The call to Dag was short and to the point. I filled him in on the Mayfield case, and he agreed to look into it for me. That’s the benefit of being an ex-cop with friends still in the field. And I think it gave him something else to do while I busied myself with his case. We agreed on a time to meet during the following week—not much time to conduct as thorough of an investigation that I’d like, but he was short on time. Hanging up the phone, I got to work. I had a missing girl to look for—and Dag’s case to work on. But even while I was busy with calls and research, I couldn’t ignore Jared or the heat that radiated off him.
“Jared,” I said more tersely than I’d intended. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. I hope you don’t mind staying late tonight.”
“Not at all,” he said without hesitation. “Let me know what you need me to do.”
While the word me instantly came to mind, I knew that wasn’t what needed to be said. Instead, I adjusted myself in my seat, cleared my throat, and started dolling out tasks. Hopefully staying busy would help me like it was Dag—and I’d stop thinking about making use of the desk in ways that had nothing to do with work.
The sun was hanging overhead, its punishing rays beating down as I walked through the parking lot to enter Mills Diner. I should’ve known better than to wear the black t-shirt I had on, but it was all I had clean, and I had pressing matters to worry about—such as meeting up with my old buddy, Dag. Thankfully, the place wasn’t bustling with too many people, so when I went inside, he was already seated at a booth in the back.
I ignored the staff behind the counter, even though my mouth salivated at the aroma of cheap coffee and slapped the file folder I’d been holding on to the table.
“Thought that was you,” I muttered before sitting down on the cracked vinyl.
Dag pulled out his earbuds and twined the cord around one finger. He lifted a folder of his own from the seat and slid it across the table. “Please tell me you’re going to eat. I’m starving.” He massaged his forehead. “Christ, is that fucked up? I’ve still got to eat, right?”
Using three fingers, I pushed my folder in front of him. “I could eat. A burger sounds good right about now.”
Flipping open the folder, Dag scanned the pages for a moment; some of the pictures slid out, and he glanced at them before stuffing them back in. He slapped the folder shut again, dropped it on the table, and put his head in his hands. “Do they serve beer here? Tell me they have beer.”
I scoffed as I ignored the folder and took in his rumpled clothes and short, gray hair. “It’s a diner. What do you think?” Though, what I really wanted to ask him was why he wanted a beer in the middle of an afternoon.
“This is bad.” Dag tapped the folder. “This is really bad, isn’t it? I can see it. You’ve got no poker face. Strip poker? Please, you’d be naked in five seconds.” He sat back, crossed his arms, and said, “Just tell me if it’s really bad. That’s all I’m asking. I need it to be bad, but fuck me; I just need you to tell me before I read it.”
Folding my arms together, I leaned them on the table and looked Dag straight in the eye. He wanted no bullshit, so I wasn’t going to give any to him. “For starters, it’s a good thing we aren’t playing strip poker because you don’t want to see this naked. But also, it’s not good. Mason Comeaux’s falling apart. The photographs in that folder will tell you everything you need to know. While his house is in shambles, his home life isn’t any better. Mary Ann moved out a few weeks ago, and he seems to have given up. It looks like he doesn’t even know how to start a lawn mower anymore, for fuck’s sake.”
For a moment, Dag just sat there, biting his lower lip. Then he shrugged and said, “Guess he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.” He unfolded one of the thin napkins, pinning it to the table between his hands, the paper stretched so tight that it split along one edge. “Mason’s . . . he’s dead. And fuck, you are going to hear all of it one way or another. He went crazy. I had to . . . Jesus, I had to stop him, and then it just happened. He was going to kill this kid.” He stopped, staring at the white square between his hands, and then he balled it up and batted it toward the floor. “Paid leave until they figure this out, but there’s no possible way of figuring it out, so I guess I’m saying, that,” he nodded at the folder, “is the last thing I’m going to be able to get you for a while.”
Dag might’ve thought I had a terrible poker face, but I kept my face as stoic as possible as I reached across the table to tap the folder I’d given him. I had a lot of questions running through my mind, but I wasn’t someone who pried into someone else’s business unless I was paid to do so. But it explained why he wanted a beer. “Then who emptied his bank account?”
“Huh?”
Tap. Tap. Tap. “It’s all in the folder. I included the bank transaction. His account was emptied less than a week ago.”
“Jesus.” Dag stared at the folder, but he didn’t open it. He just muttered again, “Jesus.” Then, wiping his face, he said, “Yeah, ok. Thank you. I guess . . . maybe drugs? I mean, how do you explain something like this? His mom plays tennis with my mom. What’s the fucking warm up? Take a few swings, limber up that tennis elbow. Hey, sorry again my boy killed your boy.”
I shrugged and grabbed the file he’d given to me. “You’re asking the wrong guy. All I can tell you is good luck.” I flipped the folder open to stare at the papers, but I’d rather hear what he had to say before reading all the words that seemed to jumble together. “Tell me about Cassandra Mayfield and Cyprus Manor.”
“Right.” Dag sat up a little straighter, retrieved his phone, and tapped through several screens. “Twenty-three years old. White. Female. It looks like the investigation started pretty hot. The family filed a missing person report, and the DuPage Sheriff’s Department took it seriously. Nothing gets the buzzards flapping like a rich white girl vanishing, and the sheriff wanted Cassandra back home before the AP could send it out. The deputies he put on it are solid guys, Castanera and Fletcher. They had a line on a ‘person of interest,’” Dag drew the quotes with one hand, “who was, of course, a Black man who had the bad luck of taking odd jobs in the Mayfields’ neighborhood. The guy was new to the area, he’d been in Leakesville for a possession charge, and he immediately moved up to number one on their list.” Dag sat back and shrugged. “You can guess how far they got with him.”
I leaned back in the booth, the sound of the vinyl crackling under my weight penetrating my ears. “I’m assuming they found nothing to hold the guy. Especially with no hard evidence to pin it on him.”
Making a sound of disgust, Dag shook his head. “They didn’t even get that far. Dante Coleman slipped and accidentally put his head through a noose. They found him a few days later. Castanera and Fletcher are pretty sure the Mayfields weren’t involved, at least, not directly, but some good old boys decided to take matters into their own hands. Castanera and Fletcher kept digging. The more they dug, the less they found. Dante Coleman hadn’t done jack shit since getting out of Leakesville--just a guy trying to make a living.”