City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(44)

“Officially. Meaning you have investigated.”

“If I had, it would be on my own time and any notes would be kept in my home, because if the council found out, they’d give me their usual threat—to stick my ass on a plane down south. One way.”

I want to ask why that’s such a big deal. Then I remember what Anders said—that Dalton was born here and doesn’t intend to leave. I’m guessing that’s how the council keeps him in line. Threatens to kick him out, because he has no right to stay.

“Irene was Harry Powys’s ex-girlfriend,” I say. “She died two weeks before he went missing.”

Dalton takes a gulp of his coffee.

I continue. “You didn’t randomly decide you’d like a detective on staff. You already needed one. This is why I’m here, and you just stood back and let me figure it out for myself.”

“No,” he says. “I had one woman dead, presumably homicide. Another woman went missing seven weeks ago. Then Powys disappeared. I’ve wanted a detective for a while. Your file just hit our desk at the right time.”

“Missing woman?”

“Abbygail Kemp.”

I choke back a growl of frustration. “Were you going to tell me about her? Or just wait until I figured it out? If you want to test my detection skills, amuse yourself by making me figure out which horse is yours.”

He turns cold grey eyes on me. “What you and I are doing right now, Butler? It’s not about proving you’re a detective. It’s about proving I can trust you. Because you came along at a helluva convenient time.”

I pause. “You think I’m, what, a plant? Spying on you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. What’s the adage? It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you?” He puts down his coffee. “The council expects one thing from me, detective: blind obedience. I don’t provide it, so they want me gone. The problem? There are still people around who financed this town in the early days. Permanent stakeholders. They want me here, and unless the council can prove I’m incompetent, I stay. So, yeah, I’m suspicious.”

“I’d like the file on Abbygail Kemp.”

“Inside. Second cabinet. Second drawer.”

“I also want your notes on everyone you think the council smuggled in.”

He looks up at me. “I don’t keep—”

“Bullshit. If you don’t want to show me, okay. We’ll just discuss them.”

“It won’t help.”

“Of course it—”

He gets to his feet. “Abbygail’s file is inside. For the rest? Start from scratch.” He heads for the door.

“I’m not asking for a hand up. I’m asking for the opinion of the person who knows this town better than—”

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone on the porch.





Four

An hour later, Dalton’s on the deck again, having done … Honestly, I have no goddamn idea what he was doing.

He settles into his chair, and I walk out there, Abbygail’s file in hand.

“Read it?” he grunted.

“Nope.” I dump the file on his lap. “I will, but first you’re going to tell me about the case.”

He snorts.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Am I interrupting your whatever-the-hell-you’re-doing out here? The answer is nothing, sheriff. You’re doing nothing. You’re sitting on your ass and ordering me to read files when the best person to discuss this town is you. Tell me about Abbygail Kemp. Then I’ll read the file.”

He goes inside and I think he’s refusing. I start to follow, only to see he’s switching his coffee for a beer. He comes back, sits, and takes a long drink from the bottle. Then he sets it down and says, “Abbygail Kemp is my f*cking biggest failure as sheriff, detective.”

I think I’ve misheard. Or this is some sarcastic faux confession. One look in his eyes says it’s not.

“She came here at nineteen. Youngest resident we’ve ever had, and I fought tooth and nail to keep her out. Didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Like taking a teenage girl and dropping her off in the middle of Las Vegas at midnight. I said hell no. I’m not a babysitter. It was Beth who talked me down. Said she’d take responsibility. And the girl’s story …” He shook his head. “I wasn’t arguing that she didn’t need help. I just didn’t think she needed Rockton.”

“Her story?”

“Ran away at sixteen. Drugs. Prostitution. The family situation …?” He shifted in his seat. “I won’t pretend to understand the family situation, detective. I know my limitations, living up here, and so I read up on stuff like that. I still don’t understand because, to me, it’s black and white. If your kid runs away and sells her body for money, you must be shitty parents.”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “If she was into drugs before she left, that would explain a lot.”

“I guess so. Anyway, leaving didn’t mean she hated her parents. She got herself into trouble on the streets, though. Big trouble. She ran home. The trouble followed. Some gang guys set her house on fire. Her parents didn’t get out in time.”

“Damn.”