Page 21 of Lone Star

Patrol cars rolled up after that. Candy took Colin and Blue and they all retreated to the front porch to let Cantrell handle things – which he did. The uniformed cops were put on tape and lookout duty. Vans started rolling up. A coroner, and some black vans from the FBI lab, full of techs in white gloves and black windbreakers. They dragged out their kits, and cameras, and they folded back the tarp just as the sun finally broke over the horizon in pale white spikes, the soft glow of dawn spilling through the neighborhood.

The neighbors rolled by a few at a time, slowing way down, rubber-necking on their way to work. The uniforms waved them on, but Candy was pretty sure one mom in a minivan got an eyeful of dead guy, if the way her mouth dropped open was any indication.

Cantrell finally ambled up to the porch, walking like a man who’d had less than three hours of sleep, smoking a cigarette. Colin already had a travel mug of fresh coffee ready and handed it out in offering.

Cantrell blinked at it a moment, exhaustion-rumpled face smoothing in momentary surprise.

“It’s cream and sugar,” Colin said.

“Thanks.” The agent took it, and if he had any hesitation about drinking something a confirmed outlaw handed him, he didn’t show it, taking a long sip straight off.

“How long ‘til they get them outta my yard?” Colin asked.

“Hard to say.” Cantrell glanced toward the action. Two female techs stood over one body, one near the head, one down at a staked foot, snapping pictures, then bending to place the little scale markers again and take more. “I don’t get involved in ‘the process.’” He said it like someone who’d been reprimanded more than once for doing just that. He turned back to Colin, gaze sharpening. “You saw them from the house?”

“My wife did,” Colin said, folding his arms across his chest, that same puffed-up, defensive posture he’d had when Candy first arrived. The idiot still hadn’t put on a jacket – only a beanie pulled low on his brow. He looked huge, and the pose wasn’t going to help things. “Right outside our son’s bedroom window.” He nodded toward it.

“Jesus,” Cantrell said, flatly. “Helluva thing to wake up to.”

Then the agent’s gaze landed on Candy – installed in one of Jenny’s cliché white rocking chairs – and stayed there. “I’d like to have a word, Mr. Snow. Just the two of us.”

Blue grumbled something unintelligible – though Candy swore he heardsoftthrown in – but he and Colin headed inside without making a fuss.

When they were gone, Cantrell sipped his coffee, and stared out at the crime scene.

Candy snorted. “That old trick isn’t gonna work on me, boss. If you’ve got questions, you can just go ahead and ask them.”

Cantrell sighed and gave a little shrug with his brows, expression rueful. He hitched a hip up onto the porch rail, one leg dangling tiredly, and looked at Candy full-on. Not with that careful blankness of a questioning detective, nor with any hostility. Honestly, Candy wasn’t used to being looked at like this by law enforcement of any kind.

“I did some research into your organization.”

“Our reputation didn’t precede us?” Candy asked with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, it did, believe me. But I don’t like to operate on rumor and hearsay. That doesn’t land me warrants or get dirtbags arrested. I’m a hard-facts only kinda guy.”

“How old fashioned of you.”

“Yeah, well.” The smile became more rueful – and then grim. “It doesn’t win you a lot of friends in the Bureau, I can tell you that. Turns out, the old Boy Scout routine fell out of favor a while back.”

“Sucks when that happens.”

“So I did my research. Conveniently for you and yours, though the club rubs up against a lot of very illegal shit, it never actually gets busted for it.”

Candy let his grin sharpen. It wasn’t as effective as one of Mercy’s crazy, gator-hunting smiles, he knew, but it wasn’t bad. “Maybe I’m a Boy Scout, too.”

Cantrell snorted – but something like real amusement peeked through his wry façade. “I know how clubs like yours operate. They oughta teach courses on it at Quantico. It’s – well, it’s fairly damn impressive, if we’re being honest.”

“Not that I don’t love being flattered, Agent…”

His voice went quiet. “I have no leads on this case. Not a one.”

Candy blinked. “Really?”

“None. Big fat goose egg.” He made a circle with one hand for emphasis. “The profilers say this fits all the marks of cult activity, but I’m not exactly gonna find a cult hiding under a rock out in the desert, and none of the vics’ families can tell me anything useful.”

Candy nodded. He’d reached out to their dealers, their wannabes, their Lean Bitches; the business owners downtown who kicked up a vig to the club to buy themselves protection. Nobody knew anything. He’d hoped that, if he had to put up with the feds, their cameras and tweezers and test tubes might at least provide some useful bit of insight.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. He thought he knew – but it was too odd to be believed.

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