Page 22 of Sting

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“Did you touch anything?”

“Out there you mean? Hell no. Well, maybe the fender of the car. I think I propped my hand on it while I was bent over yakkin’.”

“You didn’t notice any headlights, or a vehicle leaving the parking lot?” Hick asked.

Another head shake. “Too busy puking.”

Joe asked, “Had you noticed Mickey Bolden in the bar?”

“That the dead guy?” After a nod of confirmation, he said, “Yeah. Right before he left, he went over to the jukebox and was talking to the other guy.”

“What did the other guy look like?”

He raised his bony shoulders in a shrug. “Like a guy.”

“Young, old, short, tall, black, white?”

“White. On the tall side. Older than me. Younger than you.” Then he looked at Hick. “Maybe ’bout your age.”

“Any tattoos, distinguishing clothing, facial hair?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I was eyeballing that gal’s rack, not lookin’ at some dude.”

Joe looked over at Hickam, who looked back, his wry expression saying, Nowhere to take that.

Joe noted the jukebox’s proximity to the ell of the bar where he’d been told Jordie Bennett was sitting. He went back to the young man. “While standing there at the jukebox, did those two show any interest in Ms. Bennett?”

“Not that I saw. But, like I said, I wasn’t paying them no mind, and I was pretty wasted.”

Morrow approached and asked if he could have a word with Hickam. He left the booth so they could confer in private.

Royce Sherman sat back against the vinyl, rubbed his eye sockets, and whined, “Can I go now?”

“You got somewhere else to be?” Joe asked.

“I’m gonna catch hell from my old lady for not coming home when I said I would.”

“You’re married?”

“No, but you’d think so the way she stays on my ass. The first cop that questioned me took my phone, so I can’t even call her.”

Hick slid back into the booth. “Mr. Sherman, you have a problem.”

He regarded Hick sullenly. “Whut?”

Rather than addressing him, Hick turned to Joe. “A witness says he saw Mr. Sherman placing something in Ms. Bennett’s pocket.”

Joe leaned against the back of the booth, folded his arms over his middle, and fixed an accusing frown on the young man, who’d suddenly grown nervous.

“Oh. That. Yeah. See…” He ran his tongue over his lips. He cracked his knuckles. “I forgot about that.”

Joe said, “He must think we’re stupid, Agent Hickam.”

“Guess so.”

“I swear!” he squeaked. “I forgot.”

“You told me you didn’t know her.”


Tags: Sandra Brown Mystery