The news drags my attention away from Tomasetti and back to the case. “Where are you?”
“His place. He’s not here. Front door was standing wide open. I figured that warranted a welfare check, so I took a look inside. Nothing out of place, but there’s no sign of him.”
“Shit, Glock, that’s not good.” I think about that a moment. “Car there?”
“Yeah.”
“He could be with a friend.” But neither of us is assuaged. “Look, I’m going to go talk to Blue Branson, and then I’ll head your way.”
“You want me to go with you? Meet you there?”
“I want you to find McCullough. Check with his friends and family and neighbors. See if anyone knows where he is or if they’ve seen him. For all we know, he’s down at the VFW playing bingo.”
“I’m on it.”
But we both know that’s a best-case scenario. With two of his friends dead and ties to a deadly cold case creeping steadily into the picture, I’m not sure we’ll find Jerrold McCullough alive.
CHAPTER 17
Blue Branson lives in a modest single-story bungalow with dormer windows, a homey little porch, and crisp white trim. A six-foot privacy fence separates his property from Brewer’s Salvage Yard, which is situated on the lot next door. I turn into the driveway, plow through slightly mushy gravel, and park a few yards from the front door.
I get out and pass by his Mustang as I make my way to the house. Within the glow of the porch light, drizzle floats down. Opening the storm door, I knock.
A moment later, Blue appears; he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”
“I guess you knew I’d be back,” I begin.
He doesn’t respond, and I remind myself he’s no greenhorn when it comes to dealing with the police. Most people talk too much when they get nervous, usually to their detriment. Not Blue. He looks at me coolly, eye contact steady, as if trying to decide if he should invite me inside or send me packing.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“You heard about Julia Rutledge?”
He sighs, looks away for a moment. “I heard.”
“Jerrold McCullough is missing.”
His gaze jerks to mine. I see both shock and concern on his face. He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”
I enter a comfortably furnished living room. Starving artist paintings on the walls. A newish flat screen mounted above the hearth. The air smells of some spicy aromatic I can’t quite place. Classical Spanish guitar hums from speakers on either side of the TV. A sleek laptop hums atop a TV tray next to a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. Blue has shed his sport coat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing forearms that are covered with tattoos—a strange mosaic of blue and red and green on flesh browned by the sun.
He notices me looking at his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He motions toward a newish sofa. “Have a seat.”
I don’t take him up on the offer. “Have you seen or spoken to Jerrold McCullough?”
“No.”
“What about Julia Rutledge?”
“I haven’t seen her.” He grimaces. “I heard she was stabbed to death in her home. Is that true?”
I don’t answer. “Where were you last night between eleven P.M. and five A.M.?”
“I was at the Grace Victory Church in Glenmont. Black Creek flooded out some homes, and there were five families in need of shelter. I helped Pastor Bergman get everyone set up in the rec room.”
“You were there that entire time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know I’m going to check.”
“That’s fine.” He tugs his phone from his pocket, taps the screen a couple of times, and recites the number for the Grace Victory Church.
I pull out my notepad and write it down. “Can anyone else vouch for you?”
“There were ten or fifteen volunteers around all night. Once we got those families picked up, we delivered food and blankets and set up cots. I had at least one person with me all night.”
“So you say.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with Julia’s murder.” He tilts his head. “Do you think something has happened to Jerrold McCullough?”
“I don’t know.” I stare hard at him, waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t give me anything. He stares back, completely unperturbed by the silence and the tension slicing the air between us. “What do you think, Blue? Do you think something happened to him?”
“I have no idea. I’m worried about him.”
“Do you think if you’d come clean about whatever it is you’re hiding, Julia Rutledge might still be alive?”
It’s a harsh, unfair question, but I let it stand, hoping to rattle him. He doesn’t react to the unspoken implication, but I don’t miss the quiver in his hand when he runs it over his goatee. “I’m not hiding anything. I didn’t kill Dale. Or Julia. And I have no idea where McCullough might be. You have my word.”
“Do you know Norm Johnston?”
“Councilman Johnston?” He looks flummoxed. “I’ve met him a few times.”
“Have you spoken to him recently?”