Spied on her. Lain in wait for her. Nick's foot pressed the accelerator. This bastard wasn't getting away from him.
He was one car away from Lindstrom. The elderly man ahead puttered along in an old, rusted Cadillac that put out a cloud of smoke. Every time Nick tried to pass, the car weaved toward the left. Nick honked the horn to indicate he needed to pass. The old man gave him the finger. Surprised and infuriated, Nick checked oncoming traffic, then roared by the ancient Cadillac. The guy gave him the finger again and laid on the horn. Nick quelled the impulse to return the obscene gesture, but he couldn't resist blasting his own horn. He wanted to pull the guy over, but he had to concentrate on Lindstrom, who was getting away.
The Cavalier shot around a pickup truck, nearly colliding with a car coming in the opposite lane. Nick nosed near the pickup, whose bed was loaded with a couch, a chair, a dresser, a stained mattress, and dozens of boxes. The guy deserved a ticket. Nothing in the bed of the truck was secured properly and looked like it could come flying off at any moment.
Which is exactly what happened. Nick had drawn close, watching for a break in traffic so he could pass, when a box took flight. He saw it coming and flinched even before it slammed against his windshield. Pillows, sheets, towels, and underwear engulfed his car. He swerved right, his front tire hitting dirt and sending gravel spitting through the air. He eased back onto the pavement, mentally taking down the license number of the pickup. The driver would be receiving a citation tomorrow.
Smaller debris shot from the truck as Nick pulled to the left and accelerated. When he passed the driver's window, he saw a moon-faced man with a vacant expression bobbing his head and singing. Nick blasted his horn and rolled down the opposite window. The sound of a Garth Brooks song blared from the pickup. The driver looked at him blankly.
"Stuff is falling off your truck!" Nick shouted. The guy nodded and smiled amiably. "Pull over!" This time another amiable smile accompanied by a thumbs-up signal. What the hell did that mean? Nick jerked his badge from beneath his suit jacket and held it up. "Listen, shithead, stuff is falling off your truck!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Pull OVER!"
The guy's benign smile faltered. He looked in his rearview mirror. Then he slowed and began creeping off the road, leaving a trail of household items behind him. Nick didn't have time to fool with him, either. Dammit, where was the highway patrol when you needed them?
Lindstrom's Cavalier sped at least ten miles over the speed limit. He passed another car and gained even more speed. "Damn!" Nick muttered as traffic grew heavier. He'd probably never catch the jerk now. While cops on television never missed an opportunity to launch a high-speed chase, real-life cops were more careful in traffic. The danger of killing innocent people was too great.
Then the white Cavalier wavered and shot violently to the right, tilting slightly. "Blew a tire!" Nick shouted in glee. The car slowed and edged off the road. Two cars passed before Nick whipped up behind it. He leaped out of his car as Lindstrom slowly climbed from his. Lindstrom gave Nick an uncertain look, then threw him a guileless smile. "Thanks for stopping to help. I never was too good at changing tires."
"You know damned well I didn't stop to help with your tire."
Lindstrom's smile disappeared. He tried to look wary. "Hey, what's your problem?"
"My problem is that I'm the sheriff and I've been trying to get you to pull over since you left the church."
"I didn't know you were the sheriff!" He glanced at Nick's Intrepid. "That's not a police cruiser. I thought you were some nut trying to run me off the road."
He was lying. He'd seen Nick at Lily's store. Then at the church his gaze had directly met Nick's before he'd jumped in his car and taken off as fast as he could. But Nick had no proof, so he had to let the matter drop. "Why were you at Tamara Hunt's funeral?"
"I… well… curiosity." Nick stared at him hard. "Okay, I know how sick that sounds, but hear me out. I'm a reporter with the Cincinnati Star. I'm on vacation, and I came up here to see what I could find out about these murders. I've always wanted to write a true-crime book like Small Sacrifices. Ever hear of it?"
"Ann Rule."
"Hey, you read!" Jeff grinned.
"Learned in elementary school."
"I didn't mean it that way," Jeff said quickly. "I just meant that… well, maybe you didn't have time to read."
"I don't care what you meant. So you want to write a book. Is that why you've been asking so many questions about Tamara and Warren Hunt and Charlotte Bishop?"
"Yes."
"That's why you cornered Natalie St. John on a deserted road and gave her the third degree?"
"I didn't corner her," Jeff said hotly. "I just ran into her. It was daylight. Did she tell you I tried to hurt her or something?"
"No, but she said she had a hard time getting away from you."
"Maybe I talked too much. Hey, she's a good-looking woman, don't you think?" Nick stared at him expressionlessly. "Look, I didn't mean to scare her. I was just talking."
"You were asking a lot of questions." He paused. "And what were you doing with Tamara Hunt's earring?"
"Earring? I don't know what you're talking about."
"It fell out of your pocket while you were just talking to Natalie. Where did you get it?"
"Oh, the earring. I found it. Out on that road."
"And what are you-a bag lady in disguise? You squirrel away bits and pieces of things you find?"
Jeff glared at him. "No, Sheriff. Frankly, I did think it might be Tamara's. I was going to bring it to you."
"Oh, were you?"
"Yes."
"But when you discovered your pocket was empty, you didn't call me up and say, 'Sheriff, I found an earring on Hyacinth Lane that might have been Tamara Hunt's, but I lost it. It's probably still out there somewhere.' "
"What would have been the point of that?"
"If you're such a fan of true-crime novels, you'd know we might have learned something from that earring. I don't think you ever had any intention of turning it in to the police."
"Think what you want," Jeff snapped.
"Did you talk to Charlotte Bishop the night of her murder?"
"What?"
"You're not hard of hearing, Lindstrom."
"No, I didn't talk to her."
"Her mother says she saw Charlotte talking with someone fitting your description right before she left the house that night."
Jeff raised his arms helplessly. "I didn't know Charlotte Bishop."
"That isn't what I asked."
"Why would I be talking to her?"
"Your book."
"What would she have to do with my book? She hadn't been murdered when I was supposedly seen talking with her. I don't know what the hell this is all about, but-" Lindstrom seemed ready to burst into a tirade, then got control of himself. He flashed the grin that was beginning to grate on Nick's nerves. "Sheriff, doing this book means a lot to me. I'm sorry if you don't like me asking Natalie St. John questions. I'm sorry I didn't mention the earring. I'm new at this stuff." The grin. "But can't you cut me a little slack? How about letting me in on this investigation? When the book comes out, you'll be prominently featured in the acknowledgments. I promise."
"I don't care about your book," Nick said coldly. "Just stay out of my way."
Jeff's grin vanished. "I didn't have any intention of getting in your way, but you can't stop me from asking questions and doing a little digging of my own."