Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(45)

“You coming out of retirement for this?” Tom asked.

“You might say that.” Wade Richey had been a detective in the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office for thirty years, retiring last summer. Over the years he and Tom had become friends, with Tom assisting the sheriff’s office in several key investigations where there was a critical evidentiary question. Tom knew that Wade had always been considered the best homicide detective on the force. “The sheriff’s office is pretty serious about catching this JimBone fella. And they’ve always had a lot of respect for your ideas.”

“It may be a bust,” Tom said.

Wade shrugged. “Maybe . . . but that would be a first.”

Tom nodded and turned to Powell. “You get what I asked for?”

“Yeah.” Powell reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper.

“And?”

Powell smiled. “And it’s interesting.”

“All right then,” Tom said. “Time to go to work.”





30


Rick woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. Stumbling off the bed, he grabbed the phone from the nightstand. The time in the upper right hand corner said 2:30 p.m. Jesus . . . he had slept for five hours. After breakfast at the Bluebird, he had only intended to take a catnap at Ms. Butler’s and then head back into town. He sighed. The caller ID was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Yeah,” Rick said, his voice a low croak.

“Drake, this is Peter Burns, the bartender at the Sundowners—not the author of Sliding Down a Pole.”

Rick’s grogginess was gone in an instant, and he looked wildly around the room for pen and paper. “Yes. How are you?”

“Jesus, you sound terrible.”

“Thanks,” Rick said. “Been taking a nap.”

“Well, I hope you got a few winks, because if you want to talk to me or Darla Ford, you need to come over to my apartment. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“Leaving? Where . . . ?”

“Just get over here,” Peter said, and the phone clicked dead.



Fifteen minutes later Rick pulled into Burns’s apartment complex. Déjà vu all over again, he thought, parking in the same place he’d spent eight hours last night. He had managed a quick shower and grabbed a Coke on the way out of Ms. Butler’s. On the drive over he’d tried the Professor again on his cell phone, but there was still no answer. Where the hell is he? Rick wondered, stepping out of the Saturn and seeing Burns heading toward him, carrying a duffel bag under one arm.

“I hope you’ve got a full tank of gas,” Peter said, throwing his bag in the back of Rick’s car and climbing in the passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” Rick asked, tensing as the man, basically a complete stranger, started fiddling around with the radio.

“Jesus Christ, man. When did you get this car? When Clinton was president? I thought lawyers were supposed to all drive Mercedes. Where’s the USB port for an iPod?”

“Don’t have one,” Rick said, still stunned by Burns’s presence in the car.

“Well, you got any CDs?”

“Uhhh . . . there’s some in the glove compartment. Mr. Burns—”

“Just drive, all right. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“On the way . . . where?” Rick asked, hesitating a second before backing out of the space.

“Destin,” Peter said, rolling down the window and howling.

“Destin?” Rick asked. “Destin . . . Florida?”

Peter howled again. “The Redneck Riviera, baby. If you put this dinosaur in gear, we’ll be eating oysters on a half shell and drinking Coronas with limes in just under”—he turned his wrist and made like he was looking at his watch, but he wasn’t wearing one—“nine hours!”

Rick stopped the car. “Are you telling me that you want me to drive you all the way to the panhandle of Florida?”

“My piece of junk won’t make it to Birmingham, and I got no other options that ain’t gonna cost me at least two or three hundred dollars. But you can take me for free.”

“What’s in it for me?” Rick asked.

“Do you want to talk with Darla Ford?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good,” Peter said, pointing his finger out the window. “Then take my ass to Destin.”

Rick hesitated with his hand on the gear shift. This is crazy, he thought.

“Yes!” Peter screamed, pulling the worn George Strait CD out of the glove compartment and sliding the disc into the player.

As George started singing about “oceanfront property in Arizona,” Rick finally put the car in drive. This is crazy, he thought again, pulling onto Highway 64.

Headed due south . . .





31


Bone hated surprises.

And this definitely qualified, he thought, watching Drake’s Saturn pull out of the apartment complex with Peter Burns, the bartender from the Sundowners Club, in the passenger seat. Parked in the back corner of the complex, Bone eased the truck forward, wondering what this was all about.

Bone had laid low since the attack on McMurtrie, which according to his benefactor had achieved the desired effect—the old professor had left town to recover from his injuries, and it was doubtful he’d be able to try the case. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be 100 percent, and the kid would have to do the heavy lifting.