“This is off the record,” Lindsey said, holding her mug of mulled wine with two hands. “And just to be clear, I mean way off the record. You cannot print any of this—not even without a source.”
Lindsey Davis had thick, dark hair, which she wore in a pin-straight, blunt-cut bob, the left side always tucked behind her ear. Her dark brown eyes were wide set with long lashes, giving her face a doe-like quality, which I think was what the no-nonsense hair was supposed to counteract. I could only imagine how tough it was to be a woman in her field in this part of the country, especially a young African-American woman.
I nodded. “Understood.”
“Okay, well, I really don’t know a whole lot more than what I told Will on the phone,” she said. “The federal agent in charge of the case against Tackett has been trying to persuade him to give up information about the Romero family’s drug operations. But Tackett has been locked up tighter than Fort Knox. He says if he utters one word against the cartel, he’ll be dead before breakfast. Then about a week ago, he tells this agent that he has some information about a crime that took place in Tuttle County when he was sheriff. He said he’d be willing to tell the state what he knows about that crime in exchange for ‘helping him out.’” She paused. “The agent naturally asked what crime he was referring to, and Tackett said, quote, ‘Albert Ellison’s supposed suicide.’”
“I knew it,” I said automatically. “I knew he didn’t kill himself.” Before I could stop it, a bubble of emotion crept up on me. I tried to bite it back but only succeeded in looking like someone who had just swallowed a frog. “I’m sorry…”
Lindsey looked down, giving me some privacy as I fought to collect myself. After a minute she said, “I can only imagine how painful this must be.”
I took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly. “I’ve been searching for answers since I was eighteen years old.” I paused, shaking my head. “I knew it couldn’t have been suicide, but no one believed me. Tackett made sure of that…but now—”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Riley,” she said, firmly cutting me off. “The feds were clear with me: They want to hold out for information about the cartel.”
“Who cares about the feds?” I leaned forward. “My grandfather was killed in Tuttle Corner, that’s your jurisdiction, right? Can’t you make a deal with Tackett? Recommend a transfer to Judge Giancarlo in exchange for the information?”
She started shaking her head before I had even finished talking. “It’s not that simple. They’ve warned me not to step on their toes. I could face a lot of static for doing it anyway.”
I sat, openmouthed, silenced by the injustice of the situation.
“I know,” Lindsey said, her large brown eyes filled with compassion. “I’m frustrated too.”
“I don’t understand.” I slumped back in my chair. “How can the government not care about who killed my grandfather? Do we all of a sudden not care about apprehending murderers?”
“As of now, the official cause of death in your grandfather’s case is a self-inflicted gunshot wound. In the eyes of the law there’s been no crime. There’s no case. And the government is looking at it through the lens of the DEA. If they can get to the leadership of the Romero cartel, they can potentially save thousands of lives.”
“But…”
“It’s also possible that Tackett’s lying. He’s certainly not above that,” Lindsey added.
I hadn’t considered for a second that Tackett was lying, probably because I knew in my heart all these years that he knew what happened to my grandfather. Flick knew it too. Flick. The thought hit me like lightning.
“Lindsey,” I said, scooting to the edge of the chair. “I’ve been working on the theory that my grandfather’s and Hal Flick’s deaths might be connected. What if the information Tackett has would do more than just shed light on an old case? What if it could help solve a murder that just happened?”
“Connected? How?”
I explained everything to her about the file and Flick’s unofficial investigation, the trip to Chincoteague, his cryptic phone calls, Granddad’s missing research.
“Have you told the Brunswick County sheriff about your suspicions?”
“I tried, but Sheriff Clark said there is literally almost nothing to go on in the investigation. No witnesses, no cameras—”
“Yeah, but this could provide a motive,” she said. “Sometimes that’s as effective as a witness in tracking down who committed a crime.”
“I guess, but I don’t have any hard evidence of the connection.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Then I suggest you get some.”
“Do you think that’d make a difference? If I could prove that the two deaths were related, could Tackett be forced to give testimony in that case?”
“No one can compel him, but if he has information about a person who has killed twice and is still at large? That might give me more leverage in defying the feds. I’m not saying it’s a slam dunk, but it’s better than what we have now.”
“Thank you, Lindsey,” I said, feeling as close to hopeful as I had in a long time.
She held up her mug. “To catching the bad guys.”
“And taking them down.” I held up mine and clinked it against hers.
We hung out for a little while longer and talked mostly about how she liked living in Tuttle. “It’s different from DC for sure,” she said, “but the people here are really nice, and the cost of living is great. I just wish I could meet more people our age. That’s been the hardest part.”
I could see Tuttle being a hard place to meet friends if you hadn’t grown up around here. Most Tuttleans in the sub-thirty-five age group were either lifelong residents who all knew one other or had married young and already had kids.
“We don’t exactly have a killer social scene around here, do we?”
Lindsey laughed. “Honestly, it’s fine. I work so much, I barely have time for a life, but there are moments when I miss going out to bars or concerts or whatever. That’s actually how I met Will.”
This surprised me. “You met Holman at a bar?”
She nodded. “Karaoke Night at Lipton’s Books & Brew.”
“I’m sorry—hold up.” I almost spit out my drink. “Holman sang karaoke?”
“Yeah, he was really good, too! He did a haunting rendition of ‘Blank Space.’”
That time, I really did spit a little of my Revolutionary Rum Runner out of my mouth. “Holman sang Taylor Swift?”
“He did this really slow, sexy version of it. Everyone went nuts. I mean, granted there were only like nine of us there, but it was amazing. He’s really talented.”
It was like she was describing a completely different person than the Will Holman I knew. I’d never so much as heard him sing along to the radio in the car, let alone belt out a pop anthem in front of a crowd. And to describe him as sexy? I was dying! Dying.
“What?” she asked. “Is that out of character or something?”
“No, it’s just you never know what you’re gonna get with Holman. He’s full of surprises.”