Plays shortstop on the varsity baseball team. Carrying a good solid B, too,” he bragged.
I put the picture back on his desk. “Starting to break a few hearts?”
The tip of his nose twitched. “Like I told you-he’s me all over again.”
“You wish!”
We talked trash a few minutes more before I broached Janie Whitehead’s murder and explained why I was asking.
“That was before my time,” Terry said, and without sitting up, he stretched across to snag a slim folder from the rack neatly aligned with the far edge of his desk. “I believe Scotty Underhill worked that case.”
He leafed through the eight or nine sheets in the file folder. From where I sat, I couldn’t make out specific words, but it looked like a condensed printout of all the unsolved cases assigned to Terry’s MUST team: names, dates, a one- or two-sentence description of each case and some comment as to any solvability factors.
“When was the last time it was worked?” I asked.
“Seven years ago,” he murmured, still reading.
The MUST force was developed only four years earlier.
“You didn’t rework it when you took over?”
“Oh, come on, Deborah,” he said. “I’ve got eight men and over two hundred cases. Janie Whitehead’s murder was thoroughly worked at the beginning and Scotty went back and poked around some more back in eighty-three. Nada.”
I vaguely remembered a flurry of hushed talk around Cotton Grove in the spring of 1983, but I hadn’t paid it much mind, especially since it died down almost as soon as it began. “And no suspects either time?”
Terry closed the folder and replaced it in the rack. “Now you know well and good I wouldn’t name names if we had any, which, as a matter of fact, we don’t. You can ask Scotty yourself if you want.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet him at six. Want to come along?”
Miss Molly’s Bar and Grill on South Wilmington Street hadn’t changed all that much since I was last there with Terry. A few more neon beer brands had been added to the already crowded walls and I saw that Spot had finally found him that old blue guitar he’d been looking for last time we talked about his collection of neon signs. He hadn’t taken Little Richard and Elvis off the jukebox, but Randy Travis and Reba McEntire were there now, too.
Spot acted glad to see me.
“The usual,” Terry said as we passed the bar.
“You still drinking gin and tonics?” Spot asked me.
“Yeah, only make it a virgin,” I told him. “I’ve got to drive to Makely tonight.”
“Getting old, kid?” Terry needled.
“Getting cautious. All I need’s a headline in the Dobbs Ledger: ‘Judicial Candidate Cited for DWI.’ ”
We headed back to the big round table at the rear, which had always been populated by law people. That hadn’t changed much either.
I recognized two homicide detectives from the Raleigh PD, a couple of SBI arson investigators, and someone from the attorney general’s office, all males if no longer all white. We’d barely reached the table when a familiar whiff of musky perfume overtook me and I felt light fingers on my shoulder.
“Deborah? That you? Well, hey, gal! How you been? Where you been? God, it’s been ages!”
I turned and there was Morgan Slavin, a blur of long blonde hair, long gorgeous legs, and the clearest, brightest blue eyes south of Finland. We hugged and grinned at each other and found chairs while she pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit up, talking all the while.
“You remember Max, don’t you? And Simon? And, hey, Jasp! Lacy know you’ve slipped your chain?”
Last time I saw Morgan she looked like one of those skinny, white trash motorcycle mamas-tight jeans, denim jacket studded with red-white-and-blue glass nailheads, no makeup, hair skinned back under a baseball cap, and flying high. She’d just infiltrated the busiest crack house in the Triangle and was waiting for the warrants and backups to get there before she
I put the picture back on his desk. “Starting to break a few hearts?”
The tip of his nose twitched. “Like I told you-he’s me all over again.”
“You wish!”
We talked trash a few minutes more before I broached Janie Whitehead’s murder and explained why I was asking.
“That was before my time,” Terry said, and without sitting up, he stretched across to snag a slim folder from the rack neatly aligned with the far edge of his desk. “I believe Scotty Underhill worked that case.”
He leafed through the eight or nine sheets in the file folder. From where I sat, I couldn’t make out specific words, but it looked like a condensed printout of all the unsolved cases assigned to Terry’s MUST team: names, dates, a one- or two-sentence description of each case and some comment as to any solvability factors.
“When was the last time it was worked?” I asked.
“Seven years ago,” he murmured, still reading.
The MUST force was developed only four years earlier.
“You didn’t rework it when you took over?”
“Oh, come on, Deborah,” he said. “I’ve got eight men and over two hundred cases. Janie Whitehead’s murder was thoroughly worked at the beginning and Scotty went back and poked around some more back in eighty-three. Nada.”
I vaguely remembered a flurry of hushed talk around Cotton Grove in the spring of 1983, but I hadn’t paid it much mind, especially since it died down almost as soon as it began. “And no suspects either time?”
Terry closed the folder and replaced it in the rack. “Now you know well and good I wouldn’t name names if we had any, which, as a matter of fact, we don’t. You can ask Scotty yourself if you want.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet him at six. Want to come along?”
Miss Molly’s Bar and Grill on South Wilmington Street hadn’t changed all that much since I was last there with Terry. A few more neon beer brands had been added to the already crowded walls and I saw that Spot had finally found him that old blue guitar he’d been looking for last time we talked about his collection of neon signs. He hadn’t taken Little Richard and Elvis off the jukebox, but Randy Travis and Reba McEntire were there now, too.
Spot acted glad to see me.
“The usual,” Terry said as we passed the bar.
“You still drinking gin and tonics?” Spot asked me.
“Yeah, only make it a virgin,” I told him. “I’ve got to drive to Makely tonight.”
“Getting old, kid?” Terry needled.
“Getting cautious. All I need’s a headline in the Dobbs Ledger: ‘Judicial Candidate Cited for DWI.’ ”
We headed back to the big round table at the rear, which had always been populated by law people. That hadn’t changed much either.
I recognized two homicide detectives from the Raleigh PD, a couple of SBI arson investigators, and someone from the attorney general’s office, all males if no longer all white. We’d barely reached the table when a familiar whiff of musky perfume overtook me and I felt light fingers on my shoulder.
“Deborah? That you? Well, hey, gal! How you been? Where you been? God, it’s been ages!”
I turned and there was Morgan Slavin, a blur of long blonde hair, long gorgeous legs, and the clearest, brightest blue eyes south of Finland. We hugged and grinned at each other and found chairs while she pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit up, talking all the while.
“You remember Max, don’t you? And Simon? And, hey, Jasp! Lacy know you’ve slipped your chain?”
Last time I saw Morgan she looked like one of those skinny, white trash motorcycle mamas-tight jeans, denim jacket studded with red-white-and-blue glass nailheads, no makeup, hair skinned back under a baseball cap, and flying high. She’d just infiltrated the busiest crack house in the Triangle and was waiting for the warrants and backups to get there before she
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