Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

things were still chic. A thick red beard, easily six inches long, engulfed his face and neck.

He was sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the Sonic Drive-In. He wiped his arm across his mouth as I approached.

“Heyya,” I said.

Without saying a word, he pulled an envelope from his camo cargo shorts and handed it to me.

I flicked it open with my thumb.

Inside were five twenty-dollar bills.

“Nice bet,” he said.

The previous day, I’d bet a hundred dollars on Game 3 of the NBA Finals. I’d bet on the Cleveland Cavaliers to cover the spread, which they’d more than done, winning by thirty points.

“Thanks,” I muttered. “LeBron played pretty well.” I hadn’t seen the game, but I’d checked on my new phone earlier and he’d scored thirty-two points.

“Yep,” Graham replied, then asked, “You want any action on the next game?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said, waving the envelope at him. “I might just enjoy my spoils.”

He shrugged and tossed back a few fries.

It appeared we were done.

I turned to walk away, then swiveled back.

“Hey,” I said, “I got a question for you.”

He was unwrapping a burger and gave me a slight nod.

“Any cops ever bet with you?”

His beard cocked slightly. “Cops?”

“Yeah, you know, any Fuzz.”

He chuckled lightly, then unfolded himself off the bench. He was far more imposing standing up than he’d been sitting down.

A red hulking Hillbilly.

“Why the fuck you so interested in who bets with me?”

He’d already given me the reaction I wanted. If cops didn’t bet with him, if Fuzz meant nothing to him, he would have just laughed my inquiry off.

I said, “Small town and all, I was just curious.”

“Well,” he grinned, “take your curiosity and your fucking bets and shove them up your ass.”

He reached out and snatched the envelope back from my hand. Then he calmly sat back down, unwrapped his burger, and began eating.

Chapter Fifteen

“How long do you figure it will take to get rid of all that brush?” I asked.

Randall put both hands on his hips, gazing out at the 250 acres of overgrown farmland. It was 7:30 in the morning and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. According to my new smartphone, the temperature would get into the low nineties.

Since seeing Randall at the church revival, he had stopped by to take care of a couple of odd jobs: installing a new door on the farmhouse, fixing a leaking toilet, and repairing a hole at the back of the barn. But now it was time to farm.

Randall let loose a low whistle, then answered, “With just you and me doing it, probably a week, maybe two.”

“That long?”

“We could hire a couple more people,” Randall said, “get a couple more tractors going.”

“Let’s see how today goes.”

“Alrighty.” He cocked his head at the large tractor and said, “Why don’t you drive first?”

“I’ve never driven a tractor.”

“You know how to drive a stick shift?”

“I delivered pizzas in my buddy’s Saab in college for a couple of nights.”

“How did that go?”

“I ruined his transmission.”

He laughed. “Well, good, because this is an automatic.”

Attached to the back of the tractor was an eight-foot-wide Brush Hog. It was basically a giant lawn mower capable of cutting down the weed and bush jungle that had overtaken the land.

While I drove, Randall stayed behind, shoveling the cuttings into the back of his truck and trailer. He would then dump them in the wide expanse of dirt in front of the farmhouse where he said we could burn it.

It looked like backbreaking labor, and I decided we were going to need a couple more hands if we wanted to get this done before Thanksgiving.

Keeping my hands on the wheel, cha-chunking my way back and forth across the quarter-square-mile section Randall pointed out, I had plenty of time to think.

I was having a hard time connecting the dots from Mike Zernan’s murder to the Save-More murders. It was like trying to get from New York to China but without a plane, boat, or car.

The biggest problem was Lowry Barnes.

He shot six people, killing five. There was no question about that. That was forged in steel. Then he killed himself. Ergo, he could not have killed Mike Zernan. That simple fact would not stop rattling around in my brain.

I said it out loud three times. “Lowry Barnes could not have killed Mike Zernan. Lowry Barnes could not have killed Mike Zernan. Lowry Barnes could not have killed Mike Zernan.” Sometimes this leads to an epiphany. Today it did not.

However, I did continue talking to myself.

“Will Dennel was a bookie. Maybe Lowry Barnes bet with him, got in deep, then couldn’t pay because he got fired from his job. But even if Will Dennel was the target, why did Lowry commit suicide? And how could this all be connected to Mike Zernan? Unless maybe someone at the Tarrin Police Department was also betting with Will. Maybe whoever Fuzz was found out Mike Zernan had taken Will Dennel’s notebook and they knew their name would show up.”

I nodded to myself.

“Maybe that’s what Mike stumbled on. Maybe Mike wasn’t even investigating the Save-More murders. Maybe he was trying to find out which cops were betting with Will. Maybe this pissed him off. Shit, maybe Chief Eccleston was the one betting. Maybe that’s why Eccleston fired Mike. Told him if he stopped poking around, he would make sure he got his full pension—plus maybe even a little bonus. Then Mike keeps Will Dennel’s notebook as collateral just in case Eccleston goes back on his word.

“Then Eccleston gets wind I’m over there talking to Mike. Maybe he’s listening in, on one of those bugs Mike thought someone set up. Eccleston thinks Mike is just crazy enough to tell me everything and decides he needs to get that Moleskine. So he goes over there, strangles him, then ransacks the place.”

I ran the simulation over in my head.

It was feasible, though far from probable.

I shook my head and noticed in my rambling I forgot to turn around. I’d