Breaking Creed

26

Early morning thunderstorms had delayed O’Dell’s flight from Washington, D.C., to Atlanta. Instead of taking a second roller-coaster flight on to Mobile, she rented a car in Atlanta, deciding she’d rather drive the four hours. Her trip turned into five hours. In the pouring rain. With lightning strikes that threatened to slice the compact rental in two.

She had chugged down a couple of Diet Pepsis as her breakfast and now acid churned in her stomach. By the time she drove into Andalusia, her nerves were raw from tight-fisting the steering wheel. Her eyes were blurred from the constant dance of windshield wipers trying to slice through the battering rain.

The café was several more miles outside of town, very much off the beaten path. But it was where the Covington County sheriff had suggested they meet, adding that the Bagleys’ acreage was only about ten minutes away.

She’d left him a voice message earlier when she realized her delay. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had decided not to wait, but his black-and-white SUV was in the parking lot next to the elongated building. The large sign out front advertised HUNTING, FISHING, CAMPING right under BLUE LAKE CAFÉ. Maybe that explained its remote location and all the pickup-truck-driving clientele.

The sky had already started to clear, puddles now the only evidence of the storms she had just driven through. O’Dell stepped out of the air-conditioned car and immediately felt the heat and humidity hit her in the face, fogging up her sunglasses. She kept the glasses on. Figured she needed them. They were the only thing she wore that made her look like she might have the authority of an FBI agent. Of course, she wanted the authority but without looking like a fed. So she had dressed appropriately.

Her oversized chambray shirt was buttoned properly, despite the T-shirt underneath, with room to conceal her Glock, in case she needed it, tucked into the waistband of her threadbare jeans. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up haphazardly, and she wore lightweight ankle-high hiking boots that looked weathered. Still, when she walked in the door, every head turned in her direction. She may have succeeded in not being pegged as a federal agent, but what caught everyone’s attention was the one thing she had not been able to conceal. She still looked like an outsider. There was no disguising that.

A middle-aged man in the corner with bristled steel-gray hair waved at her. His white shirt with a gold badge on his chest gave him away. The chair scraped the floor as he pushed it out, standing to greet her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested. His bulk matched his deep voice. But when he took her offered hand, he squeezed gently, instead of shaking it like a man who isn’t used to female colleagues.

“So you ran into those thunderstorms?” he said in place of a greeting, waiting for her to sit down.

Of course, he already knew she had driven through the downpours from her voice message. That’s what had caused her delay. Instead of getting impatient, she decided it was a good place to start. So she nodded and obliged him with the courtesy of some weather chitchat.

“I couldn’t believe it just kept pouring.”

He laughed, a rich, deep-throated sound that seemed genuine. “Welcome to the South in the good ole summertime.”

O’Dell hated the games of social politeness. It was a waste of time on a day already delayed. She didn’t want to be pulling up to Trevor and Regina Bagley’s house just as the sun was setting. However, she had dealt with small-town law enforcement enough to know that what happened in the cafés and coffee shops was just as important as what happened in the field or at the crime scene.

And to her advantage, she was already learning a few things about the sheriff, though not by his own admission. Sheriff Jackson Holt was recently divorced. His ring finger still bore the indent and faded skin. She caught him reaching for the absent ring to twist it in a habit that hadn’t had time to be replaced.

The divorce, however, had not affected his meticulous appearance. His uniform shirt and T-shirt underneath were bright white, the sleeve patches like new, and the gold badge attached with careful consideration. All his attention to detail probably meant that he played by the rules — all of them, never deviating from them, which could be a disadvantage. O’Dell was hoping to find an excuse to take a look around the Bagley place, despite the fact that Regina Bagley wouldn’t be in the mood for it. And despite the fact that they had no grounds for a warrant.

Winning over the local sheriff was one of the reasons she’d agreed to meet him for lunch — now a late lunch. And the amazing aromas from the kitchen reminded her that she hadn’t eaten yet today. Over catfish and hush puppies that made her want to move in out back behind the café, she filled in Sheriff Holt with the limited details she had decided to share. Never did she mention drugs or even hint at the idea that Trevor Bagley’s unfortunate death may have been related to dealing in drugs.

“They pretty much keep to themselves,” he told her when she asked about the couple. “Their acreage backs up to the national forest, so it’s kinda remote. I’m not sure what they do for a living. They don’t bother anybody. No complaints, anyway. Bagley inherited the property from his daddy. Somebody mentioned that he might have done a tour in Afghanistan. Said they remembered him in a uniform at the funeral.”

O’Dell kept to herself the fact that Bagley had been discharged from military duty. Perhaps she was wrong about it being dishonorable if he was still wearing his uniform.

For the first time, she wondered if his military service had anything to do with his death.