Page 151 of Secrets Along the Shore
“Sure. Hold on,” he says, and some awful techno music plays for about thirty seconds until he comes back on. “That was Jamal. Deputy Jamal Carver.”
I know Jamal fairly well. He and Daniel were in the same Bible study back in the day. As far as I know, he’s a conscientious guy, and I can’t see him forgetting something like checking the hotline. “Is he on duty today?” I ask, pressing the unlock button on my Jeep’s key fob and climbing in.
“Yeah.”
“Did any tip-line calls come in over the weekend in the Kamden Avery case? Or today, for that matter?”
“I don’t know about the weekend—I’ll have to check—but, nah, nothing today. I mean, we got one this morning, but nothing legit.”
“You sure?”
He snorted. “The woman said she watched a woman matchingKamden Avery’s description get sucked up into a spaceship. So you tell me.”
“Not the craziest tip we’ve ever gotten.”
“No, but I wasn’t planning on passing it along. Unless you’rereallywidening your suspect pool.”
“I’m not taking it that wide, no,” I concede.
“If something came in over the weekend, Jamal should have picked it up,” Deputy Carlisle says.
“And if he didn’t?”
“Well, then it would still be in the inbox marked as unheard, but there wasn’t anything waiting for me when I came in this morning.”
I drum my fingertips on the steering wheel. “Can you have Jamal call me when he gets a chance?”
“Ten-four.”
When the call disconnects, one question is left spinning in my brain.
If Parry called the sheriff’s tip-line and left a message, what happened to it? Messages don’t just disappear.
Unless someone makes sure they do.
“That’s crazy,”says James, his fork hovering over the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and baby limas making up the dinner special at the Ink & Ivy tonight. “How does a message just disappear?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Deputy Carver finally got in touch and said there wasn’t a single credible tip all weekend. Three in total and none of them panned out, and none from John Parry.” I take another bite of potatoes and gravy, comfort food if I’ve ever tasted it.
After the day I’ve had, I need it. I was thrilled when James said he could meet me here, and so hungry I didn’t even head home first. I try to clean up a little in the bathroom, but after smoothing my hair and reapplying my minimal makeup, I still look a bit like I’ve gone a round with a bargain shopper on Black Friday.
“What about Fogerty?” he asks. “Does Sheriff Vickers have any leads?”
“None he’s shared, and I’m assuming he would if he had any, even though he hasn’t asked for my help on the investigation.”
“That surprises me. Maybe you should offer.” James stabs several limas over the sound of tonight’s playlist—Grace’s curated selection of mellow country songs about love and loss.
“I did. He’s putting Cole on it with Mike Neeley. The sheriff’s prepping Cole to take over when Mike retires soon.”
“Still, you could be really helpful.”
I’ve tried to impress on James how much it means to me that he’s so supportive of my work, but I’m not sure he understands the depth of my gratitude. I do not take him being in my corner for granted.
I smile. “I love that you think that, but he wants me focused on solving the new murder. There’s even more urgency now that it looks like Fogerty’s alibied out.”
“True. So, he’s probably right to not divide your attention. Can I do anything?”
James asks this from time to time—not as often as Edward—and I appreciate him wanting to help. But there isn’t anything he can do, and even if there were, I wouldn’t want him pulling strings. That kind of favor can jeopardize a politician’s aspirations if it comes to light, whether it’s legit or not. It’s no secret that the smallest thing can wipe out a political career if weaponized by the opposition or spun negatively by the media. I won’t let him do that to himself.
