Broken Places by Sandra Parshall

it. The irony is that after we had that argument on the road, I started thinking it would be easier to give him the money and shut him up. I knew he’d probably keep coming back for more, but I’d almost convinced myself to do it. Then I found out he was dead.”
    Chapter Eight

    Lloyd Wilson’s two old mixed-breed hounds pushed up from their resting spots on the porch and circled Tom, sniffing his shoes and pants legs, while their owner peered out through the screen door. Inside the house, a TV blared at top volume.
    “What do you want?” Wilson demanded.
    Tom raised his voice to overcome Wilson’s hearing problem and the TV’s racket. “Let me in, Lloyd. We have to talk.”
    “I got nothin’ else to say to you.”
    “You want me to haul you into headquarters? That’s fine with me. Let’s go.” Tom was already in a foul mood after driving out to Ben Hern’s place and getting no answer at the door. He wasn’t going to take any crap from Lloyd Wilson.
    “Damnation,” Wilson muttered. With his lips pressed into a resentful line, he shoved the screen door open.
    Tom followed the old man into a hot, stuffy living room where a ceiling fixture cast a murky light. A coffee table held a half-empty glass of tea and a plate smeared with barbecue sauce. Although the house had a tall antenna on the roof, the surrounding mountains nearly defeated it, and the TV facing the couch showed a snowy picture that rolled every few seconds. Alone since his wife’s death a few years before, Wilson probably ate his meals with the TV for company. Tom had done the same plenty of times, but at least he had cable.
    He snatched the TV remote from the couch and aimed it at the set.
    “Hey! I’m watchin’ that show,” Wilson said.
    Interesting choice of programming, Tom thought, eyeing an Entertainment Tonight report. “You a big Paris Hilton fan? Or is it her little dog you like?”
    Wilson’s only reply was a grunt.
    “I need all of your attention, Lloyd.” Tom pressed the button to turn off the TV set. In the sudden quiet, his ears still rang from its noise. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can get back to your shows. I’ll bet you don’t want to miss the Law & Order rerun tonight.”
    “That’s exactly right. I like watchin’ a bunch of cops that know what they’re doin’. Makes a nice change.” Wilson pointed at the room’s only chair. “Sit.”
    Tom lowered his lanky body into the chair and kept on going as the cushion sank several inches. He pulled himself forward. “Mind if I get a chair from the kitchen?”
    Wilson snorted and dropped onto the couch, which appeared to have sturdier springs than the chair. “Suit yourself. Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, now would I?”
    Tom fetched one of the two chrome-framed dinette chairs from the kitchen, choosing the one that had the fewest cracks in its yellow plastic seat. When he returned to the living room, he placed the chair facing Wilson.
    “Now why’re you botherin’ me?” Wilson said.
    “Two reasons.” Tom sat down and pulled his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “First, you’re the Taylors’ only close neighbor, and you could have seen something. Second, you’ve got a long history of trouble with the Taylors. You’ve made threats against them.”
    Wilson leapt to his feet. “I never threatened nobody! You tryin’ to frame me?”
    “I told you I’ll be glad to take you to headquarters if you won’t talk to me here.”
    Tom waited, eyes locked on Wilson’s. With the TV off, Tom could hear the crickets outside, tuning up for the approaching night, and the rise and fall of the cicadas’ early evening chorus. The house felt airless, although the windows stood open.
    Wilson broke eye contact first and sat down, waving a hand. “Ask your damn fool questions.”
    Tom wiped sweat from his upper lip with the heel of his palm. “When was the last time you saw Meredith and Cam Taylor?”
    “See ’em every day,