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She’d interviewed all of them, studied their statements, felt she knew some of them inside out and was surprised that after being busted the past weekend and being involved, at least peripherally, in the discovery of a body of one of their own, they would be here in what seemed an almost celebratory mood.
They’re kids, one side of her mind reminded her.
The other said: Yeah, but nearly adults.
“You think Destiny Montclaire’s killer is here?” a male voice asked, and she turned to find that the sheriff was standing next to her. His gaze was fixed on Kywin Bell and Donny Justison, who were standing next to each other, two big men. Friends? Or rivals?
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said, watching as they were joined by Austin Reece and Alex O’Hara.
“No one looks like they’re in mourning.”
She’d been thinking the same thing. As scared as the kids had been on Saturday, as somber as they’d appeared while being interviewed, the boys now were all laughing and joking, male bravado, camaraderie and animosity, hitting each other, giving fist bumps, glancing over at a group of girls, the center of which was Lara Haas. But the females, tonight, weren’t showing any interest in the boys’ antics. To a one, their attention was focused on Barclay Sphinx, who held an edge over the locals, an air of mystique, a bit of sophistication, an association with the glitter of Hollywood. He was the peacock tonight,
and he knew it.
“This is such bullshit!” a voice nearby yelled, and she caught sight of Kruger again, standing with Nesmith and Hicks near the back of the crowd. “I’m sick of meetings and talk, talk, talk. We need action, that’s what we need. We should be out huntin’ Big Foot right now instead of sitting around like a bunch of women talkin’ about it.” He snorted loudly. “And talk of a fuckin’ TV show? What will that do? Only bring more outta towners in.”
“And that would be a bad thing?” Sandy Aldridge, the owner of Wild Wills, a local restaurant, asked. She was tall and thin, and wore heavy makeup and a tough-as-nails attitude.
“’Course it would. We don’t need no more people up here, and no goddamned TV cameras and crew scarin’ off the Big Foot! This”—he made a wide arc with his arm to indicate the interior of the meeting hall—“this is nothin’ more than a publicity stunt, a goddamned fiasco, that’s what it is!” Kruger was practically roaring now, and Alvarez was standing close enough to smell the alcohol. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot. “It’s about money, people, not about Big Foot!”
“Oh, stuff it, Otis.” Sandy was having none of it. She was used to dealing with disgruntled loudmouths at the bar in her establishment. “Just shut up and listen to what the man has to say.”
“I did and he’s done! Paid my goddamned twenty-five bucks just to hear him peddle the same old shit I’ve heard a million times.”
“If you don’t like it, just leave,” Sandy snapped as a few others turned their heads. “You’re making a scene.”
“I said I paid my money!”
“You need to show some respect.”
He spat out a stream of tobacco juice, which arched upward before hitting the floor with a splat.
“That’s it, Otis!” Alvarez stepped in. “Time to leave.”
“Who the hell are you?” He whirled and she saw the outline of a pistol in the pocket of his baggy jeans.
“The woman who’s going to escort you out of here quietly,” she said, and he snorted derisively.
“Sheeiiit.”
Ivor warned, “Jesus, Otis, watch out. She’s a goddamned cop!”
“You got that right. Detective Selena Alvarez, Pinewood County.” She showed him her badge, and Otis stared at it long and hard.
“Fuck me,” he said, tottering a bit, and she pulled his gun, a small pistol, from his pocket.
“Hey, wait!”
“You got a permit to carry?” she demanded.
“Damned straight. Give that back to me.”
“Tomorrow, you can pick it up at that station.”
“You can’t take my gun! It’s legal! I told you, I have a damned permit to carry a concealed weapon.”
She made sure the safety was on and slipped it into her bag. To Otis’s stunned friends, she said, “Anyone sober enough to give him a ride home?”
