A False Dawn

TWENTY-SEVEN

The toothpick, wet with Davis’ saliva, had hit me between the eyes and bounced onto my lap. I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and took the Jeep out of gear. Reaching in the console, I got one of the half dozen Ziploc bags, found the toothpick, and carefully picked it up with a tissue by the end that wasn’t chewed. I dropped it in the Ziploc and put the bag in the glove box.

The main gate to SunState Farms was open. I pulled in and followed signs to the office. The hard-packed dirt road wound around irrigation ditches, packinghouses, a machine shop, and trailers loaded with oranges.

The exterior of the office looked like the building may have originally been built as a small military base. All one story. Nondescript vanilla buildings and bungalows loosely joined. Citrus trees surrounded the entire fortress. I entered as a woman was picking her purse off the floor near a desk.

“You here to make a run to New Orleans?” she asked.

“No, but it’s one of my favorite cities. Glad it’s make a comeback.”

I got the once-over curiosity look with glasses pushed up on the bridge of her nose. Early fifties. Hair pinned up. Sweatshirt and jeans. “Can I help you,” she uttered, glancing at the digital clock near her desk.

“Is Mr. Brennen here?”

“Senior or junior?”

“Junior.”

“And you are…?”

I could detect that her guard dog training was about to come off the leash. I quickly said, “It’s about the campaign. I’m trying to find the—“

“The fundraiser?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a little late, honey, but not too late. The barbeque will be goin’ on ‘till about eight or nine, I suspect.”

“That’s what I assumed. Is it here?”

A smile. The guard was down. “Heavens no, it’s the ranch.”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t GPS the exact directions.” I looked at the nameplate on her desk. “Carla, that’s why I wound up lost. As a man, I have no problem asking for directions.”

An eyebrow stencil arched. “Darlin’, you aren’t alone. Been a half dozen people callin’ the office, lost like sheep without a shepherd. You gotta be the last one…Mr. Hayes. Right? I’m glad you finally got here.”

She started drawing a map. “Come here, sweetie, I’ll show you a shortcut.”

The Brennen place would have been easy to find without the hand-drawn map. Simply follow the Mercedes, Escalades, and Jaguars in a convoy. At least I’d washed the Jeep. I pulled in behind a dark Lincoln and waited my turn to go through the front gate. A rent-a-guard, starched white shirt, narrow pimply face, serious and unsmiling, held a clipboard and asked for names.

“Hayes,” I said. His eyes scanned the list. He started to ask me something when a white limo pulled in close. The boy guard waved me onto the Brennen estate.

Farming had been good to the Brennens. I figured the winding driveway was a quarter mile long, bordered by freshly painted white fences that held prize cattle to the left and champion horses to the right. The house was the kind found on magazine covers or profiled on the Travel Channel. Its size, and the Old South, antebellum feel, made a statement. Members only.

Cars lined up in the large circular drive to be valet parked. I picked a spot between a Lexus and a Lincoln and backed in the Jeep. The smells of charcoal, burning hickory, mesquite wood, steaks and barbecue ribs, were mixed with the smell of manure and money.

As I stepped out, my cell rang. It was Leslie Moore. “Sean, there’s some evidence missing in the case of the vic you found?”

“What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

“Forensics has everything we initially found on the victim. It was the later evidence that you and the Indian, Joe Bille, found.”

“What about it?”

“We’d already sent in the hair found on the duct tape for DNA analysis, but somehow the thread and shoe have been misplaced?”

“What do you mean misplaced?”

“We had it sealed and kept with everything. We were going to run the DNA tests on it first. But it was either misplaced or stolen.”

“I’m betting on the latter. I can’t imagine evidence being lost.”

“Unfortunately, it happens. I’ve never had it happen on my watch, though.”

“Who has access to the forensics area?”

“The ME and all of her staff. Anyone working on the case, which is only a handful of people.”

“Is Mitchell Slater one of them?”

“Yes. But why would he take it? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes it does”

“How?” she whispered.

“It makes sense if he’s protecting someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Slater knows who killed the girl?”

“Why would he cover? Who would have that kind of power over Slater?”

“Powerful people, and I seem to have landed at ground zero.”