“Well, from Conley, actually. He was a pill-popper, as you all know,” Laughton said.
Jennifer Houser said, “I heard that. Just a rumor, but I heard it.”
Jennifer Barns asked, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I was just wondering if there is any way we might tie Conley’s death to the Orly’s Creek people. Drug users. A drug shooting. Something going on there . . .”
“How’d we do that?” Owens asked.
“I don’t know. We could think of something,” Laughton said. “I don’t think it’s healthy, though, to have Flowers focused on Conley and his job, or what he might have been looking into.”
“Well, if you think of something, let us know,” Owens said.
“I will do that,” Laughton said.
Barns said, “All right. Let’s go on home, folks. And Jen Three—keep an eye on Buster.”
—
AS THEY WERE going out the door, Laughton asked Kerns, “How difficult would it be to, mmm, take a look at one of those Orly’s Creek hillbillies?”
“You mean, shoot one? It’s pretty dark there, houses are up from the road. Lots of pullouts along the creek. It’d be ideal for an ambush, except for one thing—there’s only one way out. That could be handled . . .”
“One of the people up there, he’s a gangster who used to ride with the Bad Seed. Roy Zorn. You see him around town. If something should happen to him that was . . . consonant . . . with what happened to Clancy, Flowers would have to take that connection pretty seriously, I would think.”
“You don’t want to talk to the board about it?” Kerns asked.
“No. They’re too shook up right now. Making motions, calling for votes,” Laughton said. “Like Jen Three. She swings from ‘No killing’ to ‘Let’s kill Flowers.’ Killing Flowers would be insane, except for the most desperate circumstances. No—what we need is Flowers alive and well, and pointed in totally the wrong direction.”
“Let me do some research,” Kerns said.
“Things are moving fast . . .”
“Won’t take long.”
8
VIRGIL WAS SITTING on the screened porch at Johnson’s cabin just before dark when Johnson stopped by: “Me’n Clarice are going down to Friday’s, you wanna come along?”
“Thanks anyway, Johnson. I need to do some reading.”
“Clarice said you stopped by the office to look down her cleavage, and had some photographs of a spreadsheet. You want me to take a look?”
Johnson bore a slight resemblance to a bear, but had made a lot of money in a variety of businesses, and despite the jean jackets, tattoos, and boating, automobile, truck, airplane, and motorcycle accidents, was occasionally referred to as a “prominent businessman.”
“Might as well,” Virgil said. “It’s all a bunch of gobbledygook to me.”
He dug the pack of paper out of his briefcase and handed it over. Johnson carried it inside, to the dining table, put on his reading glasses, and started paging through it.
Virgil’s phone rang, and he looked at the screen: Sandy, his hacker.
“Why are you still at work?” he asked.