Evan’s next call was to Sheriff Chet Otis. Not to the office but to his personal phone. Evan had won the officer’s respect when the preacher refused to accept Bob Taggart’s suicide as the simple act of a distressed man.
“Hey, Chet.”
“Reverend.”
“I said you can stop calling me that.”
“And I told you to lay off all the greasy food.”
“Like you’re eating salad now? Are we still on good terms? I mean, unofficially?”
“Why? You got some unofficial s**t you need buried? Some unofficial documents you need to hide? Now, if you’ve got unofficial gossip, I’m all ears.”
Sheriff Otis is teasing me about Bob’s last will and testament. I don’t know which of us owes the other a favor now.
“Do you know where Deputy Griggs was this morning — at the beginning of his shift?”
“You think I don’t know ev
