Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(32)

The sheriff rocked back and forth in the stool he was sitting on for a few seconds, sizing me up.

“I don’t like Morris,” he said. “He’s like a damned whiny child, and he lives like a king. He might as well put a sign out front of his house that says, ‘Screw you, FBI. I’m on the take, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ You, I maybe could get to like, but I’m not sure. You’ve got that look in your eye, that I-don’t-give-a-damn look.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“A man who doesn’t give a damn is dangerous.”

“Maybe Morris will beat me and you won’t have to worry about anything.”

Corker shook his head slowly. “Somehow I just don’t see that happening. I’ve seen you do some pretty incredible things in the past. If you want this badly enough, and it appears as though you do, it’ll happen. And when it does, I’m afraid you and me are gonna butt heads somewhere down the road.”

“I hope we don’t,” I said. “But if we do, it’d probably be best if you wear a helmet. Now if there isn’t anything else, get out of my apartment. You can take the beer with you.”





CHAPTER 17

I have to admit I was a little nervous as I drove through the switchbacks on the steady climb up the mountain to Granny Tipton’s to meet Senator Roger Tate. The plan, I’d been told, was to have lunch and later discuss the things that needed discussing. I could ask whatever I wanted—except I was forbidden to mention the dalliances of the senator’s youth—and he could ask whatever he wanted. If he brought up the people I’d killed, Granny told me to deny it. No sense giving him any leverage he didn’t need to have. If he asked about Ben Clancy specifically, she said she’d handle that one herself.

It was a hot and humid day as I moved slowly past the rhododendrons and mountain laurels, stands of old oak and elms, and skirted the creeks that rushed down the mountain, swollen from the unusual amount of rain we’d had that summer. When I got to Granny’s, I was shocked to see a helicopter in the field between her driveway and the creek. The senator obviously traveled in style. Two men I assumed were a pilot and maybe a security guy were walking near the chopper.

When I walked into Granny’s house, the first person I saw, after Granny, was Claire Tate. She was standing in the living room looking at photographs on the wall, pictures I’d looked at several times. She was wearing tight black jeans and a pale-blue silk shirt. She was incredibly striking. Granny led me through the house and into the kitchen, and there, looking out the kitchen window above the sink, was the senior senator from Tennessee and one of the most powerful men in the country.

He turned as he heard us walk in and smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. Senator Tate was a little over six feet tall with silver hair and bright-sky-blue eyes. He was fit and trim and looked like he could run a marathon. He may have had some bad habits in his younger days, but the man standing before me took excellent care of himself. His skin was as smooth as any seventy-year-old I’d ever seen, and his grip when he shook my hand was like a vise.

“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Street,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye. “Some of it was good.”

He smiled and released my hand. It was a Thursday afternoon, but the smell of fried chicken filled the house. Fried chicken was usually reserved for Sundays in the mountains.

“I hope you brought an appetite,” Granny said. “These Washington folks said they usually eat salad, but this is Tennessee, I’m entertaining, and I’m putting on the dog.”

“Smells great,” I said.

The senator, Claire, Granny, and I sat down to a meal of fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fried okra, fresh tomatoes and onion slices, couscous, and chocolate pie. We washed it down with sweet tea. Claire, who looked like she’d prefer raw tuna, took it in stride. She didn’t eat much, but she ate. The senator let it rip, and so did I. It was delicious.

When we were finished, the four of us walked outside, and Granny led us down the path to the small clearing where she and I had talked once before. She was carrying a small cooler, and I took it from her hand and carried it until we sat down. She opened the cooler and produced a pitcher of iced lemonade and four plastic cups.

“This is beautiful,” Senator Tate said, looking at the surrounding mountains, the creek, and the meadow beyond. “Brings back a lot of fond memories of being outdoors. My understanding is that you were raised in the city, Mr. Street.”

“Sort of the outskirts of the city, over by Farragut before it developed the way it has now.”

“Do you like to get outdoors? Hunt or fish?”

“Love to camp, and I’ve done a lot of fishing in my day. Not to say that I’m any good at it, but it clears my head. I used to take my son a lot.”

“Yes, your son. That would be Sean, correct?”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

“Your first wife cheated on you, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, with an older man. Very rich man. She moved with him to Hawaii and took your son with her.”

I didn’t really see what my ex-wife, Katie, screwing an older man had to do with anything. The senator mentioning it stung a bit, but I let it go.

“That’s right,” I said.