Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(34)

I shook my head slowly. It was an involuntary movement.

“Am I to take that as a no?” the senator said.

“I’m sorry . . . no . . . it’s just that when you mentioned the sheriff, it threw me for a second. He showed up at my apartment yesterday. Broke in. He was sitting at my kitchen counter when I came back from a run.”

“What did he want?”

“He was trying to intimidate me. It didn’t work out for him.”

“Good. My hope is that he’s going to wind up behind bars where he belongs. But back to what has happened. A good friend of mine, Art Brewer, contacted me a few days ago. He lives here in Knoxville and has been extremely successful in the insurance business. He has a grandson, Gary, who graduated from the University of Tennessee and then joined the marines because he wanted to join the fight against ISIS. He wound up leading combat platoons in Afghanistan and Syria, did three tours, was wounded several times, and was highly decorated. But he came home a changed young man. Art said he was haunted by nightmares, was paranoid and restless, had no interest in holding a job, and had turned to drugs and alcohol to medicate himself. Art also said that his son, Gary’s father, told Art that Gary had gotten into bare-knuckle boxing, which I think is something akin to cockfighting using men instead of roosters. Gary’s sister, who is the closest in the family to him, said he went off last Sunday to do a fight somewhere in the western part of the county, and he didn’t come back. He hasn’t been seen since. Art called the sheriff’s department and, as you would expect, has received no help. The Knoxville police say it’s out of their jurisdiction if it didn’t happen in the city, District Attorney Morris has not asked the TBI to help with the investigation, and the FBI says they have jurisdictional problems as well.”

“Not if official misconduct is involved,” I said.

“Exactly,” the senator said. “If a public official is engaged in corrupt practices, the FBI has every right, in fact they have a responsibility, to investigate.”

“So why don’t you pull a few strings?” I said. “Seems to me that you could get the FBI in Knoxville to do pretty much anything you want.”

“I can, but they’re going to need an in,” he said.

“You mean an informant.”

“Call it what you like.”

“You want me to get elected DA, act like I’m on the take like Stephen Morris and the sheriff, and help the FBI bust them all.”

“And find out what happened to Gary Brewer,” the senator said. “That’s the most important part. Find my good friend’s grandson.”

My stomach began to churn even worse than it had earlier.

“I have to tell you, Senator Tate, I hate snitches. The thought of becoming one makes my skin crawl.”

“But you’ll do it,” he said. “You’ll do it for me, and for Grace, and for your own redemption.”

I downed the last of the lemonade in my glass and looked at him.

“If you get me elected, I’ll figure out a way to find out what happened to Gary Brewer and hold people accountable,” I said. “I give you my word. But I have to draw the line at becoming an FBI informant. I just can’t become a snitch for them. I’ve seen people do it, and it always turns out badly for the snitch. It’s a deal-breaker, sir. I’m sorry.”

The senator looked at me sternly. He obviously wasn’t used to people saying no to him.

“You’ll find Gary Brewer,” he said. “Dead or alive. You’ll make it your mission.”

“I will.”

“Very well. Let’s get this done.”





CHAPTER 18

Sheriff Tree Corker squeezed off another round as gunshots echoed off the surrounding hills. The sheriff and Roby Penn were firing at rats that scurried around a garbage pile fifty yards away. They were on Roby’s land, a forlorn, forty-acre patch of woods and weeds about seven miles northeast of Knoxville. The garbage heap had grown over the years as Roby had piled everything from old tires to rotted food, empty paint cans, and crumbling lumber. The rats had settled in about five years earlier, and now they were everywhere.

“You can’t shoot for shit,” Roby said as yet another blast emanated from the barrel of one of the sheriff’s Pythons. Dirt shot up about ten feet to the right of a rat that sat on its haunches, chewing on something it was holding in its paws.

“That wasn’t even the one I was aiming for,” the sheriff said. “He ducked down behind the pile just before I pulled the trigger.”

“Yeah, right, and the Pope’s a Buddhist,” Roby said.

It was ten in the morning on Sunday, and the heat and humidity were already starting to rise. The sheriff’s cruiser sat nearby, a shiny black Ford LTD with large gold stars on the hood, the trunk lid, and both sides. “The High Sheriff of Knox County” was airbrushed in gold on each front quarter panel. The sheriff pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted his cowboy hat, and wiped his forehead.

“Gonna be hotter than a three-peckered billy goat today,” he said.

He holstered his Python and sat down on the tailgate of Roby’s pickup truck as Roby took aim and fired with an illegal, fully automatic M16 chambered in .556 millimeter. Roby squeezed the trigger, and a rat did a backflip as the round tore his head off.