CHAPTER 16

Grimshaw

Windsday, Juin 14

Grimshaw left the boardinghouse at first light and drove to a truck stop between Bristol and Crystalton. While he was on highway patrol, it was a regular stop for coffee or a meal—a place to sit and be quickly available without burning gasoline all day.

When he pulled into the lot, he noticed the new addition behind the diner. There had been toilets—a convenience for truckers who pulled in to a designated “safe” place after dark, especially after the diner closed for the night. Now there were also pay-by-the-minute showers, like the ones provided in a campground for those brave enough—or foolish enough—to stay that close to what watched them from the shadows of the woods. No sign advertising the new facilities, but the men and women who made a living on the road would know about the amenity.

Captain Walter Hargreaves was already in a booth, a cup of black coffee in front of him.

Grimshaw slid into the opposite seat, nodded to the waitress who lifted the coffeepot and raised an eyebrow in question, then studied his boss.

“Swinn and his CIU team work out of Putney on Prong Lake,” Grimshaw said. “When I called the Bristol station to confirm a suspicious death, why didn’t the CIU team from Bristol come to Sproing to investigate?”

“That’s a good question,” Hargreaves replied. Then he smiled at the waitress and ordered breakfast. He waited until Grimshaw placed his order and the waitress was out of earshot before continuing. “All I know is that Swinn called the Bristol station minutes after your call and said he and his team had been assigned to the case and Bristol was to stand down. He said he was already heading up to Sproing for a separate investigation and the suspicious death could be connected, so it made sense for him to take a look at the alleged body.” He swallowed some coffee, his eyes never leaving Grimshaw’s face. “His call came in so fast after yours, I started thinking he’d been tipped off, maybe even anticipated some trouble at The Jumble.”

“I didn’t call him,” Grimshaw growled.

“I didn’t think you did. But he was expecting a call and already had his team ready to roll.”

“Including a baby cop who had no business doing more than directing traffic.”

Hargreaves looked grim. “Tell me all of it. Tell me everything you didn’t put in your report and wouldn’t say over the telephone.”

Grimshaw told him about the Sproingers gathering—and Julian Farrow’s theory that they were a form the terra indigene had absorbed to be able to wander all around Sproing without humans thinking twice about their presence. He told Hargreaves about Vicki DeVine’s state of mind when she got out of the car after Swinn and Reynolds brought her in for questioning, and the empty safe-deposit box, and the sudden appearance of one of the Sanguinati, who claimed to be her attorney. He recounted the terrified call from Osgood asking for backup, for help—and what he and Julian had found when they reached The Jumble.

Their breakfasts arrived. Grimshaw shoveled food into his mouth for a couple of minutes, then put his fork down and sat back. “Osgood shouldn’t have been there. He’s too young to be on a CIU team.”

Hargreaves kept eating for another minute. Then he, too, put his fork down—but he leaned forward. “Julian Farrow. You went into a bad situation with Julian Farrow as your backup? You’re either crazy or suicidal.”

“I trust him.” Before Hargreaves could respond to that beyond swearing under his breath, Grimshaw asked the question that had been bothering him since he and Julian returned from The Jumble yesterday. “All those years ago, did the brass know Julian was an Intuit? Did they know why he had that uncanny ability to sense things?”

He saw genuine surprise on Hargreaves’s face.

“Intuit? Are you sure?”

Grimshaw smiled when the waitress came over to refill their cups and ask if they wanted anything else. The smile faded as soon as she walked away. “I’m sure. Julian confirmed it.”

Hargreaves was thinking hard. “Crystalton. The reputation it has of being a woo-woo place with people reading cards and talking about the properties of crystals and all that . . . bunk.”

“Bunk? Or a smoke screen so that people coming into their community don’t realize they’re different?” Grimshaw countered.

“What’s he doing in Sproing?”

“He owns the bookstore, which, as far as I can tell, is really a combination of a bookstore and the village’s lending library since the front half of the store is more of a used-book swap than anything else. I didn’t see it, but I’m guessing the back half has the new books that he sells for some kind of profit—enough to keep the doors open.”

“Maybe,” Hargreaves said softly. “Governor Hannigan created that Investigative Task Force last year—investigators who work with local police but answer to the governor.”

“I know of it. Haven’t met the ITF agent who has the Finger Lakes area.” When he’d heard about the task force, he’d considered applying for it, but a man had to have some skill with working with a variety of police forces in the communities within his territory as well as being able to work on his own, and the truth was he really didn’t work well with others.

“There were some rumors that there are a few ‘shadow’ agents as well as the ones who are visibly working with the police.”

“Undercover?”

Hargreaves nodded and drank some coffee. “What do you think?”

“About what?” Grimshaw blinked. He almost laughed until he thought about it. “Julian Farrow?”

“He was a damn good investigator, even when he was a rookie. Of course, his being Intuit explains some of it, but he had a real feel for it. He opened his store . . . when?”

“Last fall.”

“Around the time we were all scrambling to figure out what was left after the Humans First and Last movement set the war against the terra indigene in motion. Silence is the westernmost of the Finger Lakes, a gateway, you could say. Sproing is a small community with lots of farms and vineyards around it, a lake to draw people to the area in the summer. If you needed a spy to alert you to possible trouble, it might be a good place to position one.”

Julian, an undercover agent for the governor? It sounded like something out of a thriller. On the other hand, what had Julian Farrow been doing since he left the police force? If he’d ever really left.

“I trust Julian Farrow more than I trust Swinn,” Grimshaw said.

Hargreaves finished his breakfast and pushed the plate to one side. Then he nodded as if coming to a decision. “They called him Swine at the academy. Don’t know why. It was one of those stupid things young men do, picking one or two and giving them a hard time for no reason.”

“Could be they saw him with a date.”

Silence. “You think Detective Swinn acted inappropriately with Ms. DeVine, while one of his men was also in the car?”

“Something happened on the way in to the Sproing station. She was . . . scared—like, get her to the doctor’s office before she collapses scared.” But she had rallied when she took the hand he offered. He’d seen her come back from whatever had upset her.

“She did lead you to the body.”

“No, the Crow who is her lodger led us to the body. Vicki DeVine couldn’t find her way out of her own handbag.” Seeing Hargreaves’s stony look and knowing he’d dumped a potential scandal on the table, he added, “Of course, having seen her handbag, I don’t think most people would be able to find their own way out.”

Hargreaves leaned forward again. His voice was quiet and rough. “You remember that backup isn’t down the street. You’re out there in the wild country, Wayne, on your own, no matter who answers a call for help and how fast they respond.”

“Business as usual, then.”

They stared at each other.

“What do you want while you’re manning the Sproing station?”

“I want Officer Osgood reassigned to the station. I want him away from Swinn.”

“You think he’ll back you up?”