Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

“Bailey’s already in the clubhouse ready to go,” Faris said with a wry smile. “Probably because he cut his last period class, but who are we kiddin’? He’s gonna play in the NFL one day, and it won’t matter how much world history he knows. Nobody’s gonna care if he knows Bonaparte from Washington when he’s racking up points for everyone’s fantasy league teams and winning games for his coach. He’s gonna be bigger than Calvin Johnson.”

“Johnson was actually smart and talented,” Cal said. “I wrote a piece on his humanitarian efforts and how he used his engineering skills to craft a toilet using native building materials for less than a hundred bucks.”

Faris waved him off. “Either way, all of that is far more interesting than talking about Isaiah Drake’s story. Maybe I can send you back with something else your editor will like.”

“Nice try,” Cal said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But I thought you might be a great source since you coached Drake . . . and Jordan Hayward.”

Faris froze and slowly turned his full attention to Cal. “What does Hayward have to do with any of this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Cal said.

“We think he might be involved in one way or another,” Kelly said.

Faris laughed. “Nobody on this team wasted more talent than Hayward. The boy couldn’t even write his own name without help until the eighth grade. I can’t see him being smart enough to pull off an elaborate plot like that by himself.”

“So, you’re suggesting if he did it, he may have had help.”

Faris shrugged. “Maybe, but don’t go putting words in my mouth.” He spit another stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

“I think that’d be rather difficult around here,” Kelly said. “You don’t have the Pickett County accent.”

“Why?” Faris asked, breaking into a soft laugh. “You can understand me?”

Kelly nodded. “I’ve lived in Georgia before and have struggled to hear certain accents, but I eventually get it. Yours, however, doesn’t match everyone else’s.”

“I moved down here from Pennsylvania more than twenty years ago and never left.”

Cal gestured toward the can of snuff Faris held in one hand while pinching out some moist tobacco leaves.

“The accent may have escaped you, but the tradition of coaching and chewing didn’t.”

Faris winked at Cal. “That’s a universal practice for football coaches.” Faris clapped his hands together. “Now, if you folks don’t have any more questions, I’ve got a practice to run.”

“Okay, before we go, I actually do have a few more quick questions for you,” Cal said.

“Make it quick.”

“Can you tell me about Hayward and Drake’s relationship when they were in school? Friends? Enemies? Just teammates?”

“Just two talented kids playing on the same team. I know they hung out together a little bit here and there off the field. But they were both decent back in the day. Neither one of them got into too much trouble.”

“So, if Drake didn’t do it, who did? Hayward with some help?”

“Now you’re asking me to make a call on these two young men and accuse one of them as a murderer. I just won’t do it. I don’t think either one of them did it.”

Cal scribbled down a couple of notes on his pad.

“Think or know?”

“You never really do know about people. But I will say justice isn’t always meted out properly in Pickett.”

“What do you mean?” Kelly asked.

Faris turned toward her. “I mean, someone always has to get a pound of flesh. And some of the time, people are so mad that they don’t care about who’s pound of flesh it is. They just want the pound. And when it’s the sheriff’s beautiful daughter who was beloved by most everyone around here, two pounds of flesh might even be extracted.”

“I’d say it was more than that with Drake getting sentenced to death,” Cal said.

“On that point, I’ll agree with you. But it may have been another case of good ole Pickett justice. I think there were plenty of other people they could’ve pinned Susannah’s murder on. Why Drake was the target is a question that eludes me to this day.”

“Care to venture a guess?”

Faris shook his head. “Too many suspects to sort through. And I certainly wouldn’t want any of my players, past or present, to think I’m casting aspersions on them, if you know what I mean. It might be me who ends up floating as gator bait in the Okefenokee.”

Cal offered his hand to Faris, and they shook before departing.

“Thank you for your time, Coach Faris,” Cal said.

Cal and Kelly hadn’t gone more than ten yards before Faris hustled up to them.

“One more question for you,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Have you looked into Jacob Boone yet? If I were you, that’s a good place to start. He’d be my suspect with or without Hayward.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re the investigative journalist,” Faris said. “You figure it out.”

CHAPTER 17

WHEN CAL AND KELLY SWUNG by The Searchlight’s office, they found it nearly deserted except for the chipper cleaning lady. Cal was almost certain she was dancing as she vacuumed the floor. When she spun around and realized she’d been caught, her face flushed red.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she removed her ear buds.

“Yes,” Cal said. “We were looking for Larry Arant. Is he available?”

“I’m sorry, but everyone is on assignment at the moment. I was told to tell anyone who came in here to check back in an hour or so.”

“We were just hoping to go through the archives for a little research,” Kelly said.

The woman shook her head. “You won’t find anything like that here. This place isn’t big enough. You’ll find everything you’re looking for at the library.”

She didn’t wait for another response, jamming her ear buds back into place before resuming her cleaning duties, albeit with far less dancing.

Cal looked at Kelly. “To the library it is.”

***

THE PICKETT COUNTY LIBRARY appeared to be one of the newer government buildings around town. It