Holt sat bolt upright in his chair. “That wasn’t in Clovis’s report.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen better investigations of the theft of a carton of cigarettes at a convenience store. Anyway, there was a hole in a painting on the wall in the room where they found the body.”

  “Where was the painting hanging?”

  “Did you see the diagram of the room with the location of the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “The painting was across the room. There were two entrances to the study: one from the foyer, another from a hallway that led to the kitchen. The bullet hit the painting in the upper-right corner, pierced the wall, and ended up in the foyer. I found the remains of the slug.”

  “Where is the bullet now?”

  “If they haven’t thrown it away, it should be in storage at the sheriff’s department, but I’m not sure it can reveal anything.”

  “What was your explanation for the gunshot?”

  “The most obvious conclusion was that Meredith shot at something or someone. It could have been an accidental discharge of the weapon prior to the bullet he put in his chest. Or it may have been something else.”

  “Did any of the people in the house hear two shots?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stevens and the caretaker admitted hearing one shot. They all came running into the study and found Meredith on the floor. I found that very strange.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it. If you’re a rich person, and there’s a gunshot in the house, the first thing you consider is a break-in, isn’t it? Have you met Greg Stevens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he seem like the kind of guy itching to wrestle a thief to the floor and make a citizen’s arrest? And would most husbands bring their wives along to see what’s going on if a gun has been fired? Wouldn’t the first call have been to 911 to get the police on the scene as soon as possible? That’s some of the stuff I wanted to explore. Most fabricated stories aren’t detailed enough to stand up under prolonged questioning. Eventually, the person who’s lying trips up in a small way that turns into a bigger discrepancy. I’ve been around long enough to know that all investigations are not created equal, but the way this one was rammed through bugged me then, and it bothers me now.”

  Listening to McDermott strengthened Holt’s resolve to continue to dig until he uncovered the truth. “What do you believe happened?”

  “I don’t know and hate to assume anything until it’s proven.”

  McDermott covered the phone receiver with his hand and said something Holt couldn’t hear.

  “Who’s working with you?” McDermott asked when he returned to the call.

  “Uh, a low-level contact at the sheriff’s department is feeding me a little bit of information on the side.”

  “I get it,” McDermott said. “You’re going lone ranger on this one, trying to make a name for yourself as a hotshot prosecutor who goes up against the local power structure.”

  “Not really. The DA’s file ended up on my desk by mistake a couple of weeks ago, and I immediately saw how little was done. A man’s death deserves more than what I read on a few sheets of paper, so I decided to do a little digging on my own. You’ve told me a lot more than I knew before.”

  “Are you going to tell Ralph Granger about our conversation?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  McDermott gave a short laugh. “I never really fit in down there, and nobody can do anything to me now. I don’t care what you say to Granger. He’s a political animal, not a professional prosecutor.”

  It was a crisp, biting, and accurate summary. Holt couldn’t disagree. He looked down at his notes. There were no more questions, but he knew he’d have a bunch after he digested what the former detective had told him.

  “Can I call you back if I need to?”

  “Yeah, but I work by the hour now. If you need an expert witness, it won’t be a freebie. This conversation was on the house. The next one won’t be.”

  “Would you send me a copy of your report?”

  McDermott was silent for a moment. “Only if you promise to keep it confidential until you go public with this thing. And that means an indictment. Otherwise it stays buried. I don’t want to get sued for slander.”

  Holt’s hands suddenly felt clammy. Until his conversation with McDermott, there had been an academic quality to the investigation. Now it was beginning to feel real.

  “Agreed. I don’t want it coming to the office. One of the staff might open it.”

  Holt gave McDermott his home address.

  “Could you send it overnight?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah, if you reimburse the cost.”

  “Sure.”

  “And let me know what happens with your investigation,” the former detective said, “even if you drop it.”

  “Will do.”

  After work, Holt took Henry out for a walk in the direction of Magnolia Avenue. It was a pleasant evening. He let Henry stop to explore smells that caught the attention of the dog’s sensitive nose. When they reached the Meredith mansion, Holt saw an expensive car parked in the driveway. Standing beside the car and talking to the caretaker was Valerie Stevens. The Meredith heiress was wearing a yellow summer dress. Prancing around at her feet was a rambunctious Chihuahua. Holt stopped as if admiring the house. Valerie and the caretaker didn’t notice him. As Holt watched, Valerie handed an envelope to the caretaker, who touched the bill of his cap in a sign of respect. Holt continued down the street. When he reached the corner, he turned around and retraced his steps. As he approached the Meredith house, a figure was coming toward him on the sidewalk.

  It was Valerie Stevens.

  The Chihuahua was on a slender leash. Holt heard a growl rumble up in Henry’s throat. As they came closer together, Holt pulled back on Henry’s leash until the dog was rubbing against Holt’s leg. When they were about ten feet from each other, Valerie made eye contact with Holt and smiled.

  “That’s a handsome Jack Russell,” she said. “I bet he loves going for walks.”

  “Yes, there’s no limit to his energy,” Holt said as he stopped.

  Valerie picked up her wiggling Chihuahua in her arms. Then, to Holt’s horror, she leaned over and stretched out her hand toward Henry’s mouth.

  “No!” Holt called out.

  But it was too late. Valerie Stevens was already stroking Henry under the chin. The dog closed his eyes and seemed to purr.

  “That’s incredible,” Holt said. “Henry usually bites first and asks questions later.”

  “He told me it would be okay when I looked in his eyes,” Valerie said as she stood up. “I’m Valerie Stevens.”

  Holt introduced himself. Valerie eyed him for a moment.

  “The charity auction,” she said. “You were there.”

  “Yes, and I saw your husband the other day at the office. He was meeting with Ralph Granger.”

  “Why was he there?”

  Holt hadn’t considered the possibility that Stevens’s wife might not know about his political activities. But then, people with a lot of money didn’t have the time to keep track of every dollar.

  “He’s on Ralph Granger’s reelection committee. I hope Mr. Stevens won’t get in trouble at home for me telling you.”

  “No,” Valerie said and dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “He does a lot I don’t know about.”

  The Chihuahua yelped sharply.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Holt asked.

  “Peps.” She stroked the tiny dog’s head. “I’ve had Chihuahuas for years and years. Tell me about Henry.”

  “He’s my first dog since I left home. I rented a house on Montgomery Street with a big fenced-in backyard just so I could get a dog.”

  “I like your priorities.” Valerie smiled again. “Is Henry friendlier with dogs than he is with people?”

  “Not really. Let me introduce them and see how it goes.”

  Holt picked up Henry and held him close enough to Peps that the two dogs could touch noses. Peps trembled with a mixture of excitement and fear. Henry, perhaps after satisfying himself that Peps wasn’t a new form of squirrel, seemed disinterested.

  “I think it will be okay,” Holt said. “But I’ll keep a tight rein on Henry.”

  Valerie lowered Peps to the ground, and the Chihuahua showed unmistakable signs of submission. Henry majestically accepted the little dog’s homage. Valerie laughed.

  “It seems Henry likes both the owner and the dog,” Holt said.

  “Most dogs can sense a friend when they meet one. I’m around a lot of them. At least once a week I go to the rescue facility on Nelson Street.”

  Holt had passed by the building, which was much nicer than expected for a town the size of Paxton. He guessed Valerie Stevens had a lot to do with that.

  “We can’t save every animal,” Valerie continued, “but matching the right one with a loving family is very satisfying.”

  “I prosecuted a cruelty to animal case last year,” Holt said. “The dogs ended up at that shelter.”

  “Yes,” Valerie responded sadly. “I remember but didn’t know you were involved. There were four dogs. We only placed one of them, a six-month-old puppy. The others were older and so traumatized we couldn’t socialize them enough to release them. They had to be put down.”

  “The man involved went to jail.”

  “For six months with two years on probation.” Valerie looked into Holt’s eyes. “Thanks for making sure he was punished. A lot of people wouldn’t think mistreating dogs is worth taking seriously.”

  “That’s my job,” Holt replied. “To prosecute the guilty.”

  20

  Trish left Sue Ann’s apartment in time to pick up supper for Marge. Once a month her mother liked to eat fish from a carryout place that sold deep-fried salt-and-pepper catfish fillets. It wasn’t healthy, but it was a holdover from the days when Trish’s father brought home dinner so Marge wouldn’t have to cook. He loved catfish more than steak. Trish also ordered coleslaw and green beans. Hopefully she could convince her mother to drink water instead of sweet tea with the meal. When Trish entered the house, the TV was off and her mother was napping in the recliner in the living room. She stirred when Trish shut the front door.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Trish said.

  “I need to get up,” Marge said, yawning. “If I sleep too much during the day, it makes it harder to fall asleep at night.”

  “I have catfish.” Trish held up two Styrofoam containers.

  “Yummy. I made tea this afternoon. It’s in the fridge. Did they give you any tartar sauce?”

  “Yes.”

  Marge liked to spice up her tartar sauce with a generous dash of red pepper flakes. Trish nibbled a piece of catfish. It was thin and crispy, not overly greasy. Her conversation with Sue Ann was still on her mind.

  “Mama, what do you think about Keith?”

  “Shouldn’t you be the one to answer that question?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what my heart is saying to me.”

  “Then that’s your answer. Your heart will tell you when it has an opinion. Until that happens, you can’t make it talk. I like Keith a lot. Nothing about him worries me”—Marge paused—“except that he stays on the road so much. That would be tough on a marriage, especially once babies come along.”

  Trish was feeling sorry for herself, but her mother’s comment about children made her chuckle.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Keith Pierce and babies in the same sentence. He’s focused on a house, not a family.”

  “A house is where babies live. Have you asked him about children?”

  “No!” Trish replied emphatically. “I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.”

  “That’s part of your problem,” Marge replied evenly. “You’re afraid to ask the questions your heart needs to know to make up its mind. You’re a smart woman. You could ask him about kids without his realizing it.”

  “How?”

  “Talk to him about one of your friends like Sue Ann who has a child and see what he says.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you. I stopped by Sue Ann’s apartment on the way home from work. She’s pregnant.”

  “That makes it even easier. Mention Sue Ann’s news to Keith. If he shakes his head and says how hard that must be on Mark, you’ll know what he thinks, at least for now. Your daddy was scared of having children. But after he met you, he changed his mind.”

  Trish glanced up at a photo Marge kept on the side of the refrigerator. In the picture Trish was wearing her high school basketball uniform and standing beside her father, who was beaming with pride. She wished he could step out of the picture and tell her what he thought about Keith.

  Marge continued, “You know, it may be important to know Keith’s perspective on children, but what matters most is whether he loves you.”

  After supper Trish skipped Jeopardy. Retreating to her bedroom, she turned on her computer. Her mind wasn’t on Keith; it was on Holt. Using the fresh information Belinda had given her, Trish resumed her journey into the assistant DA’s past. She read more articles in the neighborhood newspaper about Holt’s sports career, then researched lacrosse so she could learn about the game and its rules. As originally played by Native Americans, there could be up to a thousand men on each side. It sounded more like war than a game.

  She found an article in Holt’s neighborhood newspaper about a funeral for a young man named Kenneth Morgan who’d died in an automobile accident. Also in the car was an eighteen-year-old named Holton Douglas. Trish stopped and looked up from the screen.

  That was it.

  Kenneth Morgan’s death was the source of Holt’s tears at the sub shop. Trish did a quick calculation. The accident happened not long before Holt graduated from high school. Trish would have been finishing the ninth grade. She looked for other news reports about the fatal accident and found one in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. According to that article, Holt was injured but treated at a local hospital and released. Trish knew being released from the hospital didn’t mean Holt was fine.

  The deep sadness Holt experienced at the tragic death of his friend was of course different from the grief she felt for her father, but Trish recognized that the pain resulting from the premature passing of a young person, before life had had a chance to flourish, was particularly sharp. Compassion for Holt rose up in Trish’s heart. She reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes.

  The way Holt reacted revealed how raw he remained. Trish’s sorrow had appeared with many faces. She tried to cope with grief, not resist or deny it. The desire to help Holt do the same caused a fresh tear to flow down her cheek.

  Trish read each article several times before finally pushing her chair away from the computer. She wasn’t any closer to knowing what her heart had to say about Keith or Holt. But she knew Holt needed the kind of touch only Jesus could give him, possibly through her.

  The next day Holt called the sheriff’s department to thank Trish for sending over the packet of information about Greg Stevens, Butch Clovis, and Vincent Calhoun. As he waited on hold, he debated how much, if any, of his conversation with Tony McDermott to share with her.

  “This is Trish Carmichael,” the deputy said in a perky voice.

  “Hey, it’s Holt.”

  “Oh,” Trish replied, her tone of voice becoming serious. “How are you?”

  “Okay for a Tuesday,” Holt replied, slightly puzzled. “Thanks for tipping me off about Vincent Calhoun. It’s not specifically relevant to Rex Meredith’s death, but it’s evidence of Stevens’s manipulating Clovis and the sheriff’s department for personal means.”

  “That’s what I thought. Have you found out anything else?”

  Holt hesitated, then decided not to hold anything back. “Yes. I called Tony McDermott yesterday. I wasn’t sure he would talk to me, but he had plenty to say. He’s sending me a copy of his file. I’d rather go over that with you in person. What’s your schedule this week?”

  “During the day?”

  “Yes.”

  Trish was silent for a moment. “I’m working first shift. I don’t think we should discuss this when I’m on duty since I don’t have the sheriff’s permission to—”

  “I totally understand,” Holt interrupted. “How about Thursday around three thirty?”

  “Okay,” Trish said slowly.

  “What would be a good place to meet?”

  “The library? They have those little rooms nobody uses next to the circulation desk.”

  “No,” Holt replied. “I think the courthouse would be a better option. That way, if anyone sees us together, they will assume we’re talking about your cases.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “Meet me in the main courtroom around three thirty.”

  Holt hung up the phone and pushed the Meredith matter out of his mind. He spent most of the rest of the day working on an appellate brief in a drug-trafficking case. Daring Holt to take the case to trial, Dirk Rangel had turned down a generous plea offer. Holt knew there were holes in the state’s evidence, but the jury conveniently filled them in, and it would be hard for Rangel to convince the Georgia Court of Appeals to overturn the jury’s guilty verdict. Late in the afternoon, Kathy buzzed his phone.

  “You’ve been in hiding most of the day,” she said. “Are you working on the Sanford brief?”

  “Yes. I should have the first draft finished and dictated by noon tomorrow.”

  “Don’t get carried away. Every brief doesn’t have to meet the maximum page limit.”

  “I’m getting it to you early. Be grateful for that.”

  “Sally says there’s a man named Burkdale out front who wants to see you.”

  It was an unfamiliar name.

  “What does he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say except that he has information about a pending investigation. When Sally asked him which one, he refused to tell her.”

  Holt rolled his eyes. “Okay, he may be a nut, but I need to take a break for a few minutes. I’ll talk to him.”