Doug Rothchild cried when I’d called to let him know I’d be featuring Myrna for the New Year’s Day edition of the paper. “Bless you, Riley,” he’d said. “She’dve been so honored.”
On my way out of work for the day, I stopped by Holman’s office to let him know I was heading home. He certainly didn’t need to know where I was every second, but checking in with Holman about my comings and goings from the office was a habit I’d gotten into. He’d often do the same to me as he passed by my cubicle on his way into or out of the newsroom. He was on the phone and held up a finger when he saw me in his doorway.
“I’m leaving,” I whispered. “Just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Stay,” Holman whispered back. His face looked serious as he returned to his phone conversation. “Yes, yes, okay. I understand.”
Something about his tone told me he didn’t like what he was hearing. I set down my bag and sat in the chair across from his desk.
“Okay, thank you, Lindsey,” he said. “Yes. I’ll tell her.” He pressed end and lowered the phone from his ear.
“What is it?”
Holman blinked, looked at me, then blinked again. “That was Lindsey Davis.” Lindsey Davis was the Tuttle County prosecutor. “Joe Tackett says he has information about a cold case and would be willing to trade it for a reduction in his sentence or a prison transfer.”
I knew even before Holman finished his sentence what case he was talking about. My heartbeat suddenly felt bigger inside my chest. I held my breath as Holman said the words.
“He says he knows who killed your grandfather.”
Tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I’d always suspected Joe Tackett had been involved in my granddaddy’s death—or at the very least, in covering it up. Tackett had been the sheriff of Tuttle County at the time, and I always thought he’d been too quick to close the case out as a suicide. Plus, he was a mean sonofabitch. I didn’t like to use the word hate, but my feelings for Joe Tackett came close. Then a few months ago my suspicions about him were confirmed when it came to light that Tackett had gotten in deep with a Mexican drug cartel and was looking the other way as they distributed their product in the region. My childhood best friend and Holman’s co-worker at the Times, Jordan James, figured out what was going on, and Tackett and the cartel had her killed. Holman and I worked the story together, and partly due to some good reporting (but mostly due to some ridiculously good luck), we managed to bring Tackett to justice without getting ourselves killed.
Just hearing his name filled me with a restless kind of rage. Tackett was as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks. He was all about selling his power to the highest bidder, and my gut told me—had been telling me for years—that his handling of Granddaddy’s death had been bought and paid for. This was the validation I’d been searching for.
“Let’s go see him. Tomorrow—no, tonight! We could leave right now.” I stood up, adrenaline coursing through my veins. “I wonder why he decided to talk now after all this time? Do you think it has something to do with Flick’s death? Wait—but no—he might not even have heard about that. I mean, he’s in prison, after all. Do they have access to newspapers? TV? Do you think he’ll talk to us? I’d think if he’s planning to give the authorities the information anyway, surely he’ll at least give us something…” My mind felt like it was filled with firecrackers.
Holman sat motionless and said nothing.
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go! If we leave now, we could get to Greensville Correctional before…well, okay, maybe you’re right—maybe it’s too late tonight. We’d better wait until the morning. Do you mind driving? I know I already owe you like a million dollars in gas, but I’ll pay you back, I promise. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Holman gave me a look that could only be described as pity. “Riley…”
“What? What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you freaking out—this is a huge deal, Holman.”
“Riley,” he repeated, his voice soft and gentle. “They’re not going to give him the deal.”
For a split second, the entire world stopped turning. “What?”
“Sit down, please.”
I sat.
“The DEA has been after Tackett to flip on members of the cartel, but he won’t cooperate. He says he might as well sign his death certificate if he does that.”
“So, what does that have to do with anything?”
“The feds aren’t interested in your grandfather’s case. They want the cartel. They’ve been in touch with Lindsey and have ‘encouraged’ her not to make a deal with him. They want to keep pressure on him.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Holman shook his head. “Lindsey thought you had a right to know.”
To say I was gobsmacked would have been an understatement. The federal government didn’t care about the murder of one of its citizens, a man who fought in the Korean War, a man who served his country as both a soldier and a journalist covering war zones? Albert Ellison was in many ways a hero—and not just to me. The fact that some asshat in the DEA would so flippantly reject information about his death was unacceptable.
“I want to talk to her.”
“It won’t do any good. It’s out of her hands,” Holman said.
“Still.”
“She said she was leaving for the day—”
“Then I’ll catch her,” I said. I grabbed my coat and was out of Holman’s office in three seconds flat.
CHAPTER 4
One of the benefits of living in a town the size of Tuttle Corner was that the majority of our businesses were distributed in a single square block around Memorial Park. On the south end of the park was the largest of the municipal buildings, the Tuttle County courthouse. From the Times newsroom on the east side of the square to the courthouse, it was about a four-minute walk. Three, if you were fueled by righteous indignation. I caught Lindsey Davis just as she was walking up to her car.
“Riley.” She did not seem surprised to see me.
“Can we talk?”
“There’s not much to talk about. I already told Holman everything I know. I’m sorry,” she said.
I believed her. Lindsey Davis had moved to Tuttle to take over the District Attorney spot after Kevin Monroe had been arrested for taking bribes in the Tackett corruption scandal. She agreed to move here from Washington, DC, as part of an American Bar Association program that helps pay down school debt if lawyers agree to practice in an underserved area for at least five years. She was young, probably under thirty, but was hardworking and had already earned the respect of the community.
“Please,” I said. “I need to understand.”
She sighed and was about to say no, I could feel it.
“I’m not asking as a reporter,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m asking as a granddaughter.”
She opened her car door, chucked her briefcase inside, and closed it again. “Fine, but let’s do this over a drink.”
We sat upstairs at James Madison’s Fish Shack, Lindsey on the distressed-leather loveseat and me across from her on the chintz club chair. The fireplace in the corner crackled and hissed and sent out a warm glow into the converted attic space. They still had their holiday decorations up, which added to the cozy feel. There was a handful of other people there, but Lindsey and I were tucked away into a corner so no one would hear us.