parish.”
“I want to review your file on Officer Clark’s murder. They happened the same night, and I can’t help but think there may be a connection.”
“You’re welcome to the information, Luke, but we worked that angle hard and came up empty.”
Luke laced his fingers. “I respect that. As one of your former deputies, I know how thorough this department is. But to do this right, I’ve got to consider everything.”
The sheriff stood. “I’ll get you set up.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Take all the notes you’d like, make copies, but the originals don’t leave the building.”
Two hours later, Luke stretched, then leaned back in his chair. The STPSD had done a thorough job. Every “t” crossed and “i” dotted. They’d reopened it twice over the years, both after local drug busts.
Neither had gone anywhere.
It’d been an ambush killing, cut and dried. Officer Clark had approached the parked vehicle, the driver had lowered the window and shot him. Twice.
Clark hadn’t gone for his weapon. It had been securely tucked in its holster. The murder had occurred in the early morning hours, yet Clark’s flashlight had been affixed to his utility belt.
What did it mean? That Clark hadn’t felt threatened? Maybe he had recognized the vehicle and its driver? Or simply a reflection of small-town, sloppy policework?
Luke frowned. He leaned toward the latter, though the sheriff’s investigators had gone the other way. In truth, it was probably a combination of both. A big-city cop would approach his mother fully loaded.
Luke returned his attention to the case notes. Cruiser lights and searchlight had been on, the vehicle left running. He’d called in, before the stop. Given a description of the vehicle. All by the book.
The description. He flipped through the report. Ford Taurus. Silver blue. No plates. Nothing for deputies to go on.
Generic. A million of them on the road. But no plates? Small-town cop or not, that would’ve sounded alarm bells for Clark.
A vehicle at the side of the road, no plates. That’s what he called in. Stopping to investigate.
He would have had his flashlight in hand, for a view of the car’s dark interior. His other hand would have hovered on his weapon.
Luke thrummed his fingers on the desktop. How did you recognize a generic vehicle, in the dead of night, without plates? How could Clark have recognized the driver, coming up, as he had been, from the rear?
No wonder the STPSD investigators had gone for the sloppy-policework theory. Luke narrowed his eyes. But he knew his dad. That didn’t add up for him. Small-town familiarity, a family atmosphere, sure. But they’d been trained to be cautious. To cover their asses.
Could Clark have forgotten all that? A cop twelve years on the force?
Something didn’t add up. Not for him. He meant to find out what.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, June 5
Noon
When Kat arrived at Cafe Toile, Bitsy was already there. She saw Kat and waved.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kat said when she reached the table. “I thought I remembered how long it would take to get here, but boy was I wrong.” She slid into the booth. “When did traffic in Mandeville become such a nightmare?”
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Bitsy smoothed her napkin across her lap. “I blame all the strip malls.”
Kat glanced around. The restaurant hadn’t changed: booths covered in French toile, the same map-of-Paris wallpaper and black-and-white tile floor. The menu appeared the same as well, fresh salads and imaginative sandwiches, all with a French twist.
“Sara loved this place,” she said softly. “I swear, she used to drag me here almost weekly.”
“I’d forgotten,” Bitsy said. “I should have picked somewhere else.”
She shook her head. “No, this is fine.”
“Do you mind if we order right away?” Bitsy asked, squeezing lemon into her iced tea. “I’ve got a two o’clock. Sorry.”
“No apologies. That’s perfect.”
Bitsy
“I want to review your file on Officer Clark’s murder. They happened the same night, and I can’t help but think there may be a connection.”
“You’re welcome to the information, Luke, but we worked that angle hard and came up empty.”
Luke laced his fingers. “I respect that. As one of your former deputies, I know how thorough this department is. But to do this right, I’ve got to consider everything.”
The sheriff stood. “I’ll get you set up.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Take all the notes you’d like, make copies, but the originals don’t leave the building.”
Two hours later, Luke stretched, then leaned back in his chair. The STPSD had done a thorough job. Every “t” crossed and “i” dotted. They’d reopened it twice over the years, both after local drug busts.
Neither had gone anywhere.
It’d been an ambush killing, cut and dried. Officer Clark had approached the parked vehicle, the driver had lowered the window and shot him. Twice.
Clark hadn’t gone for his weapon. It had been securely tucked in its holster. The murder had occurred in the early morning hours, yet Clark’s flashlight had been affixed to his utility belt.
What did it mean? That Clark hadn’t felt threatened? Maybe he had recognized the vehicle and its driver? Or simply a reflection of small-town, sloppy policework?
Luke frowned. He leaned toward the latter, though the sheriff’s investigators had gone the other way. In truth, it was probably a combination of both. A big-city cop would approach his mother fully loaded.
Luke returned his attention to the case notes. Cruiser lights and searchlight had been on, the vehicle left running. He’d called in, before the stop. Given a description of the vehicle. All by the book.
The description. He flipped through the report. Ford Taurus. Silver blue. No plates. Nothing for deputies to go on.
Generic. A million of them on the road. But no plates? Small-town cop or not, that would’ve sounded alarm bells for Clark.
A vehicle at the side of the road, no plates. That’s what he called in. Stopping to investigate.
He would have had his flashlight in hand, for a view of the car’s dark interior. His other hand would have hovered on his weapon.
Luke thrummed his fingers on the desktop. How did you recognize a generic vehicle, in the dead of night, without plates? How could Clark have recognized the driver, coming up, as he had been, from the rear?
No wonder the STPSD investigators had gone for the sloppy-policework theory. Luke narrowed his eyes. But he knew his dad. That didn’t add up for him. Small-town familiarity, a family atmosphere, sure. But they’d been trained to be cautious. To cover their asses.
Could Clark have forgotten all that? A cop twelve years on the force?
Something didn’t add up. Not for him. He meant to find out what.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, June 5
Noon
When Kat arrived at Cafe Toile, Bitsy was already there. She saw Kat and waved.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kat said when she reached the table. “I thought I remembered how long it would take to get here, but boy was I wrong.” She slid into the booth. “When did traffic in Mandeville become such a nightmare?”
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Bitsy smoothed her napkin across her lap. “I blame all the strip malls.”
Kat glanced around. The restaurant hadn’t changed: booths covered in French toile, the same map-of-Paris wallpaper and black-and-white tile floor. The menu appeared the same as well, fresh salads and imaginative sandwiches, all with a French twist.
“Sara loved this place,” she said softly. “I swear, she used to drag me here almost weekly.”
“I’d forgotten,” Bitsy said. “I should have picked somewhere else.”
She shook her head. “No, this is fine.”
“Do you mind if we order right away?” Bitsy asked, squeezing lemon into her iced tea. “I’ve got a two o’clock. Sorry.”
“No apologies. That’s perfect.”
Bitsy
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