page. “Where’d you get the partial?”

“Outside edge of the gas cap.”

I lean back, digesting this. The driver wiped every surface but forgot that he’d pumped gas. Or he was in too much of a rush to clean up, and hoped we wouldn’t find it. It’s also possible the print came from a gas station attendant.

“Did you get a match?”

“That’s your second lucky break. Jordy Clarke. With an “e”. Age thirty-two. Last known address is Idaho Falls. You want it?”

“Email it to me,” I say while scribbling. “Any hits?”

“Yep. Two B and E’s. Both in California. One five years ago, the other seven years ago. He had a juvenile record but good luck getting at that.”

Juvenile records area sealed tight. Only a court order will allow access, which is extremely rare. “So, he got popped in California, but he’s now living in Idaho Falls? What’s this guy doing in Finn River?”

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” Walker says. “I’m releasing the Taurus. Can you notify the owner?”

“Yes.” I pull up the report from the Rigby PD with Woody McGowan’s contact info. “Anything yet from the break-in at The Meadows?”

“I’m afraid that’s all the lucky breaks I have for you today. The prints on the door are only hers. Same with the fridge. I got hair and fibers but again, Rolland’s holding out until I’ve exhausted other means, and I’m not even sure he’ll spring for a DNA analysis for a petty crime like this.”

He’s right, yet the thought of Vivian’s trailer break-in as a “petty crime” makes me wince. I run a hand through my hair. “Thanks.”

“I heard about the vandalism last night,” Walker says. “Zach’s bringing in prints later. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Jeez, Walker, I’m touched.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Walker and I wrap up our call. I sketch out a to-do list for my morning, then type “Jordy Clarke” into our CAD database. First, I open the image of Jordy’s current driver’s license. Brown hair, brown eyes. In his picture, there’s something about his face that sets me on edge. He looks hungry, like his cheekbones are a little too close to the skin. And his eyes are angry. Hard. He looks much older in his photo than thirty-two. Just as I suspected, thanks to the fleeting glance I got of him driving, he’s tall, well over six feet.

Where did he go that day I chased him to the boat ramp?

A bad feeling niggles my gut.

Jordy’s records list the name and address of his employer, a business called Restaurant Depot in Idaho Falls, where he’s been a forklift operator for the past four years.

When I call the number, so much sound comes through the speaker that I have to hold it away from my ear or risk rupturing an eardrum. “Restaurant Depot, this is Mick,” a man barks over the beeping and constant grinding of engines. Like a construction site.

“This is Deputy Rumsey from Finn River Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling about an employee of yours.”

He grunts. “Who?”

“Jordy Clarke. Is he in today?”

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