Page 140 of Secrets Along the Shore

Early in our relationship, he would have asked if I was being careful or warned me to be safe. He doesn’t now—not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s learned that, by nature, my job involves risk, and people fawning over me in that department is a major pet-peeve of mine. It didn’t hurt that, about a month into dating, I single-handedly took down an angry protester coming at him, looking to do some damage. That day he saw with his own—very wide—eyes that I can handle myself.

Both of us are expecting long days on Monday, so by nine o’clock, James’s taillights are headed down my drive. I watch until they vanish, a pang pulling in my chest. I miss him more and more when he leaves. In August, when we tie the knot, I’ll be glad we aren’t living separate lives anymore.

Once back inside, I grab my laptop, burrow into the couch, and gear up for some good old-fashioned—or new-fashioned, to be more accurate—detective work.

Before I left the D.A.’s office, Tasha ran the 4Runner’s license plate for me. Within seconds, we had the registered owner—Napier Holdings, Ltd., 24 Ellis Avenue, Montgomery, Alabama. With Bilbo curled into a ball at my feet, I perform a quick internet search that reveals Napier offers a variety of business services to entities and individuals, including nominee services to clients wishing to legally mask their ownership of particular assets. In those cases, Napier is listed as the legal owner, though privately it has contracted to act on behalf of the client.

The fact that someone has exercised this level of effort to hide the ownership of the 4Runner tells me I’m not dealing with the average stalker or disgruntled target from a past investigation.

Who are you standing in for, Napier Holdings, Ltd.?

One of the services listed on the Napier website is that of registered agent, where Napier acts on behalf of a corporation, partnership, or similar entity, accepting service of all legal notifications—subpoenas, lawsuits, et cetera. It’s a long shot, but I pull up the Alabama Secretary of State database and search for all entities using Napier Holdings as its authorized registered agent.

If somebody’s going to the trouble of having Napier register their vehicle, they might have also enlisted them to be their registered agent.

The result includes twenty-plus entities utilizing Napier as their agent for service in Alabama—a mix of corporations and limited partnerships. Nothing jumps out at me, so I start by making a list of theones I think are less likely to be relevant—the non-profits, a few restaurants, a daycare, and a church.

Of those remaining, I focus on those with a principal office address in north Alabama, which makes the most sense in this situation. That whittles the list down to eight.

Using the Secretary of State’s database, I make a note of the counties where those eight entities were formed, then check the business licenses in those counties. I strike gold when I get to the third one—Hutchins LLC—formed in Madison County, the county directly to our north. According to the Madison County Business License website, Hutchins, LLC., is doing business as Hutchins Investigations.

Gotcha.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

The sky has openedup and is drowning our little town.

My umbrella is open and my trench cinched tight as I walk from the parking lot toward the courthouse, the wind whipping my hair into my face. I hold it back with one hand, taking stock of the crowd assembled along the rope barrier at the portico-covered side entrance where defendants transported from the county jail are brought inside.

All these people—journalists, the victims’ family members, the defendant’s family members, looky-loos—are here to see Kurt Fogerty, convicted serial killer, trotted out to receive justice for his crimes. Tasha called me fifteen minutes earlier to let me know he should be there soon. It appears I’m not the only one that got word of his impending arrival.

By now, they’ve probably all seen the news about the body found on Saturday. Fortunately, the details about the victim and the evidence still haven’t slipped out—whoever’s got loose lips hasn’t shared them—but I wonder how many here suspect, as we do, that Fogerty is responsible for that death as well.

I join the gathering, sidling up to a platinum-haired reporter and bulky cameraman from a Birmingham station. Half a minute later, a white van with “Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department” emblazoned on the side materializes from behind the courthouse. When it pullsunderneath the portico, the crowd’s chatter hushes, our umbrellas poking one another as each person shifts for a better view.

The man they pull out of the back of the van doesn’t look like the Kurt Fogerty I went head-to-head with in the jail two days ago. This man has a black eye and fat lip, a bandage on his right hand, and a new limp. There’s also something in his eyes I haven’t seen before.

Defeat.

This is not the Kurt Fogerty I’ve come to know. That man is cocky. Self-assured. Invincible. This man is a ghost of that one. Flanked by jailers, he shuffles miserably toward the building entrance, his feet and hands chained and head hanging.

I weave through the bodies, jockeying for a better line of sight, hoping to catch Fogerty’s attention. If we make eye contact, maybe he’ll want to talk. It might also give me a sense of what’s going on in his head, depending on how he reacts. I push through the throng and am almost to the barrier that’s been erected to keep the public at bay, when a shot rings out.

Screams erupt and the crowd scatters in all directions. Reporters and camera operators duck for cover behind the van and portico support columns, scanning the surrounding area with their lenses.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I sprint down the parking lot, making a beeline for the incline at the wooded rear boundary—the side with the best vantage point for a shot at the portico and entrance. I slam against a tree trunk and shield myself with it. My heart thunders as I survey the treed land between me and Callaway Street, which runs alongside the courthouse, about fifty yards away. I’m looking for anything that gives away the shooter’s location—a glint of metal, rustling weeds?—

And then I see it. Movement in the thicket about ten yards ahead, in the direction of the street. I take off, my boots plowing the ground as I snake between trees and leap over the prickly undergrowth. I stumble, nearly face-planting, but manage to stay upright.

When I get to the spot, no one is there. Someone definitelywashere, though, as evidenced by the trampled brush. My pulse whooshing in my ears, I bend down to get a better look. The path of broken vegetationleads toward the back end of Callaway Street, where there is an alley that connects it to the next street over. The buildings lining Callaway obstruct the view of the alley from the courthouse.

It’s the perfect place to park a getaway vehicle.

I snap photos of everything before pulling out my hairband and looping it several times around a bush branch to mark my place. Then I do my best to back out, causing as little damage as possible, retracing my steps and continuing to take photos.

At the bottom of the rise, I run back through the parking lot to the portico, which is now swarming with deputies and the regathered crowd. A siren wails in the near distance as I slip under the rope barrier.