High Country Cop. Cynthia Thomason

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СКАЧАТЬ chuckled. “It’s no secret that Mitch, and most everybody else in town, would like to see Dale locked up for good, but you’re going to investigate anyway, aren’t you?”

      “Of course. Since I’m so close to the station, I’ll stop on my way and see who’s on duty today. I doubt I’ll have any trouble at the Jefferson place, but it never hurts to know who my backup is.”

      He drove the last few blocks of downtown Holly River, an area that was familiar and comforting to Carter. The town consisted of quaint streets, a few mom-and-pop restaurants and shops, churches and a small college. There was one traffic light in the middle of everything, which was conveniently located between the police station and his brother’s mountain adventure business, High Mountain Rafting. Carter noticed Jace’s SUV in the parking lot of High Mountain and figured Jace was preparing for the day’s first white-water trip. In view was Sawtooth Mountain, the highest peak in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

      Once he determined that Sam McCall, the department’s newest rookie and Carter’s friend, was his backup, Carter left the station and headed out in the direction of Laurel Hollow Road, where the Jefferson clan had lived for decades. The fifteen-minute drive to Liggett Mountain would take Carter from the charming ambiance of sleepy Holly River to the run-down shabbiness of the cabins outside town. This was the part of the county the tourists never saw and the part where few residents ever managed to escape their poverty.

      He smiled when he remembered Betsy’s warning when he’d left. “You take care, Carter,” she’d said. She was almost like a favorite aunt and never failed to issue similar warnings to all of Holly River’s eight officers.

      Soon the terraced, manicured lawns of Holly River’s more prosperous residents gave way to the scrub and unkempt forested areas of the folks who couldn’t afford gardeners, HOA bills or even ride-on lawnmowers. Some of the lawns, if a guy could even call them that, hadn’t been tended in years and had been taken over by rocks and dry, sandy soil.

      An old tire with a weary-looking mailbox post sprouting from its center marked the Jefferson cabin, the one Dale’s parents had left to their oldest son—the one where the younger brother, Lawton, lived now after getting out of prison. Lawton hadn’t been as lucky as his older brother. He’d been caught red-handed spray painting the mayor’s BMW. That might not have landed him in the state penitentiary, but the twenty pounds of freshly manufactured methamphetamine next to the illegal firearm in the trunk of his old Buick did—for eight years.

      As he pulled up the gravel drive to the house, Carter couldn’t help noticing how worn out this place was. He didn’t know why the battered chimney, looking like a mouth of missing teeth, was still standing. And surely the dozen patches on the shingle roof didn’t keep the rain out. Carter figured there wasn’t much extra cash for repairs. Dale’s part-time jobs barely kept the electricity on and oil heat burning in the winter.

      Carter climbed the three steps leading to the narrow porch, careful to avoid the holes in the rotting wood. He knocked on the front door and waited.

      After a minute, Dale answered, wearing flannel pants and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He scowled at Carter. “What is it this time, Carter? What’re the folks in town accusing me of now?”

      As usual Dale appeared unkempt and soiled. His dark hair hung in limp strands to his shoulders. His face was gaunt. But strangely he didn’t look particularly tired, like he wasn’t out at one o’clock in the morning when the robbery supposedly took place. Dale grabbed the loose hair around his shoulders, pulled it all back to his nape and let it fall again. A tall man, he seemed thinner, more wiry than he had in recent years. His eyes were lined in the corners. His cheeks seemed high and hollow. If Dale was practicing a life of thievery again, Carter wondered why he didn’t target the supermarket in town. At least his thievery would benefit his health.

      “Where were you last night, Dale?” Carter asked. “About one in the morning.”

      “Just leaving the Muddy Duck,” he said. “Came home right after.”

      “Can anyone verify that?”

      “Sure. Sheila was there all night. She’ll tell you she and I were the only ones in the bar that late.”

      Carter nodded. Great. Dale’s on-again, off-again girlfriend who tended bar at the Duck would vouch for Dale anytime.

      “We have a witness who says your vehicle was parked behind the hardware store on County Road 17.”

      “That’s right,” Dale said. “I didn’t know there was a law against parking on a county road.”

      “There’s not,” Carter said. “But the hardware store is more than a block from the tavern, so why did you park there?”

      “I had a good reason. There’s a particular lady I didn’t want to see the Jeep in the area.” He grinned in a conspiratorial man-bonding way that meant nothing to Carter. “You know how it is, Carter. We can’t let all our lady friends know what we’re up to, now, can we?”

      “Did you see any unusual activity along the road when you left?” Carter asked. “Maybe anyone sneaking around the hardware store?”

      “Nope. The whole area was as quiet as a church.”

      Carter took his phone from his pocket and reread an email he’d received that morning from the officer on duty. It contained a list of items gone missing from the store. Only twenty bucks had been left in the cash register by the owner. The full amount had been stolen, but the store owner, Carl Harker, was moaning as if he’d lost a fortune. One item caught Carter’s eye. He looked up at Dale. “You planning to start a garden anytime soon, Dale?”

      “That’s an odd question, Carter. You know most of my food comes from the Baptist Food Bank. Why would I grow my own?”

      “Just curious,” Carter said. Hoping Dale would slip up and mention some of the stolen property, Carter wasn’t about to tell Dale that a dozen irrigation hoses were taken, along with several pole-type sprinklers. He evaded by saying, “Seems like whoever took this stuff is planning to cultivate a crop in a major way.”

      “Wouldn’t be me, Carter. I got enough work on my hands with my chickens and them goats out back.”

      “Mind if I have a look around your place just the same?”

      “You have a warrant, Carter?”

      He didn’t, and by the time he requested one from the county judge, if Dale was the proud owner of a new sprinkling system, the evidence would be nowhere to be found. “I’ll come back with a warrant if I need one, but for now I’ll just keep my eyes open for any new crops going in,” he said.

      Dale leaned against his door frame. “You know how it is...folks around here are always cultivating one thing or another, always waiting for a bumper crop.” He gave Carter another grin. “Is there anything else?”

      “I think I’ll have a word with Lawton. Is he here?”

      Dale jutted his thumb toward the back of the house. “He just got some company. The two of them are in the backyard discussing something, but I don’t suppose it will bother them if you interrupt. Besides, you know the person who showed up this morning out of the blue.”

      Carter carefully maneuvered the steps to the ground. “I’ll just go around back, then. And, Dale...”

      “Yeah?”

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