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“North McKinney,” North said. “And Shaw Aldrich. We’re private investigators working for the Wahredua Police Department, and you’re currently committing false imprisonment and assault by forcing us in here with a fucking gun, you juvenile wad of fucks. Who the fuck are you?”
Before Gid could answer, the door behind him opened. Gid flinched as another man came into the room. He had to be Gid’s brother; they shared a look, although the brother seemed to have his shit, to borrow a phrase from North’s vernacular, much more together than Gid. He was around Gid’s height, but thin to the point of lankiness, and his spray tan was so good it could almost pass for natural. Brushed-back hair and perfectly capped teeth. He made Shaw think of car salesmen and thirtysomething men who practiced smiling.
“What’s going on here?” Then he saw the gun and barked, “Gideon!”
Gid slid the gun into his waistband and pulled the top of his tracksuit over it. His shoulders slumped. “I was asking them some questions,” he told the pile of dirty clothes.
The guy with great teeth stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “We’ll talk about this later.” He looked at North and Shaw. His expression softened. His eyebrows went up. His brow even furrowed a little, which was a nice touch. “I’m so sorry; I’m not sure what my brother was thinking, but it’s been a trying night. Are you all right?”
“Oh yeah,” North said. “Peachy.”
The guy smiled at that, giving them the teeth all the way in the back, the shiners. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He led them back through the enormous house and into the living room that Shaw had glimpsed earlier. It was an open concept plan, of course, flowing into a kitchen and a breakfast nook. French doors opened out onto a covered patio that Shaw guessed they called a veranda or a lanai or something equally expensive sounding. White wood. White damask upholstery. The chandeliers were minimalist and steel and geometric. Lines, lines, lines. Maybe it was a way to accent the crosses that hung on every wall.
“Can I get you a drink?” the man asked, stepping behind a bar. “I’m sorry again; we’ve all been through the wringer tonight, and—”
“Yeah,” North said in the exact same tone he’d once used when Shaw had tried to explain his scientific process for making sweaters out of dryer lint. “Who are you?”
The man stopped in the middle of pouring himself what Shaw guessed was brandy. Then he gave them the shiners again. “I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew. Jedidiah Moss, but most people call me Pastor Jed.”
“I’m not going to call you that,” North said. “How’s Jed sound?”
The shiners slipped a little. “That’s all right.”
“I’ll call you Pastor Jed,” Shaw said.
Jed blinked once, but then he picked right up again like he was reading off a teleprompter. “And who are you gentlemen?”
North repeated their introductions. Jed didn’t flinch; his hand remained steady as he finished his pour, and nothing crossed his face. Maybe he’d been expecting them. That seemed like a possibility, and if so, it was an interesting one.
“I don’t understand,” Jed said, bringing his brandy with him as he rejoined them. Gid slunk into the room, but he kept his back pressed to the wall, and he wouldn’t look any of them in the eye. “You said Wahredua? I know I’ve heard that name, but I don’t think I could find it on a map.” Then he smiled, and Shaw guessed it was the one that made the little old ladies reach for their pocketbooks. “Well, I suppose I could find it on my phone.”
“That depends,” North said drily. “Are you intellectually capable of finding the bottom of a paper bag?”
The shiners went away again. “I suppose I’m asking why you’re here, gentlemen. I apologize again for my brother’s behavior, but in his defense, one of our church deacons told me that he caught you trespassing. That doesn’t sound like the behavior of someone employed by the Wahredua Police Department.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Shaw said. Jed turned that smile on him, and Shaw wondered if it was even better on television—some smiles were like that. “We’re trying to figure out how you and your family are connected to Philip Welch, the man who committed two murders tonight in the Dore County jail.”
If Shaw had slapped Jed, he didn’t think the reaction would have been much different. Jed’s face went blank. And then red rushed into his cheeks, dusky under the orange tan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Everyone tries that one first,” North said. “Once, just once, I want someone to lead off with the mermaid convention.”
“Philip Welch,” Shaw said. “He’s the one who crashed the sheriff’s red Subaru into your fence. And then he walked—well, probably he ran—to the house. He’s the one who left bloody footprints on the pavement. We took some pictures of those, by the way.” That part was stretching the truth, but Shaw didn’t want anybody rushing out with a scrub brush and a bottle of bleach. “Tiny guy, Black, he’s got his head buzzed. Oh, you know what? You might remember him wearing an inmate’s uniform, you know, the scrubs and the slip-on shoes.”
Jed was silent too long. He must have realized it because the smile came back; that was his default setting, Shaw decided. Then he said, “You gentlemen are confused.”
“They always try that one too,” North said. “Here, try this: ‘You’ve got your head packed full of shit.’ At least that puts some variety into it.”
“No one in our family has a connection to this man; I’ve never even heard his name before.”
“Really?” North bared his teeth. “Maybe it’s like Wahredua. I bet you could find it in your phone.”
The smile shrank; the shiners disappeared. “No one—”
“Red paint on the fence,” North said like he was reading items off a list. “Tire prints fucking up the lawn, and a lot of footprints—probably whoever you sent to get rid of the car. Shaw already told you about the bloody shoe prints. It’s a fucking road map from two dead guys in a cell to your front door. Not to mention the fact that it’s closing in on midnight, and the whole fucking lot of you are up and dressed and having a very civilized freak-out.”
