Free Little Girls Lost by J. A. Kerley Page B

got it at Kings’R’Us.”
    Zemain deftly turned a chuckle into a throat-clearing sound. Bidwell blanked his face and looked out the window.
    “That’s right,” Squill said. “I heard you wereking of the fry cooks or something. How’s being a fry cook compare with being a detective?”
    Sandhill thought a moment. “A cook only has to be there when the food goes in.”
    Squill’s smile melted. “How long you planning on being here, Sandhill?”
    “I can leave right now if you want.” Sandhill stood.
    Bidwell, ever the arbiter, jumped in, patting Sandhill’s shoulder, easing him back to the chair. “Sit, Conner. Take all the time you need.” Bidwell shot Squill a sidelong glance saying, We got him, let’s use him.
    Squill turned away, muscles working in his clenched jaw. Sandhill picked up a photo, and began studying it.
    “Sure would be nice to have a little privacy,” he said.
    After three hours of studying every scrap of paper and photo associated with the girls’ disappearances and asking Ryder a stream of questions, Sandhill began jamming material into a manila folio.
    “It’s a jumble. I’ve got some ideas, but I want to think a little more. I’ll take some stuff with me.”
    Ryder raised a dark eyebrow. “I’ll have to clear it. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to take things home.”
    “Never ask, Detective Ryder. Just do. You get a lot more accomplished that way.”
    “The world according to Conner Sandhill?”
    “It’s a kingly principle, Detective. Ever read The Golden Bough ? Frazer asserts that a monarchy can develop much faster than a democracy. Picture a group of hunters on a hill deciding which direction to go. In a democracy everyone has an opinion to be argued and dissected and voted on. In a monarchy the king points his finger and says, ‘We’re going there.’”
    “For better or worse.”
    “It depends on the king. If he moves from reason and the proper accumulation of kingly wisdom, the journey stands a solid chance of success.”
    “And if he doesn’t?”
    Sandhill tied the folio shut, walked to the door. “At least it’s motion. Henry Moore bores me, but I purely love Calder.”
    Sandhill was at the back entrance when Squill slipped from a side hall, eyes slitted at the folio under Sandhill’s arm.
    “You’re leaving everything right here, Sandhill. I figured you’d try and take something on the sly. That’s a habit of yours, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t work well from memory, Terrence.”
    Squill bristled at the use of his first name. “Case information is for cops only. It stays.”
    Sandhill threw the folio in the air and Squill made a clumsy catch. “It’s all yours, Terrence. I was going to look a little more, but if you don’t want me to, that’s fine. Our deal’s done. I expect to find my doorway clear of inspectors when I get back.”
    “Inspectors?” Squill said, a smile ghosting his thin lips. “What inspectors?”
    “You’re bush league, Terrence. Harassing me with pissant bureaucrats is as bush as it gets.”
    “You dishonored the badge, Sandhill. You owe us.”
    “You dream that in your sleep, too?”
    “Listen to me, you smug bastard—”
    “I don’t have to any more, Terrence. And I like the quiet.”
    Sandhill started to the door, but stopped as pictures in his mind began aligning. He watched the pictures for a moment, then turned to Squill.
    “Just one thing, Terrence. I don’t think LaShelle Shearing was killed in the house that burned. I think she was murdered somewhere else and taken there.”
    Squill’s face froze for an instant, then resumed its sneer.
    “None of the Forensics techs said that. What makes you so sure?”
    Sandhill nodded at the files in Squill’s hand. “It’s right there, Terrence. You figure it out.”
    Sandhill stepped through the door. It was raining but he was focused on the pictures in his head and didn’t notice.

15
    Four p.m. and the restaurant was empty of customers. Marie was at the