the top of his head until sure the hair stood up in little spikes. “Damn. Am I dealing with a copycat?” Eyes swiveled to the left, he pressed a finger against the map tacked to the wall and trailed it down Highway 270, confident he knew what waited at the end. He needed to see the word to let it sink home. The thin yellow line led directly to McAlester.
Did Mary set out to visit her idol with an intent to make a big show outside the prison gates? Was she planning to shout his name and call victory? Perhaps she already planned to be a martyr, but just didn’t make it all the way to her destination.
All signs pointed to it. Had she corresponded or admired from afar? Heart rate speeding, he stood and made a frantic pocket pat for his keys. He needed his ass at the Galesh home to search Mary’s personal belongings before Jason lawyered up out of protection from all things hell bent on further disrupting his life.
The desk phone rang from an outside line and furrowed his brows. For half a second, he thought about not answering. But on the off chance it might be Jason halted his escape. If he received permission to search now, half his battle was in the bag. He snatched the phone.
“Browning.”
“Detective Maxwell Browning?”
The smooth, deep voice threw him for a second. He’d never heard it before, but the man sounded articulate.
Crap! Don’t let it be the lawyer.
“Yeah, how can I help you?”
“My name’s Preston Sinclair. I’m calling about the event at Bagwell’s grocery. I have information pertinent to your case. Please write my number down. I might get disconnected.”
Chapter 6
Max caught the urgency in Sinclair’s tone, transferring it right into muscles already jacked to hightail it out of this place. He grabbed a pen and held it over a yellow notepad next to the phone. “Go.” The number wasn’t local. “Got it. What do you have for me?”
“Like to visit the shooter’s home with you, if possible. Your answer as to why this happened might be there. I can confirm it for you if I see it.”
Chills lifted on Max’s arms, even though he knew full well the guy couldn’t know his immediate plans.
“Not going to happen, bud. Believe me.”
A soft chuckle sounded through the receiver.
“Thought so, but worth a shot. Here’s the point. I need to know if you found a distinctive burn mark anywhere near the shooter’s bed.”
Max knew he wore what Fergus coined as his “Did you actually ask me that shit” face. He let his head loll back on his shoulders and spit out a familiar line.
“Look. I don’t discuss specifics of ongoing cases, and you’re wasting my time here.”
“Wait. I know you want to hang up, but you need to understand this won’t be your last one, Detective Browning. Expect more.”
“Yeah, crime happening every day. What’s new, fella?”
“No, this is different. We need to search the killer’s home for the mark to prove what I’m trying to tell you. If we don’t find it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Head shaking in disgust, Max set the phone back in the cradle, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office. Insistent ringing followed him down the hallway.
“Nut bags.”
Mary’s name floated on the airwaves for less than two hours and the loose screws backed out of the woodwork at a steady pace. The first drizzle of morning coffee hadn’t met his gut before a call came in from a frantic man claiming Mary Galesh killed his dog. Better yet, would forensics come out to test the bullet he pulled from its neck to determine a match with the Glock? Oddballs always trickled in right after the killer’s name released to the public. Poor JoAnn. He’d owe her big time for fielding all his calls, and the list already draped to his knee.
* * * * *
“Shit. They’re going to make me run the gauntlet,” Max muttered. He cut the engine to the Vic and stared at the tired, old adversary he’d grown to despise over the years.
Damn vultures.
News vans lined the cul-de-sac while perfectly coifed and well-dressed aggressive reporters vied for the prime spot in front of the Galesh home. Their usual, rabid pack mindset caused him to park six houses down and at a weird angle.
If younger and Gus in the passenger seat egging him on, he would’ve pulled up on the sidewalk and caught some primetime news coverage as he scattered the assholes. Good times.
Notepad and trusty pen shoved into his front pocket, Max slipped from the car and relaxed his features into what he liked to term his “dead face.” If he didn’t, the reporters would remark with all seriousness the detective on the case appeared angry, concerned, shocked, or any other such nonsense to titillate the viewers. The best they could get out of his mask and stay as close to the truth as possible was “placid.” No one turned up the volume on a dull adjective. Hope grew toward their continued ignorance of his presence.
“Detective Browning!”
Shit.
“Do you have any information on why Mary Galesh shot and killed nine people?” a woman with heavily painted eyes and brilliant white teeth screamed above the other voices.
“No comment.”
Within seconds, his movement forward reduced to that of a ninety-year-old. Of course, it wasn’t anyone he recognized pressing in on him. All the seasoned ones knew better than to get up in his grill. They all rested against their vans, sporting shit-eating grins, and waiting for the explosion. After the third microphone popped him on the chin, Max halted. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the determined crowd and deepened his voice into dark menace.
“Back up or face charges of assaulting a police officer. Your choice but make it quick.”
Threat working, progress toward the house improved. Sometimes it paid off to be much taller and meaner than the surrounding enemy could claim.
A male voice somewhere over his right shoulder shouted, “Detective Browning, what have you discovered about Mary Galesh’s motive? Why did she do it? Were there any other people involved? Did her husband know she was going to do it?”
“What Captain Walters gave you this morning is all we’re allowed to release,” he threw out. “The investigation’s still pending.” Max turned around on the sidewalk leading to Jason’s door and held up a warning palm.
“Stay out of his yard. You guys know better. Don’t make me call in a unit. I doubt Mr. Galesh will traipse outside in his bathrobe and start telling you how he’s feeling, so you’re wasting your time here. If he wants to share, I’m sure he’ll book a time with you. Look. Give him some peace, will you? Neither he nor his kids had anything to do with this. Plant that into your skulls and make it stick. They’re as much victims as the other families.”
“Will you ask if he’ll come outside?”
“Not
