Not One of Us(13)

Oliver pulled the notes up on his phone. “Tommy Sims, Eddie Yaeger, Jayrod Booker, and Alden Knight. From what I gather, Sims was the ringleader. We’ll check him out first.”

A ball of dread formed in my gut. As if running into Dempsey this morning hadn’t been bad enough. Now I’d have to face more men I knew from high school, one of whom I had a past with. An intimate past. I shook off my misgivings. This wouldn’t be the first time. And if they were jerks like Dempsey—which they likely were, if they’d been involved in a bar fight—then that was their problem, not mine. I knew when I went into law enforcement that situations like this were bound to happen.

We climbed in the cruiser, and while Oliver drove, I obtained Tommy’s address: 1649 Mulder Drive. I was familiar with the area, located only a couple blocks past Main Street. We proceeded into the older, historic part of town, neighborhoods that featured charming cottage homes with white picket fences and well-manicured lawns and gardens. But three streets over and down, the older homes were ill kempt and falling into various degrees of disrepair and neglect. Peeling paint, broken shutters, and rusted vehicles in the yard were the norm. The more wrecked the house, the greater mass of accumulated junk littered the front porch and driveway.

Tommy Sims’s place was about the worst of the worst. From the windows hung with ugly sheets as curtains to the unfortunate lime-green shade of the shutters and trim, its general air was one of neglect.

The doorbell didn’t work—no surprise—and it took several minutes of loud rapping on the front door before a dispirited woman grudgingly opened it. She looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed with her short hair sticking up at awkward angles. Her sleepy eyes instantly widened in alarm at the sight of us.

“We’re with the Erie County Sheriff’s Department,” Oliver informed her. “Is Mr. Sims available?”

Without bothering to answer, the woman stepped away, yelling for Tommy. A deep baritone sounded from inside, the words indecipherable.

But the woman’s shrill voice was not. “Cops are here,” she proclaimed. “What the hell have you done now?”

More unintelligible mumbling.

“Tell ’em yourself,” she yelled. A door slammed inside.

Oliver and I exchanged a wry glance. Marital harmony this was not.

Tommy appeared at the door, eyes wary and pulling a faded T-shirt over his beer belly. A red welt streaked across the left side of his face. That must have been some bar fight. “Yeah?” he asked by way of greeting.

The years had not been kind to him. In high school, he’d been a tall, lean baseball pitcher with longish brown hair and a chiseled jaw. I’d been thrilled when he’d paid attention to me one day at school and had foolishly agreed to meet him at the bleachers after his game that night. Turned out he’d been interested in only one thing. I’d discovered this at school the next day when he and his buddies had walked right past me in the hallway as though I were a nobody. Even worse, it became apparent in the days and weeks that followed that he’d run his mouth about what went down between us. I credited Tommy for the “Big Easy” nickname, which had stuck to me like superglue the rest of the year.

I hadn’t expected Tommy Sims to look the same as he was when a teenager—and I’d seen him a time or two from a distance at the grocery store—but I hadn’t been prepared for a close look at the weathered, wrinkled face and sagging jawline. His once dark-brown locks were threaded with gray, and his hairline had receded several inches at the front.

I tried to be generous. After all, I had my own wrinkles and stretch marks and a fierce reliance on dye to keep my hair its once-natural light-brown color. But my figure these days was trim and athletic, a far cry from my chubby adolescence.

“Lieutenant Oliver and Deputy Blackwell with the Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Oliver.

Tommy barely glanced my way as he responded to my partner. “Son of a . . . if this is about last night, Strickland provoked us.” His hand lightly touched the welt on his face. “Man gave as good as he got.” Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “He file a complaint or somethin’?”

“What was the fight about?” I asked, bypassing his question.

Tommy leveled his gaze at me and shifted uneasily on his bare feet. “We thought he might be bothering Jori Trahern, so we stepped in.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. “Why did you think there was a problem? Did you observe any violence or distress between them?”

“Nooo,” he drawled slowly. “It was more because of who she is.”

I quirked a brow. “Which is?”

“A cousin of Jackson Ensley’s. Guy was murdered by Ray back in high school. Shot in the back of the head. Cold blooded.”

A shiver eased down my spine like a melting ice cube making tracks. This marked the second time today I’d heard Jackson’s name. I’d have to brace myself for more of the same in this investigation.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed on me. “Do I know you? You look kinda familiar.”

A flush crept up the nape of my neck. So he didn’t recognize me. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or affronted. I ignored the question and asked one of my own. “Had you ever observed Mr. Strickland and Ms. Trahern together prior to last evening?”

“Nah. First time I’d seen Ray in ages.” Tommy crossed his arms over his chest, a half sneer painting his face. He’d sported that expression in high school whether on the ball field or hanging out with friends.