Page 30 of Forgotten Path
So he blinked in surprise when she made a hard left and detoured to another group of three sitting at a table tucked into the corner opposite the police. She gestured toward an empty seat, and three heads bobbed in unison. As she pulled out the chair and joined them, he shifted his weight and leaned to the side to get a better look at them. A frown creased his lips—it was just a gaggle of old ladies.
Old, in Craig’s estimation, covered everyone between the ages of forty and one hundred. These particular oldsters looked like the women his grandmother played bunko with or the ones who volunteered at the library’s annual bake sale. Deeply tanned faces in various states of wrinkledness. Poufy hair. Big chunky necklaces. She was wasting her time.
He turned his attention back to the cops and squinted. The tall one with the bushy mustache looked familiar. It took a few seconds to place him, but then Craig smiled and wove through the aisle as if he were making his way to the restroom. He drew up short in front of the officers’ table and feigned surprise.
“Hey, you’re Todd Stone, aren’t you?”
The tall guy nodded slowly.
“Craig. Craig Lowell.”
The cop gave him a vague smile, but no recognition lit his eyes.
“We went to high school together. I sat behind you in English.”
Todd threw up his hands and nodded more convincingly this time. “Right, right. Mrs. Oliver’s class.”
“That’s it. How’ve you been, man?”
“You know. Working. You?”
“Yeah, uh, same. I didn’t know you joined for the Oyster Point PD.”
Todd shook his head. “I didn’t.” He gestured to the two cops flanking him. “We’re with the FDLE. Stationed out of the Pensacola Operations Center up in Panama City.”
Craig frowned. “The FDLE?”
The burly cop to Todd’s right spoke up. “Florida Department of Law Enforcement. It’s like the state police in most states.”
“So, you’re highway patrol?”
The big guy’s nostrils flared. “No. In the state of Florida, the Highway Patrol only deals with traffic-related incidents. Car crashes. We handle the rest.”
Todd explained, “Our division helps when local police and sheriff's offices in small towns like this one have major investigations—a homicide, misconduct by a public official, or drug trafficking. You know, big things that a department in a place like this doesn’t have the resources or manpower to handle alone.”
“Wait. Was Doc Ashland murdered?”
The three cops exchanged a look.
Craig hurried to fill the silence. “I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?” He gestured around the room. “That’s why everyone is here—it’s not for the pie. Word on the street is that Doc’s dead.” He locked his eyes on Todd. “You grew up here. You hafta remember what it’s like—everybody knows everything. Gossip’s pretty much our only homegrown industry.”
Todd gave him a short nod but kept his lips pressed firmly together under that mustache of his.
The third cop, a thin, pale guy who hadn’t moved or spoken since Craig had come over, piped up, “There’s no evidence that Joel Ashland was murdered. We haven’t begun our investigation yet. We’re here at the request of the Miami Operations Center.”
“Miami?”
“Vaughn,” the musclebound cop warned.
Vaughn scoffed. “Relax, Arnetti. I grew up in a hayseed town like this one. The dude’s right. In a place like this, rumors will spread fast, and they’ll get wilder by the hour. It’ll only make our job harder sifting through all the BS.”
The guy called Arnetti sighed but seemed to concede the point. He eyed Craig, then asked, “Do you know what Doctor Ashland’s real job was?”
Craig frowned and searched their faces. “He was a doctor. Wasn’t he?”
“You think he worked one weekend a month for free, and that’s all he did?” Todd countered.
Craig paused. “I guess I never thought about it.”
