Hopkins tries to call my bluff with a scowl, but he’s got nothing on me. I know I’ve won this hand.
“If we check your father’s phone records, they’ll back up your claim about not being in touch?”
“Check whatever the hell you want.” When I push back from the table and stand, I grip the back of the chair and give it a little shove. “Y’all are real swell guys, dragging me here without giving me a minute to make peace with this situation before hurling unflattering insinuations at me. I gotta say, the disrespect doesn’t motivate me to cooperate with your investigation.”
Woodenly, Hopkins replies, “Fair enough. We don’t have evidence linking you to his crimes.”
He gestures for me to retake my seat and then launches into the details of my pop’s last scam. Turns out he pulled a Sweetheart Swindle—tricking some poor woman into falling in love and investing in his new “business venture,” and then running off with the cash. Neither the cops nor the victim, Mrs. Morgan, recovered the thirty grand he stole. How in the hell he talked her, or others before her, into giving him that kind of cash astounds me.
His undeniable talent for spotting a patsy, combined with his handsome face, made women his easiest targets. The niggling sense of dishonor I’ve lived with my whole life because of him cascades over me, hot and sticky, like a warm coat of honey I can’t ever shed. Humbled, I return my attention to Hopkins.
He informs me my pop was shot in an alley behind a bar late at night. Evidence suggests Mrs. Morgan’s son killed him. Guess he tried to exact revenge before Pop pulled out of town.
“You don’t seem surprised, Mr. Hardy,” remarks the other officer, who has kept quiet until this point.
“I’m not.”
“What can you tell us about your father’s habits?” Hopkins raises his bushy brow again. “Do you know anything that might lead us to recoup Mrs. Morgan’s money?”
“First, what’s the deal with her son? Is he being held on homicide charges, or are y’all letting him slide because you reckon my pop got what he deserved?” I’m dismayed by my own wish to see justice served despite Pop’s unclean hands.
“He’s in custody now. We’ll gather evidence and work with the local DA to determine what charges can stick. Your father committed a crime, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered, Mr. Hardy. We believe in justice.”
I stare into his icy-blue eyes, holding his gaze for a minute to determine his sincerity. He’s not blinking excessively or averting his gaze, so I decide to trust him.
Satisfied, I slouch back into my chair and tap my toe a few times. “I’m not surprised you didn’t find the money. Pop always covered his tracks. He operated under false names and paid for everything with cash.” I shift positions and put my elbows on the table. “If he stuck to old routines, he either found a partner to split the take and he or she’s holding the money, or he rented a storage locker somewhere outside of town, under a different name, and stashed the money there before tying up loose ends.”
“That’s helpful. Any ideas of an alias he might use?”
A smile spreads slowly across my face. I know one thing would never, ever change. My pop never forgave Mama’s daddy for keeping her whereabouts a secret from Pop and me after she abandoned us. So, Pop deliberately used his name when hiding the booty.
He’d brag about it when he was drunk, figuring if he ever got pinched, at least he’d tarnish my grandpappy’s good name. Of course, it started back when we still lived around Tifton, Georgia. People there knew the name Buford Sinclair. But with almost two decades and several states between now and then, I doubt the stain would spread that far. Still, I know Pop’s obsessions.
I haven’t thought of my grandpappy much since Mama took off. Now I wonder if he’s even alive. Then again, that mean ol’ bastard will probably live forever.
“Something funny?” Hopkins’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“No, just recalling some things.” I drum my hands on the table. “Check for rentals in the name of Buford Sinclair. Good chance you’ll find what you’re lookin’ for.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hardy. Anything else before you leave?”
“No, sir.” Beleaguered by the inquiry, I’m itching to move along.
“Would you like to be notified of the charges and trial dates of Mr. Morgan, or talk to Mrs. Morgan?”
“No, thanks,” I mutter.
I don’t want to apologize to Mrs. Morgan for what Pop did any more than she probably wants to apologize to me for her son killing him. Pop taught me plenty, including not wasting my time on things I can’t change. And Mama, well, her leaving taught me how to let go and move on. Apparently she didn’t have the money, or the inclination, to take me with her or keep in touch, so I try to even the score by not thinking about her too often.