Дэвид Балдаччи - The Guilty

“They loved it that I was the starting quarterback on the state championship team. But other than that, no, I wasn’t blue blood enough.”

“When we were talking to Pete you mentioned she had a brother?”

“Yeah, he was a couple years older. Emmitt Barksdale.”

Reel looked around the property. “So a prominent family just disappears and no one in Cantrell knows anything about it?”

Robie said, “Apparently.”

“Well, they sold the house, right?”

“Right. But not to my father. There was apparently an owner in between.”

“Then why not ask the Realtor who did the deal? Or check the real estate records. You sell a property, there has to be a record of it, right?”

Robie looked at her. “That’s right.”

“And while you’re doing that, I have something to take care of.”

“What’s that?”

“Talking to our buddy Pete Clancy, and asking him about a certain bullet hole in his Range Rover.”

They drove off in separate cars.

In the window overlooking the front of the house stood Victoria, watching them leave.

Dan Robie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around his wife as they watched both cars disappear under the canopy of longleaf pines.

Pete Clancy sat at the table clenching and unclenching his hands as Taggert and Reel sat across from him.

They were in the visitor’s room at the jail. Pete was dressed in his own clothes, since he was not technically under arrest.

Taggert had reminded him that this status could change.

“Let’s go through it one more time,” said Reel patiently. “Where were you on the night Sara Chisum was killed?”

“And I told you, I don’t remember. Probably drunk somewhere. I was on the run. Scared shitless.”

“So you’re scared shitless and you get drunk and aren’t able to defend yourself or think straight because...?” countered Reel.

“Because I’m stupid, I guess,” said Pete. He tacked on to this statement what he doubtless thought was an ingratiating smile that had probably worked with most women he’d encountered, the majority of whom were probably drunk.

Yet it fell like a punctured balloon when confronted by the stern faces of these two.

“Not good enough, Pete,” said Taggert. “Your vehicle has a bullet hole in it.”

“That’s not my vehicle , okay? It was my daddy’s. I never even drove the damn thing. I have my Porsche.”

“Where were the keys kept?”

“I don’t know. In the house somewhere, I guess. Anybody could’a taken ’em. I never locked the damn doors.”

“So you’ve got no alibi for the time Sara was murdered?” said Taggert matter-of-factly.

“If I did I would’a told you, but I don’t. Can I go back to my cell now? I got some sleep to catch up on. And, hey, can I get a beer in here? And maybe some barbeque?”

He started to get up, but Reel reached across and pushed him back down.

“You can’t leave yet because we’re not done.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You’re not entitled to one,” replied Taggert.

Pete pointed a finger at her. “You can’t screw with me. I watch TV. When you say you want a lawyer you guys have to back the hell off and can’t ask me no more damn questions.”

“You’re not entitled to one,” said Reel, “because you’re not under arrest.”

Taggert nodded. “That’s exactly right.”

“What kind’a shit is this?” bellowed Pete. “Then I want the hell outta here.”

Reel said, “Fine. The guys who almost killed you I’m sure are still out there watching this place. Tell them I said hello.”

“This is fuckin’ unbelievable,” yelled Pete.

“Well, the world’s not perfect, is it,” said Reel calmly. “So why don’t you take a deep breath, compose yourself, think back, and tell us where you were on the night Sara was killed.”

“I already told you—”

Reel reached over and gripped his wrist. “Take a deep breath, compose yourself, and try to remember, then you can go back to your cell. That’s the carrot, Pete, so go get the carrot. Or else you are the prime suspect for Sara’s murder.”

She removed her hand and Pete slumped back, rubbing a hand through his unkempt hair. He drew a long breath and his features calmed. “Okay, when was she killed again?”

Reel told him.

“Right.” Pete bent over, his brows nearly touching as he concentrated. Then he smiled. “Hell, I know. I was in New Orleans. At the OK Corral Bar on Bourbon Street. Got my ass thrown off the mechanical bull like five times.”

“When did you get there and when did you leave?” asked Taggert.

“Got there around eleven that night. And left around four in the morning.”

“Anybody verify that?”

“My buddy is one of the bartenders there. And there was a girl I met there. She left with me.” He smiled. “If you know what I mean.”

“Names and numbers, please,” said Taggert.

“My buddy’s name is Kyle. You call the bar they’ll find him. He served me my last drink so’s I remember.”

“And the girl?”

Pete fished around in his pockets until he found a square patch of what looked to be foil. He slid it across the table. In black Magic Marker was a phone number and a name: LuAnne.

Both women looked at the square without touching it.

“That’s a condom wrapper,” said Taggert with disgust.

“I know it is. Only thing I could find for her to write on.”

Reel said, “Well, at least you’re practicing safe sex. Count me among the astonished.”

“I don’t want to be no daddy. You know what kids cost? It’s a damn disgrace.”

Taggert sighed and left to make the calls while Pete went back to his cell.

She came back into the room about thirty minutes later and sat down next to Reel.

“Okay, Kyle from the bar remembers Pete clearly. He said he got there about half past eleven. He remembered because he was expectin’ him at eleven and he had just checked the clock and was goin’ to text him when Pete walked in. And he didn’t leave the bar until nearly four, so that corroborates Pete’s account. And not that we needed to know, but I talked to LuAnne, and she said Pete and her were together until about eight in the mornin’ when he went to get coffee and beignets and never came back. Since I’m a lady and don’t use that kind of language, I won’t tell you what she called him, but it rhymes with ‘other pucker.’”

“So there’s no way he shot Sara or was driving the Range Rover?”

“No way,” agreed Taggert. “Not even if he had a private jet.”

“So somebody else took the Range Rover and killed Sara.”

“Looks that way.”

“Which means we’re just going around in circles,” said Reel with a sigh.

Robie closed the heavy book. He was in the courthouse’s real estate section. Not all records were digitized yet, he’d been told by the clerk, so he had done his research the old-fashioned way: by flipping through pages of dusty deed books she had gathered for him.

The documents had the signatures of the parties on them, and Robie had studied the signatures of Henry and Ellen Barksdale. He couldn’t swear they were their authentic signatures, but these documents had been recorded and thus notarized, and ID would have had to be produced, he’d assumed. Though everyone hereabouts would have known the Barksdales by sight.

Then there was the transaction where his father and Victoria had purchased the home from the family that had bought it from the Barksdales. He looked at his dad’s precise signature, as ramrod straight as he was. And next to his was Victoria’s signature, loose and flowing.

He stopped by the clerk’s office on his way out.