Page 168 of Secrets Along the Shore

Thought so.

“Okey-dokey.” I step toward the door, then turn back. “When you get to the jail, say hello to Bubba in the drunk tank for me. He’s a regular and a real pleasure to be around on Saturday nights.”

Hutchins’s shoulders soften, though his face remains hard. “Look, I can’t tell you anything. I do that, and my reputation gets ruined.”

“Not as ruined as it’ll be if they slap you with a felony charge.”

Hutchins expels a disgruntled sigh. “Fine. But the truth is, I don’t know who hired me.”

This time, I snort. “Yeah. Nice try. I’m serious, Roy.”

“I’mserious. One day I got a call from—what I’m sure is—a burner phone. The caller offered to pay me a lot of money to take this on, no questions asked.

“From where I’m standing, it looks like maybe you should’ve asked a few questions.”

“Yeah. You might be right about that,” Hutchins concedes.

“Okay, so what you’re telling me is, the sign out front that says ‘Full-Service Investigations’ really meansfull service—as in breaking the law if necessary.”

Hutchins’s nostrils flare. “I’m not talking to you about my methods.”

“You don’t have to. You and my dog already had that conversation. Tell you what—you don’t have a name to give me, fine. Give me the number they called you from.”

He lets out another sigh and picks up a pen. He whips a Post-It note out of his drawer, scribbles something, and smacks it on his desk where I can read it. “I told you I can’t give you any information about my clients.”

“Right. So you’re opting for felony charges, then.”

“Buuuut”—he draws out the word—“I can’t help it if you come to see me, stay in that chair when I step out, and see this number where I wrote it down for myself.”

I see what you’re doing there, Roy Hutchins.

It’s an awfully feeble excuse and unlikely to help him save face ifhis clients hear about it somehow. But if it makes him feel better, fine with me.

It doesn’t make any difference to me how I get the number.

All I care about is who answers when I call.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

No one.

No one is who answers.

I toss the prepaid cell I purchased from Dollar General—where I’m currently parked—into the passenger seat of my Jeep.

I didn’t leave a message for obvious reasons. I’m hoping I’ll get a return call eventually, either when the number’s owner sees the missed call, or—if they already saw the call—becomes too curious to ignore it any longer.

I can’t decide if I’m more frustrated that no one answered…or relieved. Frustrated, because I’m in a holding pattern until I know who hired Hutchins. Relieved because, at this point, with the facts I have…I’m terrified Edward or James will answer.

I can try the phone number again in a little while—too soon might make them suspicious—but time is running out. I can only wait so long before going to Sheriff Vickers with what I know. I’m desperate to have in hand an explanation clearing James and Edward of any wrongdoing when I talk to the sheriff.

Though, if I’m being realistic, given the parking lot video from The Backroom, I doubt I’m going to end up with the explanation I’m hoping for.

My phone buzzes with an email alert.

It’s from Cole, forwarding a report on the comparison between thefingerprints taken from the tarp and the fingerprints on the item I left for him at the sheriff’s department front desk—a Dolly Parton-themed mug with a bright pink base and swirly blond ceramic hair covering the top half.