Finishing School by Max Allan Collins Page B

him.
    Now, having slept, showered and shaved—and after a light breakfast with Prentiss—Rossi felt ready to face the day and find out what connected Bemidji, Minnesota, to Summerville, Georgia, and Heflin, Alabama.
    Prentiss—in gray slacks, a navy blue blouse, and dark shoes, her weapon on her hip under a gray jacket—stepped out into the sunshine at the hotel’s entrance. Rossi—as usual in jeans, with a blue work shirt and a red tie full of geometric shapes under a navy sport coat, his gun on his right hip—enjoyed the warmth, lifting his face toward the sky.
    Prentiss smiled at him. ‘‘Not so terrible, trading this in for Minnesota.’’
    â€˜â€˜Doesn’t suck,’’ he admitted.
    Carlyle pulled up in a black Tahoe. When they commented on the lovely day, he didn’t seem to know what they were talking about, clearly not nearly as impressed with the local weather as the visitors were.
    With Rossi in the front seat and Prentiss in back, Carlyle drove them north on I-75, getting off at the Adairsville exit. From there it was two-lane roads, state 140 and U.S. 27 through the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest and onto the east side of Summerville in Chattooga County, only a few miles from the Alabama border.
    A sleepy little berg, home to around five thousand, Summerville had no police department and a handful of stoplights. The sheriff’s office—a small one-story building—was just off Commerce Street, the main drag, at 35 W Washington.
    The front door was off to the right, the remainder of the building’s facade a huge picture window. As with many small-town departments, this was not the most secure building in the world. They entered, Rossi in the lead, followed by Prentiss and Carlyle.
    The waist-high wall ran the width of the lobby, a single deputy behind it on a chair-back stool. The broad-shouldered young deputy—with the kind of crew cut you saw mostly on military bases—greeted them with a professional smile. ‘‘May I help you?’’
    Rossi flashed his credentials, introduced himself and the others, as the deputy got to his feet and regarded them, agape.
    â€˜â€˜Truth is,’’ the deputy said with a Barney Fife- worthy grin, ‘‘I never met an FBI agent before.’’
    â€˜â€˜And now you have,’’ Rossi said pleasantly. ‘‘Is the sheriff in?’’
    â€˜â€˜Sheriff Burke?’’
    Rossi felt he was showing considerable restraint by not asking if this county had more than one sheriff. ‘‘Yes, thanks. Sheriff Burke will be fine.’’
    The deputy signaled for them to pass through the gate and they did, and led them to a glass-enclosed office in the left-rear corner behind the bull pen area. He knocked and the sheriff—at his desk, on the phone—glanced up and waved him inside.
    Rossi took the liberty of following the deputy in, and so did Prentiss and Carlyle.
    The sheriff said, ‘‘There’s some folks here, Sam—I’ll talk at ya later.’’
    He cradled the phone and rose, a man about Rossi’s height and weight, and maybe five years younger. His hair was a short mop of curly brown and he was summer-tanned in November.
    The deputy said, ‘‘These folks are from the FBI.’’
    Unhesitatingly sticking out his hand, the sheriff said, ‘‘Ted Burke.’’
    â€˜â€˜Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi.’’ The profiler displayed his credentials with one hand and shook hands using the other, then introduced Prentiss and Carlyle, who also shook hands with the friendly, no-nonsense sheriff.
    â€˜â€˜Bring us in another chair, will you, son?’’
    â€˜â€˜Yes, sir,’’ the deputy said, and went out.
    The office wasn’t spacious but they weren’t particularly crowded, three visitors and the sheriff. A big blond desk dominated with an