The Grim Reaper's Dance (14 page)

He nodded. “Sure, I’ve driven for them. I like driving for them.” His voice was wistful.

But he hadn’t driven for Southwest for a couple years, Tom had said. “How often does Class A call you?”

Parnell gave a little laugh, devoid of humor. “Not as often as I need. Obviously.”

“When was the last time?”

“A week ago. No, two weeks. Long enough.”

“And what did you haul?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Electronics. Televisions, I think. I’m driving again this Friday.”

Casey pushed the photo toward him on the table. “And what is Owen Dixon giving you in this photo?”

He bit his lip and looked away. “Nothing.”

“I see.”

He blinked rapidly. “Nothing that matters to
you
.”

“Or to the cops?”

“Cops? You said you weren’t—”

“I said I wasn’t from the bank.”

He stood up so quickly his chair banged backward onto the floor. “What do you want?”

She held out her hands. “Whoa. I’m not from the cops, either. Relax. I’m sorry.”

His hands twitched more rapidly now. “I think you should go.”

“How did you get started with Class A Trucking, Mr. Parnell?”

“Please go.”

“Did they call you? Or did you call them?”

He stumbled around his chair and back down the hallway toward the front door. Casey put the photo back in her bag and followed. “Mr. Parnell? Did they call you?”

“They called me, okay? They called me and offered me a job. I took it. All right?” He swung the door open and stepped to the side. “Go now.
Please
.”

She hesitated, wanting to ask more about Owen Dixon and Randy Westing, and whoever it was that told them what to do—that boss Bruce Willoughby wouldn’t name.

Parnell jerked his hand toward the door. “Go.
Please
.”

Casey walked past him, stopping in the doorway. “If you want to talk any more, please call me. Okay? You have my number on your phone.”

His eyes widened, and he patted down his pockets. “My phone? On that phone?”

“Remember? I called you?”

He whimpered and ran back into the house, still searching his pockets. She heard a door opening, and Parnell talking to himself as he hunted. “What if they
find
it? What if they know she
called
?”

“Tragic case.” Death sat on one of the flowerbed’s raised brick borders, playing a violin. The melancholy tune hovered in the air, a perfect accompaniment for the depressing surroundings. Casey listened, waiting for Parnell’s return, but when he didn’t come back after several minutes she headed for her car, getting in without too much personal trauma.

Death stopped playing. “Did you happen to take a look at the photos in the kitchen?”

“Sure. His kids, and a football team. Is his son old enough for that?”

“Hardly. He’s only six.”

“So who was it?”

Death ran the bow across the strings. “Parnell.”

Casey blinked. “He’s got nothing in the entire house, but puts a photo of his high school football team on his counter?”

Death filled the passenger seat. “It’s really very sad. Some men just can’t mature past high school.” The violin shrank to adjust to the interior of the car, but the tune was just as mournful.

“Let’s go see what that database can tell us about our new friend, Pat Parnell,” Casey said. She turned the key and backed away from Parnell’s wasteland of a home.

Chapter Nineteen

The trip back wasn’t as bad as the trip there, but that was probably because Casey was thinking more about Pat Parnell than she was about driving the trunk.

“I think you do better in that seat than this one,” Death said, bowing a riff on the violin. “You’re going a whole forty-
five
miles per hour this time. And you’re not even sweating.”

“
Prepare to exit freeway in two miles
,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said.

Casey couldn’t figure out exactly what had Pat Parnell so freaked out. He was afraid of cops, looked like hell, and about had a conniption when she mentioned her number being on his phone. She had to wonder—which came first? His deterioration or his job with Class A Trucking? He was obviously losing it—not only his health and sanity, but his home. How long could he keep that truck in the driveway? Unless it was paid off.

“How much would a truck like that cost?”

Death laid down the violin. “Don’t know. A lot, I would think.”

“So how can he afford it?”

“Seems to me he’s keeping it for last.”

A truck blew by them in the passing lane, and Casey’s heart rate skyrocketed. “Why do they drive so
fast
?”

“Time is money, darling. Time is money.” Death plucked the Dire Straits tune
Money for Nothing.

“
Prepare to exit freeway onto Wickham Street,”
Laura said.
“After turning right, remain on current road.”

Casey eased the truck onto the off ramp at the same time Terry’s phone rang on the seat.

“Can you see who it is?”

Death squinted at the screen. “Your good friend Bailey. She wants to know ‘
whr r u?
’ Want to reply?”

“No!” Casey snatched the phone off the seat and stuck it in the pocket on the side of the door. “She’ll just have to wait to find out.”

“Touchy, aren’t you?”

A Wendy’s restaurant sat just off the exit, and Casey went through the drive-thru, eating chili and a baked potato in the parking lot.

“Aren’t you going to offer me any?” Death asked.

“No.”

“Fine.” Death pulled out the rubber band. Casey somehow refrained from retaliating with a wad of sour cream.

Casey followed Laura’s directions to a large gray building with a huge sign out front. DEERFIELD TRUCKING. This outfit looked larger than Tom’s Southwest, and the parking lot held at least fifteen cars.

“People,” Casey said.

“They’re just all over the place, aren’t they?”

Casey mulled over her options for getting inside, and decided to try the hospital again. This time Bruce Willoughby answered his phone. He sounded exhausted.

“Hi, Bruce,” Casey said. “You doped up too much, or do you remember me?”

“He says to meet him tonight. Behind the grocery store at the end of town.”

“Who says?”

He hesitated. “Randy.”

And all his homeboys? Probably. “What time?”

“He’ll let you choose.”

Casey laughed at Westing’s attempt to make her feel like she had control of the situation. “Okay. Now.”

Bruce hiccupped. “
Now
?”

“Sure. I want to talk to him, he wants to talk to me. Let’s get it done.”

“But I can’t…he said…”

She knew he wouldn’t go for it. “You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”

“No. I don’t.”

Right. “I told you I wanted his number.”

“I’m sorry, he told me not to—”

“Okay, okay. Tell him midnight.” Might as well go with dramatic. “But no funny stuff. And I want to see just him. Not the whole crowd of them.”

“Really? Midnight? I mean, good. That’s good. I’ll let him know.” Casey could hear Bruce’s relief. Randy had probably told him to get her to agree to his plan or else. Or else
what
she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have been good.

“Thanks, Bruce. Hope you feel better soon.” She hung up on his sputtering.

“Well,” she said, “at least there won’t be customers that time of night.”

“Could be a few employees, though,” Death said. “Stocking shelves and cleaning.”

“We’ll just have to avoid them. Just how I have to avoid the people here.”

“You know he won’t come alone,” Death said.

“Of course not.”

“And what would you have done if he’d agreed to meet you right now?”

“I knew he wouldn’t. He needs time to get his men in position. Now be quiet.” She dialed Deerfield’s number, hoping Terry had unlimited calling, and a receptionist answered cheerfully.

“Hi,” Casey said. “My name is Casey Jones, and—”

“One moment. Mrs. Williams is expecting your call.” Her voice cut off, replaced by a Muzak version of a Nickelback song.

“Ms. Jones?” The voice was husky, like she’d had one—or a thousand—too many cigarettes.

“Yes. Mrs. Williams?”

“Nadine, honey.”

“Um, Nadine, Tom Haab told me you have a trucker database I could take a look at.”

“We do. When would you like to come in?”

“Actually, I’m sitting in your parking lot right now.”

“Ah, yes, Tom said you aren’t real big on people.”

“Well, that’s not exactly—”

“On
seeing
people. Should I say it that way? Anyway, I’ll be out in a minute. Hang on, sweetie.” She hung up.

The phone rang again and another text flashed onto the screen. Casey was ready to dismiss it as Bailey again, but saw it was Sheryl.

can u plz txt B? shes drvng me crzy

Casey sighed. For heaven’s
sake
. She brought up Bailey’s number and wrote:

I am fine.

She put the phone back in the door pocket and had to wait less than a minute before a short, stocky woman exited the building. Casey got out of the truck and waved. Nadine waved back, gesturing for Casey to join her on the sidewalk. “Now listen, honey,” she said when Casey approached. “The only one inside the office is my receptionist, and she’s more near-sighted than my granny, so you don’t have to worry about her. Anybody else comes along you can duck behind a corner, all right? Come on, then.”

Not having much of a choice in the matter, Casey followed her into the building. The receptionist’s glasses were remarkably thick, but still Casey averted her face. They didn’t see anyone else, and Nadine shut a thick office door behind them.

“Matt—my husband—might come in at some point, but you can trust him. Have a seat.”

Casey sat in an old office chair, and Nadine scooted another one beside it and up to a computer monitor. “Now, Tom says you need to look up some people. Want to tell me any more about it, and why I should help you, other than the fact that I like Tom?”

How much should she tell her? “You know outside Blue Lake last Sunday? A trucker died?”

Nadine’s face fell. “Evan Tague? Oh, that was so awful. How they could be so careless with that construction equipment –”

“It wasn’t an accident. Someone put those machines in the road to stop Evan. But since the road was wet, and he didn’t have enough time…” Casey shuddered. “He did his best.”

Nadine eyed her. “And you know this how?”

“I was in the truck with him when it happened.”

Nadine blinked, and looked Casey up and down. “And you’re okay?”

“I know. It’s crazy. But Evan got…I’m fine.”

Nadine looked at the computer, and Casey could see she was trying to get her emotions under control. Nadine cleared her throat. “Evan drove for us different times. He was a good man. Matt was out at the crash site. He said even from where he was—” She swallowed. “Even where he was it looked like a bomb had gone off. He could see…could see blood on the windows.” She fiddled with the computer’s mouse. “You think some other truckers had something to do with…the accident?”

“A company called Class A Trucking.”

“Class A? Never heard of them.” She keyed something into the computer. “Hmm. There. Tells all about them. Founded eighteen months ago by two men. Owen Dixon and Randy Westing.”

“No one else?”

Nadine glanced at her. “You’re expecting a different name?”

Casey thought back to Bruce, relieved when she mentioned Randy as being her boss. “Yes, but I don’t know who it is.”

Nadine searched the screen some more, but ended up shaking her head. “Nobody else here that I can see.”

“What about their business? Any problems?”

“Nope. Squeaky clean.” She frowned. “Almost too squeaky clean. You mean to tell me nobody’s made a mistake on paperwork or gotten a speeding ticket?” She wasn’t convinced.

“How far back does it go? Their whole history?”

“No. Only a couple of weeks, so this actually isn’t all that helpful. Now, you wanted to look at truckers, right? Tom could’ve helped you a little—there are Internet-based trucker databases, like truckersearch.com, that he could access, but to get the comprehensive list you have to have special circumstances. Matt’s a part-time sheriff’s deputy, so that’s why we have it. I can check pretty much anything you want.”

A
cop
? Davey hadn’t bothered to tell her
that
. Another cold sweat broke out along her scalp. She was going to have to take a shower every half hour the way things were going.

“You okay?” Nadine’s face creased with concern.

“Yeah. I mean…” She cleared her throat and tried to erase any guilt affecting her features. “That’s legal? For you to check on the drivers?”

“Sure.”

Casey had her doubts. “Okay, so how do we do this?”

“Give me a name.”

“Pat Parnell.” Might as well start with him.

Nadine punched it in, and Parnell’s photo came onto the screen, with more information than Casey thought anybody should be able to get about a person. Yet another reason for her to stay as far out of the system as possible—anybody who knew her real name would know everything.

Parnell’s likeness was from better times. He looked healthy, well-fed, and, if not supremely confident, at least comfortable with himself. The rest of the information was hard to read.

“So, what does it say about him?”

Nadine opened a new window and pulled up another database. “This is our own driver history. I thought his name sounded familiar. See, we used him a few years ago, even once early last year, but he’s been out of our system completely since then.” She flicked back to the official data. “Can’t find him anywhere. He might not be driving anymore. You think he had something to do with Evan’s death?”

“Not directly. He probably didn’t even know about it. How about Hank Nance?”

Nadine brought him up. “Same as Pat. Used to drive for us sometimes, now never. No traffic violations. Oh, here. Wanted for failure to pay child support.”

“That’s on there? Why?”

“Because he can’t drive across state lines. He does, he’s nabbed at weigh-in. Hasn’t driven for anybody for almost two years.”

“How about John Simones?”

Saying his name under her breath, Nadine put him into the computer. “He’s still driving periodically. Nothing regular. But I don’t see any outstanding warrants or indicators.”

“Mick or Wendy Halveston?”

Nadine made a face. “Don’t have to put them in. They won’t be current in the database, because Mick can’t drive. Everybody knows what happened two years ago. He can never drive again.”

“Because he had an accident?”

“Because he had a physical problem that
caused
the accident. Seems he has some kind of heart condition. Whenever he sneezed or coughed, or even laughed, he’d pass out. That’s what happened that day. He was talking on his phone, guy told him a joke, he laughed.”

Casey closed her eyes. That entire family had died because Mick Halveston laughed at a joke. No. They died because he was driving when he should not have been. And talking on the phone while he should’ve been driving. “Mick was fine? And his wife?”

“Brand new cab. Airbags, the whole bit. They were both in the hospital for a while, but nothing permanent.”

Like dying.

“Does Wendy drive?”

“Nope. Just liked to travel with Mick when she could. Guess they’ve had to find something else to do now. Maybe they’ve started a new brokerage.” She grinned. “Who else?”

Casey was trying to put it together. Mick Halveston could never drive again. But she had pictures of him with his truck, and talking to Westing and Dixon. So if he was driving, it had to be under one of the names from the manifests.

“Casey?”

“Oh, sorry. One more. Sandy Greene.”

Nadine put in the name, but came up blank. “You sure that name’s right?”

Casey dug in her bag and pulled out her papers, paging through them. “Here it is. Sandy Greene. Driver for Class A Trucking.”

Nadine re-typed the name, but again came up with nothing. She flipped to her own database, but he wasn’t there, either. “Can’t help you with that, hon. That’s it?”