Peachtree. We couldn’t get much closer, what with the crime scene tape and gaggle of onlookers that had assembled. Walking toward the scene, Charlie, who’d insisted on coming along, cinched the furred hood of his parka tighter, as I tried to fathom what this would mean for my brother.
The TC was right off the Turnpike, a busy thoroughfare for deliveries from southern New England up to Canada. It actually was a straighter shot than the I-93, and frequently less congested, making it the preferred route for many long-haul drivers. The Turnpike was barely within Ashton’s city limits, just clipping its northeastern tip. Given the TC’s scandalous reputation, there had been periodic squawking about shutting it down. But since so many local factories and mills had gone under in recent years, the Travel Center provided one of the few consistent revenue streams for the town, and so any chatter of closing it eventually died off. Most chose to ignore its existence. Out of sight, out ofmind. The TC was Ashton’s dirty secret, a small town’s red-light district. Which was fine, as long as the riffraff remained out of sight. Who really gave a shit about a trucker getting a blow job from a toothless junkie? Live free or die, man. But a murder, even of a scumbag drug addict, was bound to incite an uproar.
Plowed snow clustered around lampposts, towering twelve, fifteen feet high, like mammoth mounds of mashed potatoes. Earsplitting noise assaulted on all fronts as traffic flew past on the Turnpike, and countless industrial-sized laundry and dishwashing machines whirred and buzzed.
Through the glut of cops, EMTs, reporters, and gawking rubberneckers, I spotted Sheriff Pat Sumner standing in the middle of the crime scene. A little old man, he’d been sheriff up here since before I was born. He tapped Turley, who turned and made his way toward us, pushing through the fracas, gleefully waving a hand over his head.
“Charlie Finn,” Turley called out with a big goofy grin, like a nerd trying to sniff himself into a jock’s good graces. “Been a while. Where you been hiding?”
Charlie thumbed over his shoulder. “I live five miles down the road. Same house I grew up in.”
Turley’s face pinched and he squinched one eye, scratching his furry, Chia Pet head. “How come I never see you?”
“I don’t know, Turley. Have you been looking?”
“Good point, Charlie,” Turley said with a laugh. “Good point.”
“What’s up?” I said.
“Not good, Jay.” Turley turned sideways, pointing to a line of skinny, bare birches at the back end of a blue brick building that was tagged with graffiti and cordoned off with yellow police tape. “Waitress went out for a smoke, found the body in the wastewater runoff. Ligature marks—that means he was strangled—face bashed in pretty good. Neck been broke.”
“So, why are you looking for my brother?”
Even Charlie seemed taken aback by my question. I recognized how ridiculous it sounded. Of course they’d be looking for him. But I also knew that Chris couldn’t have done this in a million years.
“Um,” Turley stammered. “Just need to talk to him, is all.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Eighteen wheels rumbled over the snow-packed asphalt, an endless parade of trucks downshifting, chugging, rumbling bellies of braking semis belching diesel fumes into the lot. Hard gusts raced over the peaks of Lamentation Mountain, swooping down brae to brow. Whipping through tightly crowded, manmade spaces, flecks of snow and tiny ice chips kicked up and stung exposed skin. I blew on my hands, red and raw.
“You need to try to find him,” Turley said. “There’s a lot of pressure coming from on high.”
“On high?” repeated Charlie. “What are you talking about? You got a police force of what, half a dozen?”
“That’s the thing,” Turley said, inching closer, peering back at a man in a suit.
Crisp overcoat, leather gloves, glistening shoes. The man stood
The TC was right off the Turnpike, a busy thoroughfare for deliveries from southern New England up to Canada. It actually was a straighter shot than the I-93, and frequently less congested, making it the preferred route for many long-haul drivers. The Turnpike was barely within Ashton’s city limits, just clipping its northeastern tip. Given the TC’s scandalous reputation, there had been periodic squawking about shutting it down. But since so many local factories and mills had gone under in recent years, the Travel Center provided one of the few consistent revenue streams for the town, and so any chatter of closing it eventually died off. Most chose to ignore its existence. Out of sight, out ofmind. The TC was Ashton’s dirty secret, a small town’s red-light district. Which was fine, as long as the riffraff remained out of sight. Who really gave a shit about a trucker getting a blow job from a toothless junkie? Live free or die, man. But a murder, even of a scumbag drug addict, was bound to incite an uproar.
Plowed snow clustered around lampposts, towering twelve, fifteen feet high, like mammoth mounds of mashed potatoes. Earsplitting noise assaulted on all fronts as traffic flew past on the Turnpike, and countless industrial-sized laundry and dishwashing machines whirred and buzzed.
Through the glut of cops, EMTs, reporters, and gawking rubberneckers, I spotted Sheriff Pat Sumner standing in the middle of the crime scene. A little old man, he’d been sheriff up here since before I was born. He tapped Turley, who turned and made his way toward us, pushing through the fracas, gleefully waving a hand over his head.
“Charlie Finn,” Turley called out with a big goofy grin, like a nerd trying to sniff himself into a jock’s good graces. “Been a while. Where you been hiding?”
Charlie thumbed over his shoulder. “I live five miles down the road. Same house I grew up in.”
Turley’s face pinched and he squinched one eye, scratching his furry, Chia Pet head. “How come I never see you?”
“I don’t know, Turley. Have you been looking?”
“Good point, Charlie,” Turley said with a laugh. “Good point.”
“What’s up?” I said.
“Not good, Jay.” Turley turned sideways, pointing to a line of skinny, bare birches at the back end of a blue brick building that was tagged with graffiti and cordoned off with yellow police tape. “Waitress went out for a smoke, found the body in the wastewater runoff. Ligature marks—that means he was strangled—face bashed in pretty good. Neck been broke.”
“So, why are you looking for my brother?”
Even Charlie seemed taken aback by my question. I recognized how ridiculous it sounded. Of course they’d be looking for him. But I also knew that Chris couldn’t have done this in a million years.
“Um,” Turley stammered. “Just need to talk to him, is all.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Eighteen wheels rumbled over the snow-packed asphalt, an endless parade of trucks downshifting, chugging, rumbling bellies of braking semis belching diesel fumes into the lot. Hard gusts raced over the peaks of Lamentation Mountain, swooping down brae to brow. Whipping through tightly crowded, manmade spaces, flecks of snow and tiny ice chips kicked up and stung exposed skin. I blew on my hands, red and raw.
“You need to try to find him,” Turley said. “There’s a lot of pressure coming from on high.”
“On high?” repeated Charlie. “What are you talking about? You got a police force of what, half a dozen?”
“That’s the thing,” Turley said, inching closer, peering back at a man in a suit.
Crisp overcoat, leather gloves, glistening shoes. The man stood
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