“What? The storm? If you think I’m going to stand out in a frigging hurricane while Gino reads the weather, then you need better drugs.”
“Screw the storm. I have a lead on something that might actually be something.”
“Something by whose scale? Town or county?”
Trout grinned. “Figure somewhere between Pulitzer and Oscar.”
Goat blinked. “You shitting me?”
“I shit thee not.” Trout dropped the story on Goat.
“Oh hell yes,” said Goat. “That’s huge.”
“I know, right?”
“This is going to give the whole Gibbon story some new legs. Let me tweet something.”
Trout nodded. Like anyone who still planned to have a future as a paid reporter, he understood the value of social networking. Twitter and Facebook moved mountains in terms of PR and buzz. Goat managed the online accounts for their division of Regional Satellite News, and he’d goosed the buzz to the point where RSN had over eighty thousand followers. Ten times the number of people who lived in the county.
“How’s this?” Goat typed in a short message: “Coming soon—RSN exclusive—Untold secrets of Homer Gibbon!”
“Perfect,” said Trout. “Short, though. I thought Twitter let you write a hundred and forty words.”
“A hundred forty characters,” corrected Goat. “Brevity is God to the ADD crowd. This is fifty-seven. Makes it easier for people to retweet it while keeping their user names. Helps with spreading it out even more.” He paused. “When we get back, I think I’ll edit a Homer Gibbon “best of” reel. News headlines, footage of the FBI pulling that body from the Dumpster in Akron, stand-ups from the trial, the perp walk, all that, then upload it to YouTube. We can post the link on Twitter, see if we can goose it to go viral. Prime the pump for when we drop the real bomb.”
“Works for me,” said Trout.
Goat shut off the computer and began stuffing equipment into a reinforced duffle. When he stood, he loomed over Trout like a giant stick bug. “Let’s roll.”
Three minutes later they were in Trout’s Ford Explorer, bucketing along Doll Factory Road toward Transition Estate.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HARTNUP’S TRANSITION ESTATE
Officer Andrew Diviny was twenty-three years old. He had graduated from the police academy one year and four days ago and planned to log another year on Nesbitt PD to establish a solid record and maybe a commendation or two, and then he was going to put in an application to the FBI and blow Small Town America so fast his résumé would have skid marks. That had been the plan since high school. No way was he going to loiter in a dead-end former coal town like Nesbitt, a town whose only claim to fame was that it was not as much of a shithole as Stebbins.
He knew he fit the FBI profile to a tee. Good GPA from school and college, with a degree in criminal justice and a minor in accounting. That had been a deliberate choice. He knew that the FBI was all about accounting. Follow the money, even now with the Bureau under the auspices of Homeland. Everything was money, and Diviny knew numbers. He even liked accounting. His dad and uncles were CPAs and his mother had a degree in economics from Pitt.
As he ran softly through the grass toward the woods, he cut covert glances at the officer sent to accompany him. Natalie Shanahan. She was north of thirty, carrying ten pounds more weight than her uniform had been cut for, and she ran with her face pointed forward as if this was a game of catch-up rather than an exercise in tracking. She wouldn’t find anything, Diviny was sure of it. He would. He’d pick up the trail once they were in the woods, and he’d find the missing victim. He would make the save, so to speak. It would go in his jacket.
He pulled a little ahead as they reached the edge of the lawn, wanting to be the first one into the Grove.
“Slow down, kid,” puffed Shanahan, but Diviny pretended not to hear her.
The forest was thick with tall, dense pines whose shaggy coats of needles meshed together so tightly they turned bright morning into dim twilight. Diviny made sure that he had his flashlight out and on before Shanahan. He’d find a way to mention that in his report, always being careful to appear to be praising his fellow officer while slanting the details in his favor.
In the poor light the grass thinned and faded to bare earth and moss. Diviny spotted the erratic line of shoe impressions almost at once, but he crossed over them and edged toward the right, knowing that Shanahan would follow. She did, and he steered her twenty yards away from the trail.
“Shit,” she said, slowing to a walk, breathing hard under the Kevlar vest. “Lost it.”
“I know,” Diviny lied. He chewed his lip as if in thought. “Look, he’s hurt, right? He’s not going to want to climb any hills. There are two trails.” He indicated two natural paths between the tree trunks. “That one goes downslope. Path of least resistance. Why don’t you take that and I’ll go uphill just in case?”
Shanahan never batted an eye. “Good call. Stay frosty, kid.”
Christ, he thought, which bad cop movie did you crib that from?
“Absolutely,” he said with a grin that showed a lot of teeth. He set off to the left, moving at an angle that was almost certain to intercept the line of footprints he saw. He cut a look to see Shanahan trundling down the slope toward a minor footnote in his after action report. When he reacquired the footprints he smiled.
He bent to study them. Man’s shoe, probably size nine or ten. Ground was soft but the impressions weren’t deep. Diviny knew that Doc Hartnup was five nine and slender. Maybe one sixty-five. A perfect fit.
The line of flight was erratic. A drunk would walk like that, or someone badly hurt. Maybe delirious with shock. That also fit.
He thought about what he had overheard back at the mortuary. JT Hammond and Desdemona Fox had reputations as cops better suited to more challenging departments, and both had a bunch of commendations. Granted, Dez Fox had also racked up as many reprimands as honors. Use of foul language on the job. Destruction of public property and excessive force—she allegedly threw a wife-beating town selectman through the front window of the county assessor’s office. Rumors of a couple of off-the-clock DUIs she was allowed to skate on because a lot of the local cops either liked her or wanted to get into her pants.
Diviny could appreciate that. Dez Fox was an überhottie. Built like Scarlett Johansson, with ice blue eyes, bee-stung lips, and a natural blonde if the rumors were true. If she hadn’t had a personality that one mutual friend had described as “Genghis Khan with boobs,” Diviny might even have considered asking her out. But her reputation might leave a stain on his record. No way, José.
He stopped. The ground was scuffed and he shone his light to read the scene. A confusion of footprints, palm prints, and knee-shaped dents. Doc Hartnup had clearly fallen down here. Diviny edged around the scene, careful to steer well clear of every trace of evidence. Then he paused. The footprints leading off from where the victim had fallen were no longer heading in the same direction. Instead of an erratic but straight line to the northeast, they curved around a thick tangle of wild rhododendron. That path would take Hartnup down toward Shanahan.
“Shit,” Diviny said, and began moving fast. He had to head off the Doc before Shanahan saw him, otherwise he’d have to split the save.
He broke into a light jog, following a trail that he barely needed a flashlight to see. He kept his head down, body bent at the waist, and he was smiling in anticipation when he rounded a thick tree and ran headfirst into a silent figure.
Diviny rebounded from the impact and looked up, smiling in instant embarrassment and surprise.
The smile died on his face.
“Doc?”
Doc Hartnup’s face was covered in blood. His eyes were dark and dead, his features slack. Except for his mouth, which opened wide as he lunged at the officer.
There was a wet crunch as white teeth closed around Officer Diviny’s windpipe, and then a hydrostatic hiss as bright blood shot with fire-hose force into the air, splattering the grasping arms of the surrounding trees.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HARTNUP’S TRANSITION ESTATE
Dez, JT, and Chief Goss stared at the name on the clipboard for a shocked three seconds, and then they all turned and began hustling back through the field toward the mortuary building.
“How the hell did the body of a sick psycho like Homer Gibbon wind up here?” Dez grumbled as she racewalked along beside Goss. “Did you know about this, Chief?”
Goss’s eyes shifted toward her and then away. “It was arranged last minute.”
“And you didn’t think that responding officers might need to know about it?”
“Keep your voice down,” Goss snapped, his face coloring. “Why should I have told you or anyone about this? He’s a stiff in a bag, and he’s scheduled to go into the ground tomorrow. Besides, there was a court order forbidding anyone involved in the transfer from talking about it.”
“Why?” Dez demanded.
Goss hedged, clearly uncertain whether the gag order was still in force under the circumstances. He walked several fast paces before he replied. “Okay, okay … Gibbon had a relative in town and she petitioned the court to be able to claim his remains and bury them on family property.”
“Wait,” said JT, holding up a hand, “Gibbon was from here?”
“No, but his aunt lives here. Selma Conroy.”
JT looked at him. “Sexy Selma?”
“Who’s ‘Sexy Selma?’” asked Dez.
“Way before your time,” said JT. “When I was still a rookie, Selma Conroy ran a hot-pillow joint on Route 381 for years. We busted the place a dozen times, though somehow Selma always skated. No major convictions. She retired years ago.”
“And she’s Homer Gibbon’s aunt? Nice family.” Dez looked at Goss. “Would have been nice to know that’s what we were stepping into when we took this call.”
“Hey,” said Goss, “just about the only two things they told me were jack and shit. Besides, the gag order was imposed because of all the threats.”