Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(5)

“What. Did. You. Say?” Soul asked.

“Hamilton!” a woman barked. “What the bloody hell.”

It was the woman from the game room, the African-American woman who wore the power of her office like a crown and robe. Her ID was clipped at her collar and her name was E. M. Schultz.

Soul didn’t turn to her, keeping her eyes on the suit and saying, “I’ve been on conference call to PsyLED director Clarence Lester Woods, the secretary of Homeland Security, and the director of the FBI, as well as the head of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. This is a joint investigation between four, not three, branches of law enforcement. You may address me as Assistant Director, PsyLED. And your services are no longer needed at this crime scene.” She turned her head as if looking for something.

In a tone that wasn’t quite a question, not quite a demand, she said, “Special Agent Ingram?”

I jumped. Soul kept on talking. “Take Mr. Hamilton outside. Give him your flashlight. Teach him how to do a perimeter grounds search. Then come back in here. I need your services.”

I was staring at Hamilton, his name touching down in my mind, in the place designated for it. Chadworth Sanders Hamilton, his father’s second son from his second wife, named for his mother’s grandfathers. And my third cousin, by way of Maude Nicholson, my grandmother. My distant cousin from the townie side of the family. I’d heard he had graduated from the FBI academy at the top of his class and come back home to make his mark. This embarrassing dressing-down was likely not the mark he wanted to make.

I held up a hand to identify myself and silently led the way to the kitchen. There, I found foam cups, poured coffee from the coffeemaker, and put them on a tray with napkins, a bread knife, and a spoon. I could practically feel the embarrassment and fury emanating off Hamilton as I worked, my back to him. At least the anger would keep him warm for a while. And there was no way I was going to tell him that we were related when he was so furious. Maybe later. Maybe . . . Carefully, tray balanced, I left the warmth of the house, my cousin on my heels, not offering to help with the load. I didn’t know if that made him a jerk or just oblivious, but so far, my cousin was not making a very good impression.

Outside, I flashed my light three times, handed it to Hamilton, and said, “Forty-eight hundred lumens. Battery will last another two hours before it has to be recharged. One yard squares, from the middle of the ditch to the middle of the lane. This’ll be the third pass so it should be pretty clean.”

“What’s up, Ingram?” May Ree asked, joining us at a jog. The other deputies followed, and so did three SWAT officers, until we had a small crowd.

“Coffee,” I said, unnecessarily, as they reached in for the cups. “Keys.” I placed them in May Ree’s hand. “There’s a loaf of bread in the passenger seat of my truck and a jar of jam. Bring the knife and spoon back in when y’all are done. I’ll get some fresh coffee out here as soon as I can.” May Ree dashed down the road to my car. I continued to the others, “This is Hamilton. Probie. Looks like he came out without a coat, so he’ll be cold.”

“It’s all right, kid,” a deputy said. The county cop was six-six easy, and had a chest like a whiskey barrel. “We’ve all been stupid from time to time.” Several officers laughed.

Hamilton flinched and burned hotter, probably thinking about the dressing-down he’d just received, not the coat he’d forgotten. Probably furious that he’d been called “kid” by a county cop, someone an FBI officer might look down on, in the hierarchy of law enforcement types. But he kept his mouth shut. He looked pale in all the flashlights and totally out of place, underdressed in his fancy suit.

The deputy continued, “I got an extra jacket in my unit. It’ll hang to your knees, little fella like you, but it’s clean. Hang on, I’ll get it.” He too jogged off.

I didn’t laugh at my cousin’s expression at the words little fella like you.

Hamilton accepted a cup of coffee. And the coat. And a slice of bread and jam. I waited until the cups were gone and Hamilton was wearing the borrowed coat and starting on the road. He was all but kicking the pavement like a kid. I hadn’t told him who I was, that we were distant cousins. My grandma Maude had been disowned when she married into the church. I doubted that Hamilton knew I existed.

Back inside, I figured out how to work the coffee machine and got coffee gurgling, found a gallon-sized carafe, a tablecloth, more napkins and foam cups. When the coffee was ready, I took the tray back outside, placed the tablecloth on the hood of a county car, the tray atop it, and went back inside, where I made another trip to the powder room and put on fresh lipstick. The assistant director of PsyLED wanted me for something. That made me nervous. I had learned that lipstick gave me false courage. False was better than no courage at all.

I made my way through the house until I found Rick, Soul, and a seated man in khakis and a golf shirt, in a small room on the second floor. The room was no bigger than a closet, a tiny space dedicated to the Holloways’ security system, two vacuum cleaners, brooms, push mops of various designs, and lots of cleaning supplies. I slipped in behind Rick and leaned against the wall so I could watch the security video beside his shoulder.

It was a nice system. I had studied most commercial brands and a couple dozen government kinds while in Spook School, the PsyLED training facility. This was an integrated one, with motion detection sensors that triggered the outside cameras and automatically downloaded all video to the system. Later someone had to go through all the captured images and delete the homeowners’ dogs, wildlife, and the occasional teenager sneaking into or out of the house after hours. Currently there were four images on the big screen.