Page 38 of The River We Remember

Terry Quinn stormed toward the sheriff’s desk. Hector, who’d been lying quietly on the floor at Brody’s side, stood, and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

“It’s okay, boy,” Brody said. He patted the dog and Hector sat, still alert. “Afternoon, Terry.”

“I came about my father.”

“I figured. Have a seat.” Brody indicated the old office chair that Asa Fielding usually occupied.

Terry Quinn ignored the offer. He stood looking down at the items Brody had laid out on the desk. “What are you doing?”

“Police work.”

“Is all this evidence?”

“Maybe.”

“Of what?”

“I won’t know exactly until I’ve gathered all the facts. I’m still working on that, Terry. And by the way, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Quinn very much resembled his father. He was a couple of years older than Brody, every bit as big as Jimmy Quinn had been and with Jimmy Quinn’s mane of flaming red hair. He was a farmer, as his father had been, though he had a long way to go before he farmed on the same scale. The land Terry Quinn had bought was two counties to the east.

Quinn said, “Murder, I heard. Noah Bluestone. Is that true?”

“I don’t have all the facts, but I’m not thinking it was anything like murder.”

“Dad fires Bluestone and the next thing you know someone opens him up with a shotgun? Come on, Dern, only an idiot wouldn’t see the connection.”

“I don’t even have an official autopsy report yet. So, Terry, I’m going to ask that you don’t go jumping to any conclusions or making any accusations. When I have more, I’ll let you know. That’s a promise.”

“Bluestone’s always hated us Quinns. Accused us of stealing his family’s land. Everybody knows that.”

“I don’t.”

“Then like I said, you’re an idiot.”

Brody slowly sucked in a breath. “Is there anything else, Terry? Because I’ve got work to do here.”

“You screw this up, Dern, I’ll see that you never wear a badge again.” Which was something Brody could imagine Jimmy Quinn saying.

Quinn’s eyes settled on the shotgun in Brody’s gloved hands.

“You recognize it?” Brody asked.

“My father’s pride and joy. His Tolley. What are you doing with it?”

“I think it’s the firearm that killed him.”

“It was a special piece. He usually only took it when he was going to shoot with someone he wanted to impress. What the hell was he doing with it out on Inkpaduta Bend?”

“Like I said, Terry, we’re still investigating.”

“And you’ll let me know what you find out?”

“I’ll let you know.”

The jailhouse door opened and Connie Graff walked in. “Well, now. Terence Quinn. How’re you doing, son?”

“My father’s dead. What do you think? I’m here to see what you’re going to do about his murder and about that damn Bluestone.”