“We’re a friendly town, Mr. Devlin,” Parish said.
“I get that feeling.”
“Not many folks around. We kinda keep an eye on each other.”
Buck figured he knew where this was leading, but he didn’t try to head it off. Let the man have his say.
“Someone said you seemed to be having a bit of a disagreement with Haley Martin outside the funeral home.”
“It probably looked that way.”
Micah’s eyebrow lifted. “So what way was it?”
“I was trying to explain something to her.”
“Is that what she would tell me?”
“I honestly don’t know what she would tell you at this point. I’m fairly certain she thinks I’m a nut or a liar right now.”
One corner of Micah’s mouth hitched up, but it wasn’t with humor. “Would she be right?”
“By her lights.”
Micah’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “Quit fencing with me unless you want to be escorted out of town in the next hour.”
Buck hesitated. It went against the grain to let anybody in on his investigations before he was ready, but he decided to let the cat out and see where it went.
“Wallet,” he said, so Micah wouldn’t think he was reaching for a weapon, then dug into his pocket. He drew out both his IDs and turned them over.
Micah scanned them. “So you’re a truck driver and disabled vet. Neither one is necessarily a recommendation.”
“No. But maybe Army Third Military Police Group, Tenth Battalion will help.”
Micah’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes searching Buck’s face. “Tenth Battalion. Criminal investigation division. I know what you guys do. The only question is what you’re doing here. This card says you’re medically retired.”
“I am. My boss asked me to look into something for him. My misfortune to be the only former MP he has working for him.”
Micah tapped the two laminated cards against his knee. “Mind if I keep these for a few hours? I want to run a background.”
“Help yourself.”
Micah slipped the IDs into his breast pocket. “Tell me what you think is going on in my town and just how Haley fits in. That girl’s had enough trouble in her life. You bringing her more?”
“Actually, I’m suffering from a white-knight complex. I’m hoping to keep her from getting into more trouble.”
“That’s not helpful, Mr. Devlin. Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me?”
“How about that I don’t know who is involved?”
Micah stiffened at that. “Maybe you should come to the office with me. I think our sheriff might want to talk to you, too.”
Buck rose to his feet. “Let’s go. I’d like to meet your sheriff. Then maybe you two can tell me enough about yourselves that I know I can trust you.”
Micah’s frown deepened. “You’ll ride in the cage,” he said flatly.
“Fine by me. I’d rather look like a criminal than your cohort right now.”
Micah wasn’t exactly gentle as he put Buck in the back of his vehicle. Which was fine by Buck.
If anybody was paying attention, and they might be since his hanging out here was apparently suspicious enough to garner legal attention, they’d think he was in trouble.
Right then, that’s just how he wanted it.
Miles away, in a living room that looked ancient in every way, Mr. and Mrs. Liston sat in their usual chairs, hands linked, still wearing their best clothes. Mrs. Liston was crying quietly, but her husband looked almost empty.
Across from them sat their eldest son, Jim. He had arrived only a few hours ago from Los Angeles. Until just a few months ago, he’d pretty much disappeared from their lives, much as Ray had, and they couldn’t understand it. But at least he was coming home again. For the past half year or so they’d seen him every few weeks. In a way they were grateful to him, because he’d helped Ray find that trucking job.
But now Ray was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” he said yet again. He sat there looking fine in his expensive clothes, and the corners of his mouth drooped.
“We’re all sorry, son,” Mrs. Liston finally said. “You know your brother was a good boy.”
“I know. We kept in touch, obviously. But you say the cops are asking about drugs?”
Both the elder Listons nodded.
“It was just a terrible accident,” Jim said soothingly. “Ray hadn’t been driving that long. I’m sure that’s what they’ll find out.”
Mr. Liston spoke. “He didn’t do no drugs. I know that much. And that Martin girl said the same thing.”
“What Martin girl?”
“Haley Martin. Works at the truck stop. She saw Ray just before…she said he was fine. Just fine. She don’t believe it was no drugs, either.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Jim said firmly. “I’m positive. Ray wouldn’t do that.”
“No,” Mr. Liston agreed. “No. Not my boy.”
Mrs. Liston wiped away her tears. “I’m gonna go get in my nightclothes. Then I’ll make us all some Ovaltine.” It had always been her soothing solution to everything. No one disagreed with her. Her husband went with her to change clothes.
Jim sat where he was, then as soon as he heard them reach their bedroom, he stepped outside and pulled out his cell phone. The signal was almost nonexistent, but he got through. The call was brief; he said very little.
But he did mention Haley Martin.
The sheriff’s office was located in a storefront on a corner across the street from the courthouse square, a bit of eastern charm transplanted to the West. Inside, the dispatcher’s desk was surrounded by other desks apparently for use by deputies. Each desk boasted a relatively new computer, all of which looked out of place on desks that were at least thirty years old, maybe older. Wooden floors creaked with every step.
A young deputy sat at the dispatcher’s desk, sipping coffee and looking bored behind a console that would have done a big-city operation proud.
Micah pointed Buck to a chair next to one of the desks. “Wait there.” Then he crossed to the dispatcher.
“Get Gage in here. I need him. Then run these IDs.” He pulled out Buck’s IDs and tossed them on the dispatcher’s desk. “I want everything you can find, and then you’re going to forget all of this unless I say otherwise.”
Evidently, Buck thought with mild amusement, gossip could be a problem in this office, too.
“Who made the coffee?” Micah asked.
“I did,” answered the young deputy, whose name tag said he was Rankin. “It’s not lethal.”
Micah glanced at Buck. “Coffee?”
“Black, please.” Evidently they hadn’t gotten past being courteous, always a good sign.
Micah brought two mugs over to the desk, handing one to Buck. “Getting decent coffee around here is a trial. Our day dispatcher, Velma, turns it into battery acid. Nobody has the heart to tell her to stop making it.”
“I’m used to stuff you can stand a spoon in.”
“Then you might