Gardner Todd?”
Billy’s eyebrows knit together. No matter what he said next, Suzy knew he wasn’t buying what he was selling. At least, not all the way.
“He was looking at real estate for one of his businesses. We even verified it with his attorney who showed up afterward. You already know that, and still you don’t believe him.”
It wasn’t a question. Still, she responded to it.
“I believe that money can buy a lot of things,” she said. “Including the loyalty of everyone around here. For all we know, his attorney spun the exact tale he wanted him to.”
“So you think, what? James hired Lester McGibbon to kill Gardner and then shoot you?”
Suzy could tell that Billy didn’t like being blunt about her being shot. It had been four months—four long months—and she still didn’t like it, either. That bullet hadn’t just hit her; it had very nearly killed her. Even now, she was still technically on leave from the department, unable to do field work for another month.
“No, I don’t think he hired Lester,” she admitted. “But I do think he’s connected to Gardner. Somehow. And he’s hiding it.”
“Then what better reason than to go tonight? You can represent us and satisfy your curiosity.”
Suzy tilted her head to see if she had heard him right. “You’re saying you’d be okay with me asking him some questions?”
Billy nodded. “If you think there’s something there, beyond the answers he’s already given us all, then who am I to stop you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression suddenly stern. “Just whatever prodding you do, please keep it reasonable.”
Suzy couldn’t help but smirk. “When have I ever been unreasonable?”
The sheriff was smart. He didn’t answer.
* * *
QUESO WENT FIVE over the speed limit. James decided not to comment. Though the urge to get beneath the teen’s skin almost won out.
Teen. That was what James really figured the dark-haired boy was. A teen who worked for an up-and-coming criminal organization that was tapping into white-collar crimes.
James wanted to give him a speech, to question his motives and push the boy to create different life goals, but then he remembered himself at that age and couldn’t bring himself to deliver any lectures. What advice could he really give the boy that would ring true? He doubted repeating the speech James had gotten from his father all those years ago would light the fire that had moved him.
It had only been chance that, after his father had stopped yelling, the younger James had run into the bar where Corbin Griffin had been spending his last free night before taking off to San Antonio for basic training. The then twenty-year-old had shown James a way to prove himself outside of fame and fortune.
His joining the Air Force had surprised everyone; finding purpose and peace during his time with them had surprised him. Nine years after leaving, James still felt that swell of pride and gratitude for the time spent at his Special Operations job. Even when things had gotten hairy.
No, Queso needed his own Corbin Griffin. James doubted he would listen to him. Still, he wasn’t going to say nothing. After the car rolled to a stop in the parking lot James’s truck was in, he drew back and met the teen’s stare.
“I don’t know if Sully will get your help on what I’m looking for or not, but either way, it could be dangerous,” he warned. “I suggest you stay away from it, but I’m sure that might only make you want to do it even more. Either way, if things get too hairy, you can reach me here.” James pulled a card from his wallet. It had a different number on it than the one he’d given to Sully. “Or if you just want a different option altogether.” He shrugged. “A few of my companies have scholarship programs that could use hardworking entrepreneurs. If that falls into your wheelhouse.”
Queso cut a grin. “Haven’t been called an entrepreneur before,” he said. “Doubt a fancy title like that would even stick to someone like me. Don’t you think?” Sarcasm. It blanketed his tone and posture. An invisible defense mechanism that James himself had used many times before in his youth. “Why don’t you run along there, Padre, and leave your troubles to the boss?”
James got out of the car, hands up in defense. He left the card on the seat. Queso eyed it but didn’t say anything. Maybe that was a good sign.
James finally got what he was hoping for. As he watched the little Miata take off down the road, thoughts of Suzanne Simmons were replaced by Gardner Todd.
And his killer.
If he could find out who wanted him dead, then maybe he could figure out Gardner’s secret.
What did you want to tell me, brother?
Suzy stood on the fringe of the crowd, pondering life.
Not in general, of course—she didn’t have the patience for that one, or the right amount of caffeine in her, either—but on her own life. More important, the path that had led her, along with the Riker County Sheriff’s Department, through the thickest of thicks and the thinnest of thins, all the way to standing on a rug that probably cost more than her two-bedroom rental.
It was a solid piece of decoration, almost as big as the foyer, and most likely heavy as the dickens. Without even attempting to lift the thing, Suzy could feel its weight in her muscles. While she struggled with biting the bullet and buying a rug from Target, James Callahan had probably imported the thing from Sweden or somewhere equally expensive.
It made her want to grind her teeth. And make sure to keep her heels off it, if possible. Her mother had taught her to respect others’ property. Even if she didn’t respect the people who owned it.
Suzy sighed. She probably did need to cut the man who had saved her some slack. Whether he lived in a mansion or a shack shouldn’t matter. He’d killed the man who had tried to kill her and then kept her from bleeding out in the dirt. He had also visited her in the hospital more than a few times. And when he couldn’t come, he’d sent flowers. But no matter how nice the man was, it was hard to reciprocate when you knew he was lying.
“If you keep making that face, it might get stuck like that.”
Suzy turned to a woman she’d been hoping to see when tasked with attending the social.
“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Reed, fashionably late, of course.”
Billy’s wife, Mara, beamed but didn’t deny the accusation. Instead, she pointed to her protruding belly.
“I blame this kid of mine,” she replied. “He’s been tap-dancing on my bladder all day. You’re lucky Leigh got us here when she did. We had to stop as soon as we got into town for a bathroom break.”
Leigh Cullen was Mara’s business partner and friend; together they ran an interior-design firm in Carpenter. Over the last year it had really taken off. They were currently designing an office-complex opening in the heart of Bates Hill. While Suzy
