Page 138 of Secrets Along the Shore
If it goes my way, maybe he’ll have something for me by the time I head back to Birmingham, which will be as soon as I can swing it. Fogerty’s impending sentencing has hung a ticking clock over this investigation, and I still need to track down the servers at The Smoked Glass who worked with Kamden, her previous manager, and Reggie the drug dealer, ASAP.
When I pull into the courthouse parking lot thirty minutes later, the lights are on in the D.A.’s office, but Tasha still hasn’t called. A nervous twinge picks at my brain, concern growing that something really has happened. I hustle up to the war room to find Tasha and Keel in the same spots as yesterday.
Did they even leave last night?
“Hey!” I say, and their heads snap up. “I’ve been trying to reach you guys for an hour and a half. Everything okay?”
“Sorry…sorry.” Tasha grimaces, gesturing at the mounds of papers stacked around her. “We got bogged down in this.”
“You haven’t been here since last night, have you?”
Keel scoffs. “’Course not.” He falls against the chair back, clasps his hands behind his head and spins a full 360 degrees. “Though it does feel like it.”
“Okay, well, you’re not the only one who’s been at it.” I drop my backpack on the floor with a clunk, then launch into an explanation of where I’ve been and what I’ve learned.
Keel drums the table with his pen, running a hand through his spiky, auburn hair. “That sure muddies the waters. I mean, none of it points to Fogerty, but Kamden had his Perfect Princess calling card onher arm. So…what? Some Birmingham drug dealer’s connected to him somehow? Or made it look like it was Fogerty’s doing?”
I shift my stance. “I’d say the latter makes the most sense, but I don’t know at this point.”
“Or it could be a copycat, completely unrelated to her Birmingham contacts,” Tasha adds. “Or…a partner.”
Stark apprehension tweaks my gut and, from their tight expressions, I know Tash and Keel feel it too. If Kamden’s murderer isn’t Fogerty, that means another killer is out there. Whether it’s his partner, someone taking advantage of his notoriety, or a copycat, we need to take them off the streets.
“I want Goat to take a stab at a couple of things—try to find something that’ll at least tell us if we’re headed in the right direction. In the meantime, I’ll head back down to Birmingham and keep following the leads we have. Maybe Fogerty will give us something helpful when I sit down with him again.”
“About that,” Tasha says, “I got a call from Tommy a little while ago. Fogerty’s back at the jail, but he doesn’t want to see you.”
My eyebrows scrunch. “What? He’s the one who asked for the meeting in the first place.”
Tasha shrugs. “I touched base to see if Tommy would let you come by tonight, so you could see him before the hearing. He said Fogerty changed his mind about talking to you.”
“Awfully coincidental that he changed his mind after he was attacked.” Keel crumples an empty can of Red Bull. “You think someone was warning him to shut up?”
Tasha drops her pen on the papers in front of her. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It could be as simple as him deciding that yanking you around isn’t worth it now that he's hurting so much. Maybe he just can’t be bothered.”
“If that’s it,” Keel says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he changes his mind in a week or so, when the pain’s gone down and he gets bored.”
“Whatever his reason, I’ll be at the courthouse first thing in the morning, in case he wants to talk before the sentencing hearing. What about you guys—are you ready?”
“As we can be,” Tasha says. “March came in a little while ago and we ran through it with him. He’s good with what we’ve got.”
“Yeah…” Keel groans, “we’re just crossing i’s and dotting t’s at this point.”
I chuckle. “I think you’ve got that backward, buddy.”
“I’m so tired, I’d probably get my name backward.” Keel leans forward, propping his elbows on the table to hold up his chin. “I think I’m gonna head on. I don’t want that thing”—he jerks his head at Fogerty’s whiteboard photo—“staring at me one minute more.”
“Better the on-paper version than the live one,” I say, acutely recalling Fogerty’s creepy vibe in the jail interview room. “Trust me. Sitting alone with that man and that stare of his…it’s like being wrapped in a blanket of evil.”
With any luck, tomorrow will be the last time I’ll ever have to endure it.
I’m dyingto go home, rinse off the day, and crawl into bed. But I can’t. I’ve got one more appointment this evening and I can’t miss it.
When I step into the Ink & Ivy, the place is packed. A persistent dull murmur of voices mixes with the jazz instrumental playing in the background. Sundays are routinely busy here, with more kids than any other night. I imagine it’s partially due to parents making it to the end of the weekend and wanting a break before the cycle starts again.
“Hey, Grace.”
She looks up from cleaning the bar and her face breaks into a warm smile.
