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Chapter 11-1

11

The Public Defender’s office was located on the edge of downtown Hainey. The heart of the town was a square about four blocks by four blocks. Like a lot of old downtowns, it was undergoing restoration. The main street was lined with new planters and park benches and freshly planted trees, while one of the side streets was being repaved. Not all of the buildings were occupied, but none of them were derelict. Most were two stories, with none above three. I know nothing about architecture, but the mix of styles and building materials was pleasing to the eye.

The mix of occupants, or rather the lack thereof, was less pleasing. I saw a couple of upscale restaurants and a few sandwich-type eateries that were only open for lunch. They were obviously catering to the courthouse crowd. As someone who spends a fair amount of time around courthouses, there are few crowds I like less than the courthouse crowd. Their spoor was everywhere here. There were several law offices and an expensive-looking one-hour dry cleaner. The bail bonds place right across from the courthouse must have been grandfathered in to the newly fashionable area. (In their defense, they had painted the building an eggshell with kelly green trim and toned down the neon signs.)

As I left downtown, it became apparent that the rejuvenation effort hadn’t spread far. Most of the places on the main street into town looked respectable, meaning they mowed their grass and didn’t have burglar bars, but they looked faded. Beyond the main street, things got downright depressing. Like so many towns, the only vitality (i.e., money) was at the seat of power, with none left for the people who were subject to it.

Mike had given me a map, so I headed in the direction of the Thomases’ old neighborhood. The scene of the crime. In the last twenty-five years, the mom-and-pop stores Noel mentioned had been swallowed up, and the only evidence of vacant fields was an occasional empty weedy lot. As near as I could tell, the spot their house had stood on was now a Dollar store. There were a few loiterers, and even a few residences left in the area, so I did a quick canvas, expecting to find nothing. I wasn’t disappointed. No one remembered them; no one remembered the crime.

It was time to find a place to roost. Prison visits were on the schedule again tomorrow, so I drove about half an hour up 231 to be closer to the interstate in the morning. Just finding a clean place that didn’t reek of cigarettes or have dead roaches on the AC unit gave me a little thrill. (Being an investigator lowers your standards pretty quickly.) Having gotten my bag and the trial attorney file settled on the extra bed, I was eyeing the unsullied mattress with longing when an alarm went off.

The noise filled my ears with the insistence reserved for electronic devices and small children. Like most people, my instinct and great desire was to blame the disturbance on a neighbor, but it seemed to originate in my own room. When I followed the shrill repeating noise to one of my bags, it occurred to me that the sound must be a cell phone. Next thought—wait for it—my cell phone. Oh yeah, I do have a cell phone. I hate it and only use the beast on road trips. Even then I have a convenient habit of leaving it in the car. I must have forgotten to forget it. “Hello?”

“Sydney?”

“Yes?”

“You’re new to the world of telephones, aren’t you? This is Richard.”

“Oh, hi Richard. Just cell phones. What’s up?” I’d forgotten I’d given him my cell phone number.

“What are you doing for dinner?”

I walked to the window and looked out at the strip of fast food hell. “Well, I hear there’s this great French restaurant right across the street, but I don’t have reservations and this is the high season.”

He laughed. “Forget it. You’ll never get in. I got René off on a stalking charge a few months ago and even I need a reservation. I’ve got a better idea. Where are you staying?”

I told him. “My wife has plans tonight, and the kids are off being teenagers, so what do you say to some heavy-duty carb loading? There’s a decent Italian restaurant a few miles from your motel. I’ll pick you up.”

I agreed. After he hung up, I automatically pulled the waist of my pants forward, tugging at the top of my underwear to see what I was wearing. Good—nothing grandma or ratty. I blushed, whether because the ritual was automatic or because it was triggered by dinner with a married man I wasn’t sure. Men aren’t the only ones sometimes governed by organs other than the brain. At least I hadn’t sniffed my pits, I thought, right before heading to the bathroom to apply more deodorant.