Just Watch Me (Riley Wolfe 1)

Delgado thanked her, disconnected, and frowned at his steering wheel. Not the big house on the hill. This little p

lace was already a huge step down from that, if it had really existed. So had Riley and his mother—the Weimers—come to Jasper from somewhere else? Probably; it was unlikely that they would stay in the town where they had just suffered a huge loss in status. But if the big house was only a fantasy, they might have lived here all along.

Delgado shook his head. It was a dead end, at least for now. He would have to move on to his next step, talking to the sheriff. He looked up the address and saw that Jasper had its own police department, separate from the Pickens County sheriff. It wasn’t far. Nothing was, in Jasper.

The duty sergeant informed him that he was in luck, and the man to talk to was Clay Bensen. “He was detective here twenty-six years,” the sergeant drawled. “Retired ’bout three and a half year ago. But this time a day, you gone fine him over to Molly Bee’s.” When Delgado looked blank, the sergeant twitched a tiny smile. “That ole diner, edge o’ town? ’Bout two mile from here. Dead east.” He jerked a thumb in an easterly direction and nodded. “They got meatloaf today, it’s worth a try,” he said, and went back to a stack of reports on his desk.

Delgado found Molly Bee’s easily. It was one of those 1960s space-age diners, with a jagged neon sign towering up, and a big theater-marquee-style sign that read, “MOLLY BEE’S—Fine Home Cooking!” He parked and went in.

In the far corner of the diner was a booth with a knot of five men gathered around. No one else was in the diner except a bored-looking woman in an apron resting one haunch on a stool behind the counter.

Delgado walked back to the booth. The man in the far corner of the booth was talking. He looked to be average height, thin and wiry, probably in his sixties. He had a worn-looking face with bright blue eyes and wore a Stetson perched on top of short silver hair. He wore a brown jacket, a Western shirt, and a string tie with a large turquoise clasp. Delgado guessed that would be Bensen. He was the only one of the group old enough. So he stood and waited. The man in the Stetson glanced at him but didn’t interrupt his story. When he finished talking, he turned his attention on Delgado. “Detective Bensen?” Delgado said.

“That’s right. Something I can help you with, son?” he said. “Or you just admiring my profile?”

“It’s not bad,” Delgado said. “But I’m hoping you can help me.”

“I live to serve others,” Bensen said. He cocked his head to one side. “You a cop of some kind, ain’t you?”

Delgado fished out his badge and held it up.

“Oh, my, a real-life G-man, everybody bow your heads,” Bensen said. Two of his listeners chuckled. “This official business?”

Delgado hesitated for half a second, then decided to trust the old man. “I’m on my own time,” he said. “But it’s important.”

Bensen looked steadily at Delgado and then nodded. “This oughta be good. Pull up a chair, son. Betty? ’Nother coffee here.”

Delgado pulled a chair from an adjacent table and wedged himself in at the corner. By the time he got seated, Betty had a cup of coffee down on the table in front of him. “There you go,” Bensen said. “It’s not real good coffee, but at least it’s kind of warm.” Bensen leaned forward and gazed steadily at Delgado. “Now what can I do for you, son?”

“Two people lived here about twenty-four years ago, a mother and son,” Delgado said. “Something made them move. I think it was something bad, maybe criminal. I was hoping you’d remember.”

Bensen nodded. “They got a name?”

“Sheila Weimer,” Delgado said. “I don’t know what name the boy used.”

One of the men in the booth muttered, “Oh Lord.” Another man jerked to his feet, glared at Delgado, and stalked out of the diner.

Bensen didn’t even blink. “Why you want to know about them, son?” he said in a soft voice that held an edge of danger.

Delgado was suddenly in the middle of a ring of hostile faces. He knew he had stepped in something, but he wasn’t worried. Instead, he felt a surge of adrenaline. Something had happened here. He was right. And Bensen remembered.

“The boy has become a dangerous criminal,” he said. He heard someone growl, “Big fuckin’ surprise,” but Bensen just kept his steady gaze on Delgado, waiting for more. “I want to find him. Arrest him. To do that I need to know more about him. His backstory.”

It was very quiet in the diner for what seemed like a long and awkward time. That didn’t bother Delgado. If it got him some answers, he would sit here in silence and stare back at Bensen all day.

It didn’t last all day. Bensen finally said, “Huh,” and leaned back in the booth, and the rest of the men gathered around all took a breath. “Well, I can’t say I am surprised,” Bensen said. “It was a bad start for that boy, and that don’t usually turn out good.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Delgado asked.

Bensen chuckled, one syllable of dry mirth. “’Course I can. But I’m a Southerner, son, and that means I got to lead up to it just right. Put in some background, make a proper story of it.” He frowned and steepled his hands on the table in front of him. “I b’lieve it had to be 1996,” he said.

“That’s right,” Delgado said.

Bensen raised one eyebrow. “Is it? That’s good to know. Hush up, now, let me tell this.”

Delgado couldn’t help a small smile. “Sorry,” he said.

“It was 1996,” Bensen said again. “The world was young, and I could still walk without cryin’ from the pain, and I could even get all the way through the night without gettin’ up to pee.” He looked around the booth, just checking to see his listeners were following. They were. Bensen went on.