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

“When did Drake leave The Pirate’s Den?”

Tripp pointed to a spot along the wall. “Drake was standing right there. He went to the bar to get a drink, stopped, and then made a dash for the parking lot.”

“What did you do?”

“I followed him outside, of course, to see what was goin’ on. He left so quickly. Then Jordan Hayward went after him. I was worried something was seriously wrong. Like maybe somebody had died or somethin’. Little did I know somebody was about to—and that would be my sister.”

“Did you ask him why he was leaving?” Kelly asked.

“By the time I reached the parking lot, his Phantom was peelin’ out onto the road.”

“So, Hayward went with him?”

“I think so. I mean, eventually he showed back up at the bar by himself, but who really knows where he went. He said he didn’t want to talk about it when he got back.”

“What about Jacob Boone?” Cal asked.

“Oh, he left during that time and—”

“During what time?” Cal pressed.

“The time that Susannah was murdered, according to the coroner.”

“And the police never questioned him?”

Tripp laughed. “You mean my dad? He was confident it was Drake and made sure that not only the charges stuck, but that he gave the prosecutor enough evidence to bury him.”

Cal’s eyes widened. “So, you think they got the wrong man?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. I think the evidence supports someone other than Drake. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t have anything to do with it.” Tripp chuckled. “I tried to tell my dad that, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Nailing Susannah’s killer was Dad’s top priority in life—but I think he only did that to make himself feel better. It certainly wasn’t the justice-minded person who I knew him to be. It was like something snapped in my dad; I can’t really explain it.”

“So, who do you think did it?”

Tripp shrugged. “Maybe Drake or someone else. Could’ve been Jacob Boone.”

CHAPTER 28

CAL CRANED HIS NECK and leaned forward to catch the numbers painted onto the mailboxes lined along the highway. He struggled to read each digit with nothing more than his car’s high beams to illuminate them. Kelly called out addresses whenever one came into view for her.

“I think we’re getting close,” she said.

Cal adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I just hope he’s home.”

After two intense minutes of searching for Jacob Boone’s address that Tripp Sloan had given them over dinner, Cal and Kelly both expressed relief from the tedious exercise once the prescribed number appeared.

“Looks like he’s home,” Cal said, nodding toward the familiar pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Boone’s home was a trailer situated on what Cal guessed to be an acre as he accounted for the neighbors on each side. In one of the back corners of the property, Cal noted a simple lean-to that provided cover for a couple of cars, neither of which looked road-worthy. They were both missing windshields and had at least one flat tire. An aging oak tree that supported an old tire swing was the lone vegetation in the front yard aside from knee-high weeds.

Cal rapped on the screen door, which was little more than a decoration based on the large number of holes and rips in it.

A few seconds later, Boone emerged wearing a bathrobe and holding a Bud Light.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone?” Boone said.

“I’m not very good at following directions,” Cal quipped. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Depends on why you’re here. I’ve got little patience for rude people.”

Cal eyed Boone closely before speaking.

“What exactly have we done to make you hate us so?” Cal asked.

“What haven’t you done is more like it,” Boone said before throwing back a long swig of beer.

“But you tried to run us off the road before we’d barely been here forty-eight hours.”

“I already told you once, that wasn’t me.”

“Who else has access to your truck?” Kelly asked.

“Plenty of people. My friends know I leave my keys in the driver’s side sun shade. Any one of them could’ve borrowed it that night.”

“Who do you think borrowed it?”

“Jordan Hayward,” Boone said. “He said something about needing to pick up a part from the salvage yard to get his car running for this weekend’s annual Pickett County Demolition Derby out at the fairgrounds. The next thing I know, Hayward was gone, along with my truck.”

“So, you’re saying it wasn’t you who ran us off the road?” Kelly asked.

“Look, lady, I put my days of overstepping the bounds of the law behind me a long time ago. And while I may not like you diggin’ around my town and lookin’ into my past, I’m certainly not gonna kill you just to get you to leave. I’m merely making a friendly suggestion.”

“There’s been little you’ve said or done that could be defined as friendly.”

Boone huffed, fully stepped outside onto the small porch, and gazed up at the stars.

“Fine. I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know as long as you promise to get outta here quick after I tell you to.”

“Agreed,” Cal said.

Boone drained the rest of his Bud Light before crushing the can against the porch rail. “What do you wanna know?”

“What do you remember about the night of May 7, 2004?”

“Aww, hell. I can barely remember what I ate for lunch, much less that far back.”

Cal crossed his arms. “It’s the night Susannah Sloan was murdered. Sound familiar now?”

“Why didn’t you just say so? Of course I remember that night … well, most of it, anyway. I drank heavily for most of it.”

“Was that at The Pirate’s Den? Or somewhere else, perhaps?”

Boone took a deep breath. “Naw, it was all at The Pirate’s Den.”

“But you did leave at one point and come back?”

“Yeah, I left to go track down my boy Jordan Hayward.”

“And why did he need to be tracked down?”

“Drake left The Pirate’s Den in a huff, and Hayward went after him. But neither one of them were in any condition to drive.”

“Yet