The Lover
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“Stephanie’s car was not near one of the security lights and it was going on ten when she was last seen. In the darkness—”
“Has that new hotshot detective from Memphis shown up?” Ed asked abruptly.
“He’s here now.”
“Are you turning Stephanie’s case over to him?”
“He’s my new chief investigator, so technically that puts him in charge, but I plan to stay involved, to keep close tabs on the case.”
“We aren’t going to find her alive,” Ed said. “And you and I both know it.”
“I’m afraid you’re probably right,” Bernie agreed. But what if they never found Stephanie—dead or alive? Her family would continue to suffer for weeks, months, even years, always hoping beyond hope that out there somewhere she might still be alive. The odds of that were slim to none.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point in manning another search, is there?”
“I don’t think so. If I thought it would do any good, we’d do it, but …”
“If anything turns up, you’ll let me know immediately.”
“Yeah, if it does, you’ll be the first person I contact.”
“Thanks, Bernie. And say hello to your dad.”
“Sure will.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear. Bernie placed the receiver down on the telephone base and stared off into space for several minutes. The most difficult part of her job was dealing with her very feminine emotions. Just because she’d been elected sheriff didn’t mean she could simply turn off her nurturing, maternal, caretaker-to-the-world instincts. Yes, she was as smart as any man, as good a shot as any deputy on the force, knew the law better than most, and worked diligently to be half as good a sheriff as her dad had been. And although she’d been accepted by the male deputies from day one and she thought she had earned their respect, she knew that because she was a woman, her every action was scrutinized.
A knock on the door gained her attention. “Yes?”
The door opened a fraction and Jim Norton peered into her office.
She motioned for him to come in, but he simply shoved the door open wider to show her that he had his arms filled with the items he’d been issued. Uniforms, “campaign” hat, a Glock 22, Sam Browne belt, holster and cuff case, a retractable baton, radio, pepper spray, badge, and ID card.
“I’m taking these out to my truck,” he told her. “After that, I’m ready whenever you are.”
As he stood there, she surveyed him quickly from head to toe. He stood six-three. Weighed two-twenty-five. Was forty years old. All info she’d read about him in his file. But nothing in his file described the man’s rugged good looks. He wore his dark brown hair cut short and neat. His attire was casual—old jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots. But the one aspect of his physical appearance that Bernie found the most interesting was his eyes. Blue blue. Sky blue. And quite a contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Where are you parked?”
“My truck’s in the designated parking lot.”
“Okay, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes. The jail is across the street, at the end of the block. We’ll walk.”
Upon arrival at the Adams County jail, an updated building that Sheriff Granger told Jim had housed the jail for the past half century, she introduced him to forty-something Lieutenant Hoyt Moses, a burly six-foot redhead with a boisterous laugh and seemingly good-natured disposition.
“Hoyt’s in charge here,” Bernie said. “He has three sergeants and eighteen deputies working under him.”
When they reached the area that housed the investigators’ offices, both the criminal and narcotics divisions, she paused in the hallway. “Look, these guys have worked together for years and some of them even went to high school together. They’re good men, all of them. They might have some preconceived ideas about you because of who you are. You know, the Jimmy Norton. Plus, you were a Memphis detective. But they won’t give you any trouble. You treat them fairly and they’ll do the same.”
“So who’s the one the most pissed about being passed over for the promotion?” Jim didn’t see any point in pussyfooting around, trying to be diplomatic. Diplomacy was part of the sheriff’s job, not his.
The lady frowned. “Brutal honesty isn’t always the best course of action.”
He shrugged. “It’s how I work. It’s who I am. Is that going to be a problem?”
She huffed. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“So, who is he? The guy who already hates my guts for getting the job he wanted.”
“Nobody here hates your guts,” she said. “The front-runner for the chief deputy position was Ron Hensley, and yes, he was disappointed when I looked outside the department to fill the position. But Ron’s a professional and he understands my reasons for hiring you. He’s not going to give you any trouble.”
Yeah, sure. “That’s good to know.”
Jim knew that he would have to prove himself to the other deputies, especially to Lieutenant Hensley. He was willing to do his part to get along with the guy, as long as Hensley didn’t give him any shit. From the get-go, he needed to make it clear that he was the chief deputy, the man in charge. And he needed to do this in a way that didn’t alienate any of his deputies.
“Ron and John are both here this morning, at my request. I wanted you to meet both of your lieutenants.”
Sheriff Granger opened the door and breezed into the central office. A couple of uniformed deputies stood talking, each holding a cup of coffee. Jim sized up the two quickly and decided that the short, stocky, slightly balding guy was probably John Downs. He had that easygoing, old-shoes-comfortable look about him. Jim guessed the guy was married, with a couple of kids, went to church every Sunday and liked his life the way it was. The energy he emitted was calm and low-key. The other guy was a different matter. A tad under six feet, slim and fit, with military, short black hair and pensive brown eyes. He presented a flawless appearance—from his handsome, clean-shaven face to his spit-polished shoes. This was, without a doubt, Ron Hensley.
“Morning,” the sheriff said. “Ron. John.”
Both men turned and greeted her.
“Jim, I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenants Ron Hensley and John Downs.” With their gazes fixed on Jim, they both nodded. Downs smiled. Hensley did not. “Gentlemen, this is Captain James Norton.”
Downs came forward, shook Jim’s hand, and welcomed him cordially. Then reluctantly, after glancing at the sheriff as if to tell her he would do what he had to do, Hensley held out his hand to Jim, but he didn’t say anything.
Hensley had a strong, firm grip, but he didn’t use the handshake as a pissing contest to prove he was as strong or stronger than Jim. And Jim respected that type of reserve and control in any man. His estimation of Hensley improved because of that one simple gesture.
“Y’all will get a chance to become better acquainted later,” Sheriff Granger told the deputies. “I’m taking the morning to show Jim the layout of the department and to give him a tour of the town. Then we’re meeting Jerry Dale for lunch. If either of you would care to join us—”
“I’d love to,” John Downs said, “but this is Friday, and Cathy, my wife, and I have a standing lunch date every Friday.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the sheriff said. “I’d forgotten.” She looked at Hensley. “What about you, Ron?”
“Sure, I’ll tag along. Are you taking him to Methel’s?”
“Where else?” She turned to Jim. “Methel’s is practically an institution in Adams Landing. The current owner is the great-granddaughter of the lady, Methel, who opened the restaurant in the late thirties. It’s the best food in town. Down home country cooking like your grandma used to fix.”
“You make me wish it was lunchtime already.” Jim grinned.
“If you ever want great barbeque, the only place to go is The Pig Pen over on Second Street,” Downs told him.
“And if you’re ever in the mood for a stiff drink and some loud music, check out the Firecracker on Carney Road,” Hensley said.
Jim and Hensley shared a hard look. Not a hostile look, just an understanding that each would reserve judgment of the other until they were better acquainted. Fair enough. Jim’s gut told him that he and Hensley might have a few things in common.
“Meet us at Methel’s around twelve-thirty.” The sheriff headed toward the door, but paused halfway there and said, “Ed Mays called me a little while ago.”
Downs shook his head sadly.
Hensley glanced at Jim. “We’ve been working a missing person’s case for the past couple of weeks. The missing woman’s uncle is Ed Mays, the Sheriff of Jackson County.”
“Do y’all suspect foul play?” Jim asked.
“Possibly,” Hensley replied. “The problem is, we really don’t have a clue as to what happened to her. It’s as if she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What about the husband?” Jim looked directly at Hensley.
Hensley shrugged. “Doubtful he had anything to do with it.”
“No clues, huh? I’d like to take a look at your files on that case this afternoon.”
The edges of Hensley’s mouth curved into a tentative smile. “I’ll be glad to show them to you. Maybe you can catch something we’ve missed.”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Granger cleared her throat. “Captain Norton, are you ready to go?”
“Ready whenever you are, Sheriff.”
Chapter 3
Ron closed himself off in the chief deputy’s office, the one he’d thought for sure would be his. Yeah, and that’s what he got for thinking. He should have known that Bernie wouldn’t choose him over John Downs, even if he was better suited for the job. John had seniority over him by only four years, but everybody liked John. Everybody didn’t like Ron, which really didn’t bother him in the least. He’d take respect and even a little intimidation over being liked any day of the week. But Bernie wasn’t about to upset the apple cart in any way, shape, form or fashion. She had her own issues, things she needed to prove. Hell, he didn’t envy her the position she was in, although he’d love to be sheriff. Only thing was, here in Adams County, if you ran for the office against anyone with the last name of Granger, you were bound to lose. Bernie’s old man, R.B., had held the position for almost thirty years, retiring only after a bout with cancer a few years ago. And from the early forties until his death nearly thirty years later, Bernard Granger Sr., Bernie’s grandfather, had been sheriff.
For the time being, Ron had no choice but to grin and bear it, to accept the Memphis detective who’d gotten the job that should have been his. But if Norton screwed up, just once, he’d be the first to shout it to the world. It wasn’t that he had anything personal against Norton. He might be a hell of a guy. And if it turned out that he was a great chief deputy, Ron might have to look elsewhere if he ever wanted to be more than a deputy.
Ron removed his cell phone from the belt clip, then eased down into the big, comfy swivel chair and propped his number tens up on Captain Norton’s desk. He went to his address book and hit the often-dialed number of his current girlfriend. Although he had dated several different women lately, he was sleeping with only one now. Abby Miller. However, since Abby was married, they had to keep their relationship a secret from the general public.
He didn’t make a habit of dating married women, but Abby was different. She had come after him, not the other way around. Usually, he did the pursuing and liked it that way, but with a gal like Abby, he’d made an exception for several reasons. First, the woman was a looker. Built like a brick shit-house, bosomy, vivacious, and flirty. And second, she was horny as hell since her husband’s National Guard unit had been sent to the Middle East. The lady was mighty talented in the sack and knew how to keep a man coming back for more.
“Kut and Kurl,” Abby said as she answered the phone at her beauty shop, located on West Jackson, two blocks from the courthouse.
“Hi, sugar.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“I’ve got to cancel our midday date,” he told her.
She whined.
“The new chief deputy’s in town, and Bernie invited me to join them and Jerry Dale for lunch today. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t because I was meeting Abby Miller for a quickie in the backroom of her beauty shop.”
Abby giggled. “Yeah, that would have gone over like a fart in church. Bernie’s all right, but she’s a little uptight about her deputies’ moral values, if you ask me.”
“What Bernie doesn’t know about my personal life won’t hurt either me or her—or you, for that matter. You don’t want your mother-in-law finding out about us, do you? You know that old battle-ax would write Ricky Wayne and tell him you were cheating on him.”
Abby sighed loudly. “I don’t want that happening.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If Ricky Wayne found out, he might kill us both when he comes home. You know what a temper he has.”
“No point in causing such a fuss over us just having a little fun. It’s not like we’re actually hurting anybody, right? After all, it’s not as if we love each other. And you’re sure not making any plans to divorce Ricky Wayne.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m crazy about my husband. I love him to pieces.”
“Of course you do. But why should you stay celibate just to prove it, right?”
Abby laughed.
“How about our getting away to Huntsville this weekend?” Ron asked.
“Sounds wonderful, but I can’t leave until after twelve tomorrow. I’m booked solid with appointments until eleven-thirty.”
“I’ll make reservations later today, then get back in touch to tell you where to meet me in Huntsville. I’ll try the Marriott near the Space and Rocket Center. You liked that hotel last time, didn’t you?”
“Sure did. Sounds great. Look, I’ve got to go now.”
“Too many curious customers wondering who you’re talking to?”
“That’s right, Martha Dean. Call me later.’ Bye now.”
The dial tone droned in Ron’s ear. Martha Dean was Abby’s out-of-town cousin, so she felt safe in using her name to cover Ron’s identity whenever their phone conversations might be overheard on her end. Since he’d never been involved with a married woman before Abby, this business of keeping their affair a secret was new stuff for him. But if he was totally honest with himself, he had to admit he kind of got a kick out of having a backstreet romance. Besides, Abby was worth a little sneaking around. She was the best damn lay he’d ever had.
Tap, tap, tap. Ron glanced up, searching for the sound, and realized someone was pecking on the door. “Yeah?”
John cracked the door a couple of feet and peered into the office. “I’ve made some fresh coffee and opened up a pack of bear claws. You interested?”
“Coffee sounds good.” Ron slid his feet off the desk, shoved back the chair, and stood. “I’d better stay away from the bear claws.” He patted his flat belly. “A single guy like me has to stay in shape.”
John chuckled. “I guess it’s lucky I’m married to a plump, understanding wife who loves me just the way I am. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get to indulge in my favorite pastries so often.”
When Ron joined John in the outer office, John poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him, then helped himself to an almond and sugar glazed confection.
“What do you think of Captain Norton?” John asked.
Ron shrugged.
“I know you were expecting Bernie to—”
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” Ron said. “I’d hoped she would think I deserved the job. Or if not me, then you.”
“Nah, not me. I didn’t expect it.”
“But you wouldn’t have turned it down.”
“No, I wouldn’t have, but … well, I guess, in a way, it’s my fault you didn’t get the promotion.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Ah, Ron, come on. You know the answer to that as well as I do. Hell, everybody knows Bernie didn’t want to choose between the two of us, and that’s why she brought in a ‘hired gun’ from Memphis. Norton made a name for himself with those murders back last year when some nut job killed that Vanderley woman and that high-priced lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved.”
“Okay, sure, I figure Bernie made it easy on herself by looking outside, and I can see why she picked a guy like Norton. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d take this job. Who’d trade being a Memphis police detective for being a chief deputy in Adams County?”
“I guess we could just ask him.”
Ron guffawed. “Yeah, you do that, John.”
“Nah, not me. I thought you could ask.” John grinned at Ron, then took a huge bite out of the bear claw.
He parked on the side of the paved county road, a road he knew well. At this time of day, the odds of any traffic coming along to interrupt him were low. But just in case, he removed the jack and the tire iron and placed them by the back wheel. Then he scanned the road and the area on both sides, soybean fields that had once been cotton fields as far as the eye could see. He pulled the plastic tarp from the back of his vehicle, lifted it gently in his arms, and headed down the old dirt road that led out into the fields. When he reached midway, far enough off the main road not to be seen, yet close enough for his delivery to be easily discovered tomorrow or the next day or next week, he rolled the contents out of the tarp and into the middle of the rut-scarred lane. She spread out on the ground in a most unladylike manner, her lifeless body pale, her dark eyes wide open and staring up at him. After tossing the tarp aside, he knelt down and arranged Stephanie’s body so that one hand covered her pussy and the other arm rested across her breasts.
There, she was decently covered and yet the beauty of her luscious body was not hidden. He lifted her long dark hair and spread it out across both shoulders, the feel of it like silk against his fingers.
“You wanted to be free, didn’t you, my beauty? You told me so yourself.”
He rose to his feet, then took one final look at his old lover. The only thing that marred her sultry, dark beauty was the slash across her throat, highlighted by dried blood against her flesh.
You’re free now. And so am I. Free to love again.
He wished his relationship with Stephanie had worked out, for his sake and hers. He had thought surely she was the one, that he could love her as much as she loved him. But in the end, he had realized that he had no choice but to end things and continue his search. Out there somewhere was the one and only woman for him, someone who would erase all the painful memories, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him, someone worthy of his love.
Picking up the tarp and folding it into a twenty-by-twenty-inch square, he headed back to his parked vehicle. Off in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder. Glancing at the horizon to the west, he noted the dark sky and figured it was raining over in Scottsboro. Back on the paved road, he scanned the four directions hurriedly; seeing and hearing no sign of anyone approaching, he opened the back of his vehicle, tossed the tarp inside, then retrieved the jack and tire iron. After putting everything back in order, he opened the passenger door, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
He reached out and fingered the note lying on the passenger seat. A love note for his new love. Sighing, he closed his eyes and pictured her. Young and beautiful. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Maybe she was the one. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be disappointed. Maybe this time she wouldn’t hurt him.
“Ah, my beautiful, sweet Thomasina.”
He loved the pursuit, those heady days of getting to know each other, those romantic moments when anything and everything was possible. He would leave the note for her today. And then he would wait. But not for long. He was eager to begin their love affair.
Sheriff Granger stayed in step with Jim as they headed up Main Street, away from the courthouse and toward the restaurant in the heart of downtown Adams Landing. Her long-legged stride easily matched his pace, an advantage of her being a tall woman.
“I did warn you that Jerry Dale was a huge Jimmy Norton fan,” she said. “So be prepared. He’ll probably gush all over you.”
Jim groaned inwardly, but managed not to cringe. It wasn’t that he had any hang-ups about his glorious past as a star running back for UT, but God almighty, that had ended nearly twenty years ago.
“I suppose you run into fans all the time, huh?” she asked.
“Occasionally,” he replied. “But when it comes to people I have to work with, I don’t want them to think of me as Jimmy Norton. To be honest with you, Sheriff Granger, I prefer people get to know the man I am now, just plain old Jim Norton.”
She looked at him, a peculiar expression in her brown eyes. “I was a fan, too. My dad and I. Of course, my dad is a big Alabama fan, and the truth is, he really doesn’t like UT, but he used to watch every game back when you and Griffin Powell played. Heck, I guess just about every college football fan in the South did.”
“You watched college football with your dad? How old were you—ten?”
“Actually, I was twelve your freshman year and turned fifteen your senior year.” And I fell madly in love with you when I was fourteen and spent the rest of my teen years comparing every guy I met to the great Jimmy Norton, a man I’d seen only on TV, in newspapers and in magazines. Looking back, she supposed one of the reasons she’d started dating Ryan Fowler in high school was because he’d been the team’s number one running back, and in her fantasies, Bernie had put him on a level with her idol. Her big mistake hadn’t been dating Ryan; it had been falling in love with him and marrying him.
“You’re what now—?” He mentally counted the years. “Thirty-two?”
She nodded.
“Was it unmannerly for me to ask your age?” he asked.
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
He liked her attitude. “You’re young to be sheriff.”
“The youngest Adams County sheriff ever,” she told him. “And the first female. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father and grandfather both held the office before me.”
“A family tradition, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Tell me, Sheriff Granger—”
“Bernie.”
“Huh?”
“Call me Bernie,” she said. “Everyone does.”
“Okay. Bernie.” Somehow the name suited her. She didn’t look like a Bernadette. That name belonged to some petite bit of fluff, not a substantial woman who looked like she could take care of herself in just about any situation. She was no helpless, clinging female. No I-need-a-big-strong-man female. He’d bet when she was a kid, she could beat the living daylights out of all the little boys and had probably put the fear of God into more than one. And he’d lay odds that in a fair fight, she’d hold her own even now.
“I prefer to be called Jim,” he said. “Not Jimmy. And James was my dad.”
“Jim it is.” She paused. “We’re here. This is Methel’s.”
He stopped at her side and inspected the building. His guess was the two-story structure dated back to the late eighteen hundreds and the outside facade hadn’t been updated in a good thirty or forty years.
“Local lawyers and courthouse personnel, along with city policemen and our department, keep Methel’s in business,” Bernie told him. “There’s always a huge lunch crowd during the week. If you like down-home cooking, you’ll love the food here.”
He reached around her, grasped the door handle and opened the door. She jerked back, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, then walked into the restaurant. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to men opening doors for her. She had seemed taken slightly off guard by his gentlemanly action.
“We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.