afternoon.”
“Interesting.” He turned to me. “How much do you know about Bradley?”
“Very little,” I said. “Just that
he was a supervisor for Allied Construction.” I watched him ease his holster.
“No use standing around here,” he
said. “Come on over and sit in my car while we wait for the TBI agent and his
crew. They should be on the way.”
As we walked over to his car, he
told us about Bradley’s service as an A-10 pilot in Desert Storm. I’d had a
little contact with Warthog crews during my OSI career. They were a daring lot,
flying low level close air support of ground forces.
I let Jill take the passenger seat
next to the sheriff, while I lounged on the prisoner side of the divide.
“When did he get out of the Air
Force?” I asked.
“Around
ninety-two. His father had a large farm west of Hartsville. Had a big
tobacco allotment, plus a sizeable herd of Black Angus. Pierce came back home
and helped his dad for a few years. He bought a Piper Apache and put in a
landing strip on the farm. He’s helped me out several times when we needed some
air surveillance.”
“How long has he been in the
construction business?” Jill asked.
Driscoll listened to a burst of
radio traffic squawking over his portable. “I think he went with Allied
Construction in the late nineties,” he said after a moment. “Pierce was
planning to buy into ownership of the company. He got that double-wide in 2000
and moved off the farm.”
I squirmed closer to the window and
tugged at my collar. The sheriff had left the windows open, but despite the
shade of the forest I’d have sworn a layer of hot coals had been dumped on the
roof. “Any idea what the trouble was between Pierce and his sister?”
“Their mother died shortly after he
moved out. Mr. Bradley passed on earlier this year. The old man left the two
kids equal shares. Pat wanted to sell the place and get the money. Her
husband’s a banker. But Pierce didn’t want to sell. I don’t think he wanted to
give up that airstrip. She said he could buy her out, but all his money was
committed to getting a chunk of Allied Construction. I understand she
threatened to go to court and force the sale.”
“That’s probably what the argument
was about at Mrs. Cook’s place Monday afternoon,” Jill said.
The sheriff spread his hands. “Could be. Pierce was a personable guy, but he’s always had
a hot temper. I had to save his ass, pardon the expression, when he got in a
fight with the manager at Cumberland Farm Supplies. The man got a little too
aggressive over money he claimed Pierce’s father owed. On another occasion,
Pierce got in a scuffle and broke a guy’s arm after he caught him messing
around his airplane.”
“Sounds like any number of people
could have harbored a grudge against him,” I said.
“Right. And there’s another possibility I hadn’t thought of until now. I can’t tell you
anything about it because it concerns an ongoing investigation that involves
other agencies. Could have been retaliation for some of that aerial spying I
told you about.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Too many complicating factors could make it difficult to get the sheriff or the
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to give much thought to our problem.
Particularly since we only had a strong hunch, no solid evidence, that could
tie the missing Marathon papers into Bradley’s death.
Driscoll was a likeable guy,
bordering on garrulous, as were most politically-minded sheriffs. He regaled us
with several of his escapades and was well into a tale about how he’d busted a
family with a meth lab in their barn when my peripheral vision caught a man
walking down the trail. I saw him heading for our car. Jill and I followed
Driscoll as he climbed out to greet the new arrival, a man about my height,
five-ten, with a bit less around the middle than me.
“Hi, Wayne,” the sheriff said. “You
made good time.”
“I was just finishing up some paper
work in
“Interesting.” He turned to me. “How much do you know about Bradley?”
“Very little,” I said. “Just that
he was a supervisor for Allied Construction.” I watched him ease his holster.
“No use standing around here,” he
said. “Come on over and sit in my car while we wait for the TBI agent and his
crew. They should be on the way.”
As we walked over to his car, he
told us about Bradley’s service as an A-10 pilot in Desert Storm. I’d had a
little contact with Warthog crews during my OSI career. They were a daring lot,
flying low level close air support of ground forces.
I let Jill take the passenger seat
next to the sheriff, while I lounged on the prisoner side of the divide.
“When did he get out of the Air
Force?” I asked.
“Around
ninety-two. His father had a large farm west of Hartsville. Had a big
tobacco allotment, plus a sizeable herd of Black Angus. Pierce came back home
and helped his dad for a few years. He bought a Piper Apache and put in a
landing strip on the farm. He’s helped me out several times when we needed some
air surveillance.”
“How long has he been in the
construction business?” Jill asked.
Driscoll listened to a burst of
radio traffic squawking over his portable. “I think he went with Allied
Construction in the late nineties,” he said after a moment. “Pierce was
planning to buy into ownership of the company. He got that double-wide in 2000
and moved off the farm.”
I squirmed closer to the window and
tugged at my collar. The sheriff had left the windows open, but despite the
shade of the forest I’d have sworn a layer of hot coals had been dumped on the
roof. “Any idea what the trouble was between Pierce and his sister?”
“Their mother died shortly after he
moved out. Mr. Bradley passed on earlier this year. The old man left the two
kids equal shares. Pat wanted to sell the place and get the money. Her
husband’s a banker. But Pierce didn’t want to sell. I don’t think he wanted to
give up that airstrip. She said he could buy her out, but all his money was
committed to getting a chunk of Allied Construction. I understand she
threatened to go to court and force the sale.”
“That’s probably what the argument
was about at Mrs. Cook’s place Monday afternoon,” Jill said.
The sheriff spread his hands. “Could be. Pierce was a personable guy, but he’s always had
a hot temper. I had to save his ass, pardon the expression, when he got in a
fight with the manager at Cumberland Farm Supplies. The man got a little too
aggressive over money he claimed Pierce’s father owed. On another occasion,
Pierce got in a scuffle and broke a guy’s arm after he caught him messing
around his airplane.”
“Sounds like any number of people
could have harbored a grudge against him,” I said.
“Right. And there’s another possibility I hadn’t thought of until now. I can’t tell you
anything about it because it concerns an ongoing investigation that involves
other agencies. Could have been retaliation for some of that aerial spying I
told you about.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Too many complicating factors could make it difficult to get the sheriff or the
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to give much thought to our problem.
Particularly since we only had a strong hunch, no solid evidence, that could
tie the missing Marathon papers into Bradley’s death.
Driscoll was a likeable guy,
bordering on garrulous, as were most politically-minded sheriffs. He regaled us
with several of his escapades and was well into a tale about how he’d busted a
family with a meth lab in their barn when my peripheral vision caught a man
walking down the trail. I saw him heading for our car. Jill and I followed
Driscoll as he climbed out to greet the new arrival, a man about my height,
five-ten, with a bit less around the middle than me.
“Hi, Wayne,” the sheriff said. “You
made good time.”
“I was just finishing up some paper
work in
Similar Books
