close to bankrupt, with no choice except to return to the only career she’d ever known. And with so many expenses that running for Lou’soffice had offered her the only chance to avoid losing their home.
“I’m doing the best I can,” she said, more sharply than she meant to, but better that than crying. Deputies don’t cry, her dad had told her long before, back when Noah’s father had left her. It was a message she’d taken to heart, and one that applied doubly to an elected county sheriff. “But I really need to talk with this Thibodeaux woman about what happened last night.”
“Not now, you don’t,” her father told her. “You’re groggy, hurting, and your color’s off. And you don’t remember one damned thing about what happened.”
“If I go down there now,” she argued, “I can more than likely talk her into speaking to me without some lawyer mucking up the works—and before we end up with a bunch of salivating reporters jumping up and down and trying to second-guess us.”
“No, dice, Justine. You’re going to have to learn to delegate. Roger’s a good investigator. You’ve said that much yourself. ”
“Roger’s going to screw this up. He’s already lost his objectivity.”
“Your deputy said this woman played the race card.” Disdain leached into her father’s voice. “Said as far as he can tell, she looks and talks as white as you do.”
Justine huffed out a sigh, wondering if her dad had any clue how wrong he sounded and knowing there was little hope of convincing him on that count.
“The first victim was black,” she explained. “Hart Tyson—and I have to tell you, I nearly choked myself when we found him underneath that tree.”
“Under it?” Her father’s gaze sharpened, the investigator in him resurrected like a restless ghost.
“Yeah, the, um…the rope broke from his weight—Tysonwas close to three hundred pounds. Too bad it didn’t break in time to do him any good.”
“So you considered homicide? Maybe a few drunk crackers out to relive the bad old days and smear the name of every decent white man in the area?” If her dad had sounded contemptuous before, he seemed outraged at this thought.
“Sure, I considered it,” Justine said. “Tell you the truth, my gut told me murder. But this was one big guy, and mostly muscle. I can’t believe anybody strung him up without his say-so. Besides, his family members said he’d been in a serious funk about a recent divorce. And then we found a note inside his pickup, parked out in the weeds. Family members said it looked like his handwriting.”
“What’d the ME have to say about him?” Her father glanced at her.
Justine knew her mother would have chided him—or both of them—for talking shop, would have kept the conversation strictly focused on her daughter’s injuries and her grandson’s needs. But Belinda Little Truitt, of the once-wealthy Dallas Littles, had never understood that law enforcement was father and daughter’s lingua franca, that save for Noah, it was the only common ground they had left.
“I’ll tell you what.” As they passed a new drugstore near the edge of the historic district, Justine slid a sly look his way. “You turn around and take me to my office, and I’ll let you have a look at the medical examiner’s findings on both prior deaths.”
Beneath the brim of his hat, Ed Truitt’s forehead furrowed, and his thumbs beat a tattoo against the steering wheel’s edge.
Justine searched for a way to seal the deal. “Come on, Dad. I could really use your input, all your experience, on my side.” She nearly added for a change but managed to restrain herself.
Her dad pulled off the road into the library parking lotand looked her straight in the eye. “Is it only me, Chili Pepper,” he asked, his thick white brows nearly meeting in the middle, “or are you this shameless about manipulating the bad guys?”
“Yes, sir. I like to think so.” She fought back a
“I’m doing the best I can,” she said, more sharply than she meant to, but better that than crying. Deputies don’t cry, her dad had told her long before, back when Noah’s father had left her. It was a message she’d taken to heart, and one that applied doubly to an elected county sheriff. “But I really need to talk with this Thibodeaux woman about what happened last night.”
“Not now, you don’t,” her father told her. “You’re groggy, hurting, and your color’s off. And you don’t remember one damned thing about what happened.”
“If I go down there now,” she argued, “I can more than likely talk her into speaking to me without some lawyer mucking up the works—and before we end up with a bunch of salivating reporters jumping up and down and trying to second-guess us.”
“No, dice, Justine. You’re going to have to learn to delegate. Roger’s a good investigator. You’ve said that much yourself. ”
“Roger’s going to screw this up. He’s already lost his objectivity.”
“Your deputy said this woman played the race card.” Disdain leached into her father’s voice. “Said as far as he can tell, she looks and talks as white as you do.”
Justine huffed out a sigh, wondering if her dad had any clue how wrong he sounded and knowing there was little hope of convincing him on that count.
“The first victim was black,” she explained. “Hart Tyson—and I have to tell you, I nearly choked myself when we found him underneath that tree.”
“Under it?” Her father’s gaze sharpened, the investigator in him resurrected like a restless ghost.
“Yeah, the, um…the rope broke from his weight—Tysonwas close to three hundred pounds. Too bad it didn’t break in time to do him any good.”
“So you considered homicide? Maybe a few drunk crackers out to relive the bad old days and smear the name of every decent white man in the area?” If her dad had sounded contemptuous before, he seemed outraged at this thought.
“Sure, I considered it,” Justine said. “Tell you the truth, my gut told me murder. But this was one big guy, and mostly muscle. I can’t believe anybody strung him up without his say-so. Besides, his family members said he’d been in a serious funk about a recent divorce. And then we found a note inside his pickup, parked out in the weeds. Family members said it looked like his handwriting.”
“What’d the ME have to say about him?” Her father glanced at her.
Justine knew her mother would have chided him—or both of them—for talking shop, would have kept the conversation strictly focused on her daughter’s injuries and her grandson’s needs. But Belinda Little Truitt, of the once-wealthy Dallas Littles, had never understood that law enforcement was father and daughter’s lingua franca, that save for Noah, it was the only common ground they had left.
“I’ll tell you what.” As they passed a new drugstore near the edge of the historic district, Justine slid a sly look his way. “You turn around and take me to my office, and I’ll let you have a look at the medical examiner’s findings on both prior deaths.”
Beneath the brim of his hat, Ed Truitt’s forehead furrowed, and his thumbs beat a tattoo against the steering wheel’s edge.
Justine searched for a way to seal the deal. “Come on, Dad. I could really use your input, all your experience, on my side.” She nearly added for a change but managed to restrain herself.
Her dad pulled off the road into the library parking lotand looked her straight in the eye. “Is it only me, Chili Pepper,” he asked, his thick white brows nearly meeting in the middle, “or are you this shameless about manipulating the bad guys?”
“Yes, sir. I like to think so.” She fought back a
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