“Well, hello there, handsome.”
A tall, willowy black woman in a tailored police uniform entered the holding area. She held a tray with grits, a biscuit, some eggs, bacon, and, because there was still a God in heaven, a large cup of coffee.
“You must be the underwear murderer.”
He tried to smile the smile that usually won over women. “I never killed a pair of underwear in my life.”
She chuckled as she placed the tray on the ledge by his cell. Her eyes traced the outline of his boxers. “You an Auburn fan?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He knew a football fan when he saw one. “Played for two years.”
“Is that right?” She started going through the keys on her belt. “What position?”
“Halfback,” he said. “Like O.J., but without the athleticism or promising future.”
She chuckled again, which he took as a good sign. “I can see you running through an airport with a briefcase.”
She had found the key.
He watched the cell door swing open. The smell of sweet freedom put some warmth back into his body, even though she stood there with the tray in her hands, blocking the exit.
“You look like the kind of guy who would end up on the cover of SEC Monthly.”
“Actually, I was on the cover of SEC Monthly.”
“Roll Tide, asshole.”
She dropped the tray on the floor.
The coffee exploded, much like his ego.
The cell door clanged shut.
He resisted the urge to fall to his knees and slurp the coffee off the dirty concrete. Instead, he sat back down on the metal bed. The cold didn’t seep so much as drill into his bones. Whatever was happening to the weather outside wasn’t good. He could practically feel the temperature dropping by the second.
The woman sat down at the desk.
She opened a drawer, took out a nameplate, and slapped it onto the desktop.
Sergeant A. Fuller.
She reached around and turned on the computer, then the giant monitor. A loud whir temporarily overwhelmed the ticking of the clock as the computer booted up. He rubbed his hands together. He was freezing, but he was also sweating. He thought of all the things he could say to Sergeant A. Fuller. I’m a cop, too, bitch. Has your chief called the sheriff I told him to call? Why am I in a holding cell? With what crime am I being charged? I demand to speak to a lawyer.
Go fucking War Eagles.
He reached down and grabbed the biscuit off the tray. Hard as a brick. Cold as his left foot. He shoved some frozen eggs and congealing bacon inside.
The phone rang.
A. Fuller picked up the receiver.
“Yes.” Then another, “Yes.” Her gaze slid toward him as she gave a throaty, “Uh-huh.”
She stood up from her desk and picked up the phone base, stretching the cord across the room to the cell.
She held out the receiver a few inches from the bars.
Jeffrey pressed his palms to his knees and pushed himself up. He shoe-socked his way over to the front of the cell and reached out for the receiver. She pulled it just slightly out of his grasp before letting him take it.
He cleared his throat before saying, “This is Jeffrey Tolliver.”
Hoss said, “Hey, Slick.”
He could’ve wept. “Hello, sir.”
“You had enough time to contemplate your many transgressions?”
He gripped the phone as he listened to Hoss chuckle. Obviously, the Helen chief of police had called the Sylacauga sheriff and they’d worked out a ten-hour penalty in the box.
“You told them to keep me locked up?”
“Aw, now, don’t let your pride get in the way. I figger I did you a favor considering you was caught wet, hungover, and standing over a dead woman with a brick of coke and some illegal guns.”
“That woman had a name.”
“You remembering their names now?” Hoss paused, and he could practically see the old man frowning down the line. “Tell me, Slick. Ain’t you gettin’ a little old for this kind of behavior?”
“The thought had occurred to me earlier in the day.”
“Nothin’ wrong with settlin’ down.” Hoss sounded disappointed, which was far worse than him sounding angry. “ ‘Course, what’ll happen is, you’ll meet some knockout gal, much smarter than you—which ain’t hard—and you’ll fall head over heels until you get her pinned down, then your eye will start wandering again and you’ll fuck it all up.” Hoss stopped to cough, which is what forty years of smoking cigars made you do. “On the plus side, she’ll be a good excuse not to settle down with every other girl who comes after her. The one that got away. Your little redheaded girl, to put it into Charlie Brown parlance.”
He leaned his head back against the bars. “I get the lesson, Hoss. Are you gonna let me out of here or not?”
“Chief Eustace DuPree is the man’s name. Nice fella. Worked three murder cases in his thirty-two-year career, all of them domestics, which means he arrested the husband and that was that.”
“Will he take my help?”
“Last I heard the DEA was sending some boys down from Cleveland to give DuPree a hand, but you know nobody likes that kind of help.”
DEA meant federal. They wouldn’t want help any more than the locals. Still, he lowered his voice. “There’s a few things I can follow up on.”
“Just try not to get arrested again.”
He heard the phone click as Hoss hung up. For Sergeant A. Fuller’s sake, he said, “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir. Thank you.” He handed the phone back through the bars, but A. Fuller was already sitting at her desk.
She nodded to the phone base.
“Hang it up yourself, Slick. The door’s not locked.”
Jeffrey tentatively pushed at the cell door. It swung open. He shoe-socked to the desk and hung up the phone. “Did you find those two guys in the blue truck?”
“Nope.”
“Did you find the black guy from the hotel?”
“You mean Homey D. Clown? Yeah, they got him locked up in the other jail.”
Jeffrey ignored the sarcasm and looked down at his shoes so she couldn’t see the hate in his eyes. “Does the chief want to talk to me?”
“I’d say that falls under the headline of ‘When Hell Freezes Over.’ ”
“I want to help.”
“I’m sure you do, Auburn, but we got it covered.” A. Fuller pulled a large brown paper evidence bag from a drawer. She took out his left shoe and offered it to Jeffrey. He put it on. She handed him a sock. He took off his right shoe and donned the sock. She handed him his jeans.
“Really?”
He grabbed them, slid off his shoes, slipped on the jeans, then shoved his feet back into his sneakers.
“No wallet?” he asked. “Pager? Keys? ChapStick?”
She dug around in the bag, a blank expression on her face. Just when he was about to give up, she tossed him his keys.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Tolliver.”
He should’ve let it slide, but he couldn’t. “Detective Tolliver. Good thing I didn’t bring my Sugar Bowl ring on this trip to your beautiful town.”
“You mean from back when you tied with Syracuse?” She snorted. “Weren’t we the only team that beat you that year?”
“I don’t remember seeing you on the bench, Sergeant.”
She rested her hand on the butt of her gun. “I can put your ass back in that cell and nobody’ll think to look for you till Monday.”
He let it go and walked into what turned out to be an empty squad room. Two desks, each with a phone and stacks of papers. He guessed the nice leather chair belonged to the chief, and the Kmart special lowered about an inch from the ground belonged to Paulson. The kid wouldn’t be able to stick his knees under the desk otherwise.