Read Online Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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bottle of water?”
To the west, an orange sky topped the tree line but could not penetrate the haunted-house shadows of the Helms place. I sighed in the heavy way people do when they’re tired of cooperating and replied, “I’m late already. If you’re not holding me as a suspect, I have the right to leave. Anything else, sorry. It’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow.”
The detective’s pleasant attitude vanished as if a switch had been thrown. “You an attorney?”
“No, but—”
“How do you know you’re not a suspect? I’m going to be real honest, Ms. Smith, parts of your story don’t match up with what we found in there.” He motioned toward the house. “So far, all we have is a probable vandalism and a reported assault. The victim—if that’s what you are—is usually eager to cooperate.”
Because I was getting mad, the temptation was to inform this plainclothes deputy that I was a licensed private investigator bonded by the state and there was nothing I had signed or sworn to that obligated me to tolerate his bullying. The risk, though, was his questions would become even more aggressive and reveal I was a novice, not an actual professional in that field. A private investigator is something very different from a woman who has an investigator’s license because she inherited a business from her uncle and who has only one successful case under her belt.
The little experience I’ve had, however, told me that threatening a cop wouldn’t hasten my release. Especially here, across the line in Sematee County, where my family owned no property. So I backed off, explaining, “Thing is, I’ve got to get home and tell my mother. I dread it. She and Mrs. Helms went to school together. Best friends for something like sixty years, and she’s going to take the news hard.”
“As far as we know,” the deputy reminded me, “the woman who owns this place is just fine. The lab guys are in there right now.” His head swiveled, then he ordered me to stay right where I was by adding, “Don’t wander off, I’ll be back in a second.”
Within reach was a key lime tree. I yanked off a leaf, tore it, then used its sweet odor to clean my hands and also calm myself. It was almost seven o’clock! Earlier, from the Publix parking lot, I had texted Ford rather than call because I feared he would hear the distress in my voice and offer to cancel. But there was no hiding my upset when he telephoned seconds later. Now, instead of postponing our date, he was on his way to Sulfur Wells because, as he said, “I don’t need the whole story to know you shouldn’t be alone, especially alone driving a boat.”
His thoughtfulness had almost unleashed the tears I’d been holding back since arriving at the parking lot. Maybe he had sensed that, too, because his voice had softened when he said, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me at the lab. I’ll make dinner—fresh pompano and potatoes on the grill. How’s that sound?”
Ford, as I had learned, referred to his stilthouse as “the lab” because it was equipped for marine research projects, so his offer sounded like sweet relief to me.
That was half an hour ago, though, and now I was having second thoughts. Ford’s boat is even faster than mine, and he knows the backcountry almost as well, so he was probably waiting at our dock right now, which was a new source of anxiety. I could picture Loretta interrogating the man, terrifying him with examples of my family’s genetics—he was a biologist, after all. He would be alert to emotional oddities that might be hidden in my personality. Why hadn’t I thought to warn him!
An unmarked car, I noticed, was idling toward me, the detective walking alongside and speaking to the driver through an open window. Someone new coming to ask questions. I still had time to text Ford and I did:
Almost done. Oh—Mother hasn’t been the same since her stroke, so be patient and pretend to believe her ’till I get there.
After
To the west, an orange sky topped the tree line but could not penetrate the haunted-house shadows of the Helms place. I sighed in the heavy way people do when they’re tired of cooperating and replied, “I’m late already. If you’re not holding me as a suspect, I have the right to leave. Anything else, sorry. It’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow.”
The detective’s pleasant attitude vanished as if a switch had been thrown. “You an attorney?”
“No, but—”
“How do you know you’re not a suspect? I’m going to be real honest, Ms. Smith, parts of your story don’t match up with what we found in there.” He motioned toward the house. “So far, all we have is a probable vandalism and a reported assault. The victim—if that’s what you are—is usually eager to cooperate.”
Because I was getting mad, the temptation was to inform this plainclothes deputy that I was a licensed private investigator bonded by the state and there was nothing I had signed or sworn to that obligated me to tolerate his bullying. The risk, though, was his questions would become even more aggressive and reveal I was a novice, not an actual professional in that field. A private investigator is something very different from a woman who has an investigator’s license because she inherited a business from her uncle and who has only one successful case under her belt.
The little experience I’ve had, however, told me that threatening a cop wouldn’t hasten my release. Especially here, across the line in Sematee County, where my family owned no property. So I backed off, explaining, “Thing is, I’ve got to get home and tell my mother. I dread it. She and Mrs. Helms went to school together. Best friends for something like sixty years, and she’s going to take the news hard.”
“As far as we know,” the deputy reminded me, “the woman who owns this place is just fine. The lab guys are in there right now.” His head swiveled, then he ordered me to stay right where I was by adding, “Don’t wander off, I’ll be back in a second.”
Within reach was a key lime tree. I yanked off a leaf, tore it, then used its sweet odor to clean my hands and also calm myself. It was almost seven o’clock! Earlier, from the Publix parking lot, I had texted Ford rather than call because I feared he would hear the distress in my voice and offer to cancel. But there was no hiding my upset when he telephoned seconds later. Now, instead of postponing our date, he was on his way to Sulfur Wells because, as he said, “I don’t need the whole story to know you shouldn’t be alone, especially alone driving a boat.”
His thoughtfulness had almost unleashed the tears I’d been holding back since arriving at the parking lot. Maybe he had sensed that, too, because his voice had softened when he said, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me at the lab. I’ll make dinner—fresh pompano and potatoes on the grill. How’s that sound?”
Ford, as I had learned, referred to his stilthouse as “the lab” because it was equipped for marine research projects, so his offer sounded like sweet relief to me.
That was half an hour ago, though, and now I was having second thoughts. Ford’s boat is even faster than mine, and he knows the backcountry almost as well, so he was probably waiting at our dock right now, which was a new source of anxiety. I could picture Loretta interrogating the man, terrifying him with examples of my family’s genetics—he was a biologist, after all. He would be alert to emotional oddities that might be hidden in my personality. Why hadn’t I thought to warn him!
An unmarked car, I noticed, was idling toward me, the detective walking alongside and speaking to the driver through an open window. Someone new coming to ask questions. I still had time to text Ford and I did:
Almost done. Oh—Mother hasn’t been the same since her stroke, so be patient and pretend to believe her ’till I get there.
After
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