they could get somewhere with this case.
“The sheriff isn’t exactly the most popular man in town at the moment,” Corrie said as she pointed to the latest edition of The Cedar Cove Chronicle.
Roy tried unsuccessfully to disguise a smile. The front page of The Chronicle had shown a photograph of a disgruntled Sheriff Davis and two deputies handcuffing a group of senior citizens. Roy would say one thing—this small and lively band of retirees had certainly gotten their message out.
“I can’t help feeling sorry for Davis,” Roy murmured.
“Of course your sympathies would lie with the lawman, but as far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Jefferson and her friends have a good point.”
“There are other ways of getting the city to provide a health clinic without violating the law.”
Roy should know better than to argue with Corrie; as usual, she had an immediate comeback. “The article said Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Rhodes have done everything by the book and didn’t get anywhere because of the budget cuts. You and I both know what it’s like to ram our heads against City Hall.”
“Sheriff Davis was only doing his job.” Frankly, Roy wouldn’t have wanted to be the one responsible for escorting a group of old people to jail. From what he’d heard, it had been a madhouse, with several of the ladies demanding lawyers and going on about their constitutional rights. Apparently they’d viewed too many Law & Order reruns.
“I should’ve known you’d side with your friend,” Corrie said. “How would you feel, though, if that had been your mother or mine?”
He chuckled. “My mother’s been gone for a lot of years and as for yours—”
“Don’t even start, Roy McAfee,” she muttered.
But Roy saw that Corrie was trying not to laugh. On impulse, he walked around her desk and soundly kissed her.
Corrie looked up at him. “What was that for?”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
“Roy!”
“Sweetheart,” he said, pleading innocence. “I love you.”
Laughing softly, she steered him toward the door.
Roy decided to walk the fifteen minutes to the sheriff’s office. His gut told him they were close to uncovering Russell’s secrets.
Troy Davis appeared to be waiting for him. He gestured to the chair and then shoved a file at him before Roy even had a chance to sit down.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“The toxicology report.”
Roy reached for it and flipped it open. He scanned the first three pages before his eyes landed on flunitrazepam. He raised his eyes to the sheriff’s. “That drug—what is it?”
“Brand name is Rohypnol.”
That was a name Roy recognized. The date-rape drug, as it was commonly called. He’d seen the effects of it during his years on the force. It’d been referred to as “roofies” when it first hit the streets in the early nineties.
Very clever choice, Roy mused as he read over the report. Not the type of drug anyone would typically use to kill a man over fifty. “No wonder it took the lab a month to find it,” he murmured, thinking aloud.
“Whoever killed him dissolved it in the bottled water. It’s tasteless and odorless—and it’s a potent tranquilizer. When it’s given in large doses, the obvious happens.”
Roy knew that, too. A large enough dose would have lethal consequences.
Roy set the file on the sheriff’s desk. “All that confirms is what we’ve both suspected. Russell was murdered.” Unfortunately, the toxicology report didn’t reveal who’d poisoned him or why.
The sheriff relaxed in his chair and steepled his fingers as he rested his hands against his abdomen. He looked directly at Roy. “It could’ve been Beldon. He had opportunity.”
Years of police work and intuition said otherwise. At one point, Roy had had his suspicions. There’d still been a lot of missing facts, and he hadn’t wanted to cloud the issue with emotion. That was the reason he’d felt he couldn’t be Beldon’s friend. In the time since, Roy had come to like and trust the other man.
Bob claimed not to recognize his old army friend, which left motive in question. But even if he had recognized him, that wasn’t cause enough to murder him, in Roy’s opinion. “Frankly, I doubt it.”
Sheriff Davis gave him a hint of a smile. “I don’t see it falling that way myself.”
“Don’t forget, the bottle was in the car.”
“Right.”
That didn’t automatically clear Beldon, but it suggested Russell had brought the water with him.
“Do you think it could’ve been a random killing?” Roy asked. There seemed to be more of them these days.
He could tell that Davis had considered the same idea. “Perhaps, but I think it’s unlikely.”
Roy nodded. Too many factors in this case, including the method used, led him to believe the murder hadn’t been a random anything. Whoever they were dealing with was smart. And vicious.
“I don’t think this was the first attempt on Russell’s life, either,” Roy murmured.
“My thoughts exactly,” the sheriff said. He straightened, leaning toward his desk. “The car accident that killed his wife sounds mighty convenient to me. I read the report, but there’s nothing I can put my finger on. No real evidence.”
The crash had been attributed to driver error. In light of recent events, he wondered. Two of the men who’d been together in the jungle that day were dead and both had died under peculiar circumstances.
“What about Dan Sherman?” Roy asked. “Are you convinced it was suicide?”
The sheriff didn’t hesitate. “No doubt. He left that letter, too.”
Roy didn’t like the route his mind was taking him. Two men were dead, one of them murdered. If Bob wasn’t involved—and both Troy Davis and Roy were sure he wasn’t—then that led Roy to one conclusion.
“Bob Beldon’s in danger,” he said.
Davis sat back. “Funny you should say that.”
“Why?”
“I had the same feeling myself. I went out to talk to him yesterday afternoon.”
A chill went up Roy’s spine.
“I suggested he might want to take an extended vacation while we check this theory out,” the sheriff continued.
“What did he say?”
