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  The dirt track bent to the right directing him along the far side of the field, his home just visible across the way. He mopped his face again.

  That’s when he saw what appeared to be a pile of discarded clothing. A hundred feet away, near a stand of pines. Maybe left by some of those kids who seemed to gravitate to that spot near the tree line to smoke dope. Wouldn’t be the first time. He saw no one and no activity so he left the road and marched through the ankle-high grass to get a closer look.

  It wasn’t discarded clothing. Not even close.

  He recoiled. Stared. His stomach lurched as he fought the urge to vomit. He backpedaled a few steps, nearly stumbling over a wad of Johnson’s grass, then turned and rushed across the field toward his house, wobbling to his knees twice along the way.

  CHAPTER 9

  CHIEF BILLIE WARREN watched Nicole’s Mercedes and Pancake’s truck turn on the road back toward town. She scanned the area, the house, the blue Ram in the drive. She wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Nothing really pinged her radar. At least not loudly. Sure, the front door was ajar, and that was a bit odd, but otherwise all seemed normal. Getting all amped up didn’t seem the right response. Had there been something out of place, a broken window or damaged door jamb, or, God forbid, blood, she’d for sure have a different sense of things. But the fact was that nothing clanged the alarm bells.

  Warren told Burton Moody that she had to see the mayor for a minute and then get to the paperwork on her desk. She tasked him with tracking down Emily and Jason, saying maybe go chat with Jason’s boss and any of their friends he could locate.

  She had just gotten settled in her office after a brief visit with the mayor, budget crap, when she got the call. Carl Fletcher barely managed to gasp out something about finding two bodies. Before she could even slide her service weapon back into its holster, she connected the dots. Two bodies, Emily Patterson and Jason Collins missing, Emily’s place not far from Carl’s.

  Please don’t let that be true. Let it be one of those coincidences she didn’t believe in.

  She found Carl sitting on the gallery that stretched across his white clapboard farmhouse. On the steps, a half-filled glass of iced tea sweating next to him. He looked up, face pale and drawn. She climbed out of her SUV. Lila, his wife, came through the screen door.

  “You okay?” Warren asked Carl.

  “No. He ain’t,” Lila said. “He just threw up his lunch. I made him some sweet tea—” she nodded toward the glass—“but it hasn’t done much good.”

  Carl looked up. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look fine.

  “Tell me about it,” Warren said.

  He took a sip of tea, but seemed to have difficulty swallowing it. “I was up walking the plots. We’ll be planting next week and I wanted to make sure we were all set. Across the way I saw what I thought was a pile of clothes. Thinking it might be something those kids left behind.”

  Warren had been out here a couple of times in the past year to shoo away a group of teens who liked the seclusion to smoke marijuana, use meth, have sex, whatever they did. Last time was four months ago. She had impressed on them, clearly and forcefully, that one more incident like that and she’d lock them up for drug possession and trespassing. Clear?

  She knew from looking at Carl that this had nothing to do with kids. He confirmed it.

  “What I saw, I don’t ever want to see again.”

  “Let’s head over there and you can show me what you found,” Warren said.

  Carl stood; his legs unsteady. He grabbed the galley’s support column for balance.

  “Tell you what,” Warren said. “You stay here. I think I can find them on my own.”

  Carl didn’t argue. After telling her where to look, he made his way to the porch glider and sat down heavily. Lila sat next to him, clasping his hands in hers.

  Warren eased her SUV forward and continued along the dirt road that lapped the freshly plowed fields, slowing when she reached the far side. She let the vehicle lope forward while she scoured the grassy strip between the road and a stand of pines. A flash of yellow caught her eye. She jerked to a stop and climbed out, tugging on a pair of latex gloves. She approached the bodies. Male, female, facedown, side by side. Entry wounds in the back of each head. She knelt and carefully rolled the female corpse over, rigor resisting her.

  Emily Patterson’s exit wound had blown out the right side of her forehead. A hank of her hair, stiffened with dried blood, angled out oddly. Warren’s stomach knotted. Jason Collins’ exit wound had taken out his left eye. Only a ragged, gaping hole remained. Blood and brain matter matted the nearby grass above their heads and shoulders. Now dried and brownish in color.

  She stood, circled the bodies, scanned the area. Didn’t take a lot of investigative skills or years of experience to know what had happened.

  This had been an execution. Pure and simple.

  She peeled off her gloves, tugged out her phone, and made two calls. The first to Burton Moody, telling him to call off his search for Emily and Jason and get his butt out to Carl Fletcher’s place; the second to Baldwin County Coroner Melissa Goddard over in nearby Robertsdale.

  She retreated to the shade of her SUV, where she sat, gripping the steering wheel and trying to make sense of this. Who would do this? Why?

  Took twenty minutes for Moody to arrive and another fifteen for two coroner’s techs to show up. Warren turned the scene over to them and drove toward town.

  CHAPTER 10

  AFTER WE LEFT Chief Warren and Officer Moody at Emily’s, we followed Pancake back into Fairhope. Found a pair of parking slots just off Section Street. He led the way, saying we were headed to Mullins Bakery. I thought he was hungry, but he actually wanted to introduce us to the owner, Allison. Said that Emily worked there and that she and Allison were best friends.

  The bakery was small, neat, and filled with the aroma of butter and sugar. Made me hungry. After introductions, Allison said she still hadn’t heard from Emily. She had called several more times; each diverted to voicemail.

  “I drove the neighborhood, but saw no sign of her,” Pancake said. “Of course, I don’t know her usual haunts or friends. That would be the next step. Chief Warren and an Officer Moody came out. They’re on it now, too.”

  “Makes no sense,” Allison said. “Emily’s never out of touch like this.”

  “Is it possible she and Jason headed down to the the shore for a day at the beach?” Pancake asked. “Or off to some friend’s place?”

  Allison gave an emphatic headshake. “Not without calling.” She wadded the small towel she held, knuckles whitening. “I’m worried something’s happened.”

  Me, too. I didn’t know the current version of Emily, not having seen her since we were twelve, but I can sense tension. In Allison, and in Warren and Moody. Pancake, definitely. Something wasn’t right. The question was what.

  Had the couple simply driven somewhere to visit friends? Maybe for something as bland as lunch? There were several small towns within a thirty-minute radius and each had its share of restaurants and bars. Good food, flowing conversion, and time becomes a lost commodity. Appointments forgotten. It happens.

  Would she do that without calling Allison? According to what Allison said, and the conviction with which she said it, I believed that would be out of character. An unscripted road trip for two lovers? Day at the beach? That didn’t seem likely either with both cars left behind.

  Which brought up darker possibilities. A kidnapping? Who, and to what end? A passion murder and Jason now on the run? No evidence of that at the house. Jason’s truck still in Emily’s drive. That was the joker in the deck. Both cars there but no Emily or Jason.

  “Any problems between her and Jason?” I asked.

  “No,” Allison said. “And I’d know. Emily’s a very open person. With me, anyway.”

  “Anyone else in her life?” Pancake asked. “Other than Jason and her husband?”

  Allison nodded. �
�She’s seeing another guy. Charlie Martin.”

  “What’s his story?” I asked.

  “Nice enough.” Allison massaged one temple. “I know this all looks bad. Like Emily is some tramp or something. But that’s simply not true. She and Sean are separated. Heading for a divorce. Why wouldn’t she see other guys?”

  “No judgement here,” Nicole said. “We understand. What about Jason and this Charlie guy? Any trouble between them?”

  “Emily sees Jason mostly. I think they have a real connection. She only sees Charlie rarely.”

  “How does he feel about that?” Pancake asked.

  “Not happy, from what she told me. Wanted something more serious was her take. But she said she made it very clear that she wasn’t looking for that.” She shrugged. “With him, anyway.”

  “Do you know where we could find Charlie?” Pancake asked.

  “He works over at the garden center. Copeland’s Nursery.” She gave a half headshake. “If you’re thinking something bad has happened and that maybe Charlie is involved, I’d find that hard to believe. He’s quiet, even shy. If you talk to him, you’ll see.”

  “We probably will,” Pancake said. “After we grab something to eat.”

  “Pancake doesn’t miss many meals,” I said.

  Allison smiled. First time I’d seen that. It was a bit strained but a smile nonetheless.

  “Look,” I said, “we’re creating all kinds of unpleasant scenarios, and there’s no evidence of anything like that. I don’t know why Emily’s out of pocket, but I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation.”

  “You’re probably right,” Allison said.

  Nicole jumped in. “We do investigations so we always assume the worst.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Maybe this is all an overreaction.”

  Allison put on a confident face, another thin smile, but she didn’t appear convinced to me. Since she knew Emily better than anyone, my own unease didn’t diminish an ounce.

  “It’s probably exactly that,” I said.

  Pancake redirected the discussion back toward lunch options. Allison recommended a café just down the street. Stella’s Bistro. We headed that way. Of course, since it was an entire half a block away, Pancake bought a triple chocolate cupcake to tide him over during the journey.

  Stella’s turned out be pleasant. Soft music, white tablecloths, a single red rose in a white ceramic vase centering each table. The food flawless. I think Pancake ate half the menu. Plus, two desserts—key lime pie, followed by pecan pie with vanilla ice cream.

  Our plan was to drop back by the bakery, see if there was any news, and, if not, head over to chat with Charlie Martin. That all changed when we walked through the bakery door.

  Chief Billie Warren stood at the counter, facing Allison, whose face blared red, as were her eyes, tear tracks glistening her cheeks. Warren apparently heard us and turned our way. Her grim expression stopped us in our tracks.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “We found Emily and Jason,” Warren said. “Murdered.”

  Nicole released an audible moan. Pancake a grunt.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Warren took a couple of steps toward us. “Shot. Both of them.”

  “Where?” Pancake asked.

  “Out on Carl Fletcher’s farm. Lives about a mile on down the road from Emily’s place.”

  I looked at Allison. “I’m so sorry.”

  She broke. Turned and scurried through a door toward the kitchen. Nicole followed.

  “Any idea who?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Her husband’s still out on an oil platform, right?”

  “He is. Got a call in to him. Communication out there isn’t the best.” She sighed. “Speaking of which, I now get the pleasure of calling her brother and breaking this to him.”

  Daniel Rhodes. Emily’s younger brother. By four years. I remembered him mostly as a pain in the ass. Smart, mischievous, but mostly annoying. But, to be fair, we were twelve, him eight. Little brothers were always a pain.

  “Daniel,” I said.

  “You know him?” Warren asked.

  “Not since we were kids. He was four years younger. Sort of a brat.”

  “Not anymore, he isn’t.”

  “He live nearby?” Pancake asked.

  “He’s on deployment, the last I heard. He’s a Marine.”

  So, little snot-nosed Danny made it all the way to the U.S. Marine Corps. Never saw that coming. I remembered the last time I saw him. The party Ray and my mom threw for Emily’s going away. When her family left Gulf Shores for Fairhope the summer after sixth grade. Scrawny, hair flopped over one eye, that goofy grin he always had.

  “A Marine?” Pancake said. “Can’t say I would’ve predicted that.”

  “He’s a bit of a local hero,” Warren said.

  Pancake hurt. I could see it in his face. Feel it radiating from his body. Emily dead. Murdered. A lot to grasp. When he spoke, his voice came out thin, weak. Not Pancake at all.

  “You’ve got no idea who could’ve done this?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Two young people? Good people? Makes no sense. None at all.”

  “You know about Charlie Martin?” I asked.

  She gave me a look. “What about him?”

  “Allison said Emily was seeing him, too. Said he was somewhat infatuated with her and wasn’t thrilled about her relationship with Jason.”

  She nodded, one eyebrow elevated. “I suspect I’d better have a chat with him.”

  “That’s where we were headed,” Pancake said.

  “Why?”

  “To see what his story is.”

  Warren’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to dig up divorce dirt. I’d say that’s off the table now. This is now a double homicide. That’s on my table.”

  “Maybe we can help,” I said.

  “Maybe not. Seems to me your work here’s done.” She looked at me, Pancake, back to me. “Am I clear?” She squared her shoulders, pushed past us, and marched out the door.

  Guess that settled that.

  I could hear Allison’s moans and sobs from the back room. My instinct was to go check on her, but decided Nicole could handle it better.

  Pancake called Ray, placing it on speaker. Told him the story. After listening, Ray came down on Warren’s side. We no longer had a client so best not to meddle in an investigation.

  Pancake argued, saying, “Come on. It’s Emily. We need to do something.”

  “What we need to do,” Ray said, “is back away. Let the locals handle this.”

  “Don’t seem right,” Pancake said.

  “I understand. We’ll watch it from afar. If something comes up and we need to step in, we will. But right now, it’s best to not stir the waters.” Ray sighed. “I’ll give Walter a call.”

  Nicole and I almost made it back to Gulf Shores before the circle of life, or in this case death, completed its turn, proving the old cliché that bad news travels fast. This is particularly true in Tammy’s domain. It took a mere thirty minutes for Ray’s call to Walter to be passed on to Tammy and for her to call me. Did she have my number on speed dial?

  “What is it now?” I asked.

  “I knew you’d screw this up,” she said.

  “Screw what up?”

  “Everything. But this time it’s Walter’s case.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Walter’s divorce case.”

  Tammy’s logic always baffled me, but this was one of her best ever. “Tammy, Emily was murdered.”

  “See? That’s what I mean. Every time you get involved in something, this is what happens.”

  “Someone gets killed?”

  “No, not that. It’s just that it messes up my life.”

  “I don’t see how any of this affects you. You weren’t the victim.”

  “I am, too. Walter’s upset. And that makes me upset.”

  “A young woman was ki
lled. Someone we knew from grammar school. So, you’ll have to excuse my lack of interest in your problems.”

  “See? That’s why we got divorced.” She disconnected the call. Welcome to Tammy’s world.

  “And here I thought your divorce was due to your escapades and not your lack of interest in her problems.”

  I glanced at her. Her grin brighter than the sun.

  “Tammy’s problems, both real and imagined, aren’t of this world. I have rarely been able to find any rational thought in that tangle of linguini she calls a brain.”

  “I have to agree; this one is a little convoluted.”

  “A little? To answer your question though, I didn’t run around. I ran away. You can only stand close to that level of insanity for so long before your own synapses begin to fray and sputter.”

  She reached over and mussed my hair. “Hold on, cowboy. When we get home, I’m going to sputter a few of your synapses.”

  I smiled. “Drive faster.”

  She did.

  CHAPTER 11

  WARREN SAT IN her office. It was just after 9:00 p.m. She had earlier contacted Sean Patterson’s boss, told him of the murder, no details, of course. He said he’d arrange to get Sean back onshore as soon as he could. No easy task. Not like they had hourly shuttles out there. Finally, he called back. Supply copter was headed back, and he’d put Sean onboard.

  Once onshore, Sean called and said he’d head straight to Warren’s office. Probably be there by nine.

  Warren tried to clean some of the paperwork off her desk but couldn’t stay with it. Images of Emily Patterson and Jason Collins kept intruding. She had done some of her training and worked a couple of years in Birmingham. Not exactly Atlanta, or New York, or Chicago, but still she’d seen some dreadful stuff. Even as disturbing as this. But that was in the big city. Where bad things happened. Where drugs and gangs were part of the subculture. Where the victims were almost universally anonymous. Names, case numbers, autopsy reports. Still tragic, still with family and community ripples, but with a certain degree of buffering.