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“You sneaky bastard,” Luther’s father said, with a hint of admiration. “I should have known you’d be behind this.”
They hadn’t gotten anything else out of Virgil Rutledge after he’d dropped his crazy-ass, unintelligible bombshell at the end of the interview. Rather than waiting for calls back on the drug dealer angle, Luther had gone straight to the source.
Pop sat across from Luther in the file room, wearing his usual white T-shirt and dark, crisp jeans, but his mini pompadour was slightly lopsided. He hadn’t been officially booked, and the Sheriff didn’t even know he’d been picked up. Luther was playing more than a little fast and loose with the rules, and he was doing his best to insulate everyone around him, to make sure if anyone went down for this, it would be Luther and Luther
