Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(77)
On Wednesday evening at 6:00 p.m. they ended the search where it had begun the day before. The Sleepy Head Inn.
The Sleepy Head had seemed like an ideal place for JimBone, because customers typically paid in cash and didn’t have to show ID. Every room was searched both days, and there were no clues leading to JimBone.
“I bet he’s gone,” Hank said, kicking gravel across the parking lot. “On to bigger and better things.”
Wade nodded, but Powell gave a quick jerk of his head and grunted.
“We should have gotten him by now,” Wade offered, but Powell just grunted again and walked a few paces away, his hands stuck deep in his pockets.
“What now?” Hank asked, the defeat evident in his voice. “I should probably get back to Pulaski.”
Wade nodded and extended his hand. “We appreciate your cooperation, Deputy.”
“What are y’all going to do?” Hank asked, taking out his keys.
Wade turned to Powell, who had kneeled down and was skipping a few stray stones across the lot as he gazed at the setting sun. “I think we’re gonna stick around for a little while longer.”
Hank nodded, then leaned in close to Wade. “Is he OK? He hasn’t so much as said a word in the last few hours.”
Wade smiled. “He’s fine. That’s just his way.”
As Hank pulled out of the gravel lot, Wade squatted next to Powell. “Well, brother, what’s our play?”
Powell skipped a few more stones and finally stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You’re the investigator, Wade. What do you think?”
“I think my partner is onto something, and I’m out of suggestions. Come on, brother. I see it in your eye. Let’s hear our play.”
Powell slowly nodded. “See that Huddle House across the street?”
Wade stood and turned his head, seeing the red and blue neon lights of the Huddle House. “Yep.”
“I want you to go over there and get some eggs and coffee. Get you a booth where you can keep both eyes on this parking lot. If you see anyone leaving the lot or walking around, anything suspicious, call me.”
“And what are you going to do?”
Powell grunted and turned back to the Sleepy Head. “I’m going to get a room.”
62
Cappy Limbaugh rented a room to the sandy-haired prosecutor, never letting the smile leave his face. “Sure am honored that you’d choose my place to stay the night,” Cappy offered. “Where did your friends go?”
“They left,” Powell said, throwing three twenty-dollar bills on the counter.
Cappy took the money and put it in his cash register. Then he slid the key to the room across the counter. Instead of a card, like most hotels provided these days, this was actually a rusted silver key. “Room 110. It’s on the back side of the property.” He paused. “Have a nice night.”
Powell took the key and examined it, rolling it over in his hand before looking up at Cappy. “Mr. Limbaugh, you be sure and buzz my room if you see anything suspicious.”
“Gladly, Mr. Prosecutor. Like I said, I’m proud to have a law dog stay at my establishment.”
Powell smiled at him. “I bet.”
Once the prosecutor had left the lobby building, Cappy strolled behind the counter to the garage in back. The prosecutor and the detective from Tuscaloosa had searched the garage high and low for almost an hour before the detective had left and the sandy-haired bastard had decided to get a room. Cappy wasn’t stupid. He knew the detective was close by. He’d seen him turn into the Huddle House. And he knew the prosecutor didn’t take a room because he was wowed by the accommodations.
The garage was littered with lawn equipment, including a five-year-old John Deere riding lawn mower that Cappy used to cut the grass on the grounds of the hotel. There was also a weed eater, assorted cans of paint, and an electric-and gas-powered leaf blower. Against the right-hand wall next to the lawn mower was a crowbar, and Cappy quickly grabbed it. He knew he couldn’t be away from the front desk more than a couple minutes. Especially not with that goddamn prosecutor snooping around.
In the center of the garage Cappy had parked his 1969 orange Dodge Charger, which he’d bought a few years after The Dukes of Hazzard had first come out. Involuntarily, Cappy smiled at the car, his pride and joy, and then opened the driver’s-side door and climbed in. The prosecutor and the detective had both made over the car during their inspection, but neither had come close to figuring anything out. Cappy felt with his fingers along the floorboard next to the accelerator and pulled up the carpet. Underneath, he could see the concrete garage floor. As the floor was littered with cracks from years of settlement, the jagged crevice underneath where the Charger sat wasn’t noticeable in any way. Just another crack in a garage full of them. Cappy took the crowbar and placed it in the fissure and pulled. Putting his face in the opening, Cappy pulled back the concrete block and looked underneath.
When Cappy Limbaugh had first opened the Sleepy Head thirty years ago, he had gotten in a scrape with the Feds over unpaid taxes. Knowing he needed a good place to hide, he’d built the room underneath the garage so he would have a place to camp out when federal agents came by to interview him or, worse, if they wanted to arrest him. And considering his membership in the Klan, Cappy figured it couldn’t hurt to have a “safe room,” as he’d heard such places called.