Free Baton Rouge Bingo by Greg Herren Page A

called me, wanting to talk to me.” She held up her hand. “Stop right there—she didn’t say anything about kidnapping Mike, okay? She wanted to talk to me about Hope.” She exhaled. “She told me she was staying out here and she wanted to see Hope, wanted to know if I thought Hope would want to see her. I knew Hope was in the veterinary school, Scotty, but I swear I had no idea she worked with the tiger. I had no idea AFAR wanted to steal the damned thing.” Her voice sounded bitter. “So of course, once I heard about the tiger theft, it all made sense. I thought I could come out here and reason with her, surely she wouldn’t want to have Hope take the fall for her…” She let her voice trail off.
    I didn’t say anything. I appreciated Mom’s loyalty to her friend, but Veronica Porterie’s track record wasn’t that great.
    And there were any number of people who wouldn’t be in the least bit sorry to hear she was dead.
    We wound up not having to wait more than about twenty minutes or so before a parish police car came rolling up the dirt driveway with its lights flashing. A ridiculously tall young deputy got out—he had to be at least six foot five in his bare feet. He couldn’t have weighed much more than one hundred and fifty pounds on a good day. He was gangly—all elbows and knees and angles. I couldn’t imagine where he could find pants to fit his tiny waist and lengthy legs. He had strawberry-blond hair, cut in the traditional Southern small-town way—short and standing straight up like a bristle brush. His hairline was a perfectly straight line running across his reddish forehead maybe an inch or two above his eyes. He had an enormous Adam’s apple in a really long, storklike neck. His ears stuck out from either side of his heavily freckled, reddish face like the handles on a coffee mug. His wide-set eyes were his best feature, almond shaped and a bright green with golden flakes. “Hey, you the ones who called?” he drawled as he shut the car door behind him. “You say you found a dead body?”
    I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Scotty Bradley. I’m the one who called. The body’s on the porch.” I gestured with my head in the direction of the cabin.
    His hand was damp and enormous. It was mostly bone and skin, yet still he had a good strong grip. Up close he was even younger than he’d seemed when he got out of the car—I figured him for about twenty-two, twenty-five at most. He spoke in a deep, mellifluous voice, and the beautiful green eyes looked intelligent. His accent seemed almost put on, like he wanted us to underestimate him. He certainly did look every inch the stereotype of the wet-behind-the-ears hayseed deputy, though.
    “Deputy Donnie Ray Tindall, Tangipahoa sheriff’s office, nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley.” He looked over at Mom. “Ma’am?”
    “Cecile Bradley.” She took a hesitant step forward, holding out her hand. He took it, gave it a quick shake and let go.
    “My mom,” I said. “She’s a friend of the deceased.”
    “Sorry you had to see that, ma’am.” Donnie Ray tipped his cap at her. His voice was gentle. “You want to go have a seat in my car, get out of this heat, cool down a bit?”
    Mom shook her head. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
    I wasn’t so sure about that—she still looked a little green to me.
    Another sheriff’s department car pulled up and parked next to Donnie Ray’s. Two older men wearing the same uniform got out of the second car. One was short and had a huge gut that hung over his belt, and he hitched up his pants as he shut the car door. He was bowlegged and seemed to have more authority than the others. He crooked a finger at Donnie Ray, who gave me a little shrug and walked back over to where his peers were standing. The other deputy was taller than his companion, but strongly built with the body of a high school athlete who’d kept himself up in the years since. He wore mirrored sunglasses and stood slightly behind