felt this since she was sixteen years old.
She leaned back, letting the wall take her weight. The sheriff paced a couple of steps, rubbed a hand over his face, and paced some more. Belatedly, Erin realized he was as shaken as she.
“I take it you don’t see this sort of thing in Hopewell very often?” she asked.
“I think we can safely assume you brought it with you.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault—”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, but that was all. A black sedan pulled up, lights flashing, and he went to meet his men. Erin followed.
Vaega rolled out of the driver’s side and an older man, leathered and bony, climbed from the passenger seat. Both went to the room and looked inside. When they came back out, the older deputy stopped in front of Erin. His badge said H OGUE and he scowled at her. “What’d you do,” he asked, “pay some teenager to do this, so ever’body’d think you weren’t full of shit?”
Erin sprang but Sheriff Mann grabbed her. He snarled at the deputy. “Do your job, Wart. Secure the scene. Canvass the area and take statements from anyone who has access to a key.”
“That would be about a hundred people,” Vaega said. “Jimmy Fowler works the front desk. He leaves it unattended most of the time, plays video games in the back.”
“Then get about a hundred statements.” Mann looked down at Erin, his hand still seizing her arm, then blew out a breath. He didn’t like whatever he was about to say. “If you need me, Dr. Sims and I will be at Engel’s.”
Engel’s Eatery was a Pennsylvania Dutch diner on Main Street, with the daily specials written in German on a chalkboard. It always smelled of yeast rolls and cinnamon, and in the winter it was famous for hot white chocolate with vanilla-bean whipped cream.
And at every time of year, it was a hangout for the locals. Nick frowned at the idea of courting the public but knew it was the right thing to do. Someone wasthreatening Sims. No place like Engel’s to make sure folks knew the Miami visitor was under his watch.
He held the door for her and waved at Leni Engel, who was wiping off the pie counter. She was a big woman with wire glasses and a conservative bun at the back of her head. She might have been mistaken for Amish but for the fact that she always showed some cleavage.
“Hey there, Sheriff,” she called out. “Rebecca will be right out.”
He murmured to Sims, “That’s the owner, Leni Engel. You’ll like her food—not a fruit or vegetable in sight.”
Rebecca appeared, wearing a too-tight blouse and overdone makeup. Her fingers were tipped in black nail polish and a rhinestone stud winked in her nostril.
“Sheriff,” she said, giving Sims a once-over. “Back booth?”
“Maybe you and I should have a talk first.”
She shot a glance to the cash register. Her mom, Leni, was watching. “I haven’t seen him,” Rebecca said, without moving her lips.
“I wasn’t talking about Ace. I was talking about your friend, Carrie Sitton. Pretty scary stuff. You got anything you wanna tell me?”
“I told that other sheriff and the Cleveland cops. Everything I could think of.”
“Okay. But I don’t mind hearing it, too. Whenever you wanna talk.” Then he wagged his finger at her. “And stay away from Ace Holmes.”
“I told you, I haven’t seen him.”
“But you’re lying.”
He let it go—nothing he could do about her hanging out with Holmes—and they followed her to a booth in the back. Nick tipped greetings to wide-eyed patrons on the way, but didn’t stop to chat.
Let ’em look.
But when he saw the man seated at the back corner booth, he cursed. He hadn’t counted on
that
.
He waited for Dr. Sims to slide into her seat then said, “I’ll be back,” and went to the corner, where Rodney Devilas sat drinking coffee. Rodney was Margaret Calloway’s nephew. She and Jack had raised him after his mother committed suicide. He was legally blind, and though thirty, had a shock of white
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