Cross Hairs (3 page)

CHAPTER 6

KELLY’S RED 2010 DODGE
Charger engine roared as they pulled out of
The Register’s
back alley parking lot and onto an adjacent side street, far out of the view of Jones’ watchful eyes. She rolled down both front windows. Her face was stuck in a frown but she said nothing.

Cal’s mind raced as he began mentally organizing the few facts he had. He would have preferred to soak in the glorious sun-kissed morning and the bonus that he was cruising around with Kelly. But today was not the day for flirtatious vibes. Three star athletes were dead in Statenville. Three
teenagers
. And Sheriff Jones, who said they all overdosed, seemed more intent on hiding something than revealing evidence that would confirm his simple drug overdose hypothesis.

After a minute of silence, Kelly broke the growing sense of apprehension both reporters were feeling.

“You know, this isn’t going to be easy.”

“Yeah, small town rules. People don’t like you poking your nose in their business—especially when it’s their dirty business.”

“That Sheriff Jones is a lyin’ dirt bag. He’s unreported more criminal activity than there are cows at Buttercup Farms.”

Cal tried to hide a smile. Kelly’s metaphor was awkward and certainly one he would never use, but she never claimed to be a wordsmith. Yet with over 2,000 cows getting milked daily at Buttercup Farms, Cal got her point: Jones was dirty.

“Don’t you think everybody in this town is sketchy, Kelly?”

Kelly pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

“This town is crawling with corruption. I can just feel it. And as much as I want to get out of this place, I can’t wait to take over
The Register
and start turning over every rock until all these corrupt big shots are behind bars.”

Cal knew Kelly had a gift for reporting, which made him wonder why she ever picked up a camera in the first place. He also didn’t doubt Kelly would one day take over
The Register
, an action he would prevent if he could. It might be a blood bath, but Kelly would welcome the fight.
The Register
had been in her family for years and was currently published by Joseph Mendoza, her uncle and Sammy’s father. If Uncle Joe cared about
The Register
being a thriving business enterprise in Statenville for years to come, he would turn it over to Kelly. However, he could conceivably give it to Sammy if his son ever found a way to motivate himself to do more in life than chase skirts and guzzle beer along the banks of the Snake River. Her future seemed uncertain and Cal selfishly rooted for Sammy, knowing he would be long gone from Statenville by then and hoping he might be able to lure Kelly away for a big city adventure.

For the next two minutes, Cal fidgeted with his digital voice recorder and snuck glances at Kelly while the two sped along a two-lane road leading east out of Statenville. Her shiny thick hair bounced in and out of the car as she looked straight ahead with her wire-rimmed Raybans. Cal knew he needed to focus but struggled to do so.

Kelly helped him get his mind back on the case.

“Have you ever been to the Reid place?” she asked.

“Nope. Anything special?”

“I’ve been out here a few times for social functions. My dad used to go hunting with Mr. Reid so we came out here a few times for cookouts. I think it’s a nice place. But there it is. Judge for yourself.”

Kelly took her right hand off the steering wheel and pointed to the one o’clock position. She was about two hundred yards away from the driveway leading to the Reid house, which sat about a quarter of a mile off the road on a ridge overlooking the Snake River. It was a sprawling brick ranch that made up for a lack of elegant craftsmanship with its sheer size. From Cal’s perspective, the house seemed to stretch in all directions and defy the notion that public school teachers were paid a pauper’s wage.

As Kelly turned into the Reid’s lengthy dirt driveway and headed up the ridge toward the house, Cal noticed a sizable vegetable garden and a hay shed, harboring bales for a yet unseen herd of cattle or horses. However, Cal’s interest in observing the Reid’s property vanished once he saw the Brooks County Sheriff’s deputy squad cars.

Cal could see Elliott Mercer taking notes as he interviewed Mr. Reid, the head of the two-person math department at Statenville High. Mrs. Reid, the other half of the Statenville High math department, buried her head in her hands and heaved tears as the Reid’s 11-year-old daughter, Katie, consoled her. Jake Dawkins braced for their arrival.
This isn’t going to be fun
, Cal thought.

Kelly eased her Charger into a parking pad a few feet from the house and a few yards from the squad cars and the Reids. Kelly and Cal both got out of the car and began walking toward the house. But Dawkins appeared determined to squash this impending inquisition, and was now striding toward them.

As the chief deputy and the most experienced law enforcement agent in Statenville, aside from Sheriff Jones, Dawkins knew diplomacy. Mercer’s five years of experience in Statenville amounted to nothing in real world experience, though he had an impressive resume in private security before entering authentic law enforcement. Kelly figured if she batted her eyelashes at Mercer, he would likely reveal all the state’s secrets. Mercer was professional but seemed willing to trade information given the right circumstances. Then there was Dawkins, the 12-year no-nonsense veteran of the sheriff’s department who was all Cal and Kelly could handle.

For the second time that morning, a member of the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department saw exchanging pleasantries with Cal and Kelly as a waste of time.

“There’s nothing to see here. You two just need to turn around and go back to your office,” Dawkins said, motioning them back with both his arms.

Kelly protested.

“Dawkins, you can’t tell us to leave. We have just as much of a right as you do to question them…if they want to talk to us.”

She knew her assertion was wrong, but she wanted to let Dawkins know that they weren’t going anywhere.

“Wrong, Miss Mendoza,” Dawkins fired back. “I’m in charge when it’s a crime scene.”

CHAPTER 7

“CRIME SCENE?” CAL AND
Kelly both asked in unison, suddenly confused again about the real nature of what happened in Statenville over the past 24 hours.

“You heard me. Now get back in your car and get on out of here,” Dawkins growled.

Kelly’s gusto was rubbing off on Cal. He stood his ground.

“Dawkins, this morning Jones told us that all three deaths in the past 24 hours were drug overdoses. Now, that’s not exactly a crime scene.”

Dawkins backpedaled.

“Well, we think it’s a drug overdose but we’re still collecting evidence.”

“So, what have you found that makes you think this could be something else?”

“Cal, Kelly, I think it’s best that you go now. You don’t want to make a scene in front of this grieving family, do you?”

Cal and Kelly shot knowing glances at one another. This was not a hill to die on. Not today. Not with Mrs. Reid grieving the loss of her son. Not with Dawkins channeling his inner Steven Segal. Not with two other “crime scenes” that had no officers present.

The pair didn’t say a word as they turned and headed straight for Kelly’s car.

“Who does he think he is?” asked Kelly as she twisted the ignition.

“That Dawkins is such a punk. There’s obviously a lot more going on here than he’s telling us.”

As Kelly’s car roared back down the road, she bit her lip and shook her head, muttering hollow threats about Dawkins and his job and what her next column would be about if she had one. Cal slunk in his seat, flummoxed over the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department stonewall. He peered in his side mirror as the scene shrunk from sight.

Cal noticed Dawkins immediately began talking into the radio mic attached to his upper sleeve.
Who could he be calling?
Cal wondered.
Are we being watched?
His eyes remained fixed on Dawkins.

Dawkins then looked up and glared in the direction of Kelly’s car, which was beginning to turn onto the highway. Cal shuddered. Dawkins’ haunting stare seemed more than passing interest about where the pair was headed next. Cal’s firm belief that the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department was just a notch above a living Mayberry – complete with Don Knotts as the sheriff and Gomer Pyle as his chief deputy – was being shaken. Gone was Dawkins’ happy-go-lucky disposition. Dawkins’ mouth said one thing, but his body language said something else, a something else that made Cal quake with fear.

Kelly made it to the highway and turned right, heading toward the Murray’s house.

Cal looked back toward the Reid house again only to see Dawkins still speaking into his radio and keeping his eyes locked on Kelly’s car. More than likely, Cal thought Dawkins was telling someone where they were headed and to watch out for them.

Finally, Cal broke the silence. “What have we got ourselves into, Kelly?”

“I don’t know, but this smells like some sort of cover up.” She jammed her foot on the gas pedal and Dawkins vanished from sight.

CHAPTER 8

WHEN CAL AND KELLY
returned to
The Register
, they found Guy had retired his “I’m the Boss” coffee cup with a drink more appropriate for the afternoon. Guy was sipping from one of those giant plastic cups from the Flying J filled to the brim with soda when he noticed the pair return to the office.

“There you two are! Get back to my office right now,” Guy yelled.

Cal didn’t bother setting down his bag at his desk. He knew Guy was on a rare – but trademark – rampage. Cal had observed that Guy only exhibited this behavior when there was a real news story taking place. The events of the past 24 hours certainly qualified as real news, especially in Statenville.

With two chairs across from Guy’s desk, Kelly took the seat closest to the cubicle doorway. Cal squeezed past her and into the seat wedged against the wall. They were both barely in their seats before Guy commenced.

“What have you two been up to?” he demanded. “On your account, I’ve taken two cautionary phone calls from Sheriff Jones and been called into Joseph’s office – and it’s not even noon!”

“I can explain –” Cal started.

“You better start talking fast. I don’t have time for nuanced excuses.”

“We started by going to talk with Sheriff Jones, and he started giving us the run around along with a suggestion to more or less drop it,” Cal answered.

“A suggestion? Like, ‘Stop digging. No one will like what you find’?”

“Yeah, kind of like that.”

“And so you had to go keep digging, of course.”

“Boss, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? I’m telling you, something strange is going on and people will want to know about it.”

“According to Joseph and Hunter Jones, nobody in this town wants to know about anything other than funeral arrangements and where to send flowers for these poor boys’ families.”

“And you’re buying that?”

“I don’t know what I’m buying yet, but I don’t like anything that gets the publisher and the sheriff crawling all over me. You got it?” The stressed-out editor pointed his index finger at the two as if it were a pistol.

Kelly nodded her head, but Cal knew she had no intention of halting her investigation. Neither did he. Cal continued his protest.

“So how are we supposed to do our jobs?”

“Figure it out, cubbie. But do it without having my boss and the law put the squeeze on me. Now get out of here and let me know when you have something.”

Kelly got up and headed for her desk. Cal didn’t move.

“What makes you think we don’t already have something of interest?”

“You don’t. Now get out of here before you ruin the five precious minutes I have left of this morning.”

Cal huffed as he returned to his desk and began organizing his notes.

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor’?” whispered a voice in Cal’s ear.

Cal turned to see a smart-aleck grin spread across Kelly’s face.

“I think I know who is behind all this, Cal. Let’s go talk about it over lunch.”

Cal grabbed his briefcase and ignored the rest of the newsroom employees. For the second time today, he was invited to ride in Kelly’s car. Guy’s tirade withstanding, it was turning out to be a pretty good day for Cal.

Law enforcement feathers ruffled? Check. Big breaking story with potential for an award-winning article? Check. Business or not, riding with Kelly in her sports car? Check. Lunch with Kelly at Ray-Ray’s? Near perfection. And it was only noon.

CHAPTER 9

CAL’S BREAKFAST IN HIS
frantic rush to get to the office ended up being two untoasted pop tarts and a cup of coffee. It was hardly the breakfast of champions, but most definitely a staple for reporters. By lunchtime, Cal needed something more substantial. He needed brain food. He needed Ray-Ray’s.

Ray-Ray’s was the best – and only – barbecue joint in all of Brooks County. Prior to Ray-Ray’s, the only barbecue to be found there was the processed kind found in the refrigerated section of a grocery store. But six months ago, brothers William and Burt Ray from Arkansas relocated to Statenville and opened up one of the best barbecue restaurants in the state. Within three months, Ray-Ray’s word-of-mouth reputation was so strong that a food critic from the Boise newspaper made the two-and-a-half hour drive to Statenville resulting in a glowing review. After that, Ray-Ray’s needed no more help in attracting customers.

Cal and Kelly inhaled the smell of a hickory wood grill and spicy barbecue sauce as they opened the restaurant door. Nothing could change Cal’s mood like the aroma of barbecue, nothing other than eating it, that is. They both placed their order and then found a table outside to reduce the number of nosy ears.

“So, Kelly, who do you think is behind all of this?” asked Cal, who, after one bite of ribs, had already managed to get a thick stream of barbecue sauce oozing down the center of his chin.