Right?
Ben Cooley rapped his knuckles on the frame of Truman’s office door. “Mornin’, Chief.”
“Did you get that wrecked car towed?” Truman asked, thankful for the interruption by the gray-haired officer.
“Yep. Took the tow truck long enough to get out there. Nearly froze my ass off.”
“The boy was lucky. He could have been killed or hurt someone.”
“You shoulda heard his father cuss him out. He won’t be driving again anytime soon, and once that broken arm heals, his dad said he’d be shoveling manure for the next six months.”
“Good.”
Ben hovered in the doorway, mangling a pair of gloves, his forehead wrinkled in concern.
“Something else on your mind, Ben?”
“I’ve been thinking about that Sabin murder. It’s all anyone in town can talk about.”
Truman gave him his full attention. “What about it?”
Ben glanced over his shoulder and then lowered his voice as he held Truman’s gaze. “They’re saying she was a witch.”
This rumor is getting old.
“Don’t tell me you believe in witches.”
“They say all three of them practiced magic . . . mother, daughter, and granddaughter. They make up their own coven, handing down secrets from generation to generation,” he whispered.
Enough malicious rumors. Truman exploded. “Fuck me, Ben! Are you seriously giving credence to that bullshit? I met that little girl. She’s an innocent child who doesn’t deserve to be gossiped about.”
Ben had the decency to duck his head, looking abashed. “It’s crazy talk. But I think some of the tales about Olivia might be true.”
Truman noted the familiar use of her first name. “Did you know her, Ben?” Augustus’s claim that Olivia had “known” many men ricocheted in Truman’s head, and acid filled his stomach.
Ben Cooley? The man who just celebrated fifty years of marriage? Tell me it isn’t so.
“I didn’t know her, but my older brother did.”
Truman exhaled. “Explain.”
Ben relayed a story that echoed Augustus McGee’s.
How many similar stories will the investigation uncover?
Truman was ready to hear something positive about the women who lived in the woods. “Why are you telling me this, Ben? That doesn’t shine any light on who might have killed her.”
Ben squirmed and twisted his gloves. “I know. But if the daughter is anything like the mother, there might be a lot of men with an ax to grind. I’m just theorizing.”
“Sounds more like vicious gossip.” Curves, soft flesh, welcoming eyes. “Let’s keep a lid on the chatter in town. Let people know it’s wrong to spread rumors and stories. It’s no help to the investigators. If someone can come forward with some facts, that’d be helpful.”
“Hard to keep tongues from waggin’.”
“Do your best,” Truman ordered. “Refer anyone with facts to Detective Bolton at county or to the FBI.”
Ben’s head jerked up. “The FBI? Why the FBI?”
Truman bit his tongue, silently cursing at himself. The similarity between the judge and Olivia Sabin’s deaths was not public knowledge. Yet.
The older officer raised his brows as he spotted Truman’s discomfort. “Ah. Can’t say?”
“Said too much already.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
Lucas’s face appeared above Ben. The six-foot-four former high school football star dwarfed the older officer. “You’ve got a visitor, boss.” Lucas scowled. “He’s a reporter from The Oregonian. Won’t tell me what he wants to talk to you about, so I told him you could only spare a minute.”
“We done, Ben?” Truman asked.
“Yep.” The officer squeezed past Lucas’s bulk in the narrow hallway.
“You willing to see him?” his office manager asked.
“Why not?” Truman was ready for a distraction from witches and rumors.
“Hey!” Lucas hollered down the hall. “Reporter guy. Come on back.”
Truman winced.
A tall man about Truman’s age appeared and did an awkward passing hallway dance with Lucas. Truman knew Lucas was being difficult on purpose. The visitor was nearly as tall as Lucas and also moved with the confidence of an athlete, but he resembled a nimble quarterback rather than an offensive lineman. Truman stood and held out his hand, and they exchanged names. Michael Brody’s grip was strong, his gaze direct, and the watch on his wrist the same as that of Truman’s brother-in-law, the Microsoft executive. Translation: way out of Truman’s price range.
He can afford that on a reporter’s salary?
“What can I do for you?” Truman asked as he took a seat and gestured for the reporter to do the same.
Brody perched on the end of his seat, his torso leaning toward Truman. “I’m investigating the story of Judge Malcolm Lake’s death.”
Truman kept his expression even.
Brody studied Truman’s face. “I see you’ve already heard of the connection between Lake and Olivia Sabin.”
Again Truman showed no response. “I’m not sure what that has to do with me. I didn’t know either one of them.”
“But you were at Olivia Sabin’s home yesterday morning. Why would you respond to a death that was out of your jurisdiction? And you were there pretty early . . . too early for news of her murder to have gotten out.”
“Who told you that?”
“Does it matter? And the FBI was there even earlier. How did they know her death would be connected to a federal investigation?”
“They didn’t—” Truman clamped his lips shut.
The intensity of the reporter’s stare lightened a degree. “So they didn’t suspect the deaths were connected. Then why was Agent Kilpatrick on the scene so soon?”
“I don’t think I’m the person to answer your questions.” Truman started to rise to dismiss the nosy asshole.
Brody held up his hands. “I’ll back off. When I get on the scent of something big, I pry wherever I can.”
Truman settled back in his seat, never taking his gaze from the reporter. “I don’t like your career choice.”
The reporter laughed, flashing perfect teeth. “I hear that a lot. But I give a voice to people who might never be heard. I think of it as helping out the little guy . . . sorta like what you do in your position.”
Truman’s annoyance multiplied. “Now—”
“My story last year on prescription drug abuse led to the arrest of more than twenty dealers. And two drug recovery programs stepped up to offer free help to the three mothers I featured whose lives had been turned inside out by their addiction. Results like that is why I do my job.”
Truman was silent.
“I already approached Agent Kilpatrick. She shut me down.”
Good.
“But as I looked at who else was at the scene and I dug deeper, I found you to be another anomaly.” Brody tilted his head, and his green stare seemed to penetrate Truman’s brain, probing and assessing. “The more I dug into you, the more I wanted to meet you face-to-face. The officer who nearly died trying to rescue a woman from a car explosion two years ago.”
Instant nausea triggered sweat at Truman’s temples.