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He pushed the thoughts aside, passed through the 150-year-old masonry of the bridge’s southern tower, and then he was in Covington. Except for the expanse of river and different tax rates, it was really a contiguous part of downtown Cincinnati. Before the new building done on the southern bank, Covington’s street grid exactly matched up with Cincinnati’s. He passed the new high-rise hotels and the wild black-and-white curve of the Ascent condos facing the Cincinnati skyline, then the hulk of the Internal Revenue Service, before he was on the familiar streets lined with their vintage buildings. In ten minutes, he reached the police station in the southern end of the little city.
He had a dead cop. And he was the lead.
Chapter Seven
The drive to the Butler County jail took a long half hour, past the thick cornfields and sleepy rural crossroads that gradually gave way to the shabby outskirts of Hamilton. Like so many smaller blue-collar cities in the Midwest, it had been suffering for decades and looked it. Cheryl Beth didn’t care for the town, but that might have been because the Miami University extension, where most of the nursing classes were held, was located in soulless new buildings separated from downtown and fronting on a huge a parking lot.
The main part of Hamilton had good bones even in bad times, the old buildings built for a hopeful future that came and went. Even the huge empty factories with their dead smokestacks held a mysterious grandeur. When she had been younger, most of these plants had been operating. No longer. The big recession in the early ‘80s had started the process and manufacturing jobs lost to Mexico and then China had pretty much finished them off. As a result, many who lived there were taking classes for jobs in health-care or commuting long distances to work in Cincinnati or Dayton.
Hank Brooks drove in silence. Cheryl Beth looked out the car window. It wasn’t until they crossed the white arched bridge across the Great Miami River and started down High Street that the apprehension again gripped her middle. She distracted herself wondering how many Ohio towns had High streets.
The jail was sterile and sprawling, sitting beside the railroad tracks. It was one of the few things in the little city that appeared new and successful. He led her through the reception area, which was empty save for one young woman sitting watchfully on a bench.
“You ought to see this place on the weekends,” Brooks said as he signed them in. “Packed with families to see inmates. Thing that breaks my heart is the kids. You have kids, Cheryl Beth?”
“No.”
“I’ve got two, girl and a boy. They make life worthwhile.”
She ignored him and showed her driver’s license to a deputy. He searched her purse. Brooks handed his gun over and it was locked in a steel cabinet. Then she heard a loud buzz, and Brooks led her through a glass door, which led to more and heavier doors, more guards, and a gathering sense of isolation.
They moved through white corridors with neatly spaced banks of fluorescent lights overhead and shiny white floors with wide dark stripes on the outer edges that encouraged you to walk in the middle. She wondered again what she was doing here. The long walk led them to a room, which a deputy unlocked. It had a metal table with metal chairs. Noah wasn’t there.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked, beckoning her to sit.
“No.”
“Then why do it?”
“You want me to, don’t you? I’m a pleaser.”
“A sarcastic one.”
“And this involves my students.”
Now it was his turn to say nothing, merely open his portfolio and turn to a fresh sheet of lined yellow paper. She looked at him, wondering what angle he was playing. He looked like a man of hidden agendas, but one was pretty obvious: He thought Noah was guilty, and she was sure he’d be on her during the long drive back to Oxford. Why hadn’t she brought her own car?
The room echoed with a loud metallic sound and two deputies led Noah Smith in, pulled out a chair across from them, and sat him down. One deputy left, closing the door. Noah was in loose-fitting prison stripes, shackles on his arms and legs, a chain ar
ound his middle and an ashen expression on his face.
Brooks introduced himself, spelled his last name. He read Noah his rights.
Noah ignored him.
“Thank you for coming, Cheryl Beth.” He reached a manacled hand across the table toward her and a female deputy instantly intervened. “Prisoner! Hands in your lap.”
Noah cringed and dropped his hands. He looked shrunken in the inmate garb. She searched his face: Noah Smith from Corbin. Somebody’s son, brother, cousin? Nothing. He didn’t look like anyone she had known there. And it was a place she had tried very hard to forget.
“I don’t need to tell you that you’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Smith,” Brooks said. “You can make things easier on yourself if you tell me what happened out there.”
“I didn’t…”
“Noah,” Cheryl Beth said. “You’d better not say anything until you talk to a lawyer.” She didn’t look Brooks’ way, felt his cosmic annoyance flooding her.
“I didn’t do anything.” His voice shook.
“Tell me about the two girls, Holly and Lauren?” Brooks asked it in a confidant’s voice. “I can help you, Noah, if you’ll help me. Lawyers are going to get in the way of that. Now’s the time to work with me, before things get more complicated. Tell me about the girls.”
