“My mother sends him cards and cookies from time to time,” she continued. “She even wants me to take her to the Jackson County Correctional Institute to see him, but I’m not ready for that.” Trish stopped and looked across the table. “Holt, you’ve barely touched your sandwich. Were you serious about liking the same sub as me?”

  “Yeah, absolutely. I’m just really sorry about what happened to your family.”

  “Thanks. I know you can relate to this better than most people.”

  “Why?” Holt asked, startled.

  “Because you see DUI cases with injuries in court all the time.”

  “Oh.” Holt nodded.

  “For a long time seeing my mother in a wheelchair was like a daily slap in the face that kept the wound fresh. And missing my father will never go away.” Trish paused. “I know this may be more than you want to hear, but our faith has kept both my mother and me from collapsing into a puddle of sorrow.”

  “I respect that,” Holt said thoughtfully. “DUI cases are always tough for me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Something bad can happen in a split second for a teenager when alcohol is involved. Most of the underage defendants caught drinking and driving are like the boy who killed your father. They’re sorry for what they did. Fortunately, only a few of the resulting accidents end in death.”

  “One is too many,” Trish said flatly.

  “Of course,” Holt replied quickly.

  “Yeah, it’s hard for someone who hasn’t experienced it to understand.”

  And in that instant Holt was transported in his mind’s eye back to the hospital room and the moment when Officer Merriwether told him Calico was dead. The emotions he’d felt that night were fresher than the bread of his sandwich. A tear fiercely fought its way to the corner of his right eye. He wiped it away with his napkin.

  “What’s wrong?” Trish asked.

  “I was thinking about someone I lost because of drinking and driving when I was in high school. He was a friend, not a family member, but I’ve pushed it down so deep that I rarely think about it. Listening to you made it pop up. We were—” Holt stopped as another tear appeared.

  “If you ever need someone to talk to about it,” Trish said as she reached across the table and lightly touched his arm for a second, “I’d try to be a good listener.”

  “No.” Holt shook his head. “I can’t talk about this with anyone.”

  A thick pall hung over the table as they finished eating. Once toasted and warm, Holt’s sandwich was now cold. While he nibbled his food, Holt thought about Calico’s funeral, the sight of his friend’s mother sobbing at the graveside, the monosyllabic responses he gave to questions from classmates, and the relief he felt when he left his high school for the last time.

  “Do you still want to talk to me about Mr. Meredith?” Trish asked after several moments of silence passed.

  “Uh, yeah.” Holt shook his head to clear his mind. “My friend’s death coming up caught me off guard. It still hurts.”

  “I had an emotional moment about my dad this week. I’m not trying to be pushy, but it really can be good to talk with someone about how you feel.”

  Trish waited.

  “I don’t know about that,” Holt replied. “But the reason I wanted to get together had to do with Rex Meredith.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, our conversation needs to be totally off the record. I don’t want either one of us to get into trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Trish gave Holt a concerned look. “It’s one thing to let you copy a file, but I don’t want to do anything that might get me fired.”

  “And I wouldn’t ask you to do anything wrong. But I can’t reopen the case through normal channels. To me, it looks like a rush job. They shut down the investigation before it got started.”

  “Who?”

  “Ralph Granger, Butch Clovis, and I’m not sure who else. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  Trish felt goose bumps come up on her arms. “I’m a deputy, not a detective.”

  “True, but you wear a uniform, and I don’t. There are people who will respect your badge more than they do my title. Also, I’d like to have someone inside the sheriff’s department who can let me know if anyone finds out what I’m doing.”

  “I’m not in any of the meetings with the detectives.”

  “But what goes on behind closed doors one day becomes a topic of general conversation around the office by the next day. Don’t you sit near Sheriff Blackstone’s secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “And hear what she’s saying?”

  “I try not to pay attention. I have work to do myself.”

  “All I’m asking you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. There’s one thing I’d like to know as soon as possible.”

  “What?”

  “The connection, if any, between Butch Clovis and Greg Stevens.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stevens came to my church the other night. They’re going to make a $500,000 gift to our building fund. It would be horrible if he got control of all that money by—” Trish stopped.

  “So you’ll help me?”

  Holt waited while Trish fidgeted for a few moments.

  “Yes, but I’m trusting you not to let me do anything that’s wrong or that will get me in trouble.”

  “I promise.”

  They left the sandwich stop together. Trish got into an unmarked car and drove away. Holt’s vehicle was parked around the corner.

  The conversation with Trish Carmichael was the first time in years that he’d mentioned Calico’s death. Angelina knew nothing about it. His parents believed the story he told at the time of the accident.

  Holt didn’t agree with Trish about letting things out. He’d seen what happened in court to defendants who did exactly that. He’d buried his lie with Calico, and that was where it needed to stay. The best thing Holt could do was honor his friend’s memory. Unlocking his car, he resolved never to discuss Calico’s death again. With anyone.

  Trish couldn’t get the look on Holt’s face out of her mind. Whatever lay in his past remained tender to the slightest touch. He must have been very close to his friend. Trish had seen Holt’s confidence in the courtroom and his compassion for downtrodden people like Amanda Callaway. But there was more to him than that.

  Her empathy and focus on Holt had kept her own emotions in check. But as she drove back to the sheriff’s office, she shed a few tears. She stayed in her car until she regained her composure. Sitting at her desk, she picked up the phone and called Belinda at home.

  “It’s Trish Carmichael. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, any excuse to take a break from cleaning the bathtub is welcome. What’s up?”

  “I’m still at work and just got back from supper with Holt Douglas at the sub shop on Eastway Drive.”

  “He asked you out on a date while you were working your shift?”

  “Not exactly.” Trish remembered her promise of confidentiality. “It was business related. But something personal came up in the conversation. Do you know where he went to high school?”

  “In the Atlanta area. Did he say you reminded him of one of his old girlfriends? I’m sure he had them lined up in front of his locker.”

  “No, it was something else.” Trish paused. “I don’t think I should mention it.”

  “That’s not fair. You can’t pump me for information and not reciprocate.”

  “Please—”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sure it’s in his personnel file at the office. I’ll check tomorrow and shoot you an e-mail.”

  “Would you mind calling me?”

  “Right. Ralph Granger and Sheriff Blackstone don’t need to know what we’re up to.”

  In more ways than one, Trish thought as she hung up the phone.

  15

  Even though she didn’t get home until after eleven, Trish had to report to the sheriff’s department the following morning at 7:00 a.m. for first shift. Fortunately, the quick changeover without a day off happened only four times a year. She was on her second large glass of orange juice when Butch Clovis walked past her desk.

  “Detective Clovis!” she called out.

  The detective stopped and turned toward her. “What is it, Carmichael?”

  “Good morning.”

  “I don’t know about that yet. What’s on your mind?”

  The detective stared down at Trish, making her feel that his question was unnecessary because he could already read her thoughts.

  “Uh, do you know Greg Stevens?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Do you think he might be interested in making a contribution to the fund-raiser for at-risk kids that the Department of Family and Children’s Services is sponsoring next month? I volunteered to be the contact person for them at the sheriff’s office.”

  Clovis’s face softened. “Mr. Stevens gets hit up for money all the time, but I’m sure he’d do something. Do you want me to ask him for you?”

  “That would be great. I’ll e-mail the information to you.”

  “No problem. I see him almost every week.”

  “Wow, that would be awesome. Thanks.”

  After Clovis moved on, Trish immediately sent him an e-mail with details about the fund-raiser, but her mind was churning about the detective’s close relationship with Greg and Valerie Stevens. Trish felt a rush of adrenaline.

  Shortly before noon, Belinda called her.

  “I have the name of his high school,” she said.

  Trish wrote down the information. “Got it.”

  “He was an honor graduate,” Belinda continued, “which I think means he was in the top ten percent of his class. Does he know you were co-valedictorian of your class?”

  “No, we’ve not shared copies of our transcripts, but you can’t compare Paxton High with a big school in north Atlanta. There were four of us with the same GPA, and the teachers picked Josh Burdick, not me, to deliver the valedictorian address. I bet Holt’s graduating class was three times the size of mine.”

  “You would have done well anyplace you went.” Belinda lowered her voice. “Are you going to give me a hint why you wanted to know about his high school? You could have found out what I’ve told you in the database at the sheriff’s office.”

  “We’re not supposed to use that for personal use.”

  “And you’re one of the few honest people who always obey the rules. You’re also good at dodging questions.”

  “I really can’t say right now—”

  “Just don’t make me find out you’re dating him from someone else. You’re way more his type than the girl who runs the salon. I deserve firsthand knowledge.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks.”

  Trish waited until her lunch break, then drove home to log on to her personal computer. Her mother was napping in a recliner in the living room when Trish barged through the door.

  “Sorry,” Trish said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be in my room on the computer.”

  “Aren’t you working today?” Marge asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “Yes, I have to go back in half an hour.”

  Time flew as Trish tried to uncover details about Holt’s high school years. While the search engine scanned the Web for information, she grabbed bites of a chicken-salad sandwich she’d taken to work from home and brought back with her. A breakthrough came when she identified the neighborhood paper that covered sports for Holt’s school. He played lacrosse, a sport barely heard of in Ashley County, and was a member of the basketball team. Trish focused on his basketball career. From the box scores for the games, she noted that he logged a respectable number of minutes as a forward and led the team in steals. Trish smiled. Now Holt put people in jail for stealing.

  Trish grabbed a late-afternoon nap when she got home from work. Waking up an hour later, she saw that she’d missed a call from Keith, but he hadn’t left a message. Rubbing her eyes to knock out the sleepiness, she went into the kitchen. Her mother was cutting up a tomato.

  “Agnes brought by a few tomatoes they grew in their greenhouse,” Marge said. “She doesn’t think they have as much flavor as the ones from a regular garden, but I’ve been craving a fresh tomato sandwich.”

  “I’ll have one, too.” Trish yawned.

  “Aren’t you going out to dinner with Keith?”

  “I’m supposed to, but he’s out of town and may not be able to make it back.” Trish took a loaf of bread from the cupboard. There was a saltshaker and a jar of mayonnaise already on the table.

  “And a tomato sandwich won’t ruin my appetite,” she said.

  The wreck hadn’t diminished Marge’s hand dexterity. The tomato slices she cut with a sharp paring knife were clean and uniform. She assembled a sandwich for Trish and herself. Trish sat down at the table and took a bite.

  “This is good,” she said.

  “Yes.” Marge nodded as she chewed.

  Trish was hungry. She quickly ate the sandwich and then made another.

  “This is better than some steaks I’ve eaten,” she said as she bit into the juicy slices of tomato. “It doesn’t need much salt.”

  She took a huge bite to finish the second sandwich. As soon as she did, her cell phone buzzed. It was Keith.

  “Hello,” she said as chunky pieces of bread and tomato clung to her teeth.

  “Trish?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Trish tried to chew and roll her tongue around the inside of her mouth to clean it.

  “Are you okay? You sound stopped up.”

  “Fine. Where are you?”

  “On my way home, but could we go later, say, seven thirty?”

  Trish dislodged the last of the food from her teeth and took a quick sip of water. “That would be great,” she said. “It will take me awhile to get ready.”

  “See you then.”

  Trish ended the call, and Marge burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Trish asked.

  “You were wrestling with that last bite like it was an alligator trying to crawl down your throat.”

  Trish grinned. “If Keith could have seen me, do you think he’d still want to take me out to a nice restaurant?”

  Friday afternoon was often a slow time at the district attorney’s office. None of the attorneys were scheduled to be in trial the following week, and by two o’clock Ralph had left for the golf course and Jim was on his way to fish at a local pond filled with largemouth bass. Holt stayed to catch up on his work. The door to his office was open, and he heard a knock on the frame. It was Belinda.

  “If you don’t object, I’m going to let the staff go home a half hour early,” she said.

  “Fine with me, but send Ralph a text message to confirm it. He checks his phone the whole time he’s playing golf.”

  Belinda coughed into the back of her hand. “How’s Patricia Carmichael doing with the deadbeat-dad docket?” she asked.

  “She’s very well organized and thorough in her investigations.”

  “What do you think about luring her over here to work? She’d make a great assistant to you and could run investigations for the rest of us on the side.”

  Holt leaned back slightly in his chair. “Ralph and Sheriff Blackstone don’t get along now. If we steal one of the sheriff’s best deputies, it will get worse.”

  “I may check with Ralph and interview her anyway. I wanted your opinion first because you work closely with her.”

  Holt refocused on the document he was reading, then looked up. “I like her. A lot.”

  After he left the office, Holt still had time to work out before picking up Angelina for supper. He put Henry on a leash and jogged to the church. Three teenage boys were shooting baskets when he arrived. They started to leave when Holt approached.

  “Hey, hold on a minute!” he called out. “Do you want to play some two on two?”

  “Only if I get to guard you,” the tallest boy replied with a sly grin.

  The boys were half a step quicker than Holt, but he was able to score with controlled moves close to the basket. After muscling in several shots in a row, he backed off and started passing to his teammate, a slender boy who looked younger than the other two. Everyone was huffing and puffing when Bishop Pennington came out to watch. They stopped for a water break.

  “Thanks for letting us play,” the tallest boy said to the bishop. “They’re redoing the surface of the outdoor courts at the rec center.”

  “Come anytime you like,” the bishop replied. “The only time the courts are reserved is during practices for the church team.”

  “You have a church team?” Holt’s teammate asked.

  “Yes. It competes in a spring league. The season ended a few weeks ago.”

  “How old do you have to be to play?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I’ll be sixteen in January,” the boy said.

  “And he has a very nice shot from fifteen feet,” Holt added.

  “You don’t have to be a member of the church to be on the team,” the bishop said, “but your parents would need to give permission.”

  “I’ll ask my mom about it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Alameda Johnson.”

  “Okay.” The bishop nodded. “And you are?”

  “Jamal.”

  The boys finished their water.

  “I’m outta here,” the tallest boy said to Holt. “Next time I’m not going to give you that much space under the basket.”

  “Only if you can stop me.” Holt patted him on the back.

  The boys sauntered off.

  “I don’t know Jamal’s mom,” the bishop said as soon as the young men were out of earshot, “but I remember his father. He was a good athlete who ended up in prison. It would be great to keep his boy from making a bad mistake at an early age.”

  “Yeah, I’d rather see Jamal on a basketball court than in a court of law.”

  Holt took another swig of water and rolled the basketball across the court so Henry could chase it down.

  “What were you like at Jamal’s age?” the bishop asked.