Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series)

Chapter 19 & 20

Chapter 19

JACK CRANKED THE SUV INTO a U-turn, and we were headed back to the country roads. All it took was the relaying of Paige's findings and we were after a man named Quinton Davis of Sycamore Street.

Paige said they were fine and still waiting on the CSIs to process everything. Deputy White had headed out to get them food and coffee. They were doing better than we were. And they were definitely doing better than I was. It was time to put my training to use.

Paige said that we couldn't have someone from the county provide death notification, not even the sheriff. Despite the fact that the community was tightly connected, they seemed to have missed that Earl Royster was a homosexual, and apparently down here that was a big deal. And because I missed out on notifying Nancy Windermere about her daughter, Jack figured it was my turn this time.

Quinton Davis could have played linebacker, with his thick torso and weight of at least two hundred and sixty to three hundred pounds. He studied us after we announced ourselves as FBI.

"We're here about Earl Royster."

Arms crossed, uncrossed, and then he slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "Why come here?"

I answered honestly. "We know you were romantically involved."

Quinton looked down the street before stepping back and allowing us into his house. "Come this way." He directed us to the living room and a burnt orange sofa.

Quinton took a seat across from us in a reclining chair that dated back before the sofa. "What's Earl up to now?" He smiled. His teeth were tainted yellow against his dark skin. My guess was due to age and lack of hygiene, not a nicotine addiction as the place didn't smell of cigarettes.

I swallowed deeply. The plan was to simply notify him of his boyfriend's death, gauge his reaction, and check out his residence—what we could see of it anyway—and get out. We were to keep a low profile so as not to scare him away if he was the unsub we were still looking for.

"It's not good, is it?" The man leaned forward, rubbed his hands on his thighs. He knew what was coming. His earlier reaction had been a mask to hide it.

"I'm afraid not."

Jack watched me, and I knew what he was trying to communicate, get to the point.

"Earl Royster was shot late this afternoon."

"Oh—" A hand covered his mouth. It dropped as quickly as it made contact, leaving his gaping mouth exposed. His eyes searched for details.

"We went there to question him—"

"You shot him?" His bottom lip quaked, tears pooled in his eyes.

"No, I—"

"You did." Quinton's eyes darted to Jack.

I came to his defense. "Earl held a gun on a federal agent."

"No, no, I don't believe it." He shook his head.

"Has he been strange lately?"

Quinton's eyes hardened. "You should go."

I looked at Jack, who instead of moving to leave settled into the couch.

"We just need to understand why he would do something like that."

"Why? So you can make yourself feel better?" Quinton rose to his feet, came toward Jack. "You took him away from me."

I stood between them. Jack didn't move. I put a flat hand out toward Quinton hoping he would stop there. He didn't until pressure was applied, my hand flattened and pressed into the meat of his chest. He kept going until my wrist bent back. His frame towered over me, dwarfing my six foot two by easily another three inches. "I'm going to have to ask you to step back."