Darkness at the Edge of Town (Iris Ballard #2)(55)

My phone rang as I pulled up the driveway of the two-story, white-columned country club. A wave of memories flooded back. Most good. All of Paul’s school dances were held there. At the last one, we slipped away to the sixteenth hole and made love under the stars. That was the last time I was there. As I said, good memories.

My cellphone rang again. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Hancock said, “where are you?”

“Coming to the parking lot now.”

“Good. I’m waiting outside my car.”

“I see you.” He stood by his brown squad car in matching full uniform and waved. “Bye.”

I pulled into a spot between a Maserati and a BMW as Hancock ran toward me with something in his hand. He reached me just as I shut the door. “Hey. You look lovely,” he said with a smile.



“Thanks.”

“No, thank you. This really means a lot.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve had a weird, crap day.”

“Well, hopefully this will improve it,” he said, giving me the file in his hand.

“Anything useful?”

“Not that I saw. Lots of drug convictions, a few prostitution arrests, some fraud. One guy had a manslaughter charge. Bar fight.”

“Thanks.” I popped my trunk and stuck the file in there for safekeeping.

“Just make sure you bring that back when you’re done. I’m out on a big, damn limb here,” Hancock said.

“It’s about to get a little bigger.” I shut the trunk and removed the sandwich baggie with Helen’s fork from my purse. “The prints on this belong to the number-three, possibly second-ranking official in the cult. A woman named Helen. It sounded like she went federal, so I’d check there first. She also had a son named Chad put in foster care who died. I’ll need to know about him as well if possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“All I ask,” I said with a yawn. “Sorry.”

“Let’s drop this in my car and get in there. No longer than an hour, tops. I promise.”

“Good thing I know you’re a man of your word, Sheriff. Shall we?”

After a stop at his car to leave the fork, we strolled up the freesia-lined path, past the two fountains and perfectly manicured lawn and through the Greco-Roman columns, into the club. It hadn’t changed in twenty years. Same musty museum odor all old buildings seem to have. Same dark green carpet. Same oil paintings of my male ancestors from Josiah Grey all the way to the current scion, Elliot, and his brother Gregory. Most Greys had the same green eyes and thin mouth I inherited. Merrill’s son would probably hang on that wall someday too. Of course, no women or bastards ever did or would. Fairness and feminism would have to burn the country club down before the old guard would ever allow them in.



“So you just need me to stand still and look pretty?” I asked as we walked past my ancestors.

“If you can throw in a few things like ‘I got into law enforcement because of Sheriff Hancock’ and ‘Everything I learned I learned from him,’ I’d appreciate it.”

“Is your opponent going to be here?” I asked.

“Yeah. Captain Frank Wilson. He’s David Wilson’s son. David Wilson owns one-third of the commercial real estate in Niagaraville, and the scuttlebutt is his brother is a VP at Viking Prison Dynamics. Their first privately run prison is going to open in the next month or so in Niagaraville.”

“On brother dear’s land, no doubt.”

“And they’ve bought Captain Wilson in from Pittsburgh, running on a crackdown-on-crime, no-second-chances platform.”

“And you’re thinking he’s a plant for Viking? He’s going to send people to prison for jaywalking and having one joint on them?”

“Viking gets paid per prisoner, and as you know, it’s easy to rack up the charges on a person. Misdemeanors can become felonies pretty damn fast.”



“Oh, America, sometimes you make me want to become Canadian,” I said mock wistfully. Serial killers had nothing on corporate CEOs. We stopped right outside the ballroom door, and I locked my arm in Hancock’s. “Okay then. Let’s get the bastards.”

They were using the smaller ballroom, which was roughly the size of my old auditorium at Grafton College, with waiters moving around with champagne flutes for the fifty-plus people inside. As far as the eye could see were white middle-aged and old men in suits with their emaciated, surgically enhanced wives in cocktail dresses. There were a few people of color and younger women, second wives most likely, but not many. The stench of cigar and Chanel perfume almost turned my stomach. The sight of my father and his wife, Judith, talking to Merrill and I assumed her husband actually did turn my stomach. I’d figured he’d be at the party, I’d even mentally prepared for it, but my stomach still seized.

At least I had no urge to punch him as I’d feared. Maybe I was just too tired. My sperm donor had aged well, the bastard. I hadn’t really seen him since the blackmailing incident twenty years before. His hair had gone completely gray but with his tan, he wore it well. He kept in shape, staying trim and taut through the decades. There were some lines around his green eyes and thin mouth, but like the gray hair, it didn’t diminish his attractiveness. Even his large Roman nose—normally unappealing—worked well for him. I was right, though. Without question, Jeremy Shepherd was built from the same ilk as Elliot Grey. They had the same air of smugness, shallow charm, and invincibility. My father may never have killed anyone, but he was not a good person. What he did to Billy proved that.