than fired. Burl couldn’t stay away. That he resented Will for taking his job went without saying. To date no one had had the gumption to tell him to get out and stay out. Will sensed that day was coming. He half-dreaded, half-welcomed it.
Whatever the case. He really didn’t want to talk to Burl. Except that the man knew something about Gemma LaPorte, and Gemma LaPorte was still his number-one guess for the avenger who’d run down Edward Letton.
“Anything on Jean LaPorte’s car?” he asked.
“Still no sign of it.”
As soon as Will had learned Gemma’s name and situation, he’d done a background check on every member of her family. He’d learned a number of things about them, but what had snagged his attention first was that the LaPortes had owned two vehicles: Peter’s white Chevy truck—which he’d seen at the house—and Jean’s silver Camry, which was apparently MIA. Maybe the guy who’d dropped Gemma off at the hospital had it, or maybe Gemma had crashed it into Edward Letton, or maybe it was parked somewhere on the LaPorte property. Whatever the case, to date it hadn’t been found, and Gemma hadn’t called to say differently. There was no vehicle in Gemma’s own name.
“Burl still around?” Will asked Barb.
“Always. Probably by the coffee machine.”
Which was next to the doughnut boxes. “No other silver Camrys with front-end damage discovered?”
“Not in this county. One in Clatsop County but it was a Dodge Durango and the guy who smashed it up is in jail with his second DUI. Dot says your little friend’s been calling. Pellter with two l’s. Check your voice mail.”
Will punched in the numbers of his phone and waited. Carol Pellter, having been saved from assault and probably death at the hands of Letton, had taken her story public, though her parents were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The media had run the girl’s story of a really bad man trying to get her into his van, and had taken pictures of the outside of the impounded van. But it had been nearly a week since the event, and since Carol was alive and well, the prurient interest of the news watchers had moved on to events with more salacious pictures and tragic outcomes.
Carol, however, was hanging onto her fifteen minutes of fame with all ten fingers.
“Hi, Detective Tanninger,” Carol’s recorded voice stated primly. “I want to help in your investigation. I think you might need me. Could you please call me?” She left her number, speaking it clearly in a precise tone, twice.
Will smiled to himself. Looking forward more to talking to Carol than dealing with Burl, he placed a call to the number she’d given him and ended up with Carol’s prim voice suggesting he leave a message on her voice mail. He waited for the beep then told her it was Will Tanninger returning her call.
Kids with cell phones. It was the norm rather than the exception.
Barb was pretending not to be avidly listening to his every syllable. Will had to push aside the distraction of her laser-like interest in him with almost physical force. God, things were getting bad.
He got up from his desk. “Where’re you going?” Barb asked, swiveling around as he circled toward the door.
“Gonna see Nunce,” he said.
“I’m coming with you.” She bustled to catch up to him and fell in step beside him in the outer hall.
Will’s temper was slow to rile, but Barb had been getting on his nerves for quite a while. He held back a sharp remark with an effort.
Sheriff Herbert Nunce was gray-haired, gray-eyed, tanned and weathered like old leather. He was slim and straight and distracted. He’d gotten the job by being the last man standing: his predecessors had all been promoted or left the sheriff’s office. He’d been sheriff for seven years and he’d gradually spent more and more time on the creeks and rivers that ran through the Coast Range, chasing steelhead and salmon and anything with fins. His interest in law enforcement—never strong, Will guessed—had been displaced so thoroughly that it was hard to get him juiced about any investigation, be it robbery/homicide, or narcotics, or anything in between. Will had written a report on Letton’s hit-and-run but he would bet Nunce hadn’t read it yet. This appeared to be borne out when Nunce greeted him with, “Smithson still sitting outside that hospital room?”
Will nodded. He could’ve reminded the sheriff that Letton’s life could still be in danger, but it wasn’t like the sheriff didn’t know. Nunce just reached for the one part of the investigation he was familiar with.
Burl had been nowhere in sight when Will and Barb entered the room, but now he snaked in around the doorway, an eavesdropper hoping not to be noticed. Will turned to gaze at him dead on, which caused Jernstadt to fidget.
“Burl, we’re having a talk here,” Nunce said, almost kindly. Nunce had wanted Burl out as much as the next man, but like everyone else, still tiptoed around the man’s feelings. The humorous part was that Nunce didn’t want the uninvited talk with Will and Barb much, either, and would probably have come up with an excuse to put it off except it was preferable to interacting with Burl.
“About that pedophile hit-and-run. I know. Did she tell you that I know that family? The LaPortes?” Burl jerked his head toward Barb but his gaze was on Will. “A bunch of loonies. The old man was a pussy. Let his wife run roughshod over him, and she was in a wrangle with the Dunleavys something fierce. I’m from Woodbine, right next to Quarry.” He hooked a thumb at his own chest. “I know Kevin Dunleavy. A straight shooter, if I ever saw one. There’s a longstanding fight over property rights between the families. The quarry’s right between their properties and that crazy psycho Jean was always screaming at Kevin and his brother Rome and the rest of the family. But Jean’s a piece of fuckin’ work, pardon my French, and she made some threat that Kevin should keep his family close if he wants ’em to survive, y’know what I mean? Thinks she’s a psychic, or something, and just goes around predicting shit and acts like it’s not her making it up. Like it’s real or something.”
“Jean LaPorte is deceased,” Will broke in when Burl took a breath. “You’re saying she was a psychic.”
“Pretend psychic. Pretend. She didn’t know her ass from a fuckin’ hole in the ground, pardon my French again, but that didn’t stop her. And now her daughter’s a killer. Doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Will cut in.
“You’re making a ton of assumptions,” Barb said at the same time.
Nunce waved them all off. “Burl, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m giving you background.” Burl glared at Will as if it were all his fault. “Haven’t you talked to her?”
“It’s a police investigation.” And none of your business.
Burl stared at Will as if he were speaking in tongues. “Sounds like she didn’t tell you nothing. That why you let her go home?”
Barb said in a long-suffering tone, “Burl, you know we can’t discuss the case with you. If we had enough to arrest anyone for the hit-and-run, we would have done it.”
“I could get her to talk,” Burl said to Will. “I know the Dunleavys.”
“The
