Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(11)

“Yes and yes,” Hatty responded. “Deputy Mitchell”—she cut her eyes at an officer to her right—“drove out there yesterday evening. Isn’t that right, George?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said. “I spoke with Trudy after she got off work. She spent the Fourth at her neighbors’, the Albrights, who had a party. Trudy was there until well past midnight and walked the quarter mile home. There were about ten folks at the party. All have confirmed her attendance.”

“So she has an alibi.” Hatty stated the obvious.

“What about Trey?” Griffith asked.

Hatty crossed her arms and glanced at Mitchell to continue.

“He went to the party at the Brick downtown. Was there until around nine. Told the bartender he was going to watch the fireworks on the lake from the Sunset Trail.”

“Did he?”

George shrugged. “When I spoke with him, he said he went alone.”

“How did he get to the trail?” the sheriff asked.

“He said he walked.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“That’s a good three-quarters of a mile at least,” Mitchell said, scratching his chin. “Long stroll for a man with a limp.”

“What does Trey do now?” the sheriff asked.

“Works for the city, doing odd jobs,” Mitchell said. “Umpiring Little League. Chains crew for football games. Doing sanitation work at different municipal facilities.”

“He had a full ride to Bama, didn’t he?”

“He had a full ride everywhere,” an officer leaning against the wall said, his voice low. “Until Doc Waters botched his surgery.”

“Speak up, Kelly,” the sheriff said. “How do you know Trey?”

Deputy Kelly Flowers stepped forward. He was an athletic man in his midtwenties with thick forearms. “I was a senior wide receiver when Trey was a sophomore. He was great even then. Already getting offers. I caught ten touchdown passes that year.”

“I remember now,” the sheriff said. “Advanced to the quarterfinals, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“You still keep up with him?”

“Not much,” Kelly said. “It’s sad, you know. Trey was a god around here for three years. And now he’s cleaning bathrooms and getting yelled at for bad calls in Little League games.”

Silence in the room. Griffith finally spoke. “Bring him in, all right, Kelly? We need to at least talk to him, and it’ll be easier coming from you.”

“Sheriff, he can barely get around. There’s no way he could’ve killed Dr. Waters.”

“He managed to make it to the Sunset Trail . . . or so he says. He also has a clear motive and no alibi. Bring him in.”

“Yes, sir,” Kelly said.

“What about Walter Cowan?” Griffith asked, moving his eyes around the room.

“Trudy said she hasn’t heard from Walt since the divorce became final,” Mitchell said. “She thinks he’s working construction down on the Florida Panhandle somewhere, but, in her words, she ‘doesn’t know and doesn’t care.’”

The sheriff gazed up at the ceiling. “OK . . . let’s talk about the handyman now.” He leaned his elbows on the table and formed a tent with his hands. “Have we located him yet?”

“Waylon Pike,” Hatty said, a touch of annoyance in her voice. This was the one avenue of investigation that she and the department had whiffed thus far. “He did a good bit of work for the Waterses as well as several other families on Buck Island, including the Burnses, Campbells, and McCarys. Jackson Burns said he saw Pike at the Waters home on the morning of July 2 and that Pike had swung by and built a set of steps with a railing in the Burnses’ guesthouse that afternoon. He hasn’t seen or heard from him since then.”

“Do we have any information on Pike? Address? Cell phone number?”

“Both,” Hatty answered. “He was living in an apartment back behind Gunter Avenue, but he wasn’t there when we tried to see him. We got a search warrant, but his apartment was clean. We called his cell, went straight to voice mail.”

“Did we track it?”

Hatty nodded. “The last time it registered to a cell tower was on July 3, and he was at the Brick downtown. We checked with the bartender there, and she recognized his picture. Said Pike liked to watch the Braves game from the bar and drink a couple of draft beers during happy hour.”

“So he has no alibi, he’s apparently left town, and he’s turned his phone off.” For the first time, Sheriff Griffith’s tone contained a trace of hope. “Suspicious, I’d say.”

“No doubt,” Hatty agreed.

“Any thought as to where he might be? Did Burns say anything?”

“Burns told us that he thought Pike said he was from somewhere in Florida or Georgia, so we’ve sent an APB to all counties in both states.” Everyone in Guntersville called Jackson Burns, the owner of Burns Nissan Mazda, by his last name.

“Not much to go on,” the sheriff lamented.

Hatty held out her hands. “We’ve got nothing else.”

The room was silent for several seconds. Finally, Griffith stood. “I’ve got a press conference in the morning. Unless we get a break between now and then, I’ll say the investigation is ongoing, and we’re pursuing several leads. We don’t have forever, people. Every day that goes forward without a suspect charged with this murder is a day that makes it harder for Shay Lankford to get a conviction, and you can bet your ass that she’s riding mine twenty-four seven. We need to make a damn arrest.”