“Is Billy Knox on your hit list?”
Sheriff Dennis shifts his weight in his chair. He looks even less comfortable than he did when we were discussing the bones. “Penn, I’ve heard all kinds of rumors about Billy over the years, but so far as I can tell, he’s a legitimate businessman. And a damn successful one.”
“Too successful,” Henry mutters.
The sheriff expels a long rush of air, like a deflating balloon. “How exactly do you define that, Henry? Making money ain’t a crime yet, is it? If you boys have some hard information, I’ll be happy to follow up on it.”
“We have information,” I tell him, “but not the kind you need. I’ll just say this: if you hit the meth dealers in this parish hard enough, Billy Knox is going to feel it.”
The sheriff squints at me for several seconds, then gestures at the bone on his desk. “You still haven’t told me how that connects to this. How ’bout you tell me why you and Jimmy Olsen here needed an escort home last night? What were you afraid of?”
I look at Henry, but the reporter shakes his head.
“So that’s how it is,” says the sheriff. “Then I guess neither of you can tell me why the FBI showed up at the hospital morgue and took possession of Glenn Morehouse’s body this morning?”
Henry and I look at each other in shock.
“Yep,” says Dennis. “They transported that corpse to the Belle Chasse Naval Air Station, on Lake Pontchartrain. Which is strange, because last time I checked, murder was a state crime.”
Henry and I solve this mystery simultaneously: his call to Special Agent John Kaiser must have produced this result.
“You want to know what we were afraid of last night?” I ask softly.
Dennis nods.
“The Double Eagle group. Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield, for example.”
“And Forrest Knox,” Henry adds.
Dennis sits up straight, both hands held in front of him. “Hold it right there. Listen to me, men. Forrest Knox is the director of the Criminal Investigations Bureau of the state police. If you’ve got a problem with him, you need to take it up with him—not a lowly sheriff in a poor parish like this one. I’ve been in this job exactly five and a half weeks. I’ve spent day and night trying to put this department back together after the explosion that Penn here caused when he busted that casino boat, or gambling syndicate, or whatever it was. And that’s almost more than I can handle.”
Before Henry can say anything, I ask, “Have you heard that my father’s been charged with murder?”
The sheriff gives me a sober nod.
“He’s being framed, Walker.”
“That, I believe.”
“The victim was the sister of Jimmy Revels, who died with Luther Davis. Jimmy’s bones may be down under that convertible with Luther’s, not five miles from here. Henry’s not going to give up his sources, but I’ll tell you this: the Double Eagles killed Revels and Davis, and they killed Viola Turner, too. My father’s not going to jail for those bastards. I’m going to squeeze until one of them pops and gives up Viola’s killer.”
I stand and lift the bone fragment from the desk. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go to the DEA and the FBI. But I’d prefer to work with you. I told Henry you’re a stand-up guy, and I still believe that. This is your chance to make a difference, Walker. To show people they were right to put you in this job. And all you have to do is enforce the law.”
Breathing hard, I sense more than see Henry nodding at my side.
Sheriff Dennis looks flustered by my passion. Leaning toward him, I add, “This is personal, Walker. I’m going to pull every string I can reach on this case. And I know some people.”
The sheriff ducks his head and spits into the Ole Miss cup again. “I know you do, buddy. And I’ve got no problem rousting out every meth cooker in this parish at the crack of dawn, if that’s what you want. But if you’re after Billy Knox, jailing the local fuckups won’t hurt him none. Billy’s way too slick for that.”
“I thought you said he was a legitimate businessman,” Henry comments.
Dennis cuts his eyes at Henry; he’s losing his patience with the Beacon’s intrepid reporter. “I said I can’t prove different. But legit or not, Billy’s made a shitload of money in about five different businesses while everybody else has been watching their bank accounts shrink to nothing.”
“What does that tell you?” Henry asks.
“One, he’s smart. Why don’t you call the IRS on him, Henry?”
“Some people,” Henry says in a quavering voice, “think Billy Knox isn’t the smart one in that family. They think a certain cousin of his might be running interference for him in this parish.”
Sheriff Dennis’s face goes slack for a couple of seconds, like a man who can’t believe you just called his wife a slut.
“Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox,” Henry says defiantly.
Dennis looks at me to see whether I share Henry’s apparent lunacy. Then he rises, his face bright pink, and splays his big hands on his desk.
“Nothing personal,” Henry says, far too late.
“Nothing personal?” Dennis shakes his head as though he can’t decide whether to kick us out of his office or throw us into a cell. “Henry, you’re saying I’m either a crook or a fool, and I don’t care for either choice. So, why don’t you get the fuck out of my office?”
“All right,” I say, pulling the reporter up out of his chair. “Henry should have phrased that better, Walker. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”