As he drove back to the office, Holt thought about his mother’s not-so-subtle hints that he propose to Angelina before she got tired of waiting on him to act and moved on to someone else. He’d pointed out that Angelina wasn’t an unfulfilled woman spending ninety-five percent of her time thinking about marriage. She was a successful businesswoman who’d carved out a nice niche in life. Her decision to let Holt enter her world was made from a position of strength, not need. At least that’s what he’d argued before her comment in the salon kitchen.

  Holt parked next to an unmarked government car. Inside, Trish Carmichael was talking to Belinda. The deputy sheriff stood when he entered.

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?” she asked him.

  “Is it about your high school classmate who treated Highway 127 like his personal drag strip?” Holt replied.

  “Yes.” Trish hung her head.

  They went into Holt’s office, and Trish sat down. Holt left the door open.

  “I’m so sorry and wanted to tell you in person. He tricked me into helping him.” Trish paused. “No, I agreed to do it without thinking things through, and then he was totally out of line in the way he presented the situation to you. I didn’t promise him anything, only that I’d see if you would talk to him before—”

  “Relax,” Holt said, holding up his hand to stop the flow of words. “That wasn’t the first time someone has tried to manipulate me and used a law enforcement connection to do it. I knew the guy wasn’t telling you the truth. He doesn’t know it because he was too cheap to hire a lawyer, but with his prior record, cutting the ticket down to fifteen miles over the speed limit will still trigger a huge insurance premium increase. My hope is that this will convince him to slow down. If it doesn’t, sooner or later he’s going to get jacked up by a judge either here or in Tennessee.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “No. I moved on with the calendar and didn’t give it a second thought. Judge Lomax had more important matters to consider.”

  “Thanks,” Trish said with obvious relief. “I’ve been worrying about it ever since I left the courthouse. I called Belinda, and she suggested I apologize to you in person.”

  “Your unnecessary apology is accepted.”

  Trish managed a smile. Holt glanced down at his credenza and saw the folder about Rexford Meredith’s death. Wanting to help the female deputy move on to another subject, he asked her a question.

  “Do you remember when Rex Meredith died?”

  “Of course. For weeks it was all anyone talked about.”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Oh, everything from how much he was worth to who was going to get it. One of his ex-wives tried to swoop in, but she lost in court pretty quickly to Mr. and Mrs. Stevens.”

  Holt held up the skinny folder. “What about the cause of death? Our file isn’t much more than a two-page report from the investigating detectives concluding Meredith died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest. Do you think there was anything else going on?”

  Trish hesitated. “Well, there were rumors about a cover-up of some sort to keep the family from being embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe by the suicide or what they found inside the house. A lot of people have secrets. I was in a criminal justice class at the community college, and my professor criticized the way it was handled. I can’t remember the details, but he thought it wasn’t very professional.”

  “What was the professor’s name?”

  “Simpson, but he had a heart attack a couple of years ago and died.”

  “Then he wouldn’t make it on the list,” Holt muttered.

  “You’re reopening the investigation into Mr. Meredith’s death?” Trish’s eyes opened wider.

  “No, no,” Holt corrected himself. “Just curious. I believe the owner of my house bought it from Rex Meredith.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Mr. Meredith owned a bunch of rental houses in your neighborhood.”

  “You know where I live?”

  “Yeah. Over on Montgomery Street. Brick ranch-style house with a fenced-in backyard.”

  “Have you been stalking me?” Holt asked.

  Holt watched Trish’s face turn red and immediately regretted his words. “I was joking,” he added quickly.

  “I knew that,” Trish replied unconvincingly. “I worked on a case last year involving a man who lived a few doors down from your house. The deputy who went with me to make the arrest showed me where you live.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “We never found the defendant. I think someone tipped him off and he left town. He’s still on the run.”

  “Let me know if he surfaces. I want to keep the neighborhood safe.”

  Trish stood up. Holt’s embarrassment about his awkward stalking comment increased, not diminished. He racked his brain for a different topic to end their conversation as he escorted Trish to the front door.

  “I appreciate all your help in court,” he said. “You have great administrative skills.”

  “Thanks, that’s what every woman loves to hear.”

  Holt watched Trish walk toward an unmarked police car. She moved with an easy grace. He could definitely imagine her playing basketball.

  He spent the next few hours organizing his courtroom notes for Kathy Arnold, the secretary he shared with Jim, then deposited the files on the corner of the secretary’s desk. The dark-haired clerical worker was a harried single mom in her late thirties.

  “Any fires in there?” she asked when she saw the files. “Don’t forget I have to leave thirty minutes early today to take my daughter to the orthodontist.”

  “No, it’s routine. Most of it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Holt glanced over his shoulder at the door to Ralph Granger’s office. It was still shut. “What’s Ralph up to?” he asked.

  “Meeting with the finance committee for his election campaign.”

  “That’s not until next year.”

  “I heard him talking to Belinda earlier. He wants to raise a lot of money now and hopes it will discourage anyone else from running against him.”

  Holt nodded. It wasn’t a bad strategy. “Who’s on the committee?”

  Kathy rattled off the names of four men, including the owner of the town’s largest automobile dealership.

  “Of course, Greg Stevens is the key,” she concluded, lowering her voice. “His wife inherited all the Meredith money from her stepfather. Stevens can stroke a check that would scare off anyone.”

  “I met him last year at the United Way fund-raiser. I wonder—” Holt started, then stopped.

  “What?” Kathy asked.

  “Nothing,” Holt replied. “Will you let me know when Ralph finishes?”

  “Sure.”

  Back in his office, Holt held the Meredith folder in his hand. He couldn’t get over the look in Ralph’s eyes when he’d ordered Holt to return the file. To deviate from the DA’s specific instructions would be clearly insubordinate. Holt hesitated. Ralph Granger was undeniably paranoid, but sometimes paranoia had a basis in fact. What was Ralph afraid of? And why did he have the Meredith file in the first place?

  Rich people did commit suicide, but the skimpy information in Holt’s hand spoke of a cover-up, not justice. Holt’s job, his duty as a district attorney, and, more importantly, the promise he’d made to Calico’s memory, was to do the right thing, no matter what. He removed the sheets from the file and took them to the copier. Kathy was feeding a stack of documents into the machine.

  “I’ll be here for a few minutes,” she said when she saw him. “I can make your copies and bring them to you.”

  “No, I’ll come back later.”

  Holt waited until Kathy passed by the door of his office on her way back to her desk, then returned to the copy machine. Glancing over his shoulder, he entered the file number for the Meredith investigation into the meter that recorded all copies. He paused with his finger over the Print button, but instead of pushing Print, he canceled the Meredith file number and entered the general number used for miscellaneous copies. There could be no record of his defiance.

  He watched as the sheets of paper spit out the other side of the machine.

  7

  Trish left her cubicle in the administrative area of the sheriff’s department and retreated to her car in the parking lot beside the jail. She needed a break from the embarrassing events of the day. First, Holt accused her of stalking him, and then he complimented her administrative skills. It was enough to send a woman into clinical depression.

  Turning on the car’s air-conditioning, she logged on to a speed chess website on her phone. Players had a maximum of thirty seconds to make a move, and games rarely lasted more than ten minutes.

  Trish had started playing chess as a little girl because it was something her father liked to do. When she was eight, she won for the first time, and he printed out a certificate, naming her “The Unbeatable Wonder,” which she used as her screen name. The framed certificate now hung on the wall in her bedroom. By the time she was ten they were splitting games fifty-fifty. Two years later, her father almost never won and considered a draw a victory.

  There was something about the pieces and the way they moved that made sense to her. Chess books introduced her to basic strategy; however, Trish possessed the innate ability to see the whole board, anticipate an opponent’s likely moves, and plan multiple avenues of attack. Her favorite piece was the queen because of its versatility, but Trish had also developed a knack for utilizing her two knight pieces that gave her opponents fits. The unique movement pattern of the knights made them deceptive defenders and cunning warriors. Trish wished her skill on the chessboard transferred better to the challenges of everyday life.

  Her adversary of the day was well known to her. “Pawn King” was a good player, and they often played to a quick draw. Today he uncharacteristically beat her in five minutes when she made an obvious blunder that allowed him to dominate her back row.

  “What’s wrong?” Pawn King typed in the message box beside the game.

  “Stupid move,” Trish replied. “But thanks for playing.”

  “You seem distracted. Are you at work?”

  “And have to get back to it.”

  Trish closed the program. She didn’t use the chess site as a place for social networking and knew nothing about the people behind their screen names. It was anonymous, bloodless combat without actual consequences. She returned to work.

  Cases flowed to Trish’s desk from different places—the county Department of Family and Children’s Services, the local juvenile court, and Belinda at the district attorney’s office. A key trigger to Trish’s involvement occurred when children started receiving government benefits that wouldn’t be necessary if a parent, usually the father, were paying adequate child support. Her job was to locate the delinquent parent and try to persuade him or her to voluntarily fulfill their financial obligations to their children.

  It wasn’t always as black and white as the pieces on a chessboard. Discretion played a role when there were reasons such as poor health or inability to work that explained why support wasn’t being paid. The toughest part of the job was trying not to let her heart rule her head, in either righteous anger or misplaced mercy. Trish didn’t consider herself intimidating, but when she called and identified herself as “Deputy Carmichael,” some people quickly gave her respect. Others cursed and hung up the phone.

  She clicked open the attachment to an e-mail from a DFACS worker. This time a mother was in the legal crosshairs. The woman had lost custody of her little girl in a juvenile court proceeding and was ordered to pay child support while the child lived with a foster family. After two payments the woman stopped depositing money with the court clerk. She’d not returned phone calls from the case worker and hadn’t made an effort to exercise the limited visitation with her daughter granted by the judge.

  The mother wasn’t working when she’d gone to court, and Trish guessed she’d borrowed the initial two payments of child support from family members. Trish opened a new screen on her computer so she could take notes, said a quick prayer, and dialed the last known contact number.

  Ralph Granger brought the members of his campaign finance committee to Holt’s office. When the group appeared in his doorway, Holt slid the Meredith file away from the edge of his desk and stood up.

  “Some of you may know Holt Douglas,” Ralph said. “He’s been with us for, what is it, Holt? Eighteen months?”

  “A little over two years, sir.”

  “And he’s doing a great job,” Ralph said. “He was a top student at Emory Law School and turned down a job at King and Spalding to come here.”

  “I interviewed with them on campus but didn’t get a call back,” Holt corrected. “My offer was from a firm in Buckhead.”

  “Which would have paid you a lot more than you’re making serving the people of this judicial district,” Ralph responded smoothly. “Having someone of Holt’s caliber on board is a selling point for the campaign. Retention of skilled prosecutors is a challenge for non-urban areas, and with Holt and Jim, I’ve been able to do that.”

  Holt winced. Jim Montgomery had settled comfortably into the role of a second-string career prosecutor with no ambition beyond a state pension. Holt’s future plans included the goal of landing a job as a federal prosecutor like Calico’s uncle. He’d not made any long-term promises to the DA.

  “Ralph, you did a good job training Skip Patrick,” said Pat Kirby, owner of Kirby’s Auto Sales. “He’s doing a super job as our company lawyer. He knows how to write an opinion letter even I can understand.”

  All the men except Ralph laughed. The DA didn’t say anything. Holt knew Ralph considered Skip a traitor for leaving after only a few years of public service. Kirby turned to Holt.

  “I saw you and Skip eating at the Crosswalk Café last week.”

  “We’re still friends,” Holt said, glancing at Ralph. “It’s great that you’re pleased with his work. He helped me a lot when I first came to Paxton.”

  Greg Stevens stepped forward. The balding, middle-aged man who managed Meredith Enterprises had the demeanor of a bookish accountant. Holt shook Stevens’s hand, which was surprisingly soft and slightly greasy. The thought crossed Holt’s mind that Stevens used lotion.

  “We met last year at the community fund-raiser,” Stevens said. “I think you bid on the bamboo fly-fishing rod I donated.”

  Holt was impressed that Stevens could recall the early bidding on the classic piece of fishing equipment. The auction tag on the rod indicated it had originally been purchased by Mr. Meredith for three thousand dollars.

  “I didn’t get the rod, but at least I drove the price up a few hundred dollars before dropping out.”

  “It was one of several that Mr. Meredith owned. If you’d ever like to borrow one and take it on a fishing trip, let me know. No one uses them now.”

  “Thanks, but I’d be afraid I might damage it.”

  “They’re insured,” Stevens replied with a wave of his hand.

  “It would be fun to see what it felt like,” Holt admitted, “but I don’t have any trips planned right now.”

  Stevens reached into his jacket pocket and handed Holt his card. “Call me when you do.”

  “I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer,” Ralph said. “Thanks again for agreeing to help. I couldn’t do my job without folks like you behind me.”

  A few minutes later, Holt glanced up from his desk and saw Ralph walking down the hallway. He grabbed the Meredith folder and caught up with the DA near Belinda’s desk.

  “Here’s the Meredith information,” he said.

  Ralph jerked the file from Holt’s hand. “I thought I told you to get that back to me immediately.”

  “Sorry. I hope it didn’t create a problem with Mr. Stevens.”

  “Why would it?”

  Holt had fallen into a trap of his own making. “Uh, I’m sure it’s still a sensitive subject.”

  “The family has moved on from the tragedy.”

  “Sure,” Holt said, nodding. “How was the meeting with the campaign finance committee?”

  “Very good.” Ralph’s face brightened. “We’re going to wait until a couple of months before qualifying opens and announce the formation of a reelection committee. Word will leak out that I have as much money in the bank as I spent for the entire campaign when Lynnwood Nolte ran against me three years ago. Have you heard the rumors that he wants another crack at my job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who mentioned it?”

  “Someone we both know who doesn’t want to be quoted on the record.”

  “Skip.” Ralph grunted.

  Holt allowed silence to serve as confirmation.

  When he left the DA’s office after two and a half years, Bernard “Skip” Patrick went to work for the largest firm in town. Vernon Spratt III, the firm’s senior partner, had served eight terms as a legislator in the General Assembly in Atlanta and wielded a lot of political clout in Ashley County. He viewed Ralph as an outsider because the DA was from Triplett County and therefore shouldn’t be in charge of anything that had to do with the most populous county in the judicial circuit. When he first encountered such microscopic regionalism, Holt was amused. Now he accepted it as reality for those who’d grown up in the area.

  “What about Sheriff Blackstone?” Holt asked. “Will he back you?”

  “That’s being negotiated,” Ralph answered cryptically. “Getting Craig Stevens on my side for this round was a coup. Rex Meredith never supported me, but he couldn’t get anyone from Ashley County who knew their way around a courtroom to run against me. If Nolte had been around back then . . .” Ralph stopped as he considered the catastrophic possibility.

  “If you want to keep Stevens on your side, you’d better call him Greg, not Craig,” Holt said.

  Ralph slapped his hands together. “I went to high school with a boy named Craig Stevens, and I’m always having to catch myself when I’m around Greg. I hope I didn’t slip up during our meeting.”