Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

know it.  And we’re lucky that the locals trust our opinions enough that they’ll know it, too.  It will save us from having to wait out the autopsy to proceed with the investigation.”

Kim looked around at the people milling about in various uniforms, the many individuals who were required to attend to a single, violent death.  “At least we’ll be able to get a good set of prints,” she commented.  “You think this guy’s somewhere in AFIS?”

“I’ll eat my new pants if he’s not.  This guy had way too much anger for that girl in Atlanta to have been his first violent outburst.  I’ll bet he’s got a full rap sheet of assault and batteries, prior to starting his illustrious career as a rapist and human trafficker.  But you’ll probably find a rather abrupt stopping point.  He’s probably been clean as a whistle between then and now.”

“Yeah.  A real poster boy for anger management.”

Clay motioned to Kim, moving a little farther away from the car, toward the shelter of the live oak which shaded the roadside.  No point smelling that more than they had to.

“What’s his motivation?” She chewed on her lip and followed.  “This guy’s bent over backwards to stay off the radar, and suddenly he’s playing games.  He obviously got wind that his partner’s face was plastered all over town – no question that was the stressor that pushed him to pick up the gun – but why bother setting up this little dog and pony show?  Wouldn’t it have been much more in character for him to cut and run?”

Clay scratched the back of his neck as he played out the scenario.  “The obvious answer is distraction.  He’s given us just enough crap to wade through to slow us down, which means he’s concerned we’re getting close to him.”

“So what, he sets this up,” she gestured toward the crime scene, “hoping to buy himself some time to get out of Dodge?  It would have been a hell of a lot easier to just shoot the guy, hide the body, and hit the road.”

“Exactly,” Clay agreed.  “So what does that tell us about his motive?”

Kim considered.  “He obviously has something else on his agenda now, other than escaping detection.  Maybe killing his partner wasn’t enough for him in the way of punishment.  Suicide is sort of the ultimate act of cowardice and personal failure.  Maybe he wanted to humiliate this man in death.  Put him down.”

“I think you’re right.  This perp is definitely into retribution, of an almost eye-for-an-eye nature.  His partner was stupid enough to get caught, so he blows his brains out.  The man obviously had an ego – the weightlifting suggests as much – and suicide could be considered the ultimate destruction of ego.  Only people who truly feel desperate or worthless take their own lives.”

“Agreed,” she said.  “But how do we apply it to the investigation?”

Clay sighed, plucking at his damp shirt and cursing the heat.  “For one thing, the remaining perp has suffered enough of a psychic stressor that he’s now willing to take some risks.  And we both know that risks often equal mistakes.”

“Agents Copeland and O’Connell!”

Clay and Kim both turned to see Josh Harding striding their way, waving a piece of paper like a flag.  “We ran the tags, and the car’s registered to a William Wayne.  Driver’s license photo matches our vic, with the addition of blond hair, a mustache and a tan.  Beaufort address.  I just got off the phone with the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office, and they’ve executed a search of the apartment.  No sign of Casey, but I figured you’d want to take a look.  You want a ride?”

“We’ll follow,” Clay said, after getting a nod from Kim.

Harding walked off, and Clay pulled his keys from his pocket. “Okay, Tonto.  Let’s go see what kind of clues William Wayne left behind.”

LAUGHTER chimed in the front hall, and Tate poked her head out of the office to find her mother chatting with an elderly woman.  The white hair, long floral dress and no-nonsense, thick soled shoes said grandma.  And despite the fact that she was stoop shouldered and pleasantly plump, it was obvious that she’d once been statuesque.

A small valise, looking like it dated back to the fifties, perched on top of a rather large Samsonite suitcase, forming a baggage mountain at the woman’s feet.

Spying her daughter, Maggie waved her out to greet their guest.

“Tate, this is Alma Walker.  You spoke to her on the phone this afternoon, when you took her reservation.”

Smiling, Tate strode forward and extended her hand.  The woman’s grasp was firm and warm, roughened with calluses, which surprised Tate a bit until Alma spoke.

“Don’t mind these old hands,” she said, chuckling as she tucked them into the deep pockets of her dress.  “I’m afraid I’m a bit of an overzealous gardener.  It tends to… how do they say it these days? – do a number on the skin.”

Afraid that she must have given something away from her expression, Tate covered her discomfort with a warm laugh.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alma.  Is this your first time in Charleston?”

“Oh, heavens no!  I grew up over near Summerville, and lived around there most of my life.  I’ve been living in Atlanta for a number of years, but when you get to be my age you just can’t resist the urge to re-visit the old stomping grounds.  Get back to your roots, so to speak.”

“Tate and her sisters were raised, for the most part, just north of Atlanta,” Maggie contributed.  “A little town called Woodstock, up near Lake Allatoona.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Alma said, looking from Maggie to her daughter, blue eyes remarkably clear.  “Nice place.”

“It was a wonderful place to raise a family,” Maggie agreed, and continued to chat with their elderly guest about the area.

The conversation began to recede into the background, as memories from her childhood flooded unbidden to Tate’s brain.  Casey’s abduction had brought so many old feelings to the