U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

Once we entered the trees, the ground was matted with decomposing plant material that sent up puffs of peat scent as we passed. There was no path to follow so we were forced to create our own. We split up and tramped through the brush, snapping twigs and fallen branches underfoot. I heard Sutton’s startled exclamation. “Found it!”

I waded through the scrub and waist-high weeds, holding my arms up like a swimmer moving toward the shallow end of a pool. When I reached him I saw the stump of the fallen oak, which was easily six feet across and hewn to eight inches or so aboveground. The tree trunk was hollowed by rot. The oak must have been dying from the inside out over a period of time, which meant the split wasn’t due entirely to the weight of the branches as Mr. Holderman had thought.

“This is it?” I asked.

“I think so. I’m almost sure.”

“Where were the guys when you caught up with them?”

Sutton pivoted and scanned his surroundings. “Down there.”

His focus shifted from tree to tree, and his gaze finally came to rest at a point some fifteen feet away. He moved in that direction and I lagged a short distance behind, watching as he reached a small clearing and stopped to study it. The circular patch of ground was bordered by tall evergreens and mature live oak. The tree roots had sucked all the nutrients from the hard-packed soil, leaving bare dirt. He moved a few feet to his right. “This is where they were digging. The bundle on the ground was under that tree.” He shook his head. “The place still smells the same. When you’re a kid, everything is so intense. It’s like you’re filtering reality through your nose. Wonder why that is?”

“Survival. Catch the scent of a bear once and you carry the sense memory for life.”

Sutton closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. It just seems weird.”

I took Sutton with me to the office, where I unlocked the door and flipped on a few lights. He slouched in the chair he’d occupied the day before, stretching his legs out in front of him. I settled in my swivel chair, picked up the handset, and punched in Cheney’s number at the police department. As soon as he picked up I identified myself.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

I laid out the sequence of events, starting with my trip to Climping Academy and ending with Sutton’s identification of the area where he’d seen the two guys digging. When I was finished, there was a silence while he digested the information.

He said, “I have to talk to the detective sergeant. I’ll call you back.” I wasn’t sure how long we’d have to wait, but it was clear I needed to stay put so Cheney could get back to me, if need be. “You want coffee? I can make a pot,” I said.

“No thanks. I’m wired as it is. You have a bathroom I could use?”

“Take a left in the hall. It’s the only door on your right.”

“Thanks.”

It was 3:15 and I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten lunch, which probably meant I hadn’t. I opened my desk drawers in turn, but there wasn’t so much as a Tic Tac in the way of nourishment. I picked up my shoulder bag and went into search-and-seizure mode, peering into every crack and crevice. I like a big bag with a lot of nooks and crannies—outside compartments for magazines and books; inside pockets, some with zippers, some without; and a pouch on one end for car keys. I found two red-and-white-striped peppermints in clear cellophane. They’d been in my bag so long, the mints had softened and were now welded to the wrapping. I could have popped one in my mouth as it was and made it last for days.

I heard a toilet flush, and moments later Sutton reappeared.

“Want a mint?” I asked.

“No, thanks.” He resumed his seat and watched me peel the cellophane off the mint. He stirred restlessly. “So what happens next?”

I laid the mint on my tongue. It was heavenly to feel the sugar surge through my mouth. I tucked it in against my inner cheek so I could talk without spitting. I said, “No idea. I guess it depends on how seriously they’re taking this.”

We sat there in silence. I picked up a letter opener and tapped the point against the edge of my desk, practicing to be a drummer in case the private eye biz dried up. Sutton spent his time looking around the office at the bad paint job and the so-called wall-to-wall carpeting that had seen better days. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I make enough money to support myself, but I’m not big on “day-core.” Then again, neither was he. Given what I’d seen of his place, he was hardly one to offer decorating tips.