Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers by J. F. Penn, Cheryl Bradshaw, Diane Capri, J. Carson Black, Aaron Patterson, Vincent Zandri, M A Comley, Carol Davis Luce, Joshua Graham, Michele Scott, Allan Leverone, Linda S Prather Read Free Book Online
using the radio,” Kim said.
“Right.”
“Anybody question Mrs. Black since GHP arrived?” Kim asked.
“She’s not talking. We’ll arrest her, take her back to our station. And go from there. Once we see what’s going on.”
Gaspar concentrated on navigating the deserted country road around its multiple hazards. All three of them were bounced around in their seats. Gaspar said, “I remember Margrave as a pretty well maintained place for a rural community. Lots of newer buildings and fresh paint when I was here last.”
“Things change,” Roscoe said, a little coldly.
“Just asking. Nothing personal.”
Roscoe didn’t smile. She just stared on down the dusty road. Looking for what, Kim didn’t know. There was nothing to see. Piney woods either side of the road hid everything beyond its ditches.
Kim asked, “What did Sylvia mean by not being able to take him anymore? Is she claiming abuse and self-defense?”
Roscoe said, “Hard to say before I talk to her. Crazy talk, possibly.”
Gaspar glanced back again and met Kim’s gaze with a look that confirmed Kim’s impression. Harry was abusive. Kim had no use for a wife-beater. None. Even less use for friends and co-workers who covered up. She wondered whether Harry was a drunken abuser or just a power tripper control freak. And whether battered spouse defense was a legal excuse for murder in Georgia.
Roscoe said, “About five more miles, I think. Harry’s family owned this land for generations. He built the house himself about twenty-five years ago. He liked being away from people. He said the quiet was restful.”
Gaspar looked back at Kim again. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing: Rest in Hell, Harry. You sick bastard.
CHAPTER NINE
They drove on. The car bounced and lurched, hitting potholes with regularity. Kim said, “Chief, we need to know about Reacher. Whatever you can tell us. Whatever you know. We need to find him. It’s important.”
It seemed to take Roscoe a couple of seconds to switch her mind back to Reacher. She asked, “What do you want him for?”
“He’s a potentially valuable asset. The FBI is telling you it needs him. Whose side are you on?”
Roscoe turned and stared a long time directly into Kim’s face. Still wary. Maybe searching for some hint that Kim could be trusted. The Traverse hit a big pothole. Roscoe smacked her head on the roof. She raised her hand to rub the sore spot, and glanced out the back window and realized where they were.
“Back up,” she said to Gaspar, and she pointed to a mailbox so obscured by weeds and kudzu only a previous visitor could find it. “The house is about a mile down that driveway you just passed.”
Deep dents marred every surface of the mailbox. Once painted white, now veined with rusty cracks, it dangled from its thick re-rod pole, held by a single remaining U-bolt and the grasping kudzu. The door to the mailbox was missing completely. “It wasn’t like that the last time I was here,” Roscoe said.
“When was that?” Kim asked.
“Couple of years ago, I guess. Maybe longer. Before they were married, I think.”
“Looks like extreme mailbox baseball,” Gaspar said. “Kids in a car with a bat. Vandalism, in other words. A federal crime, actually. If memory serves, two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollar fine and three years in prison for each offense. And each blow counts as a separate offense.”
Kim asked Roscoe, “Was Black targeted in some way? Kids would have to be pretty determined to come all the way out here just to beat the snot out of a mailbox for the fun of it.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Roscoe said. “I don’t know.”
The Traverse’s tires bounced from one hole to the next. Dead skunk perfume came in through the air vents. Kim held her breath. Then she saw a good-sized dirt lot and a pea-gravel driveway full of two GHP cruisers, two marked Margrave squad cars, an unmarked sedan with a portable bubble light on the
“Right.”
“Anybody question Mrs. Black since GHP arrived?” Kim asked.
“She’s not talking. We’ll arrest her, take her back to our station. And go from there. Once we see what’s going on.”
Gaspar concentrated on navigating the deserted country road around its multiple hazards. All three of them were bounced around in their seats. Gaspar said, “I remember Margrave as a pretty well maintained place for a rural community. Lots of newer buildings and fresh paint when I was here last.”
“Things change,” Roscoe said, a little coldly.
“Just asking. Nothing personal.”
Roscoe didn’t smile. She just stared on down the dusty road. Looking for what, Kim didn’t know. There was nothing to see. Piney woods either side of the road hid everything beyond its ditches.
Kim asked, “What did Sylvia mean by not being able to take him anymore? Is she claiming abuse and self-defense?”
Roscoe said, “Hard to say before I talk to her. Crazy talk, possibly.”
Gaspar glanced back again and met Kim’s gaze with a look that confirmed Kim’s impression. Harry was abusive. Kim had no use for a wife-beater. None. Even less use for friends and co-workers who covered up. She wondered whether Harry was a drunken abuser or just a power tripper control freak. And whether battered spouse defense was a legal excuse for murder in Georgia.
Roscoe said, “About five more miles, I think. Harry’s family owned this land for generations. He built the house himself about twenty-five years ago. He liked being away from people. He said the quiet was restful.”
Gaspar looked back at Kim again. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing: Rest in Hell, Harry. You sick bastard.
CHAPTER NINE
They drove on. The car bounced and lurched, hitting potholes with regularity. Kim said, “Chief, we need to know about Reacher. Whatever you can tell us. Whatever you know. We need to find him. It’s important.”
It seemed to take Roscoe a couple of seconds to switch her mind back to Reacher. She asked, “What do you want him for?”
“He’s a potentially valuable asset. The FBI is telling you it needs him. Whose side are you on?”
Roscoe turned and stared a long time directly into Kim’s face. Still wary. Maybe searching for some hint that Kim could be trusted. The Traverse hit a big pothole. Roscoe smacked her head on the roof. She raised her hand to rub the sore spot, and glanced out the back window and realized where they were.
“Back up,” she said to Gaspar, and she pointed to a mailbox so obscured by weeds and kudzu only a previous visitor could find it. “The house is about a mile down that driveway you just passed.”
Deep dents marred every surface of the mailbox. Once painted white, now veined with rusty cracks, it dangled from its thick re-rod pole, held by a single remaining U-bolt and the grasping kudzu. The door to the mailbox was missing completely. “It wasn’t like that the last time I was here,” Roscoe said.
“When was that?” Kim asked.
“Couple of years ago, I guess. Maybe longer. Before they were married, I think.”
“Looks like extreme mailbox baseball,” Gaspar said. “Kids in a car with a bat. Vandalism, in other words. A federal crime, actually. If memory serves, two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollar fine and three years in prison for each offense. And each blow counts as a separate offense.”
Kim asked Roscoe, “Was Black targeted in some way? Kids would have to be pretty determined to come all the way out here just to beat the snot out of a mailbox for the fun of it.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Roscoe said. “I don’t know.”
The Traverse’s tires bounced from one hole to the next. Dead skunk perfume came in through the air vents. Kim held her breath. Then she saw a good-sized dirt lot and a pea-gravel driveway full of two GHP cruisers, two marked Margrave squad cars, an unmarked sedan with a portable bubble light on the
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