followed.
The driver was good. Staying far enough behind to appear that he or she had lost me. I tapped my brakes, slowing back to about sixty. The car drifted at a distance behind me. The image grew smaller in my rearview mirror. The driver suddenly whipped off the paved road, the car kicking up a long rooster tail of dust, speeding in another direction, going down a dirt road.
I dialed Leslie Moore’s number. “Leslie, you mentioned that the chemical analysis found in the vic’s shoe isn’t used to grow citrus. What does it grow?”
“Primarily tomatoes, at least in the concentrations we found.”
“What does SunState Farms grow?”
“They’re also one of the largest growers of tomatoes in Florida.”
“Text the directions to SunState for me. I’m two miles north of Lake Wells.”
“Okay. I got the DNA results back from the black hair you found in your boat.”
I was silent.
“The hair came from the vic you found. Sean, someone is trying hard to set you up.”
“Wonder who that might be? Is Slater there?”
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours. Why?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to see if the pit bull was out of his yard.”
“Slater met with two agents from the FBI. They showed up yesterday right after I arrived for work. Asked to meet with Slater. They met behind closed doors for about a half hour. Slater didn’t say anything to me about what went on.”
“Maybe Slater called them.”
“That’s not his style either. If there is any truth to the rumors that he’s considering a bid for sheriff, maybe he’s using the FBI in some capacity to help with this case. I don’t know. I think—” She abruptly stopped talking.
“Is someone there?”
“When will the car be ready? Good, please check the brakes, too.” She hung up.
I drove silently for the next fifteen minutes. Then my phone beeped with a text message. I read the directions to SunState Farms. And I also read her last line, which said: Slater knows I rode out to your place. Be careful!
TWENTY-FOUR
I was soon driving through the farm community of Lake Placid. The marquee on the Lake Placid Theater read: Ret rn of the Jed
As I pumped the gas at the Circle K, I watched a dozen or so farm workers in the parking lot. Jeans and T-shirts stained dark green from harvesting tomatoes and peppers. They sipped Mountain Dews, Dr. Peppers, ate sausage biscuits and microwave enchiladas while attempting to avoid my eyes.
At the register, a large black man was buying cases of cheap wine. MD 50-50, Thunderbird, enough of the stuff to give a platoon a hangover for a month. He glanced across his shoulder at me, black irises floating in twin pools of yellowish white, spattered with tiny specks of bloodshot veins. There was a half second look of suspicion, and then he turned away from me to face the female clerk who had finished ringing up the wine.
A scratchy voice came through vocal cords worn thin from years of cigarette smoke and nicotine. She said, “Comes to a hundred twenty nine dollars and two cents.”
The man reached in his pants pockets and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled off two one hundred dollar notes and handed them to the woman.
“Where’s the dolly at?” he asked.
She snorted, clearing mucus deep in her throat. “Where it’s always at, in the corner, behind the mop, next to the ice machine.”
She looked at me. “You payin’ for gas?”
“Yes. The Jeep.”
“Be anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“Forty nine, fifty.”
I waited for change, watching the black man load cases of wine on the dolly. His biceps strained the T-shirt, which read: O-Rock 107 - The Christian Alternative .
The clerk handed me the change, and she reached for a smoldering cigarette.
“Can you tell me how far I am from SunState Farms?” I asked her. The black man stopped loading the last case of wine for a
The driver was good. Staying far enough behind to appear that he or she had lost me. I tapped my brakes, slowing back to about sixty. The car drifted at a distance behind me. The image grew smaller in my rearview mirror. The driver suddenly whipped off the paved road, the car kicking up a long rooster tail of dust, speeding in another direction, going down a dirt road.
I dialed Leslie Moore’s number. “Leslie, you mentioned that the chemical analysis found in the vic’s shoe isn’t used to grow citrus. What does it grow?”
“Primarily tomatoes, at least in the concentrations we found.”
“What does SunState Farms grow?”
“They’re also one of the largest growers of tomatoes in Florida.”
“Text the directions to SunState for me. I’m two miles north of Lake Wells.”
“Okay. I got the DNA results back from the black hair you found in your boat.”
I was silent.
“The hair came from the vic you found. Sean, someone is trying hard to set you up.”
“Wonder who that might be? Is Slater there?”
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours. Why?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to see if the pit bull was out of his yard.”
“Slater met with two agents from the FBI. They showed up yesterday right after I arrived for work. Asked to meet with Slater. They met behind closed doors for about a half hour. Slater didn’t say anything to me about what went on.”
“Maybe Slater called them.”
“That’s not his style either. If there is any truth to the rumors that he’s considering a bid for sheriff, maybe he’s using the FBI in some capacity to help with this case. I don’t know. I think—” She abruptly stopped talking.
“Is someone there?”
“When will the car be ready? Good, please check the brakes, too.” She hung up.
I drove silently for the next fifteen minutes. Then my phone beeped with a text message. I read the directions to SunState Farms. And I also read her last line, which said: Slater knows I rode out to your place. Be careful!
TWENTY-FOUR
I was soon driving through the farm community of Lake Placid. The marquee on the Lake Placid Theater read: Ret rn of the Jed
As I pumped the gas at the Circle K, I watched a dozen or so farm workers in the parking lot. Jeans and T-shirts stained dark green from harvesting tomatoes and peppers. They sipped Mountain Dews, Dr. Peppers, ate sausage biscuits and microwave enchiladas while attempting to avoid my eyes.
At the register, a large black man was buying cases of cheap wine. MD 50-50, Thunderbird, enough of the stuff to give a platoon a hangover for a month. He glanced across his shoulder at me, black irises floating in twin pools of yellowish white, spattered with tiny specks of bloodshot veins. There was a half second look of suspicion, and then he turned away from me to face the female clerk who had finished ringing up the wine.
A scratchy voice came through vocal cords worn thin from years of cigarette smoke and nicotine. She said, “Comes to a hundred twenty nine dollars and two cents.”
The man reached in his pants pockets and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled off two one hundred dollar notes and handed them to the woman.
“Where’s the dolly at?” he asked.
She snorted, clearing mucus deep in her throat. “Where it’s always at, in the corner, behind the mop, next to the ice machine.”
She looked at me. “You payin’ for gas?”
“Yes. The Jeep.”
“Be anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“Forty nine, fifty.”
I waited for change, watching the black man load cases of wine on the dolly. His biceps strained the T-shirt, which read: O-Rock 107 - The Christian Alternative .
The clerk handed me the change, and she reached for a smoldering cigarette.
“Can you tell me how far I am from SunState Farms?” I asked her. The black man stopped loading the last case of wine for a
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