Page 123 of Secrets Along the Shore

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 wavedto 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 inThe Investigator’s Handbook?

You don’t say no when a serial killer wants to talk to you about his last kill.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

The county jailis a block from the courthouse in downtown Riverview. It’s one-half of the building that houses the sheriff’s department offices—a plain, two-story red brick structure with struggling landscaping and a pot-holed parking lot full of patrol vehicles. The jail sits on the left side, which is where I am now, tucked away in an interview room, awaiting Kurt Fogerty.

The space is crying for a serious makeover. Scratches and stains mar the worn beige walls, and the air is laced with a pervasive stench I can’t quite identify. Between that, the unforgiving fluorescents, and banged-up metal furniture, the room itself seems ill, which ironically matches how I feel. I don’t want to be anywhere near this man—duty or no duty.