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“It’s a verse from the book of Song of Solomon in the Bible. It’s spoken by the beloved of King Solomon. Her brothers made her work in the fields, and her skin had been weathered by the sun. The book is poetry about marital love.”
“She wasn’t married. That we know of.”
“No. And why have that sewn onto a suede pouch?”
“Could it have been a gift from her brother? He’s the preacher man.”
John wasn’t sure. That would be a creepy gift from a brother.
Violet studied the purse and ran her fingers along the edge. “Sure is nice stitching.” She held it up.
John inspected it further.
Like tiny little handcrafted sutures all the way around.
Positioned flush on his belly, he slithered until he could reach what he was after. The floor was filthy and littered with rodent droppings. He didn’t mind them or the rodents who left them. He stretched out and found the cold metal latch then lifted it, and the flooring loosened. Inside the dark, earthen hole were his favorite things.
He ran his fingers over the silky materials and smiled then found a lacey item that had belonged to Atta. She had been so beautiful in blue, like her eyes. He snagged it and shoved it into his pocket. Tillie had looked best in green. He found the green swatch and let his memories shift back to when he’d first seen them on her. Like an emerald queen. Finding a sleek, see-through black piece, he chuckled. Bella Dawn. He’d used part of these as a little scarf on the cowboy doll he’d made for her son. The little boy played with it, saddling him on his plastic horse and making him ride across the grass behind their house. The multicolored material fit Ruby best because she was the most colorful. But he’d frightened her with the doll he left Lula. Ruby was far more observant.
He’d be more careful. Ruby had powerful people in her pocket—in her bed. That soured his mood, and as he sifted through his treasures, disappointment stabbed his chest, replacing anger.
He had nothing of Agent Rainwater’s. Violet. He liked her first name, liked the way it made his tongue lick his upper lip. He repeated it softly, letting it fill him with excitement. No longer angry. And he wouldn’t stay disappointed.
He had a plan.
It was risky, but the risk gave him a thrill that put his other escapades to shame.
And he loved it.
Chapter Five
Tuesday, October 17
1:05 p.m.
John entered a cracker box that had been planted on a gravel drive. Trucks, motorcycles and even sport-utility vehicles dotted the lot. In the right corner, a jukebox blared Hank Williams Jr.’s “A Country Boy Can Survive,” and it mingled with the conversation, laughter, and clinking of glass bottles and glasses on the bar top. Place reminded him of the movie Road House with the late Patrick Swayze—before his character cleaned up the place.
He spotted Greg in a booth in the back corner next to the hallway leading to the restrooms. John raised his chin at the bartender and wove through the tables. Squeaking on the leather as he slid into the booth, he noticed Greg’s appearance was harder, more chiseled than last he saw him. At Callie’s funeral in Louisville.
When she’d been found, the DEA had sent undercover agents in as family to retrieve her body and send her home for her funeral. Whiskey, the guy they were after, had never admitted to the murder, but he hadn’t been too concerned according to Greg. That put him on John’s list. If someone had come in and brutally murdered one of Whiskey’s girls, why did he do nothing? No retaliation? Because he might be behind it himself.
Greg’s hair had grown out to his shoulders in unkempt curls, and his beard was thick but short. Broad shoulders and biceps stretched his flannel shirt. He raised his eyebrow that had a slice through it from a work-related injury. Green eyes pierced John’s, and his nostrils flared.
“What? Not happy to see me?” John asked.
Greg sipped his beer and leaned forward. “We’re this close,” he pinched his fingers together, “to bringing down Whiskey. It took me three years to gain his trust, two to get in the inner circle and now one more year in and I’m his right hand. You poking your nose around is going to put up his guard and derail my mission.”
Was that all Greg cared about? Did justice for his partner not mean anything to him? “What about Callie? Whiskey could be involved in her death—”
“And if he is, I’ll find out.” If he hadn’t found out by now, he might not ever. He set his beer down hard. “Then I’ll make him pay. For the drug ring. For her murder. I need proof. I can get it. You can’t. Stay away from him. Better if you go on home.”
“I’m not going home. I’m working with the SCU on the case.”
A server scooted up to the table with a pad in hand. “What can I get ya, honey?”
“Water. Thanks.”
She raised her eyebrows and hurried away.
