Wilson’s return came as a welcome relief from Rye’s glower.
“I sent a deputy out to assess the damage to your car,” the deputy said. “He confirmed that it can’t be driven. I’ve called a tow truck, but they won’t go out till daylight. You can ride to the department with me. Mr. Mallett can go with Deputy Rawlins. Okay?”
She got the sense that the question was asked out of politeness and not because her opinion of the plan made any difference. “Department?”
“Sheriff’s office. We’ll take your statements there. Get y’all some coffee. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
Having overheard the plan, Rye hissed an expletive. As coarse as it was, Brynn wanted to underscore it. “How long will that take?” she asked.
“Can’t say,” Wilson replied.
“There’s nothing I can add to what I’ve already told you.”
Wilson gave her a pleasant smile. “Maybe in the retelling, you’ll think of something else.”
“I won’t.”
“And anyway,” he said, continuing as though she hadn’t spoken, “we’d like to take a look inside that box.”
Chapter 7
4:02 a.m.
The two squad cars arrived at the sheriff’s department at the same time, but Rye and Brynn were kept separated as Rawlins and Wilson escorted them toward the building. They didn’t want them collaborating on their stories.
Police procedure. Rye got it. He just didn’t like it. He was being treated more like a suspect than a material witness. The implication made him angry and apprehensive.
Just what the hell was going on? The answer lay with Brynn. She might not have aimed that laser at him herself, but were she and that damned box the reason someone had? Something was keeping her from being up-front, and not just with him. The deputies smelled a rat, too.
The four of them entered through a door marked “Official Personnel Only.” No sooner were they inside than a gruff voice called out, “Brynn! Is that you, honey?”
The woman lumbering down the corridor toward them wore a deputy’s uniform stretched to capacity over her full figure. With iron gray hair and lips so thin they were nonexistent, Rye placed her age as sixty-something. Her no-nonsense bearing was belied by her smile as she approached Brynn.
“I heard your name over dispatch and knew you were coming in. Couldn’t wait to see you!”
Brynn smiled at her with genuine warmth. “Hello, Myra.”
Myra wrapped her in a hug that looked bone-crushing, then set her back and held her at arm’s length. “Look at you! I’m so proud of you, girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Still in Atlanta? And a doctor?”
“Yes to both.”
“Mercy sakes,” the woman said. “That’s wonderful. Pretty as ever, too.”
Brynn’s smile became a bit more tentative, as though the woman’s flattery made her uneasy. “I thought you would have retired by now, Myra.”
“To do what? Sit and rock? Take up knitting or rose-growing? Just shoot me now. Besides, this department would fall apart if I wasn’t here to hold it together.”
Brynn laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”
Myra continued to beam, then seemed to remember that Brynn hadn’t simply dropped by to say hello. “What happened out there at the airfield? Brady White’s in the ER. What’s going on?” She’d addressed the questions to Rawlins in a tone that was almost accusatory.
“We’re trying to determine that,” he replied. “Excuse us.”
Under his and Wilson’s prodding, Rye and Brynn were shepherded toward the staircase. Over her shoulder, Brynn said, “It was good to see you, Myra. Happy Thanksgiving.”
As they started up the enclosed stairwell, Rye slid off his bomber jacket and folded it over his forearm. Rounding the landing, Brynn happened to bump elbows with him. When she turned her head to excuse herself, she caught a glimpse of the jacket’s lining.
It stopped her where she stood on the tread above him. Her gaze snapped to his.
With exaggerated care, he refolded the jacket so that the well-endowed pinup girl, hand-painted on the silk lining, was no longer visible. “Sorry,” he said, with all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. “There’s a world map on the inside.”
“How convenient.”
“It is, actually. Unfamiliar terrain can be tricky to navigate.”
From behind them, Wilson said, “Move it along, please.”
Brynn turned and continued up the stairs just ahead of Rye. He was tempted to grab a strand of wavy hair and yank her to a stop, then tell her she had her nerve being pissy with him, when it was he who had every right to be furious. He, who only ever wanted to be left alone to go about his business, now found himself embroiled in one hell of a mess of her making, and the nature of the mess was still a mystery to him.
The situation had gone tits up the instant that laser had skewered his eyeballs. Things hadn’t improved. They continued to get worse.
A sheriff’s office was never a good place to find oneself in the predawn. He had the uneasy feeling that he was entering the lions’ den and realized he was bracing himself for whatever nasty shock came next.
Besides Wilson, Rawlins, and Myra, there were only a handful of personnel on duty, but as they reached the second floor, an older officer, who was on his way downstairs, hesitated when he saw Brynn and smiled in recognition.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said in the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker. After getting only a marginal smile and murmured hello from her, he held back whatever else he was about to say, doffed an imaginary hat, and continued on down the steps.
The staircase opened into a large squad room with a warren of desks, only one of them occupied by a sleepy-looking man in plainclothes who sat staring into a computer monitor.
“You and I will take room three,” Wilson said to Brynn. Rye noticed that she headed toward an offshoot hallway without needing direction.
Rawlins followed them and said to Rye, “Down here.” He passed the room Brynn and Wilson entered. Farther down the hall, he opened the door to a cramped office. He hung his coat and hat on a wall-mounted hook and motioned Rye in. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”
“Can I please borrow a phone charger?” Rye asked.
“Sure.” Rawlins pulled the door shut as he left.
Between Rawlins and Wilson, it was no contest as to which was the “bad cop.” Rye wondered why he’d been unlucky enough to draw him.
He sat down in front of a desk that looked like it had sustained storm damage. The rest of the office was equally cluttered, the walls papered with outdated calendars, old wanted posters, and notices of one kind or another.
Several tacky golf trophies were jammed between books and files in the three-shelf bookcase. It also contained a bobblehead of a Clemson tiger next to a picture of a younger Rawlins wearing the full gear of the university’s football team. A signed baseball was encased in a Plexiglas cube.
The things a man hoarded revealed a lot about the man and what he valued.
Rawlins was easy to peg. A former jock, clinging to glory days.
Brady White loved his family and aviation.
Rye Mallett?
He looked down at his brown bomber jacket where it lay across his lap.
It was vintage World War II. He’d discovered it in a trunk in a dusty antiques store that specialized in aviation memorabilia. It had been love at first sight. He’d asked the proprietor to please hold it for him until he could scrape up enough money to buy it. He left a ten-dollar down payment and paid on the layaway whenever he had some spare cash. On the day he’d gotten his pilot’s license at age sixteen, he’d gone into the store, settled the balance, and worn the jacket out.