Not One of Us(24)

“You need any help with the case?” Mullins asked, openly smirking.

“I’ll let you know if I do.” I opened a pack of Splenda and stirred my brew. I spared a brief, longing glance at the croissants someone had brought in. These days, I didn’t allow myself real sugar or high-carb pastries. Sometimes I wondered if being slim was worth it. I sipped the coffee as I sat at my desk. About the only good thing I could say was that it was hot and strong. After a restless night thinking about the murder, it was exactly what I needed. Mug in hand, I sat at my desk and logged in.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if Tommy Sims killed Strickland,” Mullins said. “Man’s nothing but a hothead. We’ve arrested him half a dozen times over the years for assault and battery.”

I certainly had no lost love for Sims, but I couldn’t picture him shooting a man in the back of the head as he lay asleep in bed. That was much too premeditated. If Sims ever crossed a line, it would be while in a fistfight that escalated his anger to a white-hot rage. And his weapon would be his hands, not a gun.

My computer screen lit up, and I opened my email, scanning to see if anything needed an immediate response. Nothing pressing there, nor was there anything on my calendar. Excellent. I wanted to review the notes on the interviews with Tommy and his pals and make a plan of attack. I scribbled a few notes and guzzled more coffee.

“I almost forgot,” Haywood said in a way-too-casual voice. “Oliver asked to see you immediately when you got in.”

I practically spat out the coffee in my mouth. “Thanks a lot, guys. You could have told me that ten minutes ago.” I grabbed a notebook, pen, and coffee cup and hurried to the door, sloshing hot liquid down the front of my uniform pants. Terrific. The snickers followed me down the hallway.

I knocked on Oliver’s door and entered. He was writing on a whiteboard and didn’t bother turning around. “Sorry I’m late . . . rough morning,” I began. “The kids—”

He raised an arm and brushed away my explanation. “Not important.” Oliver moved to the side of the board, and I read the timeline he’d been working on. He pointed at the first line with a black dry-erase pen and read his scribbles aloud. “One. On April 13, 1991, sixteen-year-old Jackson Ensley was shot in the back of the head after attending a late-night party. His friend Raymond Strickland was arrested the next day and charged with murder. According to the prosecution, the motive in the killing was a dispute over a drug transaction.

“Two. Strickland is released from prison on parole February 8, 2019. He returns home to attend his mother’s funeral and is killed on April 19 in the same method in which Ensley was murdered.

“Three. The coroner estimated the time of death to be anytime between ten and eleven thirty p.m. Victim was last seen at approximately ten fifteen on Friday night, when, according to his neighbor, Reba Tankersley, Strickland arrived at his house.

“Now moving on to possible suspects—”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. After walking up to the whiteboard, I picked up a spare dry-erase pen on the easel and drew an arrow between the first and second points he’d outlined. “Let’s make an addition between one and two.” I drew an asterisk, labeled it “1.5,” and wrote, May 19, 2006, all three members of the Cormier household are reported missing.

Oliver frowned. “The Cormier case has no bearing on the Strickland murder.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But we should keep it in mind, since Strickland made a reference to people disappearing in the bayou. It’s one of the last things he said to one of the last people who saw him alive that night. You probably don’t know since you’re not from around here, but Louis Cormier was widely suspected by townsfolk of being involved in shady business like money laundering for drug traffickers. And since Strickland was a known drug dealer, maybe their paths crossed over the years or they associated with the same underworld criminals.”

“Don’t let the Cormier case sidetrack you,” he warned. “We need to focus on the most obvious suspects first.”

“Of course.” Warmth blossomed on my neck. Had I overstepped work boundaries by adding to my boss’s outline? After all, this was my first murder case, and Oliver had solved many while working in Mobile. I sat back down and dutifully made arrangements to interview the bouncer at the Pavilion and check on the details of Letitia Strickland’s will while Oliver would continue digging around to explore a possible drug connection to the crime. I had to admit that the drug angle made sense. Strickland had been a known dealer in his youth and had hinted to Jori Trahern that he was working on closing up some kind of deal before he left town.

Oliver ran a hand through his white, unruly hair and sighed. “Would’ve helped if Strickland’s cell phone hadn’t gone missing. We could’ve traced his calls for possible leads.”

“The killer’s got it. Has to.” I scanned through the most recent investigation notes, hoping that the phone records would reveal something of interest. We’d received the records quickly, thanks to Oliver’s connections. He had a mountain of sources everywhere after working in the field for so long. But the record only confirmed the phone’s last location. “The GPS showed it was last active on his street at 10:18 p.m., April 19.”

“Yep. Our killer disabled it. The phone’s probably at the bottom of some swamp out here.”