Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Kelly's red 2010 Dodge Charger engine roared as they pulled out of The Register's back alley parking lot and onto an adjacent side street, far out of the view of Jones' watchful eyes. She rolled down both front windows. Her face was stuck in a frown but she said nothing.

Cal's mind raced as he began mentally organizing the few facts he had. He would have preferred to soak in the glorious sun-kissed morning and the bonus that he was cruising around with Kelly. But today was not the day for flirtatious vibes. Three star athletes were dead in Statenville. Three teenagers. And Sheriff Jones, who said they all overdosed, seemed more intent on hiding something than revealing evidence that would confirm his simple drug overdose hypothesis.

After a minute of silence, Kelly broke the growing sense of apprehension both reporters were feeling.

"You know, this isn't going to be easy."

"Yeah, small town rules. People don't like you poking your nose in their business-especially when it's their dirty business."

"That Sheriff Jones is a lyin' dirt bag. He's unreported more criminal activity than there are cows at Buttercup Farms."

Cal tried to hide a smile. Kelly's metaphor was awkward and certainly one he would never use, but she never claimed to be a wordsmith. Yet with over 2,000 cows getting milked daily at Buttercup Farms, Cal got her point: Jones was dirty.

"Don't you think everybody in this town is sketchy, Kelly?"

Kelly pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

"This town is crawling with corruption. I can just feel it. And as much as I want to get out of this place, I can't wait to take over The Register and start turning over every rock until all these corrupt big shots are behind bars."

Cal knew Kelly had a gift for reporting, which made him wonder why she ever picked up a camera in the first place. He also didn't doubt Kelly would one day take over The Register, an action he would prevent if he could. It might be a blood bath, but Kelly would welcome the fight. The Register had been in her family for years and was currently published by Joseph Mendoza, her uncle and Sammy's father. If Uncle Joe cared about The Register being a thriving business enterprise in Statenville for years to come, he would turn it over to Kelly. However, he could conceivably give it to Sammy if his son ever found a way to motivate himself to do more in life than chase skirts and guzzle beer along the banks of the Snake River. Her future seemed uncertain and Cal selfishly rooted for Sammy, knowing he would be long gone from Statenville by then and hoping he might be able to lure Kelly away for a big city adventure.

For the next two minutes, Cal fidgeted with his digital voice recorder and snuck glances at Kelly while the two sped along a two-lane road leading east out of Statenville. Her shiny thick hair bounced in and out of the car as she looked straight ahead with her wire-rimmed Raybans. Cal knew he needed to focus but struggled to do so.

Kelly helped him get his mind back on the case.

"Have you ever been to the Reid place?" she asked.

"Nope. Anything special?"

"I've been out here a few times for social functions. My dad used to go hunting with Mr. Reid so we came out here a few times for cookouts. I think it's a nice place. But there it is. Judge for yourself."

Kelly took her right hand off the steering wheel and pointed to the one o'clock position. She was about two hundred yards away from the driveway leading to the Reid house, which sat about a quarter of a mile off the road on a ridge overlooking the Snake River. It was a sprawling brick ranch that made up for a lack of elegant craftsmanship with its sheer size. From Cal's perspective, the house seemed to stretch in all directions and defy the notion that public school teachers were paid a pauper's wage.

As Kelly turned into the Reid's lengthy dirt driveway and headed up the ridge toward the house, Cal noticed a sizable vegetable garden and a hay shed, harboring bales for a yet unseen herd of cattle or horses. However, Cal's interest in observing the Reid's property vanished once he saw the Brooks County Sheriff's deputy squad cars.

Cal could see Elliott Mercer taking notes as he interviewed Mr. Reid, the head of the two-person math department at Statenville High. Mrs. Reid, the other half of the Statenville High math department, buried her head in her hands and heaved tears as the Reid's 11-year-old daughter, Katie, consoled her. Jake Dawkins braced for their arrival. This isn't going to be fun, Cal thought.

Kelly eased her Charger into a parking pad a few feet from the house and a few yards from the squad cars and the Reids. Kelly and Cal both got out of the car and began walking toward the house. But Dawkins appeared determined to squash this impending inquisition, and was now striding toward them.

As the chief deputy and the most experienced law enforcement agent in Statenville, aside from Sheriff Jones, Dawkins knew diplomacy. Mercer's five years of experience in Statenville amounted to nothing in real world experience, though he had an impressive resume in private security before entering authentic law enforcement. Kelly figured if she batted her eyelashes at Mercer, he would likely reveal all the state's secrets. Mercer was professional but seemed willing to trade information given the right circumstances. Then there was Dawkins, the 12-year no-nonsense veteran of the sheriff's department who was all Cal and Kelly could handle.

For the second time that morning, a member of the Brooks County Sheriff's Department saw exchanging pleasantries with Cal and Kelly as a waste of time.

"There's nothing to see here. You two just need to turn around and go back to your office," Dawkins said, motioning them back with both his arms.

Kelly protested.

"Dawkins, you can't tell us to leave. We have just as much of a right as you do to question them...if they want to talk to us."

She knew her assertion was wrong, but she wanted to let Dawkins know that they weren't going anywhere.

"Wrong, Miss Mendoza," Dawkins fired back. "I'm in charge when it's a crime scene."