“No,” Ray assured him. “No one else knows.” No one needed to. It was too late to right that wrong.
He’d been telling himself that for over ten years; maybe eventually he would believe it.
“I thank God his mother didn’t live to endure this.” Granville’s voice went shaky on the last.
Ray nodded. Nothing he could say would be enough. This was the kind of tragedy no parent wanted to face. With a final warning to stay on top of this investigation, Granville left with a little less drama than when he’d arrived.
The intercom on Ray’s desk buzzed, followed by, “Chief, Deputy Caruthers is waiting with Clint Austin in the interview room.”
“I’m on my way.”
38
2:15 p.m.
Clint had declined to have Lee Brady present but he’d shown up anyway. Caruthers had advised Clint of his rights and left him to sweat in the same interview room where he’d been questioned after Heather Baker’s murder. Only this time he wasn’t sweating. He’d done nothing wrong, and no one could place him at the scene.
He wasn’t the same man he’d been back then either.
Right now he was a little unsure about a lot of things, but taking any grief from Pine Bluff’s finest wasn’t one of them.
The smell of Emily’s skin ... images from yesterday morning flashed through his mind. He couldn’t think about that. Just another line he’d crossed that would get him nowhere. Being with her that way had damaged him somehow. Had made him powerless in a way that he didn’t ever want to be again.
Not that he had to worry. She’d run away so fast his head was still swimming. She wouldn’t be back. She’d been too good for him at seventeen, and she was too good for him now.
If the not knowing how it felt to touch her had been pure misery ... the knowing and not touching her was an agony he couldn’t hope to gauge.
The door opened and Ray Hale walked in with three cups of coffee. He placed one on the table in front of Clint, passed one to Brady and kept the other for himself.
Ray dropped into the chair opposite Clint and rubbed at his eyes as if he’d seen too much that morning.
“I need you to tell me if you know anything about Keith Turner’s death.” Ray took out his trusty notepad and pencil.
He didn’t call it a murder. Probably waiting for the official autopsy results.“I don’t know anything about it. I saw Turner Saturday night, as you know, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“What about Troy Baker?”
Clint shook his head. “Not since they showed up at my place drunk and acting stupid.”
“I’m not going to find any evidence that you were at that quarry, am I?” Ray pressed, after jotting down a couple of notes.
“No way. I was home all day yesterday and all night.” He saw the skepticism in Ray’s eyes. “Until the insurance company gets the temporary trailer out there tomorrow or the next day, I’m staying in the barn.”
“If you want to sleep in a bed and have a hot shower,” Ray said, the hard, edgy lines of his face softening, “there’s the shelter at the Methodist church and that old hunting cabin I never use. It’s pretty rustic, but there’s running water and a bathroom.”
Clint didn’t need Ray feeling sorry for him. “I’m fine.” He started to ask Ray if he took such an interest in all his suspects, but that would only piss him off.
Ray stared into his cup as if the answers he sought were bound to make an appearance. “You know.” He lifted his gaze to Clint. “Most folks are going to think after the remark you made about Keith and the fight with his buddies that you were the one who killed him.”
“Is there a question somewhere amid that roundabout accusation?” Brady pointed out.
Ray nodded. “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts? The coroner gave a preliminary estimation on time of death as between ten and eleven yesterday morning.”
Ten and eleven ... that was when he and Emily ...
“I was at my placealone. Anything else you need to know?”
Ray heaved a weary sigh. “Let me see your hands.”
