The Second Lie (12 page)

Catch a speeder, save a life, had become the county's most important focus of late as a result of multiple teenage deaths due to excessive speed the previous year. The program was valid. Worthwhile.

And, like everything else, had become about making money. The more speeders they caught, the more bills they could pay and the more services they could offer.

Of course, the more speeders they caught, the busier the courts were. Running courts cost money, too.

As did issuing warrants and tracking down those offenders who didn't bother to show up to the justice party in their honor.

It hadn't been difficult for Sam to land the duty that week. It was one of a cop's most boring assignments, largely consisting of sitting in a pull-off on a country road and monitoring the equipment on her dash.

On occasion, she would wave at someone she knew as they passed.

She got to admire the stalks of corn that prevented her from seeing much beyond the road. And imagine the fall colors that October would soon be bringing.

She'd listen to the drone of the police radio, the most dangerous news the broadcast of a possible theft at the local budget department store.

And she drove herself crazy trying to find a lead in her hunt for the superlab. She was missing something.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed for the third time that week the same car that had picked Maggie up when she'd gone to David's to see about a babysit ting job.

All three times, Maggie had been in the passenger seat.

On Monday, Sam hadn't thought much about it. The girls were friends. Maggie didn't have her license yet. Glenna most likely gave her a ride home after school. Routine.

But they'd headed away from Maggie's trailer park.

Probably had an afternoon babysitting job.

Or a rendezvous with an adult male?

Jumping to conclusions was a sign of bad police work. And could get people killed.

On Tuesday, Sam had seen Maggie in the car again. On a different road. She'd decided to follow the girls.

The friend had dropped Maggie at the newspaper office, then drove off.

A few minutes later, Maggie had come out with a bike and a load of papers. Sam followed her for a few minutes, but she was just delivering papers.

On Thursday, when they drove off in yet another direction, Sam followed the girls again. And when they crossed the county line, so did she, careful to stay far enough back that if they noticed her, they wouldn't feel threatened.

They ended up at the Tri-County Sports and Tennis Complex. Not so unusual for an after-school activity. Keeping kids off the streets had been one of the big selling points of the complex when it had come up for a tax vote.

But Kelly had specifically said that Maggie had quit cheerleading and was not involved in sports.

Maybe she'd meant high school sports. But there was no way Lori Winston could afford tennis lessons for Maggie.

Driving slowly, Sam stopped across from the complex when the girls pulled into a parking spot.

Maggie got out alone and went into a small wooden building. When she came back out, she was carrying two tennis rackets and a small duffel with an emblem of a tennis ball on the side.

Sam recognized the duffel. She and Chuck had played tennis at the complex a time or two. Rented balls were kept in those duffels.

Another dead end. And this time in a county vehicle. On county time. Across the county line. She had to stop her surveillance of Maggie Winston. At least, to this extent.

She'd found nothing on the girl's mother, either. Lori was something of a deadbeat--spent a little too much time at the local bar. No warrants. No record. Long time on the job. No obvious influx of cash.

Putting the cruiser in Reverse, Sam turned to back up and caught a glimpse of Maggie out of the corner of her eye. The girl was heading to the tennis courts while her friend drove away.

Another kid, male, approximately sixteen years of age, had just exited the equipment building with a similar duffel. He went out to the courts, as well.

Sam watched as a couple of other teenagers arrived, went in for balls and walked toward the courts.

None of them were wearing tennis clothes--just denim shorts and T-shirts and tennis shoes.

And as she watched, she noticed that none of them could play tennis worth a damn, either.

They paired off. Volleyed balls back and forth. There was no coach. No organization. Just a bunch of balls flying around.

And a bunch of kids staying off the streets.

10

W
ith Zodiac in the passenger seat beside him, Kyle drove the old black truck that he'd had since before his divorce to a meeting of the local corn growers association. Generally he sat at the back of the room, nodded politely to his nearest neighbors, chatted with Bob Branson's sons-in-law if any of them were present and voted.

The small community association played a significant part in Ohio's political system, lobbying for the rights of farm growers. From getting locally grown produce included as part of a federally funded food-assistance project to applying for drought aid, the association had become a powerful force.

Kyle had already done a stint as president of the local organization--winning the election by a landslide, mostly because he'd been the only one running. He expected to be called on to run again. There was no statute of limitations on terms served in their group. And if they called, he'd accept, though the position was time-consuming.

Today, however, his goals weren't far-reaching. They didn't extend as far as the community, or even the men in the room.

He wanted to be certain that he didn't have a chemical problem on his farm.

He paid attention to the business at hand, which concerned a vote that was coming up on the November ballot that the farmers of Ohio did not support.

He'd sent out flyers and had done his stint at the county fair that summer to add his support to the farmers.

Now it was a matter of waiting for the lobbyists to do their last-minute campaign blast.

Updates were delivered at the meeting. New business discussed. Old business discussed. The treasurer, Kyle's nearest neighbor, James Turner, gave his report. They'd earned enough during their ice cream fundraiser at the fair to see them through another year. An impressive feat considering the cost of lobbyists in a failing economy.

And then the floor was opened.

And Kyle stood.

"All of you know me. Most of you well enough to be certain that I am an honest man."

People turned around to face him. Heads nodded. And with that encouragement, Kyle continued.

"I discovered some chemical missing from my barn a couple of days ago," he said.

The room fell silent, the mood suddenly grim. Farmers were aware of their vulnerability to theft and took reports of it seriously. For most, farming was not a get-rich life, and theft, if it was severe enough, could ruin a man quicker than bad weather or insect infestation.

"I also discovered a faulty valve. I'm considering the loss the result of evaporation due to the leaky valve, but it was significant enough that I want you all to know what's happened. And if any of you have seen someone on my farm without me, or know of anyone using methane, I hope you'll inform me."

Several men came up to Kyle as the meeting adjourned, James Turner among them.

No one had seen anything out of the ordinary. They asked questions and gave advice, but no one acted the least bit suspicious.

And he now had a loyal posse on the outlook for unusual chemical possession. They'd check with their kids. Their wives. Ask around. And, Kyle knew, they'd be watching his place like a hawk.

Just as he would do for them.

This was life. Not the frenetic world that Samantha Jones inhabited.

Here you knew who your friends were.

Chuck and Sam were on football duty again Friday night--in a neighboring community, since Chandler didn't have a home game--and had the new 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. shift. Up by noon that Friday, Sam asked Chuck if he'd meet her for a game at the tennis complex.

When Chuck had first been divorced they'd played every week. Until rumors had started that there was something going on between them.

Half-afraid Chuck was behind the rumors, Sam had called off their regular dates.

If he'd been interested, he took the hint. And they'd been good friends ever since. She wasn't sexually attracted to Chuck, but she liked him. Respected him. He was truly dedicated to the town. Her people. The job.

He was also a damned good tennis player and had her at six-zero after their first set.

"You want to quit?" He met her at the net.

"Hell, no, do you?" She'd beat Chuck to the complex earlier and had talked to Delia, the full-time equipment manager who'd been there since the complex first opened. Delia told Sam about the tennis club for underprivileged kids who couldn't afford to play sports at their high schools.

She'd shown Delia Maggie's picture, and the woman confirmed that Maggie was a member of the club.

Chuck served. Sam returned long. He served again and she managed to fire a shot straight down the line, just out of his reach. And then to break his serve.

They were tied three-three when two young men, dressed in basketball shorts and T-shirts, took the court one over from them. The boys looked to be about sixteen, had rented rackets and balls and, in the next half hour, didn't manage a single volley. Not one returned serve.

Nor did they seem to know how to serve. Or to care to learn.

They took turns slamming shots across the net and chasing balls.

But what Sam noticed most, as she won the next two games, was that both of the boys had tattoos, long hair and used despicable language.

After she lost the second set by a respectable six-five, she joined Chuck for a burger and soda at the place across the street and told him what she thought about some of today's youth.

She was going to tell him about the tennis club, too, leaving Maggie out of things for now because of her promise to Kelly. Like Kelly, Sam understood how easily a kid with Maggie's background could be branded and she wasn't going to do that to her.

"Life is sure different than when we were kids," Chuck agreed, biting into his double-size burger. He'd foregone the fries for more meat.

Sam, who'd insisted on paying for her own lunch, though Chuck had intended differently, had given in to the fries and passed on the burger, ordering a salad instead. She'd also traded the soda for coffee, which was so rancid it needed four creams.

"Crime's different," Chuck continued. "Life for a lot of people doesn't seem to be about following the law so much as finding ways to do what you want without getting caught. Or just ways to get around the law."

He was right. Things had changed from her father's day when right was right and wrong was wrong and everyone knew that. "It sure makes our jobs a lot harder," she said, thinking of those tennis players who couldn't play tennis.

She was also thinking of Maggie Winston. Talking to Kelly about an older man and being curious about sex.

And the tattoos on those kids on the court that morning. The piercings and long hair. She was judging by appearance. Stereotyping. But something about those kids bothered her.

She asked Chuck if he'd heard of the club.

"Sure. They call themselves the Ramblers," he said, surprising the heck out of her. "Because they're from all parts of the Dayton area."

"How'd you know about them?"

"Remember Shane? That boy we busted last Friday who sold the Hatch girl the meth?"

Sam nodded. She wasn't likely to forget.

"Shane's mom was telling me about the Ramblers," Chuck said. "The group is part of the reason I decided not to press charges against the kid. He's one of their charter members. The idea actually came from a conversation Shane had had with his mom when the school levy failed and he knew they wouldn't be able to afford for him to play football this year."

Sam listened, finishing her fries and looking at the salad, trying to talk herself into wanting it.

And trying to keep from showing any sign of the adrenaline rush she felt to learn that Shane Hamacher, who'd just been busted for selling drugs, played in the same tennis club that Maggie was in.

"Football to tennis is a pretty big stretch," she said, trying to put the pieces together.

"A group of the kids went around with a letter Shane's mother helped him draft, looking for anyone who would let them participate in a sport for free. They went to the Y, to a soccer park, bowling alleys. Delia's the only one who did more than shake her head and wish them luck. So they're learning to play tennis."

"You're sure that's all they're doing?"

"Absolutely. I talked with Delia and a couple of the other parents--all single moms, by the way."

Parents, sponsors, didn't always see what was going on right under their noses.

"Shane's dealing. Maybe the others are involved with drugs, too."

Please God, no. She couldn't just sit and watch them fall, one by one.

Not sweet girls like Maggie Winston.

"Shane made a mistake. A one-time thing. He's not a dealer."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He told me all about it and his story checks out. He got the crystals from a guy in Indiana. Some guy he met while he was at his dad's for the weekend." Sam already knew Shane's dad was an ex-convict.

"The guy was offering five hundred dollars to anyone who could sell one thousand dollars worth of meth. Might as well have offered Shane a million dollars right then. His mother had just told him that they were facing eviction because she couldn't pay the rent. He figured this was their answer. He didn't have to make any contacts. There were notes left in his locker at school. He just had to deliver and collect."

"So how does a guy in Indiana get notes into a locker in Chandler, Ohio?"

"Obviously he has someone in the school system working for him. I'm checking on that. And looking at other schools, too, to see if there are similar setups throughout the area."