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After returning from the safe house, they’d grilled the weasel Billy Green. He’d admitted that he’d passed along nickel-and-dime information to Shauna Calloway in the past and swore that the names of the material witnesses were the biggest bonanza he’d ever given her.
Their greatest fear was that he’d heard about the baseball cap or had learned the location of the safe house and had shared one or both of those pieces of information also. But after spending an hour coming down hard on him, their gut feeling was that disclosing the names of their witnesses had been his swan song.
He was fired and got a Do Not Pass Go escort out of the building. He was lucky not to have been tarred and feathered. Everyone who worked in any capacity for the sheriff’s department, in any of the precincts, had been outraged over the embarrassment his betrayal had caused.
“I mean, it’s not as if the whole goddamn world isn’t already crucifying us,” the sheriff had been quoted as saying. It was a justified boom of fury, because, nationwide, it was open season on his entire operation.
Heretofore it had been a role model for other law enforcement agencies of comparable jurisdiction. But because the Fairground shooter was still at large, the sheriff’s office was now being harshly criticized.
None were more aware of the microscope they were under than Compton and Perkins, the department’s senior homicide detectives. The CID, and in particular the two of them, were taking a beating.
They desperately needed a break. Even a person of interest would be a boon, a development they would gladly share with the media themselves. The provenance of the ball cap was still being tracked, but doggedness took time, and time consumption was increasing the pressure applied to them.
One crack, though slim, was the nature of Calder Hudson’s “consulting” work and the implications it might have. When they learned what his job entailed and how successful he was at it, Perkins had ventured, “The shooting began in the area where he was. Could he have been the target that day and all the others collateral?”
Compton had been dubious and had said so. “If somebody was that pissed off at him, why not just murder him in his house or as he crossed the street?”
Perkins hadn’t relented. “Still worth following up.”
Having no other lead to follow, they went about obtaining Calder Hudson’s files.
When Compton had informed him of their intention to review them, he had staunchly disclaimed the notion that an individual in his records bore him such a bloodthirsty grudge.
“Besides, remember the nondisclosure clause? There are hundreds of names in those files, and half don’t even know who I am.”
Considering the volume of material—Hudson had had clients in two dozen states and three countries in Europe—it did seem to be a long shot, especially since they really didn’t know what they were looking for.
A handful of part-time deputies had been recruited to pitch in, but after they knocked off for the day, she and Perkins had felt obligated to put in some overtime themselves, even though their day had included the round trip to the safe house and the wringing out of Billy Green. They were tired, grungy, grouchy, and sleep deprived.
As Perkins ran his finger down one list of names, he asked, “How’s your husband?”
“I don’t remember.”
He chuffed his version of a laugh.
“I called him twice today,” she said around a yawn. “The dog’s sick. He had to take her to the vet. He’s more worried about her than he is about me.”
“Go on home,” he said. “I’ll stay awhile.” A confirmed bachelor, he had no one waiting on him.
“Another thirty minutes,” she said.
He pushed the bag of potato chips to within her reach. She didn’t thank him but began absently eating them as she continued perusing her own list. For several minutes they shared a companionable silence, then Perkins said, “Draper.”
Compton raised her head. “Hmm?”
“Draper, Arnold M.”
“What about him?”
“I’m thinking.” He rocked back in his swivel chair and tapped his folded hands against his chin.
Compton’s cell phone rang. “Hold the thought.” She licked salt off her fingers and reached for her phone. She saw the readout, checked the time, and frowned as she clicked on. “Weeks?”
“His phone, but Weeks is dead.”
“Calder?” Compton whipped her head around and looked at Perkins, even as she switched over to speaker. “Say again?”
“Weeks is dead. So is Sims. Dawn Whitley, I don’t know. She’s unaccounted for.”
