The Broken Places by Ace Atkins Page A

person and the pompadoured hair of a 1950s rockabilly star. He sucked on a tooth, took a seat at his desk, and looked up at Quinn, hating the disproportion. Johnny Stagg was the head of the Tibbehah County Board of Supervisors and often incorrectly assumed he was Quinn’s boss.
    “The girls don’t work in a parking lot, Sheriff,” Johnny said. “We keep to the county ordinance and don’t let them step off the property unless their shift is over and they have to tend to something personal.”
    “I heard you were thinking of renaming the bar?”
    “Can’t think of a better name than the Booby Trap,” Johnny said, grinning wide with his picket of veneers. “Says it all.”
    “So you never saw the car or anything strange,” Quinn said. “More than usual.”
    “No, sir,” Johnny said. “Just reported it.”
    “Ever hear of this man Highsmith?”
    “No, sir,” Johnny said, grinning.
    “Why didn’t Leonard report it?”
    “You and Leonard had never seen eye to eye,” Stagg said. “I’m sure you realize he didn’t feel comfortable, thinking you might harass him.”
    “That why you put him up to be new police chief in Jericho?”
    “That’s between Leonard and the Board of Aldermen,” he said. “I got nothing to do with that.”
    Quinn nodded. He scratched his neck, taking a bit of paper off that Mr. Jim had left after nicking him.
    “I’ll need to pull video from your security cameras,” Quinn said.
    Stagg leaned back in his chair, wood creaking, and crossed his arms over his little potbelly. He reached back to a molar, trying to work some of his lunch away. He didn’t react at all, just watched Quinn.
    “Maybe we can see what time he parked that car,” Quinn said. “I’m not interested in anything else around here.”
    “Easy to say.”
    “Have I tried to roust you yet, Johnny?” Quinn said. “I’ve been sheriff now for a year and haven’t once tried to shut down your place. If truckers want to get their gear shifter worked, that’s up to them. I only care when some of your business spills out into the county.”
    “On their own time,” Stagg said. “You see a girl with a trucker, that’s on her own time.”
    “Of course it is,” Quinn said, letting go of the back of the chair and standing straight. He stayed silent, waiting for Johnny to keep talking.
    “I’ll get those videos,” Stagg said. “Although they ain’t videos now; they put them on a computer drive. Y’all have the capability of working with something like that?”
    “You’d be surprised,” Quinn said. “We got some capable folks.”
    Johnny Stagg leaned forward, moving his arms off his belly, and reached his elbows onto his desk. He looked up and said, “I can bet Lillie Virgil will get a kick out of watching those girls in them little skirts.”
    Quinn said nothing.
    “Oh, come on now, Sheriff,” Johnny said, laughing. “Everybody knows that Lillie doesn’t care too much for the fellas.”
    Quinn nodded. “I’ll make sure I tell her that, Johnny. I’m sure she’d like a chance to respond.”
    “Come on,” Stagg said, his face turning the deep shade of a ripe tomato. “Hell. Don’t stir up that wildcat.”
    “See you at the supervisors’ meeting.”
    Stagg swallowed and reached for a trashcan, spitting out whatever little morsel had been giving him trouble. Quinn turned and walked back into the truck stop without a word.
    •   •   •
    Esau picked a good bottle of Scotch from the rich man’s stash and sat down at the kitchen table with Bones and Dickie. Becky was too busy going through the lodge room by room, Esau not caring less. He’d seen the kitchen, the bar, the bedroom, and toilet. Who cared about anything else? But Becky was impressed he knew folks of such good taste, even asking Esau if she might write them a thank-you letter at a better time.
    “So you said you know how to dive?” Bones said.
    “Hell yes,” Dickie said. “I grew up in Panama City, Florida. My dad was