Page 11 of Property of Whiskey

Neither woman wants to press charges once I explain that both of them could spend the night in the county jail. The manager bans them for thirty days, but Jima objects because the Piggly Wiggly is the only store that carries her brand of canned biscuits, so he reduces the ban to two weeks.

Justice in Paradise is flexible.

I’m filling out the incident report at the customer-service desk when a second patrol unit, an aging Dodge Charger Pursuit, pulls into the lot. Deputy Lester Boone waddles through the automatic doors a minute later carrying two coffees and wearing his hat too high on his head.

“Brought backup.”

“You missed the violence.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“One canned-bean display.”

He hands me a coffee. “Baked beans?”

“Pinto.”

“Figures.” Lester is sixty-two and has worked for my father since before I was born. He has bad knees, three ex-wives, and a belief that every problem can be solved with either coffee or duct tape.

He glances toward Darbee and Jima being escorted outside through separate doors. “Darbee and Jima?”

“You know them?”

“Went to school with both. They fought over a boy at senior prom.” He blows across the hole in his coffee lid while watching Darbee gesture aggressively through the glass.

“Same boy?”

“Wasn’t me.” He winks.

I roll my eyes and take a drink.

The radio clipped to Lester’s shoulder crackles.

“Sheriff Dix, line two. Sheriff Dix, line two regarding the missing-person inquiry.”

Lester automatically reaches for the volume control, but the dispatcher continues before he can turn it down.

“Caller reports possible sighting of Kaylee Quill near the old Pearly Gates access road.”

Pearly Gates again.

The name already has too much attached to it. Sophie uncovered enough Montgomery money moving through charities and property connected to that ministry to make everybody uncomfortable, and I know the Kings have been asking questions of their own. What they know, they haven’t exactly volunteered to county law enforcement, and I know even less about what the connection actually means.

Now a missing nineteen-year-old might have been seen near the old retreat access road.

My attention sharpens. Kaylee Quill is nineteen, with brown hair and green eyes, last seen leaving her shift at a gas station outside Hell six nights ago. Her flyer hangs beside the copy machine at the department, smiling out at anybody who stops long enough to refill the paper tray.

I look at Lester. He looks away too quickly.

I press my radio. “Dispatch, unit twelve. Repeat last traffic.”

There’s a pause before the dispatcher answers. “Unit twelve, stand by.”

“I heard a possible sighting of Kaylee Quill.”

Another pause. “Sheriff Dix is handling.”

“I’m ten minutes from the access road.”