“Keep us posted,” Jenna said.“We’ll swing by first thing tomorrow.”
After ending the call, Jenna sat in silence for a moment, processing the information.Jake started the engine but didn’t immediately put the car in drive.
“Spelling’s right,” he said finally, voicing what they both were thinking.“It’s still circumstantial.”
Jenna nodded.“Morgan wants a neat solution.Criminals dealing in stolen goods, dispute over merchandise, murder follows.Simple.”
“But you don’t think it’s simple.”
“Do you?”
Jake’s hands flexed on the steering wheel.“No.There’s still something we’re missing.”
The shared understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities that lay beneath the surface of this case.Jake pulled away from the curb, heading toward Frank’s house on the outskirts of town.
As they drove through the quiet streets of Trentville, Jenna’s mind sorted through the pieces of the puzzle—the murdered recluse with his vacuum tube obsession, the stolen electronics, Lynch’s involvement in the stolen goods operation, and beneath it all, the nagging sense that they hadn’t seen the end of it.
The road ahead disappeared beneath their headlights, one segment at a time, much like the investigation itself—revealing only what lay directly before them, the greater path still shrouded in darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jake guided the patrol car through Trentville’s quiet streets toward Frank Doyle’s modest house at the edge of town.Next to him, Jenna sat in contemplative silence, her profile illuminated by the occasional streetlights.He found her attractive in a way that defied easy description—her sharp mind, her honesty, the mystery of her odd gifts, even the lines on her face that showed she had lived a complex and challenging life.
“You think Frank will have any insight on the case?”Jake asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
Jenna turned slightly toward him.“Frank always has insight.Whether it’s what we want to hear is another matter entirely.”
Jake grinned.In the two years since he’d moved to Trentville from Kansas City, he’d come to respect the former sheriff’s straightforward approach.Frank Doyle didn’t sugarcoat, didn’t equivocate.He cut straight to the heart of matters with a precision born from decades of experience.Frank had a way of seeing through pretense, of reading people with an accuracy that was almost unsettling.Jake couldn’t help but wonder what Frank saw when he looked at him.
When Jake pulled into the driveway of the modest one-story house, a warm glow emanated from the windows, spilling onto the well-kept lawn.
“He’s expecting us,” Jenna said, nodding toward the porch light that had just flickered on.
They made their way up the path to the porch and before they could knock, the door swung open, revealing Frank Doyle’s tall frame.
“Come on in,” Frank said, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile that softened the deep lines etched by years under the Missouri sun.
Jake followed Jenna into the simple but comfortable home—furniture that invited you to sit, bookshelves lined with volumes on law enforcement and local history, and walls adorned with photographs and commendations that told the story of a life well-lived.
Frank gestured toward the kitchen.“I was just about to make that tea.”
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was a testament to practicality.Clean countertops, a sturdy oak table with four chairs, and cookware that showed regular use.It wasn’t stylish, but it was undeniably homey.
Jake took a seat at the table, watching as Frank filled a kettle and set it on the stove.
“Mayor giving you grief about the TV interview?”Frank asked, his back to them as he reached for mugs from a cabinet.
Jenna sighed.“Claire’s concerned about public perception.She thinks a quick resolution will put minds at ease.”
“Got any viable suspects?”Frank asked.
“We’ve actually got one in custody in Pinecrest, but …” Jenna’s voice faded.
“I get the feeling you don’t think he’s good for it,” Frank said, finishing her thought.
“The evidence is circumstantial at best,” Jake offered.
Frank nodded, his gray eyes thoughtful as he gathered tea bags from a wooden box on the counter.“Sometimes circumstantial is all you get.But rushing to judgment rarely serves justice.”
