Page 3 of What She Saw
“I’m-an-innocent-man.” I’d made this statement so many times, the words had conjoined.
“You’ve said that.”
“The Mountain Music Festival and the Festival Four victims are ancient history.”
“Not everyone has forgotten.”
“I bet you can count those that remember on one hand.”
“I’m driving to Dawson,” Grant said.
My memories of Dawson relied now on pictures I’d clipped from articles about the Festival Four. Those images were black and white and at least a decade old. They didn’t capture the vivid blue skies, the rolling green mountains, or the scent of honeysuckle in spring.
“It’s a small, middle-of-nowhere town.”
“I consider that an asset.”
His southern accent was faint but strengthened as he spoke about Dawson. I’d bet it was his hometown, or it reminded him of home. “You’re going to Dawson for peace and quiet?”
“There’s a writer working this story. I’ve met her. She’s sharp. Tenacious. She’s headed to Dawson.”
He was teasing me. Dawson. The case. A woman. “You think she’ll do what cops and thirty-one years couldn’t do?”
“She might.”
“Is she writing a book about me and all those missing women?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Talking about a woman who was thinking about me was tantalizing. “You have a hard-on for her?”
He didn’t answer. Ah, a good southern gentleman.
I pressed, sensing a tender spot. “Are you trying to woo her with my deep dark confession?”
Grant shifted, smoothing a wrinkle from his suit jacket with long, tanned fingers. “Men have jumped through hoops for a pretty woman since Adam and Eve. I’m no different.”
Ah, this was the part where he pretended that he was my pal. My buddy. “What we won’t do for a woman.”
“You have a few words of wisdom?” Grant asked. “You were always good with the ladies.”
“It’s been thirty-one years. I’m out of practice.” But riding a woman came naturally, and I bet I’d have no problem if I ever had the chance again. “You overestimate me.”
He grinned. “I don’t think so.”
Grant was good. He was baiting a hook. And I shouldn’t have taken the bite, but I couldn’t resist. “Tell me more about this woman. Blond? Brunette? Tall? Short?” My mind ran wild with possibilities. “Does she have a name?”
“Her name is Sloane Grayson. Dark hair. Very attractive.” The cop’s voice softened just a fraction. Grant liked Sloane Grayson’s look.
“I don’t get to read too much true crime in prison. Is she a good writer?”
“She is.” Grant’s gaze and face remained relaxed. But his fingers opened and closed once into a fist.
“Tell Ms. Grayson I don’t know where the Festival Four are. A polygraph proved that.”
“I bet you run circles around a polygraph.”
Talk of Dawson and Sloane Grayson stirred a longing I’d suppressed for years. “If I don’t get out in time to join you in Dawson, keep me posted. I’d like to see what you unearth.” A smile tipped my lips. “Excuse the bad pun. I find amusement where I can.”
