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What Conrad wanted, Conrad got–except that. She clucked her tongue. “As if I will feed you something made by other people while your very life hangs in the balance. Clearly you don’t understand basic pampering.”
She handed him the TV remote, stood, and aimed for the kitchen. It was time someone put their stamp on the functional workspace. Of course, she didn’t have any of her recipe cards, but she could make a few things from memory. Since Conrad had over-stocked the pantry in anticipation of her arrival, she had all the necessary ingredients for a feast of Conrad’s favorites. Even dishes he didn’t yet know he loved. Chicken fried steak and gravy, shrimp and grits, red beans and rice, chicken and dumplings, peach cobbler, cranberry and marshmallow salad, and okra soup.
As she cooked, fear attempted another takeover. Conrad was okay today, but what happened tomorrow? She couldn’t keep him locked in his home forever. Would the shooter strike again?
She fought back with the best weapon: truth. She could and would learn the assailant’s identity, even if she had to cross lines and cut through red tape.
So. What had she learned so far? Deputy Gunn possessed a plethora of hair most likely obtained from his ex-girlfriend’s salon. Said ex-girlfriend may or may not have known of it. He’d conducted private DNA testing on multiple strands, as if searching for someone in particular. Madeline Gunn had spent time in prison. Ashley Katz was hardcore working the case, as evidenced by her phone call to Jane. Conrad hadn’t received a letter warning him of impending doom before the shooting, which wasn’t the Gentleman’s MO. If the Gentleman was the killer. Which he might or might not be.
What mattered? What didn’t?
Maybe she should start at the beginning. She spotted the small magnetic whiteboard on Conrad’s refrigerator, and her fingers twitched. It wasn’t as good as her rollaround board at home, but it would do. Anything to help her organize her thoughts. As she waited for the rice to boil, Jane quickly jotted down outstanding questions:
Deputy Gunn’s evidence of organized crime in Aurelian Hills?
Why hide his suspicions from SM?
Why gather DNA data? Distrust of coworkers or a need to hide his own actions?
“We know Sheriff Moore isn’t bought,” Conrad said, plopping on a bar stool. “He’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever worked with.”
“Agreed.” Raymond Moore was honest to a fault, loyal to the max, and as stubborn as steel. “Perhaps the deputy believed a lie someone told him about the sheriff.”
“Perhaps. Gunn once accused Raymond of accepting bribes. He was unable to prove it. An internal investigation concluded with unwavering support for the sheriff.”
“Interesting. But what are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be resting on the couch,” she scolded.
He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “It’s boring in there without you. I can rest right here and watch you cook.”
She couldn’t very well argue with a wounded lawman who desired to spend time with her, now could she? And since he wasn’t going anywhere, she might as well make use of him. “What about the rest of the deputies? Are they trustworthy? I went to school with some of them, and quite a few tried to cheat off my homework.”
“Barrow and I looked into the other deputies. They checked out. Considering Raymond was in the process of documenting complaints against Gunn, we figure the deputy learned of it and hoped to strike first.”
Wow. Suspicious much? If the others were on the up and up, Deputy Gunn had no reason to avoid sharing case information unless he had something to hide. “Have you ever paid out of pocket for an outside lab to run tests?”
Conrad shook his head. “I’ve had no need for private testing. But also, some tests are pricey.”
So why had Deputy Gunn forked over the cash?
Her thoughts turned to the last item on her just-learned list. Tom’s dead brother, Oliver. Was there a chance he’d faked his death? “Was the brother positively identified before burial or cremation? Does he look anything like Thomas?” She slid a small bowl of shrimp and grits Conrad’s way, along with a spoon.
“Oliver died in the hospital. From the photos we’ve seen, they shared similarities, but many more differences.”
With so many hospital staff involved and more differences than similarities, there’d been no faking his death. Probably. Not with any ease. Although, a person didn’t have to look anything like him to steal his identity—no, that wasn’t likely either. GBH would have noticed if Oliver’s name and social security number were used. Unless it was being saved for a coming change of identity. A smooth switch from, say, a murderous Tom Cat to an innocent Oliver? The bartender might have feared the deputy stumbling upon the information. A reason to strike hard and fast.
Dang. Things were not looking good for Tom. Every time Jane turned around, something new pointed to his guilt. So why wasn’t she satisfied with the explanation? Where was her gut when she needed it most?
