Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

Andrea realized that her heart was beating so hard she could feel it inside of her mouth. She parted her lips. Took a deep breath. Worked to exert some control over the emotions vibrating through her body.

At the academy, she had learned how stress and anger could screw up your senses. Andrea forced herself to tamp down her fury and focus on what was happening right in front of her. The three uniformed cops were clearly interested in the conversation, but not on alert. They also weren’t taking any cues from their boss. Stilton looked as if every muscle in his body was contracted. Nardo, meanwhile, had taken a few steps away from Wexler. Andrea couldn’t tell if he was trying to put distance between them or inching toward the truck.

She didn’t inch. She took several quick strides toward the truck, making it clear that she’d pull him out by the back of his collar if he tried to get in.

“You gotta gun on you, Slim?” Bible was talking to Nardo but he was looking at Andrea.

She felt a giant bead of sweat roll down the back of her neck. She had missed the fact that Nardo’s loose-fitting overalls had been altered to accommodate a holster at the small of his back. Only now could Andrea see the outline of what was likely a 9mm micro handgun. She had been so angry that she’d forgotten to look for weapons, which was the number one thing you were supposed to look for. America had roughly 330 million people and nearly 400 million guns. Most times, the only way to tell the good guys from the bad guys was when the bad guys started shooting.

“I’ve got a permit,” Nardo said. “But that’s really none of your business.”

“Sure-sure.” Bible clapped together his hands. He’d managed to quell his anger better than Andrea. “Gentlemen, I think we all need to get back to the house up there and have a conversation.”

“Not me,” Nardo said. “I don’t talk to pigs without a lawyer.”

Andrea could’ve predicted his response, which almost exactly matched his full written statement from forty years ago.

It’s April 18, 1982, and I, Bernard Aston Fontaine, do not talk to pigs without my lawyer.

Bible said, “Can’t blame you there, my man. My wife, Cussy, she’s always saying she hates talking to cops. Chief, why don’t we all climb into your cruiser and take this show up the hill?”

“Not me,” Wexler said. “If you want to talk, you can follow me to the house in my truck.”

Andrea said, “I’ll go with you.”

She didn’t wait for Wexler’s approval before she walked around the truck and opened the door. Andrea had to pull herself up into the tall cab. Her first impression was that the joint in the ashtray was not the first one that had been smoked in the old Ford. Every inch was permeated with weed. She didn’t let herself get distracted. She wasn’t going to make the same gun mistake twice. She leaned down, making sure the end of a rifle wasn’t sticking out from under the seat. She checked the pockets in the doors for weapons. Then she opened the glove box.

Wexler got behind the wheel and slammed the door. “You got a warrant to search my vehicle?”

“I’ve got probable cause,” she told him. “Your partner is carrying a concealed weapon. I checked your vehicle for weapons in order to ensure my safety.”

He grunted dismissively as he started the engine. Andrea reached back for the seatbelt but it was stuck on the reel. Wexler didn’t even try his belt. He bumped the gear with the heel of his hand. The bench seat vibrated from the old engine’s rumble. The wheels slowly moved forward, straddling the neatly tended rows. They would have to go to the end of the field and swing around to avoid crushing the plants.

Andrea glanced around, realizing there were no workers harvesting or tending or whatever they would need to do with the beans. She didn’t know how farms operated, but she knew that crowd control was always a concern when you were processing a potential crime scene. It seemed like the ten or fifteen or twenty volunteers would be close at hand considering one of their own was lying dead within shouting distance of where they ostensibly all lived.

Unless someone had told them to stay out of sight.

“Who’s in charge of the volunteers?” Andrea asked. “Is it Nardo?”

Wexler chewed at the inside of his mouth in silence. The needle on the speedometer was hanging below five. She assumed he drove like an old man because that’s what he was. At this rate, it would take several minutes to reach the farmhouse. That gave Andrea a little time to get him talking. The thermometer trick was still worthless. Dean Wexler was clearly unconcerned by the dead young woman in his field. He was used to running his farm exactly how he saw fit. He wasn’t accustomed to answering questions, especially ones posed by a woman.

Andrea started with something easy. “How long have you lived here, Mr. Wexler?”

“A while.” Wexler stared straight ahead as the truck rolled forward. She was trying to think of another softball question when he surprised her with an observation of his own. “Guess that bitch judge told you all about me last night.”

Andrea said nothing.

“You got in yesterday afternoon. Ate at the diner. Spent the night at the judge’s house. Slept at the motel.” Dean’s lips twisted in something like pleasure. He thought he was making her squirm. “Small town, sweetheart. Everybody knows everybody’s business.”

Andrea stared at him. “Is that how it works?”

“I’ll tell you what else,” he said. “You guys are here to watch the judge, which means that somebody finally got tired of her holier-than-thou bullshit.”

“You sound pretty tired of it yourself.”

“If you’re trying to figure out who’s been threatening her, I’ve got to be number six hundred on your list.” He gave Andrea a knowing glance. “Nardo’s even farther down. He’s never given a shit about that family. Especially what’s her name—the girl. Hell, I don’t even remember what she was called.”

“Emily,” Andrea said. “Emily Vaughn.”