Our gazes meet. “Just in case,” she explains.
I nod. “To the lawyer’s office, then?”
“Let’s drop by the Hyatt Riding Academy first,” Liv suggests. “It’s probably pointless to hope we’ll find Hyatt, but maybe the receptionist will let us have a look around.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Can’t hurt,” Liv echoes.
The riding academy sits on one hundred exclusive and valuable acres in Franklin. Part of the property is wooded, but most is covered in beautifully manicured pastures and high-end barns. The place is very fancy. It’s also not for beginners looking to have their first experience with a horse. This is the place you go when you want to learn to compete. Where someone who wants to be like Liv’s mom, God rest her soul, would start out.
The main office is large, with a lobby that exhibits photos and pamphlets showing off their award-winning former students and the teachers who once went home with the trophies and ribbons. Said trophies and ribbons stand proudly in glass cases. Two customers—a mother and daughter, I figure—are perusing the stuff meant to encourage application.
Liv walks up to the counter and displays her badge. “We’re here to see Janie Hyatt.”
The woman, receptionist or whatever, glances at me, then back to Liv. “As I’ve already told you, Ms. Hyatt is on vacation this week. She and her wife are in the Smokies for a long weekend.”
I move up next to Liv. Show my badge as well. This is the same woman I’ve spoken to twice, and she wants me to know it. Well, I want her to know that we’re tired of waiting. “I’m wondering,” I say, “why she hasn’t at least called back, since I’m confident you’ve passed along the messages that we need to speak with her.”
The receptionist blinks, takes a moment to consider how to respond. “I can’t say. I’ve passed along your messages. That’s all I can tell you.”
I put my badge away. “Well, maybe we’ll just have a look around.”
The woman blinks again, hesitates once more. “I’m afraid we don’t allow that sort of thing. We do have weekly tours of the facility onMondays. If you’d like to come back then, you’ll get a very good look at our facility and what we do here.”
“We really need to do this today,” Liv presses. “We’re not looking to sign up for classes. This is police business.”
Without hesitation and with a big smile, the receptionist leans forward and lowers her voice for our ears only. “Then I’m afraid you’ll need a warrant.”
“Is that what Ms. Hyatt told you to say?” I ask.
Her full attention lands on me once more. “No. That’s standard operating procedure.”
Now I’m just pissed off, but before I can say something I shouldn’t, Liv speaks up. “We’ll need any associated phone numbers and the exact address of that vacation location.”
She stares at Liv for a long moment, then scratches something onto a notepad. She tears off the page and hands it to Liv. “Good day, Detectives.”
Frustration has me gritting my teeth on the way out the door.
When we’re back in the Tahoe, I sputter, “Damn it.”
“It was a long shot,” Liv points out.
As I back out of the parking slot, I mutter another curse.
“I’ll call Gatlinburg PD,” she says, “and have them knock on the door at this location.” She eyeballs the info provided by the receptionist. “There’s no phone number, just an address.”
“But this,” I say with a nod toward the property we’re about to drive away from, “would be a great place to hide the bastard if they didn’t barbecue him in that barn in the woods.” Our gazes meet. “If we don’t reach one or the other of these two by morning, we’re going to go for that BOLO on account.”
Liv makes a funny face. “On account of what?”
“On account of”—I shift into Drive—“they’re pissing me off.”
Her laughter makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, she’s getting back to her old self.
My cell vibrates and I take the call. “Duncan.”
It’s the Chester County sheriff. I listen to his update and then thank him. When the call ends, I give Liv the news. “No remains found in the burned-out barn. But the fire marshal says definitely accelerants were involved.”
