But he hadn’t driven for Southwest for a couple years, Tom had said. “How often does Class A call you?”
Parnell gave a little laugh, devoid of humor. “Not as often as I need. Obviously.”
“When was the last time?”
“A week ago. No, two weeks. Long enough.”
“And what did you haul?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Electronics. Televisions, I think. I’m driving again this Friday.”
Casey pushed the photo toward him on the table. “And what is Owen Dixon giving you in this photo?”
He bit his lip and looked away. “Nothing.”
“I see.”
He blinked rapidly. “Nothing that matters to you.”
“Or to the cops?”
“Cops? You said you weren’t—”
“I said I wasn’t from the bank.”
He stood up so quickly his chair banged backward onto the floor. “What do you want?”
She held out her hands. “Whoa. I’m not from the cops, either. Relax. I’m sorry.”
His hands twitched more rapidly now. “I think you should go.”
“How did you get started with Class A Trucking, Mr. Parnell?”
“Please go.”
“Did they call you? Or did you call them?”
He stumbled around his chair and back down the hallway toward the front door. Casey put the photo back in her bag and followed. “Mr. Parnell? Did they call you?”
“They called me, okay? They called me and offered me a job. I took it. All right?” He swung the door open and stepped to the side. “Go now. Please.”
She hesitated, wanting to ask more about Owen Dixon and Randy Westing, and whoever it was that told them what to do—that boss Bruce Willoughby wouldn’t name.
Parnell jerked his hand toward the door. “Go. Please.”
Casey walked past him, stopping in the doorway. “If you want to talk any more, please call me. Okay? You have my number on your phone.”
His eyes widened, and he patted down his pockets. “My phone? On that phone?”
“Remember? I called you?”
He whimpered and ran back into the house, still searching his pockets. She heard a door opening, and Parnell talking to himself as he hunted. “What if they find it? What if they know she called?”
“Tragic case.” Death sat on one of the flowerbed’s raised brick borders, playing a violin. The melancholy tune hovered in the air, a perfect accompaniment for the depressing surroundings. Casey listened, waiting for Parnell’s return, but when he didn’t come back after several minutes she headed for her car, getting in without too much personal trauma.
Death stopped playing. “Did you happen to take a look at the photos in the kitchen?”
“Sure. His kids, and a football team. Is his son old enough for that?”
“Hardly. He’s only six.”
“So who was it?”
Death ran the bow across the strings. “Parnell.”
Casey blinked. “He’s got nothing in the entire house, but puts a photo of his high school football team on his counter?”
Death filled the passenger seat. “It’s really very sad. Some men just can’t mature past high school.” The violin shrank to adjust to the interior of the car, but the tune was just as mournful.
“Let’s go see what that database can tell us about our new friend, Pat Parnell,” Casey said. She turned the key and backed away from Parnell’s wasteland of a home.
Chapter Nineteen
The trip back wasn’t as bad as the trip there, but that was probably because Casey was thinking more about Pat Parnell than she was about driving the trunk.
“I think you do better in that seat than this one,” Death said, bowing a riff on the violin. “You’re going a whole forty-five miles per hour this time. And you’re not even sweating.”
“Prepare to exit freeway in two miles,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said.
Casey couldn’t figure out exactly what had Pat Parnell so freaked out. He was afraid of cops, looked like hell, and about had a conniption when she mentioned her number being on his phone. She had to wonder—which came first? His deterioration or his job with Class A Trucking? He was obviously losing it—not only his health and sanity, but his home. How long could he keep that truck in the driveway? Unless it was paid off.
“How much would a truck like that cost?”
Death laid down the violin. “Don’t know. A lot, I would think.”
“So how can he afford it?”
“Seems to me he’s keeping it for last.”
A truck blew by them in the passing lane, and Casey’s heart rate skyrocketed. “Why do they drive so fast?”
“Time is money, darling. Time is money.” Death plucked the Dire Straits tune Money for Nothing.
“Prepare to exit freeway onto Wickham Street,” Laura said. “After turning right, remain on current road.”
Casey eased the truck onto the off ramp at the same time Terry’s phone rang on the seat.
“Can you see who it is?”
Death squinted at the screen. “Your good friend Bailey. She wants to know ‘whr r u?’ Want to reply?”
“No!” Casey snatched the phone off the seat and stuck it in the pocket on the side of the door. “She’ll just have to wait to find out.”
“Touchy, aren’t you?”
A Wendy’s restaurant sat just off the exit, and Casey went through the drive-thru, eating chili and a baked potato in the parking lot.
“Aren’t you going to offer me any?” Death asked.
“No.”
“Fine.” Death pulled out the rubber band. Casey somehow refrained from retaliating with a wad of sour cream.
Casey followed Laura’s directions to a large gray building with a huge sign out front. DEERFIELD TRUCKING. This outfit looked larger than Tom’s Southwest, and the parking lot held at least fifteen cars.
“People,” Casey said.
“They’re just all over the place, aren’t they?”
Casey mulled over her options for getting inside, and decided to try the hospital again. This time Bruce Willoughby answered his phone. He sounded exhausted.
“Hi, Bruce,” Casey said. “You doped up too much, or do you remember me?”
“He says to meet him tonight. Behind the grocery store at the end of town.”
“Who says?”
He hesitated. “Randy.”
And all his homeboys? Probably. “What time?”
“He’ll let you choose.”
Casey laughed at Westing’s attempt to make her feel like she had control of the situation. “Okay. Now.”
Bruce hiccupped. “Now?”
“Sure. I want to talk to him, he wants to talk to me. Let’s get it done.”
“But I can’t…he said…”
She knew he wouldn’t go for it. “You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”
“No. I don’t.”
Right. “I told you I wanted his number.”
“I’m sorry, he told me not to—”
“Okay, okay. Tell him midnight.” Might as well go with dramatic. “But no funny stuff. And I want to see just him. Not the whole crowd of them.”
“Really? Midnight? I mean, good. That’s good. I’ll let him know.” Casey could hear Bruce’s relief. Randy had probably told him to get her to agree to his plan or else. Or else what she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have been good.
“Thanks, Bruce. Hope you feel better soon.” She hung up on his sputtering.
“Well,” she said, “at least there won’t be customers that time of night.”
“Could be a few employees, though,” Death said. “Stocking shelves and cleaning.”
“We’ll just have to avoid them. Just how I have to avoid the people here.”
“You know he won’t come alone,” Death said.
“Of course not.”
“And what would you have done if he’d agreed to meet you right now?”
“I knew he wouldn’t. He needs time to get his men in position. Now be quiet.” She dialed Deerfield’s number, hoping Terry had unlimited calling, and a receptionist answered cheerfully.