Page 42 of Brimstone Hollow

“We can handle this—”

“It’s going to be a lot easier for all of us if we combine our knowledge,” I say. And it’s true. Private investigators and cops often end up working well together, both sides getting information the other can’t.

Dishman crosses his arms and says, “I appreciate the offer, Miss Gore, but I’m not putting the resources of my department in the hands of someone who can’t follow orders or protocol and will most likely end up contaminating a crime scene because she can’t be bothered to wait around for backup, warrants, or clearance from the proper channels.”

I let out a frustrated growl, and he continues, “That stunt you pulled with the phone—”

“Was smart,” I say. “And it got us information we’d otherwise have waited weeks for.”

“Miss Gore, go back to Louisville. Tell your client—”

His voice is completely calm, and for some reason, that rankles me even more. “You just can’t admit that you’re out of your depth,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Instead of turning red or shouting at me, Dishman shakes his head and the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “Miss Gore,” he says calmly. “You need to understand something—”

But before he can tell me what that something is, Coroner Bradley comes rumbling up the drive in his big van. He jumps out, carrying his medical bag, and waves at all of us.

“You got another body?” he asks. Gavin points toward the garage.

Bradley’s even more suntanned now, after a morning on the water, than he was when I saw him at the Dairy. His mouth spreads in a dazzling grin and he says, “Well, hell, Miss Gore, you sure do know where the action is, don’t you?”

“Guess so,” I say, falling into step with him and Chief Dishman. We all head toward the side door of the garage.

“What’ve we got here, Chief?” Bradley asks, suddenly all business.

And before I can harangue him again about answering my questions, he ducks under the police tape and disappears into the scene. Chief Dishman follows him and Gavin goes trotting after them.

Left to myself, fed up with the heat, and denied access, I grumble some choice words about small-town coroners and cops and start back to the Bronco. I’m scrounging in my bag for a granola bar I’m sure I left in there a month ago when Dishman jogs up.

“Hey, you too pissed at me to give me a ride to the station?”

“Not even close,” I say, and realize it’s true.

“Thanks, I don’t want to take the cruiser and leave the guys here stranded.”

He climbs in, and as we roar back toward town with the windows down, he says, “Miss Gore, you’re not gonna go off looking for whoever it was that killed Dean Griffon, are you?”

“Of course I am,” I say. “It’s my job.”

“Well, it definitely isnotyour job.”

“Listen, I’m trying to work with you,” I say. “But if I can’t do that, I still have to do what I was hired to do. I’m not going to leave town until I know more about what happened to Ezra King. And I think whatever happened to him had something to do with whatever happened to Dean Griffon and, probably, Billy Shepherd.”

“So,” he says. “What’s your next step?”

I snort and say, “Beggars can’t be choosers. If you’re not going to share with me…”

He sighs, says nothing else. Recognizing the stalemate, I shrug and keep driving, thinking about what I need to do next: Find out who the driver of that silver truck on Griffon’s security footage was.

We turn onto a long straight stretch of road, and as we pass a leafy soybean field, Chief Dishman rests his arm on the window frame and lets his hand catch the breeze. I remember my dad doing the same thing. That same sound of the air cutting around his skin, that same distracted look of wistful longing, that same grasping for something without ever catching it.

Back in town, I pull up to the station and Dishman gets out, shuts the door, and says, “Stay out of trouble, Miss Gore.”

“Annie,” I say. “Call me Annie. And, you too.”

I pull away from the station, weaving around the blocked-off streets, and finally get to the other side of the square. I park beside the wrecker and see Tina sitting inside the air-conditioned cab, talking on the phone. The Memorial Day festivities are going even stronger than before and I get out and lean against the Bronco as I watch the crowd. A different band is playing on the stage, two young women with tattoos and fiddles. People clap along or dance. Little girls twirl around, spinning in church dresses. The heavy scents of fairground food, sweat, and spilled beer hang in the humid air.

Tina rolls down her window and shouts at me, “You hungry?”