Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“Lose the entourage and come in,” Hackberry said.

“These men go wherever I go.”

“Not here they don’t.”

“Why do I continue to have trouble with you, Sheriff?”

“Because you asked for it.”

“I had to replace both the brake lights on my vehicle this morning.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. That’s too bad.”

“You’re aware your deputy broke them?”

“Be advised I support my deputy in whatever she does. I’m pretty busy. You want to stand out here in the sun or come inside?”

“Here will be just fine,” Dowling said. He wiped his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief, then shook it out and wiped the back of his neck. He gazed down the street at the courthouse, a slick of sweat on one cheek, his eyes intense with the words he was preparing to speak. Hackberry realized Dowling’s next remarks would be part of a performance

that was not for him but for his employees. “I’ve lost two good men to a psychopath who should have been mulch the first time you saw him. This same man has murdered an untold number of people in this county, your county, but you don’t seem to have a clue where he is, nor do you seem bothered by your ignorance. Instead of conducting an investigation, your personnel are vandalizing people’s SUVs. I understand that mediocrity is a way of life in a place like this, but I won’t abide incompetence when it comes to the welfare of my people or the security of my country. We’ll do your work for you, but you need to stay out of our way.”

“If you interfere in a homicide investigation, you’re going to find yourself in handcuffs, Mr. Dowling.”

“My father said something about you, Sheriff, that maybe you should hear. He said you were one of those rare politicians to whom nobody had to pay money in order to corrupt. All they needed to do was appeal to your Don Quixote complex. He said the only payment you required was a chance to play the role of the knight-errant so you could self-destruct and absolve yourself of your petty sins. I think my father read you like a book.”

“Tell you what, I changed my mind about something I told my chief deputy this morning. I said I couldn’t care less if you tried to slander my name. But on second thought, some might think the elements in your lies refer to my dead wife, Rie, and the nature of my relationship with her. You did make those remarks, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have to make them. Everyone who knew you already has.”

“I don’t like to humiliate a man in front of his employees, but for you, I’m going to make an exception. I’m probably in the top of the eighth inning or the bottom of the ninth, which means I don’t have a lot to lose. You ever play much baseball, Mr. Dowling? If you crowd the plate with the wrong pitcher, you can bet the next pitch will be a forkball at the head, the kind that hits you like a dull-bladed guillotine.” Hackberry smiled pleasantly and winked at him. “What do you think about that?”

“Considering the source? Not very damn much,” Dowling said.

Hackberry went back inside his office, sat down at his desk, and did not look outside the window until he heard the SUV drive down the street. But the anger that had bloomed in his chest would not go away. A half hour later, the phone on his desk rang. He looked at the caller ID and answered. “¿Qué tal?”

“¿Qué tal?” Ethan Riser repeated.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I know what it means.”

“Say what’s on your mind.”

“This is a personal call and off the record.”

“I’m the sheriff of this county. I’m sitting at my office desk, on the job, in my official capacity. Nothing that occurs here is off the record.”

“You sound a little short.”

“What do you want, Ethan?”

“I’m taking early retirement. I wanted to tell you that. Plus a couple of other things.”

“Like what?”

“You’re in the way.”

“Say again?”