vanished, and instead there was the sound of crickets, and occasionally the sound of night birds-which probably fed on the crickets. There was no other sound, except my footsteps in the soft earth. No one else was walking on the road. I could feel the weight of the gun on my hip. It felt nice.
Since Olivia Nelson’s father wasn’t dead, someone had lied to the cops. But there was no way to know whether it was Loudon Tripp; or Olivia who had lied to Loudon; or Jumper Jack himself who had deceived his daughter.
At the hotel, I went up to my room and called Farrell.
“You got anything on that license plate?” I said.
“You’re going to love this,” he said. “South Carolina DMV says the plate’s classified. Information about ownership on a need-to-know basis only.”
“You can’t show a need to know?”
“Because it’s following you, or you think it is? No. If it was in a hit and run and three witnesses saw it, that’s need to know.”
“It’s part of a murder investigation,” I said.
“You say so, South Carolina DMV doesn’t say so. They say I can go fry my Yankee ass. Though they said it in a nice polite Southern way.”
“Classified plate number is usually undercover cops,” I said.
“Un huh.”
“Okay,” I said.
I listened to the faint hollow silence on the wire for a while.
“Okay,” I said again.
Farrell waited.
“I got something you’re going to love too,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Olivia Nelson’s father is alive.”
“Yeah?”
“Control yourself,” I said.
“Tripp said her parents were dead,” Farrell said.
“Right,” I said. “Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he didn’t lie,” I said. “Maybe she told him they were.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Maybe she thought they were dead,” I said.
“Will you fucking stop it,” Farrell said. “If her father’s alive and we were told he died, somebody lied.”
“Yowsah,” I said.
Through the window of my hotel room I could see the blue Buick, motionless under the heavy trees, across the street from the hotel.
“You going to see him?”
“Yowsah.”
“You going to stop talking like the fucking end man in a minstrel show?”
“Sho ‘nuff, Mr. Bones,” I said. “Soon’s ah do sumpin ’bout this guy that’s tailing me.”
“Why don’t you just ignore him?” Farrell said.
“Well, for one thing, it’s an open tail. Unless he’s the worst cop in the old Confederacy, he means me to see him.”
“Which means he’s trying to scare you?” Farrell said.
“Yeah. I want to know why. And who.”
“You find out, let me know,” Farrell said.
“Sure,” I said. “‘Less of course it’s classified.”
chapter sixteen
MY RENTAL FORD was parked in the lot at the rear right corner of the hotel. I went out the front door and headed for it. The guy in the Buick could see me. And he had positioned himself so that if I drove off he could follow. Tailing somebody is much easier if you don’t mind them knowing.
As I started up the Ford, I could see a little puff of heat come from the tailpipe of the Buick. I pulled out of the driveway of the hotel parking lot, swung around the corner, and parked directly behind the Buick with my engine idling. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see the interior of the Buick because of the darkly tinted glass. I sat. Across the street the Blue Tick hound mooched around the corner of the hotel and sat on the top step of the veranda with his forefeet on the next step down. Sedale came out after a while and gave the dog something to eat. It kept its position, its jaw working on the scrap. Sedale picked up a broom and began to sweep the veranda. The place looked clean, but I suspected it was something Sedale did when things were slow, to keep from hanging in the lobby and chatting with the desk clerk.
The Buick sat. There was a slight tremor to its back end and a faint hint of heat shimmering from its tailpipe. I thought about whether Brooks Robinson or Mike Schmidt should
Since Olivia Nelson’s father wasn’t dead, someone had lied to the cops. But there was no way to know whether it was Loudon Tripp; or Olivia who had lied to Loudon; or Jumper Jack himself who had deceived his daughter.
At the hotel, I went up to my room and called Farrell.
“You got anything on that license plate?” I said.
“You’re going to love this,” he said. “South Carolina DMV says the plate’s classified. Information about ownership on a need-to-know basis only.”
“You can’t show a need to know?”
“Because it’s following you, or you think it is? No. If it was in a hit and run and three witnesses saw it, that’s need to know.”
“It’s part of a murder investigation,” I said.
“You say so, South Carolina DMV doesn’t say so. They say I can go fry my Yankee ass. Though they said it in a nice polite Southern way.”
“Classified plate number is usually undercover cops,” I said.
“Un huh.”
“Okay,” I said.
I listened to the faint hollow silence on the wire for a while.
“Okay,” I said again.
Farrell waited.
“I got something you’re going to love too,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Olivia Nelson’s father is alive.”
“Yeah?”
“Control yourself,” I said.
“Tripp said her parents were dead,” Farrell said.
“Right,” I said. “Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he didn’t lie,” I said. “Maybe she told him they were.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Maybe she thought they were dead,” I said.
“Will you fucking stop it,” Farrell said. “If her father’s alive and we were told he died, somebody lied.”
“Yowsah,” I said.
Through the window of my hotel room I could see the blue Buick, motionless under the heavy trees, across the street from the hotel.
“You going to see him?”
“Yowsah.”
“You going to stop talking like the fucking end man in a minstrel show?”
“Sho ‘nuff, Mr. Bones,” I said. “Soon’s ah do sumpin ’bout this guy that’s tailing me.”
“Why don’t you just ignore him?” Farrell said.
“Well, for one thing, it’s an open tail. Unless he’s the worst cop in the old Confederacy, he means me to see him.”
“Which means he’s trying to scare you?” Farrell said.
“Yeah. I want to know why. And who.”
“You find out, let me know,” Farrell said.
“Sure,” I said. “‘Less of course it’s classified.”
chapter sixteen
MY RENTAL FORD was parked in the lot at the rear right corner of the hotel. I went out the front door and headed for it. The guy in the Buick could see me. And he had positioned himself so that if I drove off he could follow. Tailing somebody is much easier if you don’t mind them knowing.
As I started up the Ford, I could see a little puff of heat come from the tailpipe of the Buick. I pulled out of the driveway of the hotel parking lot, swung around the corner, and parked directly behind the Buick with my engine idling. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see the interior of the Buick because of the darkly tinted glass. I sat. Across the street the Blue Tick hound mooched around the corner of the hotel and sat on the top step of the veranda with his forefeet on the next step down. Sedale came out after a while and gave the dog something to eat. It kept its position, its jaw working on the scrap. Sedale picked up a broom and began to sweep the veranda. The place looked clean, but I suspected it was something Sedale did when things were slow, to keep from hanging in the lobby and chatting with the desk clerk.
The Buick sat. There was a slight tremor to its back end and a faint hint of heat shimmering from its tailpipe. I thought about whether Brooks Robinson or Mike Schmidt should
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