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Besides Wilson, Rawlins, and Myra, there were only a handful of personnel on duty, but as they reached the second floor, an older officer, who was on his way downstairs, hesitated when he saw Brynn and smiled in recognition.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said in the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker. After getting only a marginal smile and murmured hello from her, he held back whatever else he was about to say, doffed an imaginary hat, and continued on down the steps.
The staircase opened into a large squad room with a warren of desks, only one of them occupied by a sleepy-looking man in plainclothes who sat staring into a computer monitor.
“You and I will take room three,” Wilson said to Brynn. Rye noticed that she headed toward an offshoot hallway without needing direction.
Rawlins followed them and said to Rye, “Down here.” He passed the room Brynn and Wilson entered. Farther down the hall, he opened the door to a cramped office. He hung his coat and hat on a wall-mounted hook and motioned Rye in. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”
“Can I please borrow a phone charger?” Rye asked.
“Sure.” Rawlins pulled the door shut as he left.
Between Rawlins and Wilson, it was no contest as to which was the “bad cop.” Rye wondered why he’d been unlucky enough to draw him.
He sat down in front of a desk that looked like it had sustained storm damage. The rest of the office was equally cluttered, the walls papered with outdated calendars, old wanted posters, and notices of one kind or another.
Several tacky golf trophies were jammed between books and files in the three-shelf bookcase. It also contained a bobblehead of a Clemson tiger next to a picture of a younger Rawlins wearing the full gear of the university’s football team. A signed baseball was encased in a Plexiglas cube.
The things a man hoarded revealed a lot about the man and what he valued.
Rawlins was easy to peg. A former jock, clinging to glory days.
Brady White loved his family and aviation.
Rye Mallett?
He looked down at his brown bomber jacket where it lay across his lap.
It was vintage World War II. He’d discovered it in a trunk in a dusty antiques store that specialized in aviation memorabilia. It had been love at first sight. He’d asked the proprietor to please hold it for him until he could scrape up enough money to buy it. He left a ten-dollar down payment and paid on the layaway whenever he had some spare cash. On the day he’d gotten his pilot’s license at age sixteen, he’d gone into the store, settled the balance, and worn the jacket out.
The store owner couldn’t recall from where or whom he’d obtained the trunk, so Rye never learned the name or fate of the aviator who’d worn the jacket during the war. The patches on it designated his squadron and various air bases, but Rye never pursued those clues.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the pilot’s fate, because odds were good that he hadn’t survived. If he had, he never would have parted with his bomber jacket.
Rye ran his hand over the creased and scored leather, wishing he knew how each imperfection had come to be there. They were imbedded into the leather, representing chapters in the jacket’s history. He’d added nicks and scratches of his own, making him an intrinsic part of it, yet he didn’t consider himself its owner. He was merely its caretaker, the flyer to whom it had been temporarily entrusted until he passed it on to another.
Thinking back to Dr. O’Neal’s prissy disapproval of the lining, he snickered. He stretched his legs out, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Except for the nap he’d taken on Dash’s sofa, he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He was beat.
The next thing he knew, Rawlins was back. Rye sat up straight, dry-scrubbed his face, and glanced at his watch. He’d dozed for nearly fifteen minutes.
During that time, the deputy had been busy. His hands were so full, he had to push the door shut with his heel. He passed Rye a phone charger and pointed to the nearest wall outlet.
“Thanks.” Rye took his spare phone from his flight bag and plugged into it.
Rawlins set a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. “Cream’s curdled and we’ve run out of powdered. I have sweetener.” He scattered a variety of packets on the desk as he sat down.
“I’m good.” Rye removed the plastic lid and sipped. The brew was scalding, strong, and bracing.
Rawlins set his cell phone within reach on his cluttered desk, drank from his cup of coffee, then worked an oversize paperclip off the sheaf of paper he’d carried in tucked under his arm. Rye saw that it was a stack of printouts of official-looking forms and documents.
Fuck.
Rawlins said, “You’re a surprise, Mr. Mallett.”
Rye kept his expression a blank. “How’s that?”
“You look like a bum and act like a prick, but you graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors, flew dangerous missions in Afghanistan, returned from your second tour a decorated hero.” Rawlins looked across the desk at him. “What happened?”
