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“Why not?”
“Half the unit is tied up at an accident scene. The other half is laser focused on nailing Musgrove’s killer.”
Monck strode toward the glass doors. I spoke to his back.
“I’ve been to Joe’s home twice.” Too loud. Too aggressive. “I can find my own way.”
Monck turned, face the color of claret.
“Fine. But you stay in—”
“The vehicle.”
Years with Claudel and Slidell had honed the response.
6:30 P.M.
We took Monck’s Jeep. Sporadicbrrrpps from its siren cut us through traffic like a scythe through hay.
While driving, Monck shared what he knew of the incident sappinghalf his pool for backup. It wasn’t much. A single vehicle wreck with a possible 10-55. Intoxicated driver.
Staticky radio transmissions supplied only one additional detail.
The accident had taken place on Karst Way, where Joe Benjamin lived.
The name sent adrenaline jolting through me. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidence.
We arrived at the turn off in fourteen minutes flat. From the highway, all looked normal save for a trio of vultures looping low in the sky. Wending upward, it became clear that wasn’t the case.
A half mile along the precipice, a cruiser blocked the pavement. One look at Monck and the guard waved us through.
The throbbing lights became visible at fifty yards out. The closer we drew, the brighter they painted the asphalt, the limestone, and the vegetation. Red-blue. Red-blue. Red-blue.
The action was off to the left, on the road’s uphill side. I counted three cruisers, an ambulance, a hook-and-chain tow truck, and an unmarked car.
A stretch of ground along the shoulder was already cordoned off, the yellow tape following the gentle slope of the hillside, then suddenly seeming to drop off the earth. The optimistic vultures circled high above the flimsy barricade.
Two cops stood inside the cordon, both wearing the usual RTCIPF striped pants, shirt, and red-banded cap. Though their backs were to us, I thought I recognized Constables Gardiner and Rigby from our rendezvous with theCod Bless Usand its ill-fated passengers.
A third cop stood outside the tape, two teens beside him, one maybe thirteen, the other a few years older. Both wore cutoff jeans, faded tees, and grim expressions. The younger of the pair looked like he might toss his lunch.
A woman in civvies was squatting on the pavement, measuring whatever one measures at accident scenes. Not tire tracks or skid marks. I saw no sign of either.
Monck added his Jeep to the cluster of vehicles and turned to me.
I cocked a brow.
“You touch nothing, you say nothing.”
“Yes, kemosabe.”
We got out and headed for the tape.
No one stopped us to request ID. Either Monck was recognized again, or no one was keeping a scene attendance log. Or both.
A few stern words for his charges, then the third uniform broke away and crossed to us. His tag saidConst. E. Lightbourne.
“What have we got?” Monck asked.
