Mississippi King Page 5

  Logan placed a hand on her shoulder. Something streaked through me, a foreign sensation that I barely recognized. Why was Logan so familiar with Arabella? That level of touching certainly wasn’t professional. I wouldn’t allow it at my firm. In fact, I might even go so far as to discipline somebody for touching another employee in such a direct fashion.

  “He’s dangerous, Arabella. Especially to people with the wrong skin tone.” He plucked a dark lock of hair from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. “And that includes you.”

  “I’ll go with her.” I wanted to knock his hand away, but instead I stood and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t have any direct dispute with him, and maybe my familiar presence will put him at ease enough that he’ll talk.”

  Logan cut his eyes to me. “Not a chance. You aren’t even law enforcement. And we haven’t cleared you as a suspect yet.”

  “Neither of you are going.” Arabella pulled off her gloves. “I don’t need an escort to do my job.”

  “You’re being unreasonable. Listen…” I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Porter while Logan and Arabella continued their argument.

  “This is Porter. I mean, this is Sheriff King. How can I…help you?”

  I barely stifled my eye roll. “It’s me, idiot. I need you to deputize me.”

  Arabella and Logan stopped talking and gawked at me.

  “Say what now?” I could imagine the dumb look gracing my little brother’s face.

  “As the sheriff, you have the ability to deputize people. Deputize me so that I can assist with finding our father’s killer.”

  “Okay, so how exactly do I do that?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m honestly beginning to think I would make a better sheriff than you.”

  A huff whistled through the earpiece. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

  “Meet me down at the courthouse in ten minutes. You can swear me in with the county clerk. All you have to do is say that you have asked for my assistance and that I am properly deputized.”

  “Okay. Sounds simple enough. See you there.”

  I ended the call and met two pairs of incredulous eyes.

  Arabella kicked her chin up. “I never said you could come with me.”

  “Once I’m deputized, I can investigate all I want. The Morris property is out in the county, which will be in my jurisdiction, not yours.” I loosened my tie and pulled it off, then released my top button. “So really, it’s you who’s coming with me.”

  Logan shook his head. “Don’t listen to this guy. I’ll go with you. I can—I don’t know—sit in the car or something.”

  She looked at me and then back to Logan, considering each of our offers. After a few moments of tense silence, she gave me a nod. “You can come, but I’m taking the lead on this. Understand?”

  “Arabella, come on. This guy—”

  “I made my decision. Stay here and finish searching. I also need you to bag the laptop. See what’s on it.” Her tone was clipped, all business.

  I stepped closer to her. “If there are case files on there or attorney work product, then I won’t allow—”

  She held up a hand. “Logan, if you see anything related to client case files, pass over that for now. We’ll wait for our court order.” She glared at me. “Which we will get, I can assure you.”

  “Hang on.” Logan took her by the elbow and pulled her into the hallway.

  What was worse, she let him. Their hushed voices didn’t carry far enough for me to hear, but every second that passed had me itching to grab her other elbow and lead her away from that asshole Logan. He was unprofessional at best.

  They finally finished their discussion, though Logan gave her a wary look. “Be careful out there.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll check back in with you as soon as we’re finished with Winston.” She strode toward the foyer, the evidence bag with the letters in her hand.

  I followed her, but Logan stepped into my path.

  “You do anything to hurt her or hinder this investigation, and I will personally fuck you up.”

  I had a few more inches of height than he did, which was satisfying when I was able to stare down my nose at him. “I really should have a talk with Chief Garvey about professionalism among his detectives. It’s clearly lacking.”

  He smiled, though there was nothing friendly about it. “You’ve been warned, smart guy.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I pushed past him and into the hall.

  Arabella had already walked out, her dark hair disappearing down the front steps. Logan followed me to the foyer, then slowly ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  I paused next to the thermostat and kicked the temperature up a few notches and slammed the door on my way out.

  7

  Arabella

  “Is Judge Ingles in?” I leaned on the clerk’s counter, baskets for incoming warrants, certified documents, and case filings lined up neatly to my left, and an ancient computer terminal with a green screen to my right.

  “Let me see.” Gail plucked her receiver and hit a button.

  “Ready for this?” Porter strode in, his hat cocked back on his head, giving him the appearance of a boy playing at being sheriff.

  “Let’s get it over with.” Benton stood next to the attorney mail boxes—one for each lawyer in the county. Several of them were overflowing with notices and letters. Benton’s was meticulously neat and empty.

  Porter lowered his voice. “Forensics left the firm. Coroner Stapleton arrived for the um, for…”

  “The body.” Benton matched his hushed tone.

  “Right. I guess we need to make arrangements.”

  “Get in touch with Margaret. She’ll know what to do.” Benton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You talked to Charlotte?”

  “Yeah, told her to come home. Didn’t tell her why. She said she’d call when she got back into town.”

  Gail hung up. “The judge is in, Detective. Want me to let him know you’re coming?”

  “Seeing the judge?” Benton stepped to my elbow. “If this is about the files—”

  “No, I just want to ask him a few questions about your father.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Don’t you have to get sworn in?” I turned on my heel and headed down the hall to the judge’s chambers. My interview would go smoother without Benton gumming up the works.

  “Porter, get it done!” Benton barked.

  I turned the corner and almost knocked over an older woman, both of us in a hurry. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” I gripped her shoulders to keep her from toppling over.

  She steadied herself with one hand on the wall. “Sorry about that. I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She straightened and brushed some iron-gray strands from her face.

  I hadn’t recognized her at first, but she owned the florist shop over on the square. I’d bought flowers from her for special occasions, even though Mom pitched a fit whenever I brought home lilies: “Smells like a funeral parlor, Belly, and I ain’t even dead yet!”

  She knelt and picked up a manila folder she’d dropped.

  “Let me help you with that.” Though I was in a hurry, I snagged a few papers that had escaped—documents that looked like some sort of deed.

  “Thank you.” She took the papers, a slight shake in her hands. “Sorry again.”

  “It was my fault. No worries. Have a good one.” I stepped away from her and continued down the hall.

  “You too,” she called.

  With quick steps, I pushed the heavy wooden door with “The Honorable Bradley Ingles” on it in gold lettering.

  His secretary waved me back through another door, and I entered his office. Judge Ingles sat with his back to me, his gaze on the oak tree outside his wide windows. The scene echoed back to the one I’d witnessed this morning, though I was glad to see a clean desk and floor ins
tead of pooled blood.

  “Judge?”

  He spun slowly, his watery blue eyes dim despite the sunny windows. “Miss Matthews, what can I do for you?”

  I let the “Miss” slide. “I assume you’ve heard about Randall King.”

  He dipped his chin, but kept his eyes on me. “Word travels, especially word like that.” With one gnarled hand, he pointed at the leather chair across from his desk. “Please, have a seat, young lady.”

  “Thank you.” I perched on the edge of the chair, my notepad and pen in my hands. “I know you and Randall were good friends. Do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt him?”

  “Randall? No. Of course not.”

  “Can’t think of any enemies he may have had?”

  He opened his eyes wide, as if shocked at the very suggestion. “Not a one.”

  Acting wasn’t his strong suit. His lies were like a biting insect in my brain, burrowing in. I glued my lips together. Letting the silence stretch until the room was full of it, bursting at the seams, had always been a good tactic. But Judge Ingles settled back in his chair, his eyes drawn to the windows again. Whatever pressure I’d hoped for didn’t seem to bear down on him at all.

  “Judge?”

  “Yes?” He dragged his gaze away from the tree and back to me.

  “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”

  A spark flashed in his eyes, but quickly died down. He was playing possum. Something told me there was a whirlwind of thoughts in his mind, but none of them wanted to pass his lips.

  “I could tell you plenty of things, Miss Matthews, but none of them would be of any help.” He shrugged. “It’s too late for that.”

  I leaned forward, trying to keep his attention. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—”

  A brief knock, and then the door opened. The moment broke, and Judge Ingles swallowed, likely beginning the slow digestion of whatever secret he was about to spill.

  Benton strode in and took the seat next to me. “Judge.” He gave him a quick nod.

  “I’m sorry about your dad.” The judge’s shiny pate wobbled back and forth as he shook his head. “Such a shame.”

  “Judge, when you said ‘it’s too late,’ what did you mean?” I pressed.

  He waved a hand and glanced at Benton. “Just that it’s too late for Randall. May God have mercy on his soul. That’s all I meant.”

  Dammit. I stowed my notebook. Judge Ingles wasn’t giving me anything, not now that Benton was in the room.

  “Do you know of anyone who’d do this?” Benton leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs.

  “No, son. And who knows why people do anything these days?” He sighed, the sound one of bone-deep tired, the sort you can’t simply sleep off in one night.

  “There was a note.” I took a chance and dangled the carrot in front of him, hoping he’d bite.

  “A note?” The judge clasped his hands on his desk top, the age-spotted fingers gripping each other. “What did it say?”

  “The words ‘You’re next’.”

  “Oh.” His eyebrows dropped, the bushy gray slashes almost covering his eyes. “Goodness.”

  “Any idea who the note could be referring to?”

  He spun away again, his gaze focused outside the room.

  I knew his answer before he gave it.

  “No idea.”

  We headed out of town along Route 42. The houses became less frequent until the forest took over entirely on either side of the road. Logging trucks flew by, only slowing when they saw my cruiser and no doubt speeding up as soon as they crested the next hill and disappeared from my rearview.

  “Do you give out tickets?” Benton craned his head as another truck, it’s trailer empty, sped past.

  “Not anymore.” Though I certainly had the itch to flip on my lights and give a trucker an earful.

  “Too important now that you’re a detective?”

  I shot him a glance. “I have other duties.”

  “Not too many bigtime capers going on in Azalea, are there?”

  His flippant tone rankled, but I kept my voice even. “Maybe not. But there are still plenty of thefts, domestic disputes, and meth labs.”

  “Sounds about right. I bet you spend a lot of time over on Razor Row trying to get the lowlifes straightened out.”

  My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Does your clientele know how you feel about them?”

  “My clientele?”

  “The people of Azalea. The lowlifes you mentioned.”

  “Ah.” He gave me a sardonic smile. “My clientele isn’t your clientele.”

  “Is that so? I’m pretty sure I spotted Lucas Kitston sitting in your waiting room when I arrived at the firm.”

  He gestured to the trees along the right-hand side. “This is the edge of the Morris property. And what does Mr. Kitston have to do with anything?”

  “I busted him six months ago for soliciting prostitution.”

  His brows knit together. “Lucas Kitston? Twice-decorated veteran and deacon at First Presbyterian?”

  “That’s the one. He lucked up that the girl was eighteen. Though she’d told him she was fifteen. That was why he’d picked her.” I shouldn’t have taken so much pleasure in watching his superiority bubble deflate with a wheeze, but I did.

  He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I never heard a word about it. How did it not get into the Gazette, or around the courthouse at the—”

  “Judge Ingles is a close friend of Mr. Kitston, and so was your father.” I slowed as I rounded a curve. “That was pretty much the long and the short of it. Thanks to them, Kitston got deferred prosecution and the whole thing was hushed up.”

  “I didn’t know.” His words were genuine, the confused surprise etched on his face real.

  “No offense, but it seems like there’s a lot about your father—and this town—that you don’t know.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it—as if his snappy comeback couldn’t wrestle its way into existence. “It’s here.” He pointed to a gravel and dirt road leading between the pines.

  I turned, steeling myself for the bumps. The suspension on my old cruiser would make sure we felt every one of them. “Hang on.”

  He gripped the oh-shit handle above the door as we wound our way through the woods, the highway a distant memory as the ruts bounced us and the deep hollows dragged us down. Silence reigned between us, the tense kind that felt like a third person in the car. I needed to ask more questions about his father, to dig down until I hit the bedrock of the truth. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that Benton was obviously in pain. His snarky exterior couldn’t hide it. His father’s passing was still sinking in, like dark paint through light cracks. So, I let the silence stay intact, him alone with his thoughts and me in an ongoing tug-of-war with the steering wheel.

  After ten minutes of jostling, I broke down and asked, “How much farther?”

  “Probably a quarter of a mile,” he said through gritted teeth.

  When we hit a particularly bad series of ruts, the car began to jog sideways, sliding toward the edge of a steep hollow.

  “Whoa.” Benton leaned toward me and away from the approaching drop off.

  I hit the brakes, the tires crunching over the gravel as we skidded to a stop near the edge.

  He let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “Holy shit, that was close.”

  I caught the scent of his aftershave, some sort of expensive, sophisticated mix. It could have been unicorn tears and rainbow drops as far as I knew, but it smelled good. With his dark hair and wide shoulders, he was a nice-looking man. His nose was too sharp, his eyebrows somewhat severe, but all that gave him a unique air, setting him apart from his more traditionally handsome younger brother.

  “It’s safe. We can go,” he offered, settling back into his seat. “Maybe just a little slower this time?” He grabbed the handle and assumed the position again.

  I gave him points fo
r not freaking out and demanding to drive. That’s something Logan would have done. I would have told him to shut the hell up and sit down, of course, but the difference was noted.

  “I’ll keep us on the road.” I pressed on the gas and maneuvered us into the center of the lane, if it could be called that. The deeper we crept into the woods, the more tall grass appeared between the tire tracks, the stalks tickling along the underbelly of the cruiser.

  “It should be just—”

  The sharp crack of a rifle cut through his words.

  8

  Benton

  I yanked Arabella down and leaned over, hoping that the car gave us enough cover to stop any bullets.

  “Hey!” She unsnapped her service pistol and pulled it free. “Stay put.”

  “No way.” I kept my grip on her arm.

  “Let me go, Benton.” Her face was close to mine, both of us hunkered down. “This is my job.”

  “I told you he’s a psycho!” I whisper-yelled. “You can’t go out there with him shooting at us.”

  “Benton, I’m warning you. Let me go or—”

  “You can’t be out here!” A hoarse yell came from the woods on the driver’s side. “I got rights. You can’t be on my property without my permission!”

  “Winston?” she asked, her warm breath fanning across my cheek.

  I gave her a slight nod, aware of how close we were, how it would only take one more movement for us to touch.

  “I have to talk to him. So you have to let me go.”

  “What if he shoots you?”

  “If he wanted to shoot me, he would have already done it. He’s got a high-powered rifle, but he didn’t shoot the car. Warning shot.”

  “What if he’s just a shit shot?” I couldn’t let her go out there.

  “This is my job, Benton. Trust me.” She straightened and cracked open her car door. “Sit tight.”

  Like hell I would. I sat up, too, and scanned the woods nearby.

  “Mr. Morris,” she called.

  “You need to turn around and get on out of here.”