“Take a seat,” Clayton said.
Bowie eased into the chair across from the chief’s desk, looked up at the framed photo of Clayton and Mad Jack Wayne, then shifted focus and leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees.
“I’ll get right to it,” Bowie said. “Our family is wondering where the investigation into our father’s murder stands?”
Clayton flushed. He felt the heat rushing up his neck and on to his cheeks, and knew how that was going to read.
“Well, I can’t really say, Bowie, because it’s not my case. My authority and responsibilities end at the city limits of Eden, so—”
“But since the suspects live here, you surely know the status of the interrogations, right?”
“Yes, I would be kept informed of that, but to my knowledge they haven’t begun that part of—”
The shock of hearing that sent Bowie to his feet. He was so angry, it was all he could do to keep from shouting.
“A dying man spent his last seconds leaving the family name of the man who killed him. That was a day ago, and no one’s even bothered to talk to them?”
Clayton sighed.
“I’m really sorry, Bowie. I wish I had better news for you, but—”
“Save it,” Bowie said. “Sorry to bother you.”
He was gone before Clayton could get out of his chair. He looked up at his framed credentials and then at the picture of him standing beside Mad Jack Wayne at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new jail, then picked up the phone and called Constable Riordan’s private number.
Riordan answered on the second ring.
“Riordan, this is Henry Clayton. I have some information for you regarding the Youngblood murder.”
“Anything you can tell me would be appreciated,” Riordan said.
“Bowie Youngblood was just here and hot under the collar because no one had interviewed any of the Wayne family. That’s an FYI, in case you get a call. Also, I got a call from Blake Wayne last night, demanding I run off the people who were picketing outside their property. When I got there, it turned out to be about a dozen or so people who’d lost their homes to that investment group that’s putting up a resort down by the lake. I didn’t get the connection, but there must be one. You should look into who the investors actually were. They said they all lost their homes to sudden bank foreclosures. I asked them what that had to do with Stanton’s murder, and one man said, and I quote, ‘Polly and Carl Cyrus. Thomas and Beth Youngblood.’”
“I don’t get it,” Riordan said.
“Well, just so you know, Polly Cyrus and Thomas Youngblood are Stanton’s siblings. You might talk to them and see what they have to say. It could lead to some kind of motive.”
“Okay, thanks for the info and for the heads-up,” Riordan said.
“Hope it helps,” Henry said. “I grew up with Stanton. He was a good man.”
*
While Bowie was inside the police precinct, the wind had risen to storm-like proportions, matching the tumult of his own rage. He was nearing the city limits when he saw the looming roof of the Wayne estate off to the right, a visual reminder of the hold the family had on this town. The sight of his mother’s grief-stricken face flashed before him, and on impulse he turned off the main road and drove down the street leading to the main gates.
He’d seen the three-story mansion many times but had never been able to picture his mother growing up there. He didn’t intend to stop, but as he drove past, he saw a man and two women standing beneath the portico at the far end of the driveway, and he hit the brakes. He put the truck in Park and leaped out, heading toward the open gates with a long, steady stride. The wind tore through his hair and flattened his shirt against his torso.
He stopped only inches away from the property line and waited for the moment when they saw him, and when they did, he pulled the tie from his hair so they’d know who he belonged to, braced himself against the rising wind and stared at them in a gesture of defiance. A cold rage swept through him. His father was gone, and they were going about their business, seemingly without concern that one of their own was a murderer.
He watched the man take a few steps forward, and then both women grabbed him and pulled him back.
The man was shouting now, but the wind carried away the words. While Bowie couldn’t hear what he was saying, from the way the man was behaving, he guessed it was a challenge.
Bowie sent back his own challenge, raising his arms, holding them level with his shoulders, as if to say, “Here I am. Come and get me.”