Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

The message was brief:

MUST SEE YOU BOTH. URGENT. CHK CROWD.

It came from Randall.

Silently, Sunny showed the screen to Will. Together, they began to scan the faces around the perimeter.

“There he is.” Will nodded toward the middle of the street, near where his car was parked. Randall stood right next to the yellow police tape. He gave a little wave, keeping his hand in front of his chest so it wouldn’t be noticed by others.

“Do you think we should talk to him?” Sunny asked. “Or do you think he’s only trying for the inside scoop?”

“You know him better than I do,” Will responded noncommittally.

“Okay, then, I think we should see what he has to say.” Sunny quickly texted back: FOLLOW US.

She showed the message to Will, who nodded. They caught up with Lieutenant Wainwright, and Will said, “If you have no further use for us presently, I’ll take Sunny back to the compound and head home.”

Wainwright nodded, barely looking at them. Will led Sunny back to his cruiser, then he had the job of turning the car around in a pretty tight space. Troopers were already shooing onlookers away and holding up the crime scene tape as Will nosed his way out. Once the mob scene was behind them, Will proceeded at a sedate pace, barely faster than a brisk walk, for a few blocks before pulling over.

Sunny peered into the darkness behind them, the only illumination coming from the red glow of their brake lights. After a moment or two, a walking figure came toward them—Randall MacDermott.

Will flicked a button to unlock the cruiser’s rear doors, and Randall slipped into the caged backseat.

“Sorry for the accommodations,” Will said.

“It’s not the first time I’ve wound up back here,” Randall replied. “Not so much in recent years, though.”

“You said you needed to see us,” Sunny prompted. “What about?”

“First, I need to make sure I’ve got the facts straight,” Randall said. “The dead person back there—it’s Frank Nesbit, the sheriff, isn’t it?”

“What makes you think so?” Will replied cagily.

“Because I recognized his car. I spoke to him earlier this evening.” Randall’s voice sounded a little tight, as if he were having a hard time getting the words out. “I told him about the Taxman.”

“You what?!” Sunny burst out.

“I told you that I was looking for a professional who’d take me seriously,” Randall defended himself.

“And you just happened to pick the guy I’m running against.” Will shook his head. “How did he take it?”

“The sheriff was a lot more interested than you were.” Randall shifted on the seat. “He asked a whole bunch of questions.”

“Were they cop-type questions, or politician questions?” Will asked.

“Or were they blackmailer-type questions?” Sunny spoke up, catching looks from both Will and Randall. “Look, we were just standing over Nesbit’s body wondering about any possible connection between him and Eliza Stoughton. What if he was the one who was blackmailing her?”

“And then she came back from the dead to kill him?” Will asked in disbelief.

“Obviously not, but maybe Eliza mentioned it to someone else, who went after Nesbit. You always said that Nesbit was more of a politician than a cop, Will. In either job, he was handling a lot of secrets.”

“Not to knock your theory, Sunny,” Randall interjected, “but the Taxman has put the bite on people all over the country. Do you think your sheriff had access to information on that scale?”

“When you put it that way . . .” Sunny sighed.

“I think the answer you’re looking for is ‘no,’” Will finished for her.

“You don’t have to rub it in,” she told him. It had been a decent theory while it lasted.

But Will wasn’t finished yet. “And I hate to knock your theory, Randall, but Nesbit’s death doesn’t necessarily connect to your mythical Taxman at all.”

“Sure,” Randall replied. “After I talked to him, he died of natural causes. Looked like a lot of blood for a heart attack,” he deadpanned.

“Nesbit could have died because of the case we already had on the table,” Will said. “It’s a high-profile affair, and if he cracked it, that was a guaranteed four more years in office. Maybe he was following some lead he’d dug up, and things went south.”

Randall wasn’t giving up so easily. “And I think there’s more to it than just another case. You say the sheriff was a politician. That probably means he knew the local political dirt, maybe even something about the Kingsburys. What if he was trying to get information out of another blackmail victim?”

Sunny said nothing. She was tired, but the alcohol had burned off and her mental facilities felt very clear. Too clear, maybe—she was putting things together into a picture she didn’t like.

The sheriff might’ve been more of a politician than a cop, but he wasn’t a complete idiot, she thought. If he assumed he was going to talk to a murder suspect, wouldn’t he have been warier? Wouldn’t he have kept his gun handy?

But if, as Randall suggested, it were a blackmail victim, Nesbit might not have seen the violence coming. He might easily have gone to a secret meeting, maybe a political meeting, with his jacket all zipped up.

If that were true, then Lieutenant Wainwright, Will, and all the other cops were going at the case all wrong. They thought that Eliza Stoughton’s death was the result of an unpremeditated attack by someone personally associated with her. Whereas if Randall was right, Eliza had been being blackmailed by someone with a number of pigeons on his string. Sunny hadn’t considered it before, but given all the people assembling for this get-together, another blackmail victim could be present. How would such a person react to Eliza asking about ways to get out of the Taxman’s web? Maybe he shut her up to keep her from drawing attention to the extortion scheme. And then, when Nesbit tried to follow up . . .

Sunny shuddered, but stayed silent. That means that someone on Neal’s Neck has a secret worth killing for—twice.

13

The late hourhad become even later, well past midnight, by the time Will delivered Sunny to the checkpoint at the edge of Neal’s Neck. She noticed there was only one state trooper now standing beside the sawhorses.

That roused a comment out of her tired brain. I guess if the ninety-nine percenters were going to attack, this would be the time to do it. Hope Lee Trehearne has his own private troops on high alert.

She gave Will a good-bye kiss and started around the roadblock, heading for the guesthouse. That’s when Sunny discovered someone else was still awake and alert. Priscilla Kingsbury rose from where she’d been sitting on the fieldstone steps leading up to the front door. Apparently she too had shaken off her tipsiness. Her face was sober and concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice as Sunny approached. “We heard sirens, and the trooper on duty said that a cop had been found dead in his car. It wasn’t your—your friend, was it?”

Sunny shook her head and Cillie heaved a sigh of relief. “I stayed up to see you. I was afraid—”

“It was Sheriff Nesbit.” Sunny’s voice sounded harsh in her ears.

Priscilla’s face showed her shock. “I used to meet him, sometimes. It sort of came with the territory, working in this county—especially with his wife working on the food pantry with the 99 Elmet Ladies.” She shook her head, still digesting the news. “He seemed like a nice man.”

Yeah—nice to a Kingsbury , said Sunny’s brain reflexively, but she didn’t voice the unkind thought out loud. She hadn’t liked the man much, but nobody deserved Nesbit’s fate. Besides, there were other things she needed to warn Cillie about.