Page 61 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)
CHAPTER
SIX
Not only does James understand, but he asks if there’s anything he can do, and offers to go by my house, grab Bilbo and take him to the park.
I picked a good one.
I’m jealous of both James and Bilbo. I’d much rather be with them, tossing frisbees and soaking up the sun-kissed nature under the pines at Willow Peak State Park.
Instead, I’m buried under a mountain of notes and files in the drab District Attorney’s office.
Along with Tasha, I'm studying everything collected over the past two years, hoping to make a case against Kurt Fogerty for this new murder by Monday.
Another murder. Another young woman’s life ended too soon at his hands. Another family destroyed by grief.
Normally, the D.A.’s office wouldn’t be involved in a case until after the sheriff’s department finishes gathering evidence and hands it over for prosecution.
But this is an unusual situation—essentially an extension of the cases already turned over to the D.A.
—requiring the entire law enforcement machine to rally from the beginning.
Which is why we’re huddled around her desk, sorting through everything, organizing all the information about Fogerty’s movements over the last two years.
That way, when Keith Gold gives us a time of death or anything else that offers a foothold—or Goat reaches out with an ID—we can start locking this down .
I've run the basics of the victim’s description to see if there's a match for a missing person. There isn’t.
That doesn’t guarantee she isn’t local—it’s possible no one’s reported her disappearance.
Chances are, though, she isn’t from here.
While that’s good news for the community, it widens the net and makes our job harder.
I don’t mind the tradeoff. I don’t know if this place can handle another Aria.
The remnants of our Cobb salads from J.J.’s Cafe sit in open foam boxes, abandoned in one of the few spots available on the crowded desktop. I only managed half, and Tasha even less. Something about murder tends to curb my appetite. I’m taking a slurp on the straw in my tea when Tasha huffs.
“I hate this,” she says. “I feel so useless.”
“We’re just in a holding pattern,” I say. “As soon as we get?—”
Like it heard us talking about it, the phone on her desk rings and we jump in sync. Tasha’s hand smacks the speakerphone button to answer.
“Hello?” we say in unison.
The choral response must have confused the caller, because he replies with, “Uh…I was trying to reach A.D.A. Clay's office?”
Supreme disappointment fills me. It’s not Keith Gold.
“It’s me,” Tasha says, “and Sophie.”
“Oh, hey.” It’s Tommy Ledbow, the administrator of the Mitchell County Jail. Once upon a time, he dated Tasha.
“Hey, Tommy,” I say, projecting my voice toward the phone.
“I’m actually calling about you, Sophie.”
My face scrunches. “Me?”
“Sheriff asked me to run something by Tasha, but since you’re there…I’ve gotten an odd request. From Kurt Fogerty.”
My insides turn to concrete. This can’t be a coincidence.
“Fogerty?” Tasha asks. “What does he want?”
“A meeting with Sophie.”
“What? Why?” Tasha presses, both very good questions.
“He won’t say, except that it’s important, and he’s got information for her. And that he wants to meet with her alone. Doesn’t even want his lawyer there. ”
“Sophie works for the prosecution. Her talking to Fogerty without his attorney present would be the equivalent of the D.A.’s office violating his right to counsel,” Tasha says. She scribbles a note on a sheet of paper and passes it over.
SOMEONE TALKED RE: NEW BODY
She’s right. I’d bet this month’s paycheck that somebody in the sheriff’s department let word about the fourth murder victim slip, and it's worked its way through the grapevine back to the jail. But why Fogerty would want to talk to me about it is a complete mystery.
“He says he’s willing to sign a waiver of his right to counsel, at least for this meeting.”
Tasha looks at me, and I shrug. If she can get what she needs to render this meeting above-board—so whatever we find out in there won't be thrown out as illegally obtained—how can I not talk to him? It may be our best way of finding out what happened to the woman buried in the hole.
“I’ll have to speak to his attorney first. If he clears it, I’ll call you back to make arrangements,” Tasha says.
“Good enough. I’ll be waiting.”
Tasha hangs up, then looks at me, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be a question she would ask me. In the course of my investigations, I interview all kinds of people in all kinds of places, and the idea of me being uncomfortable wouldn’t even cross her mind.
This, on the other hand, is not an ordinary situation.
Tasha and I have had more than one conversation about the strange interest Fogerty has taken in me.
The creepy smile right before the verdict was something I’d been getting multiple times a day since the trial began.
There have been winks and air kisses, and a few times he's even waved to get my attention, calling out an eager, “Hey, P.I.,” before his attorney whispers in his ear to get him to stop.
Prior to Fogerty’s arrest, I personally interviewed him twice at the only place I’d been able to catch him—the small trailer he lives in with his sixty-year-old mother south of Decatur in Morgan County, which borders Mitchell County to the west. Both times, I found the intense way he held my gaze utterly disturbing—a staring contest that only he was playing, just like in the courtroom.
Even though his mother was with us, I remember being acutely aware of my concealed pistol, on the off chance I was wrong about her presence insuring Fogerty wouldn’t do anything crazy.
For those reasons, I understand why Tasha’s asking if I’m okay with seeing Fogerty. But in the end, it doesn’t matter if I’m okay with it or not.
Rule number one in The Investigator’s Handbook ?
You don’t say no when a serial killer wants to talk to you about his last kill.