Solitude Creek by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

the tragedy. ‘Seven ten. Empty from Fresno.’
    ‘And the driver parked in a usual space?’
    ‘Any space that’s free,’ the worker piped up. ‘The top of the hill.’ He bore a resemblance to Henderson. Nephew, son, Dance guessed. Noting he’d mentioned the incline. They’d already discussed scapegoating the driver and had planned his public crucifixion.
    ‘Would the driver have parked the truck there intentionally, beside the club?’ Dance asked.
    This caught them off guard. ‘Well, no. That wouldn’t make sense.’ The hesitation told her that they wished they’d thought about this scenario. But they’d already decided to sell the driver out by implying he hadn’t set the brake.
    The top of the hill …
    The third man, brawny, soiled hands, realized his cue. ‘These rigs’re heavy. But they’ll roll.’
    Dance asked, ‘Where was it parked before it ended up beside the club?’
    ‘One of the spots,’ Henderson Lite offered.
    ‘Gathered that. Which one?’
    ‘Do I need a lawyer?’ the owner asked.
    ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. This isn’t a criminal investigation.’ And she added, as she knew she should: ‘At this point.’
    ‘Do I have to talk to you?’ Henderson asked the tax- and insurance-certification lady.
    She said evenly, as if concerned for him, ‘It will be a lot better for you if you cooperate.’
    Henderson gave a calculated shrug and directed her outside, then pointed to the spot that was, not surprisingly, directly uphill from the club. The truck seemed to have rolled in almost a straight line to where it rested. A slight bevel of the asphalt would have accounted for the vehicle’s angle with respect to the building: it had veered slightly to the left.
    Henderson: ‘So we don’t know what happened.’
    Meaning: Take the driver. Fuck him. It’s his fault, not ours. We posted the rules.
    Dance looked around. ‘How does it work? A driver comes in after hours, he leaves the key somewhere here or he keeps it?’
    ‘Leaves it.’ Henderson pointed. A drop-box.
    A white pickup pulled into the lot and approached them and squealed to a stop nearby. A slim man of about thirty-five, jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt stepped out of it. He pulled on a leather jacket, straightened his slicked-back blond hair, fringy at the ends. His face was etched with parentheses around his mouth, his brow permanently furrowed. He was white but his skin was leather-tanned.
    ‘Well,’ Henderson said, ‘here he is now.’
    The sheepish man stepped up to his boss. ‘Mr Henderson.’
    ‘Billy,’ the owner said. ‘This’s …’
    ‘I’m Kathryn Dance, CBI.’ Her ID rose.
    ‘Billy Culp,’ the young man said absently, staring at her ID. Eyes wide, perhaps seeing an opening door to a jail cell.
    She ushered him away from the others.
    The owner sighed, hitched up his belt, gave it a moment more, then vanished inside. His blood kin joined him.
    ‘Could you tell me about parking the truck here last night?’
    The young man’s eyes shifted to the club. ‘I came back this morning to help. I was thinking maybe I could do something. But there wasn’t anything.’ A faint smile, a hollow smile. ‘I wanted to help.’
    ‘Mr Culp?’
    ‘Sure, sure. I had a run to Fresno, came in empty about seven. Parked there. Spot ten. You can’t see clear. The paint’s gone mostly. Wrote down the mileage and diesel level on my log and slipped it through the slot in the door, put the keys in the drop-box, there. Call me “Billy”. “Mr Culp”, I start looking for my father.’
    Dance smiled. ‘You parked there and set the brake and put the truck in gear.’
    ‘I always do, ma’am. The brake, the gears.’ Then he swallowed. ‘But, fact is, I was tired. I admit. Real tired. Bakersfield, Fresno, here.’ His voice was unsteady. He’d been debating about coming clean. ‘I’m
pretty
sure I took care of things. But to swear a hundred percent? I don’t know.’
    ‘Thanks for being honest,