A house near Dobbs had mysteriously caught fire Friday night. It had been on the market for over a year. A spontaneous electrical fire or an owner looking to get out from under a mortgage?
“My money’s on the owner,” said Dwight.
Bo handed him the fire chief’s report. “It seems to have started near the fuse box, so maybe the owner just got lucky.”
“Or maybe the owner knows enough about electricity to rig a hot wire,” Dwight said cynically.
A hit-and-run out at the soccer field Saturday morning had resulted in an arrest before sundown. They agreed that it was not a good idea to paint bright yellow flames on your equally bright red van if you’re going to use it like a tank. At least six witnesses had described it to the responding officers.
A home invasion Saturday night in a Hispanic neighborhood would probably bring an arrest once Mayleen Richards had a chance to interview the terrified older woman who had been knocked around and was still in the hospital.
Also in the hospital getting checked out for any immediate harm was a four-year-old boy who’d been found in a meth house their drug team had busted the night before. DHS was hoping there would be no permanent brain damage.
The rest were routine brawls and disorderly conduct in the county’s various clubs and bars.
“Let me know when Earp’s truck turns up,” Bo said.
Dexter Oil and Gas was located at the western edge of Cotton Grove, where Merchant Street petered out into industrial service yards. Cement blocks, rusty pipes, and piles of salvaged bricks were protected by chain-link fences overgrown with kudzu and honeysuckle. The smell of spent motor oil lingered on the warm humid air.
Earp’s co-workers had heard about his death and none of them seemed particularly saddened that he’d been murdered. Nor could they offer a lead on who might have hated or feared him enough to do it.
Mrs. Dexter, his white-haired no-nonsense boss, was no help either.
“He didn’t go out of his way to make friends,” she told the detectives who questioned her. “I don’t think he particularly liked it when I took over after my husband’s stroke, but this isn’t a touchy-feely place to work anyhow, and my employees don’t have to like me as long as they do the work they’re paid to do. I don’t keep a pot of coffee going here in the office, and I don’t encourage them to stand around and chitchat. My drivers get their route assignments every morning. They fill their trucks, they go out and deliver the fuel, and they hand in their invoices at the end of the day. Nine years Vick worked here and I couldn’t tell you if he took cream or sugar in his coffee or if he even drank coffee. He was a good worker, though, and I’m sorry to lose him. He was first out the door in the morning and usually finished thirty-five or forty minutes before the others.”
“He ever talk about his personal life?”
“Not to me he didn’t. But then I never asked,” she said briskly. “None of my business. Vick’s route was mostly residential and nobody’s ever complained about him running over their septic line or tearing up their yard. I can give you a list of them if you like.”
“Let’s wait and see if it’s needed,” said one of the detectives. Canvassing a long list of possible contacts was usually just busy work and not a fun way to spend a hot August day. No point giving the boss ideas, he decided.
Deputy Ray McLamb was having only marginally better luck with Vick Earp’s brother Tyler, who shared a rental house on Old 48 with two other guys. Two small brick houses were wedged in between a filling station and a tire repair shop. One of them had a FOR RENT sign in front and looked empty. The other house made it immediately obvious that Tyler Earp didn’t share his brother’s compulsion for order. No manicured lawn and pruned shrubbery here, just a fringe of weeds next to the foundation and around the edges of a dirt yard that served as
“My money’s on the owner,” said Dwight.
Bo handed him the fire chief’s report. “It seems to have started near the fuse box, so maybe the owner just got lucky.”
“Or maybe the owner knows enough about electricity to rig a hot wire,” Dwight said cynically.
A hit-and-run out at the soccer field Saturday morning had resulted in an arrest before sundown. They agreed that it was not a good idea to paint bright yellow flames on your equally bright red van if you’re going to use it like a tank. At least six witnesses had described it to the responding officers.
A home invasion Saturday night in a Hispanic neighborhood would probably bring an arrest once Mayleen Richards had a chance to interview the terrified older woman who had been knocked around and was still in the hospital.
Also in the hospital getting checked out for any immediate harm was a four-year-old boy who’d been found in a meth house their drug team had busted the night before. DHS was hoping there would be no permanent brain damage.
The rest were routine brawls and disorderly conduct in the county’s various clubs and bars.
“Let me know when Earp’s truck turns up,” Bo said.
Dexter Oil and Gas was located at the western edge of Cotton Grove, where Merchant Street petered out into industrial service yards. Cement blocks, rusty pipes, and piles of salvaged bricks were protected by chain-link fences overgrown with kudzu and honeysuckle. The smell of spent motor oil lingered on the warm humid air.
Earp’s co-workers had heard about his death and none of them seemed particularly saddened that he’d been murdered. Nor could they offer a lead on who might have hated or feared him enough to do it.
Mrs. Dexter, his white-haired no-nonsense boss, was no help either.
“He didn’t go out of his way to make friends,” she told the detectives who questioned her. “I don’t think he particularly liked it when I took over after my husband’s stroke, but this isn’t a touchy-feely place to work anyhow, and my employees don’t have to like me as long as they do the work they’re paid to do. I don’t keep a pot of coffee going here in the office, and I don’t encourage them to stand around and chitchat. My drivers get their route assignments every morning. They fill their trucks, they go out and deliver the fuel, and they hand in their invoices at the end of the day. Nine years Vick worked here and I couldn’t tell you if he took cream or sugar in his coffee or if he even drank coffee. He was a good worker, though, and I’m sorry to lose him. He was first out the door in the morning and usually finished thirty-five or forty minutes before the others.”
“He ever talk about his personal life?”
“Not to me he didn’t. But then I never asked,” she said briskly. “None of my business. Vick’s route was mostly residential and nobody’s ever complained about him running over their septic line or tearing up their yard. I can give you a list of them if you like.”
“Let’s wait and see if it’s needed,” said one of the detectives. Canvassing a long list of possible contacts was usually just busy work and not a fun way to spend a hot August day. No point giving the boss ideas, he decided.
Deputy Ray McLamb was having only marginally better luck with Vick Earp’s brother Tyler, who shared a rental house on Old 48 with two other guys. Two small brick houses were wedged in between a filling station and a tire repair shop. One of them had a FOR RENT sign in front and looked empty. The other house made it immediately obvious that Tyler Earp didn’t share his brother’s compulsion for order. No manicured lawn and pruned shrubbery here, just a fringe of weeds next to the foundation and around the edges of a dirt yard that served as
Similar Books
