Page 16 of Stay Baby Stay

I clear my throat and take a moment to settle in. Having worked with Harris for going on six years, I know bad news tends to go down smoother when I give him a moment to breathe.

“Sir, I had reason to believe that—”

He slams his fist on the desk. “You’d better have a damn good reason for sneaking into a private citizen’s residence.”

“I was informed by a CI that Russell King would be trafficking women and minors for sex at his mansion in Morristown. I obtained entry to the event—”

“Illegal entry.”

“It was hardly the only illegal activity taking place in that house.”

“Be real, Larkin. You don’t expect me to believe Russell King’s pedo palace was the target last night.” He eyes me over steepled fingers. “You went there looking for the reverend.”

There’s no point in trying to bullshit him. Harris is as sharp as a razor, and he’s been following the case alongside Abby and me since the beginning. When it became clear that we might be dealing with some big-name perps, he told us to tread lightly. Don’t stop looking, but don’t provoke.

Last night was an undeniable provocation.

“Oddly enough,” I say, “the reverend never showed.”

“Maybe he wasn’t in the mood.”

“Or maybe someone tipped him off.”

He cocks his head. “Your CI?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it.”

Lieutenant Harris pushes at his receding hairline. This is hardly the first time he’s brought me in for this conversation. The further I get with this case, the harder it is to make progress without stepping on a senator’s toes, which says a lot about how high up the chain the corruption climbs in this town.

“Have any young women or girls from last night’s party been reported missing?” he asks.

“Not at this time, but if the reverend wasn’t there, I doubt we’ll be seeing one this month—”

“And if one does turn up, what then?”

I squint. “Sorry?”

“If a body turns up, and it matches the profile, but doesn’t point to the reverend, what then? See this is the problem. You’re so focused on one suspect that it blinds you to everything else.”

“What else?” I ask. “What evidence have I ignored?”

“How about all the evidence that points to Russell King himself?”

I shake my head. “King’s a bastard, but he’s no good for it.”

“Based on what? The drug-induced ramblings of a traumatized teenager?” He’s of course referring to the victim who was found barely alive in a patch of woods behind a quarry lake in South Knoxville. She’d been badly beaten and choked. Hands tied, just like the others. Yet, by some miracle, she’d survived the attack.

At the hospital, Abby and I showed her photographs of known attendees from previous sex parties. She noted meeting King, then lapsed into a full-blown panic attack upon seeing Reverend Davis’s picture. The hospital staff asked us to leave, and when we returned the next morning, we were told she’d suffered a fatal cardiac episode sometime during the night.

I suspect a coverup. Lieutenant Harris concedes the timing was convenient, but claims a reaction to a photo isn’t enough to arrest anyone on.

“I don’t have to remind you that Reverend Clyde Davis isn’t some average Joe off the street,” Harris says. “He’s a respected member of the Christian community. A goddamn philanthropist in this state.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t also be a murderer.” If I’ve learned anything from being on the force these past twenty-odd years, it’s that a good cop knows when to trust his instincts. When his gut tells him a man's smile is concealing an evil his eyes can’t hide, he looks deeper. He doesn’t turn away.

“No,” Harris says. “But it does mean you have to be damn certain before you start throwing around accusations.” He taps his desk repeatedly. “Now, I’ve got the captain up my ass, the deputy chief leaving angry voicemails on my personal cell. Even the goddamn governor’s calling me up, telling me one of my detectives has been harassing his brother.”

“Governor Davis called you directly?” I sit up straighter. This is the first I’ve heard of the governor getting involved since we began looking at his brother.

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