Chapter 5

Bryant took his leave from O'Bannon's Pub at seven thirty. He had switched to water for the last hour, even though he'd only consumed two beers in the time he'd been there. A DUI would not bode well for him in his job search.

He plopped down on his bed at the inn and stretched his legs out. He thought about what he knew about Emerald Cove. Sure, the job would have its downsides. Every job would be like that. But those problems wouldn't necessarily be his to correct. His job would be to take a handful of police officers and show them the right way to conduct an investigation.

He would need to make sure he had the ability to discipline them. That was certain. He couldn't count on the Chief of Police to step up. He would also need to make sure his contract had an out clause. Maybe he should insist upon a six-month contract to start. That would be enough time to decide if he wanted to stay in South Carolina.

He liked Linda Roberts and Steve Curtis. He liked Chuck O'Bannon. He liked Mary Stuart, the woman who owned the inn. If he was honest, he liked almost everyone he'd met in Emerald Cove — except for Allyson.

Even she had been pleasant, he had to admit. Maybe they could set aside their personal differences and work together. If she was as good a prosecutor as Chuck O'Bannon said she was, it might be worth a shot.

"Shit," Bryant said when he realized he had already made his decision. He reached into a bedside dresser and pulled out a phone book. There were twenty-three Grangers there; none named Allyson and none with the first initial of A. Maybe she had remarried and just used Granger as her professional name.

He ran his finger down the listings and saw two names he recognized: Lou and Charmaine Granger, Allyson's parents. He shook his head but dialed the number.

A woman, not Allyson, answered. It took him a moment to recognize his former mother-in-law's voice.

"Uh, hello, Mrs. Granger," he said. He hated that he was nervous. It felt like the first time he'd gone to visit the Granger household. "This is Bryant Hawkins. I'm not sure you remember me."

He heard soft laughter.

"Of course I remember you, Bryant," Charmaine said. "You were my son-in-law for four years."

"Uh, yeah, I wondered if maybe you'd blocked those from your memory," Bryant said. "Um, I was trying to reach Allyson. Do you have a number for her?"

He paused for a moment.

"Maybe I should just give you my number," he said. "That way you can pass it on to her and she can call if she wants to. Will that be okay?"

"That would be fine," Charmaine said. "But it might be easier if I just hand her the phone. She heard me mention your name and she is standing beside me with her hand out like she's an Irish Setter or something."

Bryant heard the phone change hands and then Allyson greeted him.

"Hi, Allyson," he replied. "I was thinking, do you suppose we might be able to fix things so we can work together?"

"Yes," Allyson replied. "I definitely do believe we can. In fact, my boss was going to track down your number tomorrow. He said if you and I can't resolve things to your satisfaction, he'll deal with you personally."

"No reason to make this a pain for everyone," Bryant replied. For a reason unknown to him, he laughed. "I think we can behave professionally when we need to."

There was a slight pause before Allyson replied.

"And personally?" she asked. "Can we behave personally when we want to?"

Bryant rejected an invitation to have dinner with the Grangers. He had always liked his in-laws. They were his sort of people. Both had a zest for life and laughed often. He wasn't surprised that they had retired to the beach.

He wondered how they had managed to retire. Both were only in their late 50s. He figured Allyson had settled a billion dollar lawsuit and hid the money by passing it on to her parents.

With a shrug to clear his head, he headed out to grab a bite to eat. His travels led him away from the beach, out a stretch of four-lane highway littered with budget hotels and fast-food restaurants. He wondered where Mary Beth Brockleman had met her demise two-and-a-half months earlier.

None of the hotels showed signs of vacancy. There was no shrine nor was there a neon sign declaring "Mary Beth Brockleman died here."

As he collected his carryout hamburgers his mind stayed on the murdered girl. He questioned how hard the Emerald Cove Police Department had worked on the case. He also doubted they had the expertise to handle a murder investigation but he figured they had too much arrogance to turn it over to the State Police.

Bryant pulled off the road and dialed the number he had for Steve Curtis. He was shocked when the phone was answered. He heard a radio or television and the sounds of people talking in the background.

"Uh, sorry to disturb you at home," Bryant stammered. "I thought this was your office number."

"It is but I forwarded it to my cell in case you called," Steve answered. "I know you're alone down here and I didn't want you to get lost with no one to call. Don't worry. If I hadn't recognized your number I would have let it ring to voice mail."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Bryant said. He was amazed at the courtesy and consideration the people of Emerald Cove had shown. Even the youth at the fast-food joint was smiling and friendly. "Uh, the reason I called is, well, Allyson Granger and I have agreed to try to work out our professional differences. I would very much like to accept the job if it's still on the table."

Bryant could hear the happiness in Steve's voice.

"I am glad to hear that," Steve declared. "I can't tell you how relieved I am. Linda told me about her visits with you. I hope you understand that she feels terrible about involving Ms. Elliot and I do, too. I hope you'll accept our apologies."

"Of course," Bryant said. "I over-reacted. Seeing Allyson put me off balance and I'm afraid I spoke before my brain caught up to my emotions. Uh, the reason I called is that, well, I wondered where the Brockleman girl died. I'm out on the highway now and it was bothering me."

"She died at the Roadside Inn," Steve said. As with before, Steve's emotions carried through the telephone. There was genuine sadness there, Bryant decided.

"I see it from where I'm parked," Bryant replied. "Do you think we might be able to take care of the paperwork early Monday? I think I want to get started on clearing this case. I'm not sure if I'll be able to clear the other cold cases. They're too far in the past, I think. But this one is only a couple of months old. I think if I re-interview the witnesses, I can at least put this one behind us."

"Really?" Steve asked. "We, well, the council, that is ... we sort of suspected this would wind up unsolved. Do you really think you can find who killed that poor girl?"

Bryant considered his answer before he spoke.

"I've had success before in cases like this," he replied. "If the locals managed to bag any evidence at the crime scene it's still a possibility. Of course, it's possible that they didn't get anything and we won't be able to narrow our suspect pool farther than the kids here on Spring Break."

Steve sighed audibly.

"The state police handled the crime scene," he said. "I don't know if the report is back yet. The crime lab is backlogged because they deal with almost the whole state."

Bryant found himself nodding. Even in a city the size of Chicago there was a wait for all forensic analysis.

"Okay," Bryant said. "That will be first thing Monday. Where was the girl from?"

Steve thought for only a second before answering. The girl's information was burned into his brain.

"Ohio," he said. "Coal Run, Ohio. I looked it up on the map. It's just outside of Gallipolis. She went to Ohio Southern, a small, private college east of Cincinnati. She was eighteen years old. A freshman studying early childhood education."

Steve paused to calm himself.

"Bryant, if you catch the bastard who did this I will personally make sure we name a street in your honor," Steve said.

"I'll settle for a life-long prison sentence for the guy," Bryant replied.

Bryant waited as another voice in the background spoke to Steve.

"You know what, Mother, that is a wonderful idea," he heard Steve reply. Bryant wondered idly if Curtis lived with his parents. The guy had to be in his late 40s or early 50s. He was pondering that when Steve came back on the line.

"Bryant, we're having a little cookout here tomorrow," Steve said. "It's only fitting that you attend — since we'll be celebrating finding you and convincing you to come here. Your call tonight is a load off my mind. My wife would love to meet you. It's a small gathering, just the neighbors. How does free food and a chance to get to know a little about the area sound? That is, if you don't already have plans."

Bryant chuckled to himself. He had wondered how he was going to spend his vacation time. The prospect of ogling young women on the beach sounded interesting but only for small amounts of time.

"I would like that," Bryant replied. "What should I bring?"

"Not a thing," Steve asserted. "I know you're mixing a vacation in with interview so just show up and have some fun. I'll let Mother give you directions. I've lived here all my life and I'm likely to tell you to just turn at the Anderson house or where the movie theater used to be."

A new voice came on the line.

"I swear to God, I'm going to brain that man the next time he calls me 'Mother' to a stranger," a female voice said. There was humor there, though. "I'm Lorna Curtis. I am not Steve's mother. I am his children's mother."

Bryant found himself laughing along with Lorna.

"Well, I did wonder if Steve perhaps still lived in his parents' basement," Bryant replied. Lorna laughed harder.

"Oh, that is simply perfect," she said. "I have tried for the last ten years to get him to stop calling me that. It was funny for a while but now that I'm getting older it has lost its humor. I'll bet when he learns the impression he is giving, it will slow him down some. So, here's how you get here. Do you have a pen and paper?"

Bryant sorted through his glove box and found the necessary articles and jotted down what Lorna had told him.

"What time is good, Mrs. Curtis?" Bryant asked.

"I like that less than Mother!" Lorna joked. "Please, call me Lorna. I truly hope that my family and yours will get to be good friends. I can already tell that Steve likes you. Linda said you're a little quirky but a good person. I think we will all get along fabulously."

"Emerald Cove is a lot different from Chicago," Bryant told her. "For instance, I would never think of inviting a stranger to my home. I realized a few weeks ago that my neighbors of four years had never been inside my house. It will take me some time to get used to having people I don't know smile and speak to me when I see them on the street."

He paused, then added as much to himself as to Lorna Curtis, "Actually, it will take some time to get used to seeing people I do know smile and speak to me on the street."

Bryant walked down to the beach Saturday morning and watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean.

The vibrant reds, oranges and yellows reflecting off the water almost took his breath away. There were perhaps five or six other people – all of them about his age – sitting or standing nearby, but there was no noise.

Bryant could smell the salt air as he listened to the tide breaking onto the sand and a few early morning birds. For perhaps the first time in his life, Bryant knew tranquility.

His mind didn't flash to the cases on his desk. It didn't rest on his troubled childhood or his failed marriage or his inability to make friends. The faces of the men he'd killed receded to the distant reaches of his brain.

He closed his eyes momentarily, and registered the majesty of what he'd just witnessed. He sat silently on the sand until the sun was fully up before standing to make his way back to the inn. He saw Chuck O'Bannon sitting on the back deck of his bar behind a gate that opened to the beach.

"I never get tired of watching that," the man said after he acknowledged Bryant's wave.

"I can see why," Bryant said, turning again to peer out at the ocean. It was different than the afternoon before. The hum of humanity was gone. The beach was almost pristine. The high tide had erased the footprints from the day before and now only a few tracks marred the smooth sand.

"Care for a cup of coffee?" Chuck asked.

"I don't want to interrupt your solitude," Bryant replied earnestly. "If I were you, I'd treasure these quiet moments."

Chuck laughed but pushed out a chair with his foot.

"A couple of things I learned in the bar business, boyo," Chuck said. "One: there is a fine line between being alone and being lonely; Two: never pass up the chance for real conversation. So if you'd like a cup, I'd like for you to join me."

Bryant sat down as Chuck poured coffee from a carafe on the table. The bar wouldn't be open until ten or eleven o'clock and Bryant saw that the metal grate was still pulled over the entrance.

"Do you start this early every morning?" Bryant asked.

Chuck gestured to the area above the bar.

"I live up there," he said. "I don't need much space. I got divorced, hell, I guess it was close to thirty years ago, now. You married?"

Bryant shook his head.

"Tried it once, didn't take," Bryant answered, frowning slightly.

"Cops have it tough that way," Chuck agreed.

"I think it was more that we had a different outlook on life at the time," Bryant responded, the frown deepening. "The divorce caught me by surprise; but, looking back, I can see that it shouldn't have."

"Yeah," Chuck said. "So, it's up to you to decide what you want to do with the rest of your life. That makes it easier. You don't have to worry about dragging kids away from their school or your wife finding a job nearby. So, you get your issues resolved with the Granger woman then?"