Grant stilled. “Taggart believed he stowed the bodies and came back after the crowds cleared.”
“Possible. But I don’t think so.”
“Who?”
“Not sure, but I’m betting this person or persons is still alive. Their existence is another reason why Colton stays quiet.”
“An emotional connection to the accomplice?”
“No. Colton doesn’t want his helper revealing the bodies’ location.” I pulled off a piece of cheese. “Bodies mean no chance of freedom. Their combined silence prevents mutually assured destruction.”
“I’ll pull Colton’s prison visitor logs and any correspondence for the last thirty-one years.”
“I’d like to see those names.”
“Consider it done.”
“Great.” I took a few more bites. “Thanks for the meal and the help.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ll catch up with you when there’s more to discuss.”
“You pissed at me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t care enough to be pissed.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
CJ Taggart
Saturday, May 21, 1994, 5:00 p.m.
The Afternoon After
After Taggart left the concert site Saturday afternoon, he drove to his apartment. He was dog-ass tired, and a headache pulsed behind his left eye.
He had a small first-floor apartment in Dawson near the office. He’d thought about property in the mountains, but that would take time.
A cool breeze teased his face as he opened the back door. He stepped inside to a small entryway, where he shrugged off his rain slicker, hung it up, and wrestled off his belt holster. He set his gun on a shelf. Sitting, he tugged off his muddy boots.
A sigh leaked over his lips. His back ached, and his knees pulsed. There’d been a time when he worked a forty-eight-hour shift and shook it off. Not anymore.
He stripped and turned on the shower tap. When the water steamed, he stepped under the hot spray. He groaned as the heat burrowed into his bones and chased out the chill. His headache still throbbed, but the drumbeat felt a little slower.
Rafe Colton was a liar and a con artist. It was a matter of time before he was behind bars. And Taggart hoped he was the man to lock him up.
When the hot water turned cold, he stepped out of the shower and dried off. Towel around his waist, he moved into the kitchen and set the coffee maker to brew. By the time the pot was full, he’d dressed in clean khakis, a pressed shirt, and fresh boots.
He filled a cup. As he sipped hot coffee, his phone rang. He swore.
“Taggart,” he said.
“Sheriff, this is Brenda in dispatch.”
“What’s wrong, Brenda?” Since he’d been on the job, she’d not called him once. Not even when a drunk had plowed his red pickup truck into the hardware store.
“Sara Grayson is pacing the waiting area. She’s Patty Reed’s mother. She said Patty has not come home.”
