When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(95)

“You deliver your microgreens to Atlanta yourself, Walt?” I ask innocently.

For the first time his hand twitches on the barrel of his shotgun. “Most times.”

“Ever bring anything back?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t do bad things anymore. Told you that yesterday. Woods set me straight.”

My turn to shrug. “Lots of people swear to reform. To give up violence, rage, the need to just . . . tap off some of that darkness inside. It’s hard to do. I know, Walt, I know.”

“My boy was evil.”

I don’t speak.

“When he came back, showed up in that tavern . . . I didn’t believe for a moment he came back to see his old man. No good reason, not after all these years.”

“Maybe he wanted to check out his hometown.”

“Boy was five when he left. You remember much when you were five?”

I shake my head. Then, a moment later, I think I understand. “I always assumed he brought me here because he felt comfortable. Knew the area. But you’re saying he couldn’t have known these mountains, this town. He was too young when he left.”

Walt nodded.

“So how did he know about the abandoned cabin? How did he know to bring me here?”

Another shrug. But I understand now Walt isn’t being obtuse. He doesn’t know the answers to these questions, and he’s wondered about it himself. What truly brought Jacob back to Niche, Georgia? Because in Walt’s own estimation, it couldn’t have been homesickness, or a sudden desire to connect with dear old Dad.

Kimberly’s turn. “Jacob wouldn’t be the type to hang out with the Counsels. At least I can’t picture it.”

“Nah.”

“So who would he hang out with? Who would bring him here, Walt?”

“I don’t always drive to Atlanta,” Walt says abruptly.

Kimberly and I both wait.

“Late spring to early fall, temperatures can be very hot. My old van, the AC doesn’t work so well. I worried about my plants wilting before I got there.”

I nod encouragingly.

“One night, I’m sitting in the tavern—”

“You spend a lot of time in bars for a guy who claims he doesn’t drink.”

“Man’s gotta eat. So I’m sitting there. And a fellow comes over. We get to chatting. He tells me he has a delivery business. Runs flowers, fresh fish, whatever, in his refrigerated truck up from Atlanta to local inns and restaurants. Man was bragging about his rig.”

“Okay.”

“We chat a little more, and it comes to me. Hot months, he could take my greens down, bring his fish and flowers back up. Good for me, good for him. We shake, and that’s it. Done deal for the past several years.”

“You trusted this man, some stranger, with your microgreens?” I already don’t believe him.

“That’s the thing. I shouldn’t have. No good reason to. But this guy, he had a way of speaking. Later, I got to thinking. Seems to me, he already knew. About my greens. My business. He knew everything before I ever sat down. Wasn’t some kind of coincidence. More like a setup.”

“But you continued the arrangement?”

“No reason not to. Man picks up, delivers, without missing a date. I might be half-cracked, but I ain’t stupid. And business is business.”

“Who’s the man, Walt?” Kimberly now, her voice a tad impatient.

“Clayton. Grew up around here. Not sure where he calls home now. One of those guys, comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Is Clayton a first or last name?”

“Didn’t bother to ask.”

“How do you pay him?”

“Cash.” Walt stares at her. “Like I’m trusting my money to some bank.”

“What does Clayton look like?”

“Big guy. Dark hair, brown eyes. Not that young, not that old. Hell, we don’t exchange pleasantries.”

There’s something he’s still not telling us. “Come on, Walt.”

After a moment’s hesitation: “He carries a knife. Big ol’ thing with an ugly-ass serrated blade. But he doesn’t keep it tucked away. He wants everyone to see it. He wants you to know.”

“Know what?”

“He’s one of us. Like Jacob. Like I used to be. A mean son of a bitch who makes no apologies. That knife, it’s not just for show. And all those runs to Atlanta with his fancy refrigerated truck . . . Lots of things you can carry in a rig like that.”

“Where do we find Clayton?” Kimberly asks.

“Around. Like I said, he doesn’t exactly have an address. But sooner or later, he shows up again.”

“How do you get in touch with him when you have a delivery?”

“I don’t. He comes by. Every two weeks. Can’t fault the man for reliability.”

“When is the next pickup?”

“Five days.”

“We don’t have five days, Walt,” I say honestly. “I’m not even sure we have five hours.”

“Name of the tavern where you first met him?” Kimberly presses.

That faint hesitation again. Then a sigh. Long, uneven. It reminds me a bit of a death rattle, but maybe I’m just letting the conversation spook me.