Deadliest of Sins by Sallie Bissell

Galloway. “It’s a pretty elite group.”
    â€œSo you don’t think there’s a connection between them and Bryan Taylor?”
    Galloway shook his head. “The demographic’s wrong. The Warriors are older—men and women established enough in their careers that they can take time off, or retirees with nothing but time on their hands. The baseball team’s more likely to hide a killer.”
    â€œTell me about that,” said Mary.
    â€œThey’re young, full-of-fire guys who played in high school and probably could have played in college, if they’d been smart enough to get in. They hunt, fish, distrust strangers, and—”
    â€œHate gays?” Mary interrupted.
    Galloway studied his orange Jarritos bottle. “Let’s just say a gay person would not be welcome on their team. Whether or not Reverend Trull spurred one of them to kill Bryan Taylor is still up for grabs.”
    Mary realized Galloway had just returned her to the gray area of law that Ann Chandler considered black-and-white: whether a preacher who advocated action against a particular group could be held responsible when and if one of his flock took matters into their own hands. She reached for the thick file that lay on Galloway’s desk. “Would you mind going over this with me?”
    â€œI’ll get you a soda and tell you everything I know,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to do until the baseball game tonight.”

Nine
    That the poison ivy was payback for the day before did not surprise Chase; Gudger’s favorite means of discipline usually involved scrubbing or painting or picking bugs off his tomato plants. What gave him pause was the enormity of the task. The poison ivy draped kudzu-like over Gudger’s back fence for half the length of a football field, seemingly sending out even more hungry tendrils as he stood there looking at it. All morning he’d worked, yet he’d only cleared about a yard of growth. Now the sun was high and blistering; sweat stung Chase’s eyes as mosquitoes whined around his ears. When he stepped back and looked at what he’d accomplished, he realized that it would probably take him the rest of the summer to grub out this fence.
    Mindful of the sticky poisonous sap that covered his gloves, he pulled them off finger-by-finger, then took off his shirt. As the breeze cooled his sweat-soaked back, he sat down in the shade of a non-ivy-contaminated tree. All morning he’d kept an eye on Gudger, or at least on Gudger’s car. He’d decided if it ever left the driveway, Chase was heading for the other end of the fence to get his backpack and Mary Crow’s card. But Gudger, apparently, had no travel plans. Suzie Q just sat like a big black beetle, baking in the sun.
    He stared at the car, remembering the night Sam didn’t come home. They’d started worrying when Jay Leno went off—his mother pacing in front of the windows, Gudger first calling Sam’s cell phone, then his cop buddy Crump, then making an official report to the police. Hours later the cops had called back on the landline, saying they’d found Gudger’s car but not a trace of Sam. They’d brought the car back, after the forensic team had gone over it. For days afterward his mother had gone out and sat in it, touching the steering wheel, stroking the upholstery, as if Suzie Q might be coaxed into telling what had happened.
    â€œI bet the car knows,” Chase whispered, staring as the heat shimmered from its black roof.
    â€œKnows what?” the voice came over his shoulder, out of nowhere. Chase jumped, turned. Gudger stood there, dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt, Taser hanging from his belt. “Are you talking to yourself now, Olive Oyl?”
    â€œUh-huh.” He’d learned it went better if he just agreed with Gudger, regardless of whatever stupid thing he said.
    â€œWell, yourself better tell you