Dark Waters by Susan Rogers Cooper

pusher.’ Her son had not been too far away.
    So Emmett had been up real late dealing with that, thinking he might have some ammunition to get his daughter out of that damned Christian school and into the public school (he swore to himself it had nothing to do with money, although the school was scarily expensive). He wasn’t able to sleep after that, worrying about his little girl. She was so tiny, so sweet-natured. This was a hell of a thing to be happening to her.
    He went and got himself another cup of coffee. The new civilian aid made a dynamite cup of coffee. Made you kind of not miss Gladys at all. Ill-tempered, uncooperative and the maker of really bad coffee, it was a joy not to see her sour puss every morning.
    Anthony motioned to him from the bullpen.
    Emmett ambled over, sipping his coffee.
    â€˜What ya got?’ he asked.
    Anthony put down the phone and said, reading from his notes, ‘William Jason Hunt, aka Billy Hunt, died in a one-car accident on the early morning of June 14, 1993. Autopsy showed an extremely high alcohol content. John Wesley Hunt, aka Shorty Hunt, is currently incarcerated at the Elwood Moody Correctional Facility in Moody, California. He’ll be eligible for parole in 2014.’
    Emmett nodded and took another sip. ‘OK, then,’ he said and walked back to his office, at which point an inconsistency finally dawned on him. A guy fresh out of prison, living with his mama in a rundown house without much more than a pot to piss in – where in the hell did he get the money for that fancy new Harley and that big old flat-screen TV?
    Emmett decided another trip out to see Darby Hunt was in order. He took Anthony Dobbins with him this time. Unlike poor Dalton, Anthony might have something to contribute to the interview.
    The street, the house and the driveway all looked the same as they parked the squad car at the curb. Darby Hunt must have seen them coming because he opened the door before their knock.
    â€˜Sheriff,’ Darby said. ‘What can I do you for now?’
    â€˜It’s just Acting Sheriff, but you can call me Emmett. Can we come in for a minute?’
    Darby looked hard at Anthony standing behind Emmett, but opened the door for them to enter. When he did, Emmett noticed on the flap of skin between thumb and index finger on Darby’s left hand, which was holding the door open, was a tattoo of a swastika. Made sense. The Oklahoma Penitentiary, like so many others, had two main gangs – the white supremacists and the black Muslims. If you wanted protection, you joined the gang of your color.
    The swastika wasn’t missed by Anthony Dobbins. He gave Darby Hunt the stink-eye right back as he and Emmett went to the sagging sofa and sat down.
    â€˜What do you want now?’ Darby asked.
    â€˜Something I forgot to ask you earlier,’ Emmett said.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Where did the new motorcycle and TV set come from?’
    Darby Hunt raised an eyebrow. ‘Why in the hell do you need to know that?’
    Emmett shrugged. ‘Just wondering how a con straight out of prison comes to live with his obviously poor mama and has the wherewithal to purchase a motorcycle and a big ol’ TV. Makes me think he’s been up to no good.’
    â€˜When have I had time to be up to no good?’ Darby asked. ‘’Sides,’ he said, taking a long breath, ‘where would I find the strength to rob a bank or whatever?’
    â€˜So you saying the pen has upped their release stipend to like $10,000 or so?’ Emmett asked.
    â€˜Woo doggies, you haven’t been pricing motorcycles or TVs lately, have you, Acting Sheriff Emmett?’ Darby asked, that snaggle-toothed and dimpled grin very much in evidence.
    â€˜Where did you get ’em?’ Emmett asked, not smiling back.
    â€˜They were gifts,’ Darby said, grin still in place.
    â€˜From a grateful nation?’ Emmett asked with a