Dead on the Vine

PROLOGUE

Leanna Robertson crept down the pitted drive, digital camera in one hand and a flashlight

in the other. Fear never entered her mind, despite the late hour, the full moon, or the wind that

sighed through the trees. Local legend said the place was haunted, and she was excited.

Fascinating old manors rarely graced hick towns like this. Kerouac had missed this little find on

his way to Seattle, but she'd blog about it for her fans to enjoy. Flipping the camera to video

mode, she added a verbal commentary for posterity. She captured the front of the decrepit

mansion before moving to the side. The architectural details were fabulous, hand-crafted in an

earlier era before mass production took the soul out of workmanship.

A noise in the trees startled her. She whirled around, hoping to spot a raccoon, or one of

those silly possum things she'd seen dead along the roadway, but it wasn't a critter.

“You scared me,” Leanna said, relief coloring her voice. “I didn't think you'd—”

A deafening sound echoed through the clearing. Sharp pain pierced her arm. A whimper

escaped her lips. She turned to run, took two steps before another shot rang out. Something

seared her shoulder blade. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard. Her injured arm couldn't

support her weight, and she collapsed onto her stomach. Her chin slammed into the hard-packed

dirt of the yard. She tried to draw her knees up beneath her, to gain her feet, to see through the

haze of pain.

Something stabbed her arm, just above the graze wound from the first bullet. Then the

itching began. She gasped, inhaling air and dust and pollen. The last thoughts to cross her

panicked mind were of her family, so far away.

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CHAPTER 1

Thirty-two hours earlier...

Chief TR Henderson tried to maintain an appearance of competence as he approached the

conference table for the reaming—or rather, meeting, but the chair groaned when he sat down,

and City Commissioner Dale Kirkpatrick flashed him the stink eye. Great. He was still at the top

of her Black List.

“Morning, Chief.” Commissioner Rick Petit didn’t bother looking up from his notes.

“Yes, it is,” TR replied. The smell of coffee and croissants called to him, but he resisted.

Instead, he tried getting comfortable on the metal folding chair. It wasn’t going to happen. The

commissioners all sat in padded chairs, forming a firing squad on the other side of a conference

table the size of Rhode Island, and they stuck their mammoth chief of police in a folding chair.

Classy.

Jacobson and Byrd had their heads together, discussing something of great importance to

the tiny town of Hubbard’s Vineyard. Mueller buttered his breakfast and flashed TR a look of

utter sympathy. Kirkpatrick maintained her narrow-eyed glare.

TR couldn’t be more delighted with the attention.

Petit finally looked up, realized the room contained everyone it was supposed to contain,

and set his notes aside. “Thanks for coming, Chief. You know this isn’t easy for any of us.”

TR held onto the sarcastic remark he wanted to blurt out. Instead, he nodded.

“The drug problem is growing worse.” Petit glanced at Byrd before continuing. “We want

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to know what you’re doing about it.”

TR squared his shoulders. “Officer Mendoza is—”

“What are you doing about it?” Kirkpatrick demanded.

“I put my best officer on it,” he responded. “Mendoza’s got fifteen years of experience

dealing with—”

“That’s great,” Petit said, “but what’s he doing now? When’s he going to arrest Lester

Rowley?”

TR loved it when others knew how to do his job better than he did. “We have no proof

that Lester Rowley has anything to do with the drug trade at the high school.”

Kirkpatrick rolled her eyes. Byrd thumped the table with his hand. Mueller smirked, then

glanced down at his lap to hide his face. TR knew Mueller had a better handle on the situation

than Kirkpatrick or Byrd.

Petit frowned. “We all know Lester’s the source.”

“You know, but we have no proof,” TR said. “There’s a big difference.”

“Find the proof,” Kirkpatrick said, “or we’ll find someone else who can.”

“That’s a big harsh,” Mueller said, leaning over slightly to see Kirkpatrick at the other

end of the conference table.

“It’s the way it is,” Kirkpatrick shot back. She turned her stink eye back to TR. “Fix the

problem, or you’re gone.”

TR clenched his teeth and nodded, then walked out. Combined, the five councilmen had

zero experience with law enforcement. How they could toss around phrases like that—find the

proof? Right. Lester Rowley had the smarts of an old alley cat. Even if TR put all fourteen of his

officers on the hunt, Rowley would continue to earn his living selling drugs.

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But it wouldn’t be long before Lester messed up. Even though many things had changed

in the years since TR had called Hubbard’s Vineyard home, the universal things were universal

for a reason. Criminals were universally and eternally stupid.

September sunshine warmed his face as he climbed into his vehicle and headed for Fifth

Avenue. Hubbard’s Vineyard wasn’t all that backward—they had a Radio Shack, which currently

had a sale going on cell phone cases. Specifically, the purple one his teenage daughter wanted. A

happy daughter might nark on some of her drug-buying acquaintances at the school. It was

playing dirty, but at this point, dirty was all TR had going for him.

His daughter loved her school. In the past, TR had been forced to move his family every

three years as the navy shuffled him around the globe. Now that he’d finally settled his family in

his own hometown, hopefully permanently, this thing with the council had to come up. It’d break

Allie’s heart to have to move. Again.

He found a parking spot in front of Connie’s Hair Salon. Perfect. When he stepped onto

the sidewalk, Connie waved at him from inside, along with four other ladies. He waved, smiled,

and headed for the Radio Shack front door.

Said door slammed open and a kid ran out, a gaming system under one arm.

“Stop him!” someone inside the store shouted.

TR took off after the kid, but it was futile. The kid was thirty years younger.

At the corner of Fourth and Plum, the youth turned left and collided with a motorcycle

parked illegally on the sidewalk. TR closed the distance as the thief rolled to his feet and kept

running, the awkward box still tucked under his arm. The owner of the bike cursed as TR ran by.

He couldn’t have been more delighted.

The thief stayed on Plum, heading away from the waterfront.

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TR pressed his hand to his side, sucked in a deep breath, tried to ignore the pain. Just like

the good old days, he thought, only without the bullets.

As the kid dodged a trash can, clearing it easily, TR slowed down. The gap between them

widened. Then TR came to a complete stop, bent over, resting his hands on his knees while he

tried to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his back and sides, tickling his scars.

The kid disappeared around the corner of the Red Market Grocery.

TR felt suspiciously like a character from a Roadrunner cartoon, and everyone knew how

that ended for the coyote. No sense chasing the kid around town. It was time to work smart. He

wiped sweat from his brow, straightened up, and turned toward the docks. The only pawn shop in

town that'd give cash for the gaming system sat in the shipping area. And it was a known fact

that the brilliant youth in town were often unaware of the Must-Be-Eighteen-To-Pawn-Stuff law

until their first misguided attempt.

TR's heart rate had almost returned to normal by the time he reached Eddie's Pawn.

Eddie kept the place lit up like a hospital operating room. Security cameras and convex

mirrors graced the immaculate corners. Country music blared from multiple radios on display.

TR headed up the first aisle. The ancient shelving units were yellowed with age and filled

with toasters, cameras, half a stereo—all normal pawn shop stuff in various stages of repair or

harvest.

“Hey, Eddie,” TR called. “How's your cache of stolen goods?”

“Pathetically low, Chief,” Eddie said, slouching on his stool behind the glass and chrome

counter. Fluorescent lighting cast a glare off his bald head and his round glasses. “You looking

for something for the wife?”

“Heading off an illegal pawn.” TR stepped to the counter, slapped it lightly with his palm,

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and glanced out the window. The thief walked toward the shop, a slight spring in his step even as

he cast wary glances. “There's my man.”

Eddie nodded. “I know the drill.”

TR stepped into the last aisle, out of sight of the counter.

The door bell rang. Sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor. The kid came into TR's

field of vision. “I got two of these for my birthday,” the thief said, setting the box on the counter.

“How much will you give me for it?”

TR stepped up and grabbed the kid's shoulder. “About a month in juvie, if you're old

enough.”

The kid twisted and dropped toward the ground, hoping to break TR's grip. “Let go!”

TR had collared too many delinquents to let this adolescent squirm away. “I need to

advise you that resisting arrest only adds to the charges.” He pressed the boy against the counter

and secured his wrists with handcuffs, reciting Miranda rights out of habit. “Let's start with your

name.”

No answer.

TR yanked his quarry to face Eddie. “You seen this guy before?”

“Nope,” Eddie answered.

TR nodded at the gaming system. “Keep that for me? I'll send someone over to pick it up

in a while.”

Eddie slid the unit across the counter and placed it out of sight. “No prob.”

TR grabbed the kid's arm and led him toward the door. “I left my car up on Fifth, so

we've got a bit of a walk. I'm assuming you're healthy enough to make the trek.”

“Are you?” the boy snickered, elbowing TR's belly.

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TR cuffed the kid on the shoulder. “Didn't your parents teach you to respect your elders?”

His gut overhung his belt by an inch or so, and he didn't need some punk to remind him he was

out of shape.

“Police brutality!” the kid cried out, hoping he'd find sympathy from a passer-by. They

both glanced around as TR herded the boy toward city center. There weren't any sidewalks,

traffic lights, or retail outlets on this block, aside from Eddie's. No one nearby to witness the

boy's accusation. TR figured when they reached Front Street the boy could holler again.

He prodded the kid toward the traffic light. “How old are you? Twelve?”

“I'm thirteen,” the kid answered.

A car crept along Front, going six miles an hour, holding up a line of cars. Several

honked. TR waved at the slow driver, an octogenarian from the seniors’ home, and made a

mental note to himself to check if Mr. Taylor still had a valid license.

The light changed. TR hustled the kid down the next block. “This your first offense?”

“I ain't talking to you until I get a lawyer.”

TR grinned. “You watch too much TV. I'm calling your parents.”

“My mom's not home.”

“Then you can stay in a cell until I hunt her down.”

TR opened the back door of the patrol vehicle and hustled the young man inside.

Connie came out of her shop, smacking her gum so vigorously TR thought it might shoot

out of her mouth. She'd twisted her blond hair, streaked with white, into an elaborate style atop

her head. “Good catch, TR.”

“You know who this is?” he asked.

“Naw. But I seen him walking around town with Lester.” She smacked the gum some

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more. “Lester's mom's over at the ceramic shop today; she might know his name.”

TR opened his door and dug his keys from his pocket. “Lester's mom wouldn't point out

Lester, if I was the one asking.”

She glanced at the kid in the back. “You know, he looks like a Thomson. Barb's at work,

over at the Walmart.” She smacked her gum again as she stepped forward to get a better look.

“Or maybe he's Maggie's boy. She's visiting Donna Brightly at the senior center.”

“Thank you, Connie,” TR said as he slid into the seat. “You're a big help, as always.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but he shut his door quickly. Connie knew

nearly everybody in Hubbard's Vineyard, and he didn't have time to hear about all thirteen

thousand of them. Pity she didn't know the name of the thief in the back seat.

Pulling into the roadway, he glanced in the rear view mirror. “You Maggie's boy?”

The kid shifted his gaze out the side window.

“I can play tough.” TR drove to the junior high. He glanced in the rear view again as he

slowed his vehicle to a crawl. The kid's eyes were as big as dinner plates. “Suppose Principal

Sisson's still here?” TR asked.

The kid ducked down in the seat, chancing a peak out the window. “You can't take me in

there.”

“Tell me your name, and we won't have to go inside.”

Kids still hanging around the school approached the car to see who graced the back seat.

“I'm Dennis Comstock,” he said, a panicked edge to his voice. “Now get outta here!”

“Mr. Comstock, you give in too easily.” TR drove toward the station, a slight smile on his

lips. His parking space in front was free, for a change, and he pulled in. He none-too-gently

hauled Dennis from the vehicle.

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“That hurts,” Dennis whined, dragging his feet to make it harder navigating the steps.

“It's part of our full service police brutality package,” TR answered as he marched the kid

into the station. The front doors opened into a small reception area. Uncomfortable wooden

chairs and multi-colored metal filing cabinets lined the pink and beige walls. TR's office sat to

the left, behind a closed door. A door at the back of the reception area led to the squad

room/lunch room and the evidence garage. A hallway to the right led to three holding cells, two

conference rooms, restrooms, shower facilities, and lockers.

Directly in the center of the reception area sat a massive L-shaped desk, manned by a

petite woman who looked to be in her early fifties. TR knew she was sixty-three. Mildred Breslin

answered the phones, took care of the filing, and kept the office running smoothly. Mostly.

“Millie, can you call Maggie Comstock and let her know we've got her boy?” TR asked.

“Do I look like a phone service for juvenile delinquents? I'm doing real police work

here,” Millie answered. She glanced up from her desk and smiled at TR as she pushed her glasses

up her nose. Her hair was gun-metal gray today, an improvement over the pale lavender from last

week.

“You look like someone who's about to get fired.”

Millie wiggled her eyebrows, then turned her gaze on the kid. “Want me to start the

booking process?”

“Be my guest.” He positioned the kid beside Millie's desk. “Hold still,” he said, then

removed the cuffs and stuffed them in his back pocket. The kid didn't try to run. “Turn your

pockets out, Mr. Comstock.”

Dennis glared at TR, but dumped the contents of his pockets on Millie's desk.

Amidst the keys, coins, and one well-worn condom package, TR spotted a plastic baggie.

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He lifted it from the pile and examined the contents. Flakes of dried plant clung to the corners.

“It's not mine,” Dennis said.

“Then whose is it?” TR asked.

Dennis shifted his gaze to his feet and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “I dunno.”

“These are your pants, aren't they?”

Dennis didn't answer the question. Millie processed the kid into the system.

“Were you fencing stolen property to buy more weed?” TR asked.

No answer.

“Where’d you get it?”

Again, no answer.

“All set,” Millie said as the printer spit out a piece of paper.

TR wrapped his fingers around the boy's arm. “Maybe when your mother gets here you'll

be in the mood to answer questions.” He herded the boy down the hall and into a holding cell.

“Make yourself comfortable. No telling when Millie will find the energy to finish your intake

paperwork and find your phone number.”

TR slammed the door to the cell.

The resulting clang made Dennis jump. He stood in the center of the tiny room and stared

at his surroundings, his eyebrows pinched. TR left Dennis to contemplate his promising future

and walked down the hallway.

The moment TR stepped into his office, he noted something wrong: the cleaning lady had

left the window blinds open. He crossed the room and grabbed the nylon strings. His gaze

strayed outside, across the sidewalk and parking area, travelled along the grass, and lit on the

bronze statue. It gleamed almost blindingly in the late summer sun.

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With a sharp tug, the blinds fell into place, breaking the despised view. He took a deep

breath, pushed the guilt back into submission, then sat down to catch up on paperwork.

A bedraggled Maggie Comstock came in a half hour later, not at all pleased to deal with

the Chief of Police or her wayward son. TR gave her the basic warnings, handed over the

paperwork, and told her the arraignment date was set for next Tuesday.

The following morning, TR wondered if he shouldn't stop at the junior high and speak

with Principal Sisson, see if he knew anything about kids with pot. Obviously, the problem had

spread.

“You forgot this!” Carli yelled, chasing him down the hallway of their 1970's ranch

house. She held a brown paper bag. Dark blonde hair bounced on slim shoulders. She stood only

five foot four, and weighed one hundred ten. TR always felt monstrous beside his wife.

“What wonders are in store for me today?”

“BLT.”

“That's what I call lunch!” He sniffed the bag. “I don't smell any bacon.”

Carli Henderson smiled. “Beansprouts, lettuce, and tomato.”

“Donuts for dessert?”

“Low-fat lemon yogurt.”

His stomach churned. “Thank you. I'm sure Tank will enjoy it.”

“Theodore Roosevelt Henderson, you tell Officer Romanov to keep his hands off your

lunch! You'll never lose weight if you keep eating at the Dairy Queen.”

“How did—I'm not even going to ask.”

“I saw the VISA statement. If you've got to eat out, at least get the veggie sandwich from

Subway.”

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“Yum.” Before she could scold him again, he put his free hand around her waist and

hugged her. “I love you, Stubby.” He planted a kiss in her blonde hair. “I don't know what time

I'll be home tonight. Seems we've got a drug problem.”

“In Hubbard's Vineyard?” Carli asked.

“Caught a teenager with weed,” he added. “Next thing you know, we'll have hookers.”

“Won't that be delightful.” She shook her head. “Go save the world.”

TR swung his patrol vehicle into the Starbucks parking lot. Pastor Scott's SUV wasn't in

sight, so TR tuned the radio to the news station and pulled a small drawing pad from the breast

pocket of his button-down shirt. As he listened to the horrors of daily living in the capital city, he

sketched young Dennis Comstock standing in the cage, a look of disbelief on his face. With an

economy of strokes, TR captured the kid's posture, facial expression, and supposed innocence

with a number two pencil.

Then a spurt of anger coursed through him. Kids with weed weren't new, but they

shouldn't be so young! Small towns weren't supposed to deal with thirteen-year-old users.

A cloud drifted into the patch of sunlight, plunging the inside of the vehicle into gray

darkness and pulled TR's attention back to matters at hand. He'd better get his coffee, Scott or no

Scott, or he'd be late for work.

Two people sat in the padded chairs on opposite sides of the coffee shop: a young woman

with a laptop and a man who looked old enough to be Merlin's grandfather. It was just Jack Lacy,

preoccupied with his morning paper.

TR walked to the counter and smiled at the blonde barista. “Morning, Jenn.”

She smiled back, her blue eyes tinged with worry. “Good morning, Chief. Twenty ounce

soy mocha frap with peppermint?”

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He nodded. “And a plain donut.” He slapped his money on the counter. “Something

wrong?”

“You ever get the creepy-crawlies when a dark cloud passes overhead?” Her pony-tail

flipped around her shoulders as she worked.

“Sometimes.”

“I got it just a minute ago.” She put an extra shot of flavor in his cup. “Hope the sun

comes back soon.”

He grabbed his donut from the countertop, took a bite—then he experienced Jenn's

creepy-crawlies, like he was being watched. He turned to confirm his suspicion.

The young woman with the laptop stared at him, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked

young, maybe early twenties. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a green

tank top with a neckline nowhere near her neck and tight blue jeans. The tank and the jeans didn't

meet, revealing a strip of her white, flat belly. She couldn't be more than five three, maybe a

hundred pounds. She didn't look dangerous, but TR hated it when people stared at him.

And she just wouldn't stop.

He walked toward her, brushing donut crumbs from his cotton shirt, and sucked in his

gut. “Good morning. I'm Chief Henderson.”

“You're the statue guy!” Her blue eyes sparkled with delight as she shot out her hand.

“I'm Leanna Robertson, recent pilgrim to your fair city.”

TR groaned, shook her hand, and sat down across from her. “You mean the statue at City

Hall?” She smelled like Tommy Girl perfume, the same kind that TR's daughter used.

She grinned, then turned her laptop so he could see the screen. Dead center was a

photograph of the seven-foot tall bronze statue the city had erected of TR when he returned from

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the first Gulf War.

His guts soured. “That's me.” Jenn walked up and set his drink on the table. “Thanks,

Jenn.”

Leanna leaned toward him. “Would you tell me the story? And can I take a picture of you

to post next to the statue picture?”

TR frowned. “You want my picture?”

“I blog about my travels,” she said, pointing at the screen with a drink-filled hand. An

antique gold watch rattled at her wrist and a massive diamond glittered on her finger. She spun

the laptop so she could type.

“You do what?” TR asked.

“Blog—pithy observations, personal ramblings. You know, like Kerouac.”

“Who?” TR wondered if she was speaking English.

“Jack Kerouac. A writer who toured the country. He wrote about the things he saw, the

people he met, stuff he found interesting.”

He noted all the stickers on her laptop case. Grateful Dead. University of North Carolina.

A circular sticker that said, “What would Bukowski do?”

“Who's Bukowski?” TR asked.

She grinned, still tapping on her computer. “A contemporary of Kerouac.”

“Ah,” TR intoned knowingly, but he felt ignorant.

She swiveled the laptop around again so TR could see the screen. It showed two photos at

the top: Mrs. Miller's goat grazing in the grass outside City Hall, and Officer Mendoza hog-tying

the goat's legs together. “Read what I wrote,” she said, her voice tinged with pride.

Below the photos was a brief caption about the police officer restraining the goat without

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violating its civil liberties. TR grinned. “You're quite observant.”

“I wish I'd had my camera ready to film when that cop lassoed the goat. He had it flipped

and tied within two and a half seconds! I almost didn't get this shot.”

“He's a Texas cowboy. So why do you want my photo? The statue's not good enough?”

“I'll write an entry about meeting you at the Starbucks.” She giggled. “I met the Chief of

Police, local hero, eating a donut and drinking coffee. True to stereotype.” Her eyes widened.

“No offense!”

“None taken. Guess you can take my picture. The badge belongs to the public.” He

fingered his badge, hanging from his shirt pocket.

She fiddled with her camera. “Take off your hat.”

He obeyed and waited self-consciously while she snapped the shot. He held his ball cap

so she could see the Hubbard's Vineyard Police Department logo.

“Now tell me the story,” she said, her little nose scrunched up as she smiled.

“It's nothing spectacular,” he said, shoving the cap over his short, dark hair. “I was born

and raised here, graduated from the local high school, and joined the Marines. I served in the first

Gulf War and came home with a Purple Heart.” He shrugged. “Never did understand the need for

a statue. I always figured you had to be dead to rate one.”

“What'd you do during the war?”

A small spot inside him went cold as images of what he'd done flashed through his mind.

Guilt warred with panic and confusion, and he stopped breathing for just an instant as he fought

to bury unforgettable deeds.

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