“You’re right,” Trish answered crisply. “Thanks.”

  She hung up the phone and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. Holt had been the cause of more than one tension headache.

  Taking a short break from work, she sent a text message to Keith asking him how he and his mother were doing. He responded immediately:

  More bad news. We’ ll talk later.

  Trish knew that probably meant Jack Pierce had another woman in his life. Trish had no tolerance for marital infidelity. She stared at the message on her phone while she thought about Keith and his family.

  “Deputy Carmichael, if it’s not an inconvenience, and you can take a break from texting, I’d like to see you in my office for a few minutes.”

  It was Sheriff Blackstone.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, quickly closing out the screen.

  Trying to stay calm, she followed the sheriff down the hallway. Sheriff Blackstone was a large, overweight man with a thin ring of dark hair encircling his bald head. He had a big voice, a ready smile, and the firm handshake of a veteran politician. Seated in his office was Butch Clovis. The sheriff stepped behind his desk and then stared at Trish for a moment.

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair beside Clovis.

  Trish sat on the edge of the chair. In the pit of her stomach she knew the next few moments might end her employment with the sheriff’s department.

  “Tell me what you know about Holt Douglas,” the sheriff said.

  “I talked to Detective Clovis about him the other—”

  “I want to hear for myself,” the sheriff interrupted.

  Trish felt her throat close up. “He’s the assistant DA who handles most of the delinquent child support cases that are turned over for criminal prosecution. He grew up north of Atlanta, and I think he has an older sister. He played basketball in high school, and lacrosse. He had a girlfriend, Angelina Peabody, who owns the All About You Salon on Broadmore Street, but they broke up. Recently, he started attending Bishop Pennington’s church. It’s not far from where he lives. He has a little dog. Detective Clovis knows about his interest in Mr. Meredith’s death—”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute,” the sheriff said, again cutting her off. “What does Douglas think about Ralph Granger?”

  Trish tried to remember any comments, either positive or negative, about the DA.

  “Nothing that I can recall except that he thinks Mr. Granger sometimes works out plea arrangements that are too lenient.”

  “We agree on that,” Clovis grunted.

  “Do you think he supports Granger for reelection?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has he ever talked to you about a man named Cecil Burkdale?”

  “Yes, sir,” Trish said, licking her lips. “Burkdale spoke to Holt about his investigation into the cause of Rex Meredith’s death.”

  “What did Burkdale tell him?”

  “I don’t know specifically, but Holt said Burkdale had some crazy theories about what happened.”

  “That’s the word Douglas used?”

  “Yes, and he doubted Burkdale’s credibility. Last week he told me Mr. Granger told him to stop looking into the Meredith situation. The case had been closed years ago and wasn’t going to be reopened.”

  The last statement wasn’t exactly the way Holt put it, but it was what came out of Trish’s mouth. She started to correct herself. The sheriff spoke first.

  “That’s true. I want to know if Douglas says anything to you about the DA race. It’s going to heat up hotter than a sidewalk in July.”

  “We don’t talk about politics. Do you want me to ask him directly?”

  The sheriff looked at Clovis, who shook his head. “She couldn’t pull it off,” the detective said.

  “Well, if it comes up, keep your ears open,” the sheriff said. “There are people who want insider information from a DA’s office employee about what’s really going on over there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And keep this conversation confidential,” Clovis added. “Will you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Back to work,” the sheriff said, dismissing her.

  As she returned to her cubicle, Trish was thankful that Detective Clovis considered her incompetent as a political spy. The less the sheriff and the detective wanted her to do, the better.

  When Trish arrived home at the end of the day, her mother was sitting quietly in the living room with the lights off and without the TV on.

  “Are you okay?” Trish asked.

  “No, Bonita Pierce came by to see me. I know why Keith was out of sorts yesterday.”

  Trish sat down on the couch near her mother’s chair. “He wanted her to tell you, not me. I haven’t talked to him today, but he sent me a text saying there’s more bad news.”

  “It’s Bonita’s health. She has a heart condition and is going to need either stents or bypass surgery. And two months ago Jack dropped his family health coverage at work, so she doesn’t have any insurance to pay for the treatment.”

  “Why would he do that?” Trish asked in shock.

  “Bonita doesn’t know. She went to see Brother Carpenter at the church. He thinks Jack may have another woman.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Trish sighed.

  “Jack cleaned out their bank account and won’t tell her where he put the money. It wasn’t more than a few thousand dollars, but Bonita doesn’t have money for groceries. I gave her two hundred dollars before she left.”

  “She needs a good lawyer.”

  “Who would you recommend?”

  Trish thought for a moment. “Probably Clare Dixon. She’s not as expensive as someone from one of the larger firms and knows what she’s doing.”

  “Would you call her for Bonita and find out if she’s interested in helping?”

  “Yes.”

  “One good thing happened,” Marge said. “When Brother Carpenter found out about the health insurance problem, he called Mr. Stevens. He’s going to help with the doctor bills.”

  “Greg Stevens is going to pay for a heart surgery?” Trish asked in shock.

  “Bonita wasn’t exactly sure how it’s going to be handled. It has something to do with Mr. Stevens being on the board of directors for the hospital, which has to provide a certain amount of free treatment every year. I guess Mr. Stevens can decide who gets it.”

  “Wow,” Trish responded. “That’s amazing.”

  “Yes.” Marge ran her fingers through her hair. “And I think you should change your mind about Mr. and Mrs. Stevens helping with the building fund at church. Their hearts are in the right place. Are you willing to consider you might be wrong?”

  “Yeah.” Trish nodded. “Recently, I’ve been wrong about a lot of things.”

  There was a parking spot open on the street in front of the salon. Holt wanted to tell Angelina about his conversation with Skip and ask her opinion. Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, he adjusted his tie, then got out and climbed the front steps. He’d not seen Brittany since the blowup over Trish Carmichael and wasn’t sure how she’d treat him. The receptionist was on the phone when he came through the door. After a few seconds, she hung up.

  “May I help you?” she asked with a flat expression on her face.

  “Come on,” Holt said. “Don’t do that to me. I’ve suffered enough.”

  “From what my pregnant friends tell me, no man has ever suffered enough. But after what happened the other day, I can’t believe you would leave Angelina for that psycho blond deputy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “She practically waved a gun in my face demanding to see Angelina,” Brittany said with a flourish of her hand. “But I guess that’s the kind of woman who’s attracted to a job in law enforcement. It didn’t make me feel safer about who’s protecting us from the bad guys.”

  “She’s under a lot of stress. Where’s the boss?”

  “Already gone for the day. She and Caroline went to the nursing home on Cambridge Avenue for round two with the blue-haired ladies.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been out of the loop for a few days.”

  Holt stepped closer and leaned on the counter in front of the receptionist. “What’s the latest with you and Skip?”

  Brittany picked up a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the corner of her desk. “Skip sent these with a sweet note.”

  “Nice. On the way over here I thought about buying flowers for Angelina.”

  “Where are they?” Brittany craned her head to look past Holt. “In your car?”

  “At the florist’s. It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Yeah, if you believe that, you should try another thought.”

  “I’d better get going,” Holt said. “Perhaps we can reschedule that double date.”

  “Maybe, but this time Skip will have to ask me himself. No go-betweens.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Holt had a smile on his face as he walked down the steps toward his car. At least part of his life was getting back to normal.

  40

  Henry stood at the bottom of a tree barking at a gray squirrel that angrily chattered from a limb a few feet above the dog’s head. When he saw Holt, the dog ran a few steps before slowing to a trot. Holt grabbed an old tennis ball and tossed it across the yard. Henry ran after it at normal speed and returned it two times. On the third throw, the dog ran to retrieve the ball, but when he brought it back to Holt’s feet, he dropped it and collapsed on the ground. Holt leaned down and scratched the dog’s stomach.

  “Sorry, boy,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wear you out, but I wanted to check how you’re doing.”

  After feeding Henry and giving him fresh water, Holt left the house for a run. He kept up a fast pace for ten minutes to elevate his heart rate, then slowed to a tempo he was capable of maintaining for a long distance. As he approached the Meredith house, he saw a familiar car pulling into the driveway.

  It was Bishop Pennington.

  Holt slowed and stopped behind the minister’s car. He could see the bishop looking in the rearview mirror. Holt put his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Bishop Pennington got out and came over to him.

  “What brings you over here?” Holt asked.

  “Sonny called. I had trouble understanding exactly what he needed, but it was clear he wanted to see me as soon as possible.”

  The caretaker came around the corner of the house. He was wearing overalls and a ragged cap on top of his head. He mopped his face with a red kerchief. He nodded to the bishop but eyed Holt suspiciously.

  “Be that who what?” he asked.

  “This is Holt Douglas, a friend of mine,” the bishop replied. “He’s an attorney who works at the district attorney’s office. He attends the church.”

  Sonny looked more closely at Holt. The caretaker then thumped his forehead and shook his head sadly.

  “What’s wrong, Sonny?” the bishop asked.

  Sonny reached into the top pocket of his overalls. He took out a small pad and a pencil that had been ground down close to the eraser. He scribbled something on the pad and handed it to the bishop.

  “The doctor says there’s something wrong with your head?” the bishop asked. “Is it serious?”

  Sonny drew his hand across his throat. It was such an abrupt, harsh gesture that it caught Holt off guard.

  “I’m sorry,” Holt blurted out.

  Sonny looked at him. “Bad be that.”

  The bishop stepped forward and put his hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “Do you want to tell me more about it?”

  Sonny nodded and pointed to the big house.

  “Well, I’d better be on my way,” Holt said.

  Sonny reached out and touched Holt on the arm. He shook his head. “Agree be more.”

  “You want us to pray for you?” the bishop asked.

  “Be that.”

  “He’s referring to the verse in the Bible that says if two or more agree about something in prayer, it will be done,” the bishop said.

  Sonny grunted in agreement.

  “I’m hot and sweaty,” Holt protested. “I shouldn’t—”

  “Do you think he cares about that?”

  “And I don’t know much about praying.”

  “You know enough to say ‘amen’ when we finish.”

  Sonny pulled a green kerchief from a pocket in his overalls and tossed it to Holt, then turned and started walking toward the house.

  “Are you sure about this?” Holt asked the bishop.

  “Trust Sonny. If he’s comfortable with you, then it’s an honor that he’s asked you to be a part of this.”

  Holt inspected the kerchief. It seemed clean, so he used it to wipe the sweat from his face.

  Sonny led them around to the back of the big house. There was a large key ring attached to one of the loops on his overalls. He unhooked the ring and inserted a key into the lock. Opening the door, a beep sounded, and the caretaker entered a code, disarming the security system.

  They were in the kitchen. It was neat and tidy. There was no sign of food on the counters. A small round table held a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. Sonny led the way through a swinging door to the left and across a hallway. Holt and the bishop followed into another room. Holt immediately knew where they were.

  It was the study where Rex Meredith died.

  Built-in bookcases filled with gilt-edged volumes lined two walls. There was a slightly frayed antique rug on the floor. Several oil paintings of landscapes hung on the walls. The largest painting in the room was a portrait of Rex Meredith hanging over a fireplace with a brass grate. In the painting, Meredith appeared to be about sixty years old. He was wearing an open-collared shirt and sitting in the study. Lying on the floor beside him was an Irish setter.

  Two leather wing chairs were positioned on opposite sides of a small table upon which a Tiffany lamp sat. Holt could easily imagine Rex Meredith and Cecil Burkdale sitting and talking in the chairs. To the right of the wing chairs was a leather sofa with a low table in front of it. A smaller leather chair was placed beside the sofa. Holt glanced at the wall across from the wing chairs. In the dimly lit room it was impossible to tell if the bullet hole mentioned by Tony McDermott was still there. Sonny turned on a brass lamp next to the sofa. He sat down on the sofa and motioned for the bishop to join him. Holt sat in the single chair.

  The caretaker took out his pad and began to write. Holt and the bishop waited as Sonny scribbled on the piece of paper. He flipped to a fresh sheet and kept writing. Finally, he ripped off three sheets and handed them to the bishop, who silently read them.

  “Yes, we can do that.”

  “What’s on the paper?” Holt asked.

  “He wants to ask God to forgive him. He’s listing his sins. The doctor has told him he has an inoperable brain tumor and is going to die.”

  Sonny slipped from his seat on the sofa and knelt like a child about to say his bedtime prayers. The bishop got on his knees and put his arm around Sonny’s shoulders. With his other hand he spread the sheets of paper on the sofa in front of them. Holt stayed in his seat.

  And listened.

  Bishop Pennington gently touched each scribbled line on the sheets of paper and spoke softly into Sonny’s left ear. Holt was close enough to hear some of the words—a mix of questions to which Sonny nodded in agreement and pronouncements of forgiveness by the bishop. Holt knew he was witnessing the culmination of a lifetime of kindness and mutual respect between friends.

  A grandfather clock twice chimed quarter hours before the two older men arose from their knees and embraced. There was a look of peace in Sonny’s eyes. Holt knew how he felt.

  Sonny wrote something on his pad and handed it to the bishop.

  “He does,” the bishop said, glancing at Holt.

  “What?” Holt asked.

  “He wants to know if you send criminals to jail.”

  “Yes,” Holt confirmed, facing Sonny. “If someone commits a crime, it’s my job to make sure they are punished under the law.”

  “Yes that do.” The caretaker gestured toward the portrait over the fireplace and then pointed to his chest as if holding a gun in his hand.

  Holt’s mouth went dry. Sonny started rapidly scribbling on the pad. Holt turned to the bishop.

  “I’ve been investigating Rex Meredith’s death,” he said.

  Sonny looked up and nodded his head. He handed a sheet of paper to the bishop.

  “He knows what happened,” the bishop said, his eyes opening wider. “And it’s bothered him a lot.”

  Sonny put down his pad and walked over to the bookcase. Reaching up, he pulled down a book bound in dark green leather. The caretaker stuck his hand into the empty space behind the book and took out something Holt couldn’t see. He then handed it to Holt. It was a small cassette.

  “What is this?” Holt asked.

  Sonny pointed to the corner of the room behind them. Holt turned around.

  And saw a small security camera positioned on a metal bracket.

  41

  Is this from the night Mr. Meredith died?” Holt asked.

  “Be it.”

  Holt turned to the bishop. “Please remember this,” he said. “You may need to testify about it in court someday.”

  “I’m not sure—” the bishop started, then stopped.

  “Is there a place where we can watch this?” Holt asked Sonny.

  Sonny got up, and they followed him from the room. They reentered the hallway that separated the study from the kitchen, but instead of turning right, they went left to a closet at the end of the hall. Inside, on a broad shelf, was the control center for the home’s security system. A small video monitor rested on a large rectangular metal box with blinking lights on the front. The box was configured as a carousel so tapes would cycle through the system. Positioned around the equipment were bottles of cleaning supplies.

  “This is an ancient system,” Holt said.

  Sonny nodded and held up fingers for 1974. He pressed a button on the front of the small box beside the monitor. Nothing happened. He then banged his fist sharply against the right corner of the box. A green light flickered on. Sonny opened the front of the device and inserted the tape. He turned on the monitor and pressed the Play button. All three men squeezed close together in the confined space.