Hot on the Trail. Vicki Tharp

reaction she was correct.

      “Yes. I wasn’t his insurance agent, I was his…”

      Seconds ticked off one after the other. Quinn made a come on rolling motion with his hand even though Holleran couldn’t see. When she’d counted to ten, she softly said, “You were his what, Mr. Holleran.”

      “I—damn,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he was talking to her when he’d said it. “I guess it doesn’t matter now… I was his AA sponsor.”

      Jenna’s field of vision started to spot, her lungs burned, and she released her held breath.

      “The accident…he wasn’t drinking, was he?” Holleran asked.

      “The test results haven’t come back yet.” The truth. “Do you have reason to believe he might have been? Did he do something, say something, at the meeting on Friday night that would make you think that?”

      “I don’t know. He didn’t show for the meeting.”

      “No, that’s not right, he told me he was go—”

      “I’m sure he went to a meeting, Mrs. Kordell. There are a number of locations and times in the area. Look, ma’am. I have to go. He seemed like a good guy. Outgoing. Everybody liked him. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

      “Tha—”

      The line went dead.

      Quinn pulled his hand free of her grip and grimaced as he worked the circulation back into his fingers. “He was in a hurry.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Sitting in the car outside the diner in the little town of Elk Creek, Quinn reached down and fiddled with the stick shift with the eight-ball topper Kurt had installed in the ’Stang for good luck.

      Fat-fucking lotta good that had done him.

      He glanced over at Jenna. Her focus was out the front of the bug-stained windshield. She raised a half-hearted hand and waved to someone Quinn didn’t recognize as they came out of the diner.

      “I wonder why he never made it to his meeting,” Jenna said.

      “I wonder why this Holleran dude thought Kurt was outgoing. Stubborn, reserved, amateur asshole—those I’d expect. ‘Outgoing’? Wouldn’t make the top-one-hundred list.”

      “New town, new life. Maybe he was trying something different.”

      “Doubt it.” In the rearview mirror, the sheriff’s truck passed by. Quinn started the engine, the growl settling into his chest as he shifted into Reverse. “At least not with Kurt. He never seemed too bothered by the old Kurt to think he needed to reinvent the Kurt wheel.”

      Quinn pulled out of the parking lot, following in the direction the sheriff had taken.

      “Where we going?”

      “Find out if the sheriff has any news.”

      “Investigations take time.”

      “I’m impatient.”

      A couple of blocks later, Quinn turned into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. The building hadn’t been there the last time he’d roared through town.

      The office was located in a one-story building. Government-issued brick, created by a government-issued architect, who couldn’t design his way out of a box. Literally. Perfect square. Quinn gave the guy points for dimensional accuracy.

      The inside of the building had the same dramatic flair as the outside—slate-gray industrial-grade linoleum, flat-white walls, and humming fluorescent lights.

      No one manned the reception desk. Quinn and Jenna stood and waited. And waited. And waited. From somewhere in the back, they heard voices.

      Quinn started down the hall.

      “Where are you going?” Jenna said in a loud whisper.

      Stepping back beside her, he leaned in and said, “Why are you whispering?”

      “I—” Jenna brought her voice back to normal. “I don’t know. But you can’t go back there.”

      Holding his hands up by his head, he walked down the hall backward. “I’ll put my hands up. Maybe Barney won’t shoot.”

      He turned around, dropped his hands, and continued down the hall. Jenna rushed to catch up. “Wait for me.”

      She caught up as they passed the first empty office, the door partway open, the voices getting louder the farther they went. The hallway opened into a large central room with a podium and several rows of hard, uncomfortable-looking chairs. Other offices and the break room spoked off on all sides.

      The corner office opposite the break room had a large window overlooking the central area, its mini-blinds down but open. A placard by the door was labeled Sheriff St. John.

      A woman in full uniform—Kevlar vest, gun on one hip, Taser on the other—came out of the break room, where everyone had congregated. “Can I help you?”

      Quinn pointed to the sheriff sitting behind his desk with the phone resting on his shoulder. The sheriff was typing something into a computer. “He’s expecting us.”

      The deputy bumped her chin up in a go-ahead motion, and Jenna pinched him on his side.

      “Ow, what was that for?”

      “For lying. You’re going to get us both arrested.”

      Quinn laughed. By the way her cheeks flushed, she’d only been half-kidding.

      “They have better things to do,” he said with a tilt of his head toward the break room, where the deputies were busy butchering a sheet cake.

      They walked into St. John’s office, the sheriff too focused on his phone conversation and the computer monitor to bother looking up. He did raise an index finger to them, in a wait-a-minute gesture, so at least he was aware they were in the room.

      Beside him, Jenna let out a noise somewhere between mouse squeak and injured bird. She took a step back. Quinn grabbed her wrist before she had the chance to raise the white flag and go into full retreat.

      He turned to her and mouthed the word, “What?”

      With her free hand, she pointed to a file on the desk. Several pictures lay on top of the open file. A slow burn of adrenaline seeped into his system, the heat rising along his spine like the thin, smoky tendrils of burning tinder.

      He eased over to the desk, she grabbed the back of his T-shirt, and he lightly batted it away.

      St. John gave him a fleeting glance, but Quinn didn’t think the sheriff’s brain registered that Quinn had just seen potentially confidential information. With a hand on the corner of the file, Quinn eased it toward him. Case photos. A syringe and a charred, bent spoon. A dead man.

      A dead Kurt.

      Quinn’s chest caved, and he closed his eyes and searched for his detachment, his focus, his inner strength…almost…almost… He took a deep breath and held on tight—got it.

      When he reopened his eyes, he picked up one of the photos and placed his thumb over Kurt’s head. Which helped a bit with the whole pretending-he-didn’t-know-the-guy thing.

      In the photo, Kurt lay facedown on the ground. The hay barn with the strip of siding missing in the background. Jeans, running shoes, plaid flannel shirt, the left sleeve rolled up to the elbow. No blood, no guts. If Quinn didn’t know better, he’d have thought Kurt was just sleeping one off.

      St. John dropped the receiver back onto the base of the phone, snatched the photos from Quinn’s hand, piled up the pictures, and flipped the file closed.

      The sheriff sat back, laced his fingers over his abdomen. “Need something?”

      “Hello, Sheriff,” Jenna said.