The Edge of Justice by Clinton McKinzie Read Free Book Online Page A

tired to me. Everyone's talking about that too. Is it just the trial or has he been much affected by the death of that girl his son was dating?”
    “I don't know . . . Nathan is a very private man when it comes to family. . . . He doesn't talk about his boy with me. . . . But it sure as hell was poor timing . . . having to deal with shit like that . . . in the middle of the trial of his career. . . . During a capital case like this . . . you don't want anything else on your mind. . . . Especially not with the fucking election coming up.”
    “Well, I've got to go find my friends. Can I call you tomorrow for some legal background?”
    “Always, lass. I'm at the Holiday Inn.”
    “Great, I'm there too.” Rebecca then gives me a slightly embarrassed look. “It was nice meeting you, Agent Burns. Will you think about doing an interview?”
    As she leaves I can't help but turn in my seat and watch her walk away. When I face McGee again he fixes me with his bright blue eyes. “She's way out of your league, youth.”
    “Fuck you, Boss,” I answer but feel it's probably true.
       
    Back at the Holiday Inn, I'm both elevated from the climb—my hands still tingle with the feel of the warm rock—and embarrassed at how I handled my introduction to the reporter. The file I took from the sheriff sits unopened on the bed. I'm off duty and intend to stay that way until the morning. Oso's old bones are tired from the afternoon at Vedauwoo. Gorged with Purina, he snores contentedly, sprawled across the room's second double bed.
    I find myself driving back through the breezy night again toward downtown Laramie, not knowing at first what I'm hoping to find. But images of Rebecca Hersh and the girl who gave my dog the wreath of daisies play inside my mind. I park and begin to walk.
    I come across a place called the Fireside Bar. A neon sign flashes, “Dancin' and Drinkin'.” Underneath, on the white wall in black marker, someone has added, “And Dyin'.” I observe the souped-up pickups outside and see through the window throngs of young white men in tightly curled baseball caps. This was the bar from which Matthew Shepard had been lured by two yokels from the same nomadic trailer-park culture as the Knapp brothers. They'd cajoled the small college student outside, driven him onto the plains outside of town, tied him to a buck fence, and beat him to death with the butt of a pistol. They told the police they did it because he flirted with one of them and for the couple of dollars and credit cards he had in his wallet. The Fireside Bar had been a poor choice for the boy. And his murder brought Laramie the continuing fame the town never wanted and didn't deserve. I walk on.
    Two blocks farther I come to the Altitude Brewery. It's a new place, large and open inside. The floor and fixtures are all bright pine. The customers are dressed in a mix of alpaca wool sweaters, fleece jackets, and tie-dyed T-shirts worn under open hemp shirts. Unlike the other places I passed, the banging rhythm vibrating out the door from this bar is secondary to the sound of voices. While that attracts me, what really draws me in is that through the front window I think I see the flower girl.
    I walk in and sit on a varnished stump at the bar. The bartender, sporting a lip ring, a couple of nose rings, and viciously spiked hair, pours me an Easy Street Wheat from the tap. When he says, “You're welcome,” I see that his tongue is also pierced with a silver stud. I stare toward the big-screen TV behind the bar, but I'm really watching the mirror below it—reflected there I see the girl sitting at a booth with three men, one ponytailed and older than the other two, and several more young men gathered around, gripping mugs of beer.
    When she stands and walks toward the bathroom my eyes follow her. She's wearing threadbare jeans and a purple loose-weave vest. Her bare arms are tan and slender. There are thin cords of muscle running from her shoulders to her