“Linda Meeker,” Morrow said. “The girl who left the bar with Royce Sherman last night.”

At that moment, she lowered her hands and raised her head to accept a tissue from a female deputy.

Shaw’s first sight of her face came as a surprise. He had expected an entirely different sort. “She’s just a kid.”

“Sixteen. Barely. Turned last month.”

Shaw watched Linda Meeker’s apparent distress for another few seconds, then said, “Friday night while I was at it, I should’ve killed Royce Sherman, too.”

The other three turned to him, but he didn’t take back what he’d said.

Morrow covered an awkward silence by clearing his throat. “In here.” He led them to the neighboring door and entered a small office. “I share it with another detective. He’s off today.”

They crowded into the already crowded space. Morrow closed the door and began his explanation without preamble. “Linda Meeker came in about half an hour ago under her own volition but at the urging of a friend, who drove her here when they learned about the murder.”

“Who told her?” Shaw asked.

“They overheard people talking about it at the Dairy Queen.”

Nobody said anything, but Shaw, Wiley, and Hickam exchanged glances.

Reading their dubiety correctly, Morrow chuffed. “It gets better. All of what I’m about to tell you came from the friend, because Linda isn’t talking. According to the friend, Linda owns up to underage drinking, intoxication, getting chummy with Royce, and walking out of the bar with him. But she couldn’t very well lie about that because there are three dozen witnesses to it.

“From there, the story goes murky. The friend contends that she was waiting for Linda outside. Linda and Royce exchanged fond farewells and parted ways. He took off in his pickup. The friend drove Linda to her—the friend’s—house where they were supposed to have been all along. Linda upchucked a couple of times. The friend put her to bed. They slept until after ten o’clock this morning.”

Wiley said, “Then picked up news of the murder at the Dairy Queen.”

“Right.”

“Wrong.” Shaw, who’d propped himself against the doorjamb when they came into the room, left it for the corner of Morrow’s desk and planted his butt on it before he fell down. “That girl’s hysterical.”

Hickam said, “Understandable. The guy she was mugging with twelve hours ago has since been shot in the head.”

“I get that, but still.” Shaw conjured an image of Linda Meeker. “Her teeth were chattering. She’s out of her mind scared.”

“Of her daddy,” Morrow said. “He’s a preacher. Hellfire and brimstone. Live snakes. Like that. Linda and her friend attended last night’s Sunday evening services at the tabernacle, but I guess Daddy’s sermon didn’t take. Rather than going straight to the friend’s house to watch TV, they sneaked off to the bar. She says her daddy will kill her for drinking, much less for—”

“—tangling tongues with Royce,” Wiley said.

“Words to that effect. The friend says the reverend isn’t the forgiving type, that his punishment will be harsh. Even though Linda knew that coming to us was the right thing to do, the friend said she practically had to hogtie her to get her here.”

Morrow raised his chin toward the interrogation room next door. “Those two officers have been at her, singly and together, since she walked into our lobby and identified herself. All she’s done is cry. Sob. Hasn’t told us squat. Refuses to talk about it.”

Wiley thoughtfully pulled on his lower lip. “She’s a minor. Have her parents been notified that she’s here?”

Morrow nodded. “Immediately after she came in. Which didn’t help with her hysterics.”

Nobody spoke for several moments, then Shaw asked, “What’s the preacher’s ETA?”

Hickam looked at him with suspicion and frowned. “Why?”

Shaw ignored him and repeated his question to Morrow.

The deputy consulted the wall-mounted clock. “They live out in the country, ten miles from town. Plus, the preacher subsidizes the offering plate by pouring concrete during the week. Mrs. Meeker wasn’t sure which project he was on today and was going to have to locate him through the contractor.” He glanced at the clock again and raised a shoulder. “Taking all that into account, ETA is twenty, thirty minutes maybe.”

Shaw pushed himself off the desk. “Get some handcuffs.”

Chapter 29

You’re not eating anything.”

Jordie looked up from the room service club sandwich Gwen Saunders had foisted on her. “I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast, either.”

She realized the U.S. marshal was only trying to be kind, but Jordie resented being spoken to as though she were a child. Apparently her resentment showed. Gwen refrained from insisting.

She ate the last of her own sandwich and folded her napkin beside her plate. “Should I call them to remove the table then?”

“Yes, I’m done,” Jordie said.

“I’ll ask the waiter to wrap up the sandwich. Maybe you’ll want it later.”

She gave the marshal a weak smile, but her appetite wasn’t going to improve until circumstances changed, and she feared that they would change only for the worse, not the better. When every projected outcome was bad, what was she to hope for?

After the room service waiter left, Gwen made sure the door to the suite was bolted, then sat down at a desk and booted up her laptop. Agitated and restless, Jordie moved to the window, pushed back the drapes, and gazed out over the downtown skyline.

Looking to her left across Canal Street, she was afforded a bird’s-eye view of the French Quarter’s narrow lanes. On the river, a paddle-wheeler full of tourists chugged along. The sidewalks were congested with pedestrians.

Other people were actually having a good day. They were going about their business, eating, drinking, sightseeing, enjoying the company of friends and family, untouched by tragedy, unscathed by calamities of their own making.

She envied them their sense of freedom, even if it lasted only for today. Not since that December day in her childhood had she felt entirely free. The life-altering event of that day followed her everywhere. Even on occasions calling for celebration, it was a tenacious companion that spoiled her enjoyment. Nothing she did was free of its influence. It had dictated every major decision. Much had been sacrificed to it.

Now, because of those few fateful moments, she was sequestered and under the guard of federal law enforcement officers. Her future was uncertain, her life in jeopardy.

She wasn’t even free to go to work and do the job she loved. As they’d left the FBI building, she’d asked Gwen if they could stop at her office, just long enough for her to check the status of certain upcoming events that were sizable jobs and would greatly contribute to her company’s annual revenue.

Gwen had denied the request pleasantly but in a nonnegotiable manner. “I’m sorry, Jordie. Agent Wiley wants you to be…protected.”

“Watched.”

“Same thing.”

“No it isn’t. Not at all.”