Billy Reed looked down at the body and wished he could punch something. Hard.
“This is ridiculous,” Suzy said at his side. “She’s not even eighteen.”
His partner was right. Courtney Brooks had turned sixteen two weeks ago. The car she had been found in was a birthday present from her father. Billy knew this because he’d known of the girl since she was in middle school. She was a part of one of the many families in the small town of Carpenter, Alabama, who had lived there through at least two generations.
And now she was dead in the back seat of a beat-up Honda.
“Anyone tell her folks yet?” Billy asked. He’d arrived on the scene five minutes after his partner, Suzanne Simmons, had. By the time he’d cut through lunchtime traffic and bumped down the dirt road in his Crown Vic to the spot where poor Courtney had met her end, a set of paramedics, the deputy who had first responded to the call and the boy who had found her were all gathered around, waiting for what was next.
“No, Rockwell wanted to make the call,” Suzy answered. Billy raised his eyebrow, questioning why the sheriff would do that when he hadn’t even come to the crime scene yet, and she continued. “He’s fishing buddies with her dad. He heard Marty call in the name.”
Billy could imagine their leader, a man north of sixty with a world of worries to match, breaking the bad news from behind his desk. He’d let his stare get lost in the grain of the oak while he broke a family’s heart with news no parents should ever receive.
“There’s no signs of foul play, as far as I can tell,” Suzy commented. One of the EMTs broke off from the car and headed toward them.
“We both know what this is, Suzy,” Billy said. The anger he was nearly getting used to began to flood his system. The deputy could save the EMT time by telling the man he already knew what had killed her. An overdose of a drug called Moxy. The current scourge of Riker County. However, Billy’s mother had taught him the importance of being polite. So he listened to the man say that he thought Courtney had been gone a few hours before they’d gotten there, and if the paramedic was a betting man, he’d put his money on an overdose.
“I’ve already taken pictures, but I’d like to look around again, just in case,” Suzy said. Billy was about to follow when a call over the radio drew him to his car instead. He asked dispatch to repeat.
“The sheriff wants you here, Billy,” she said. “Now.”
That gave him pause but he confirmed he understood. Suzy must have heard, too. She waved him away, saying she could handle it from here. Billy’s eye caught the teen who had found Courtney. He was standing with Marty, one of the other deputies from the department, and they were deep in discussion. Every few words he’d glance back at the girl. And each time he looked closer to losing it. He’d likely never seen a dead body before, and judging by his expression, he’d never forget it, either. It made Billy grind his teeth.
No one in Riker County should have that problem. At least, not if Billy had a say about it.
It had been six months since an influx of Moxy hit the county. In that time, Billy had seen four overdoses and an escalation of violence, two of those incidents ending in murder. For all intents and purposes, Moxy brought out the worst tendencies in people and then energized them. While Riker County, its sheriff’s department and police departments had had their problems with narcotics in the past, the new drug and its ever-elusive supplier had caught them woefully off guard. It was a fact that kept Billy up at night and one that stayed with him as he drove through the town and then cut his engine in the department’s parking lot.
Movement caught his eye, distracting his thoughts, and he realized he was staring at the very man who had called him in. Billy exited the cruiser and leaned against it when the man made no move to go inside the building, arms folded over his chest. Sheriff Rockwell put his cigarette out and stopped in front of him. He looked more world-weary than he had the day before.
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Reed,” the sheriff said, leaving no room for greetings. “We need to find the Moxy supplier and we need to find him now. You understand?”
“Yessir,” Billy said, nodding.
“Until that happens, I want you to work exclusively on trying to catch the bastard.”
“What about Detective Lancaster?” Billy asked. Jamie Lancaster’s main focus had been on finding something on the supplier since the second overdose had been reported.
“Lancaster is crap, and we both know it,” the sheriff said. “His drive left the second we all had to take a pay cut. No, what we need now is someone whose dedication isn’t made by his salary.” The sheriff clapped Billy on the shoulder. “In all of my years, I’ve learned that there’s not much that can stand against a person protecting their own. You love not only this town, but the entire county like it’s family, Billy.”
“I do,” Billy confirmed, already feeling his pride swelling.
The sheriff smiled, briefly, and then went stone cold.
“Then go save your family.”
* * *
TWO MONTHS LATER, Billy was sitting in a bar in Carpenter known as the Eagle. In the time since he’d talked to the sheriff in the parking lot, he’d chased every lead known to the department. He’d worked long, hard hours until, finally, he’d found a name.
Bryan Copeland.
A businessman in his upper fifties with thinning gray hair and an affinity for wearing suits despite the Alabama heat, he was running the entire operation from Kipsy. It was the only city within the Riker County Sheriff’s Department purview, Carpenter being one of three towns. But where he kept the drugs—whether it was through the city or towns—and when he moved them were mysteries. Which was the reason Billy hadn’t had the pleasure of arresting him yet. They couldn’t prove anything, not even after two drug dealers admitted who their boss was. Because, according to the judge and Bryan’s fancy lawyer, there was no hard evidence. So that was why, late on a Thursday night, Billy Reed was seated at the Eagle finishing off his second beer when a woman sat down next to him and cleared her throat.
“Are you Deputy Reed? Billy Reed?” she asked, voice dropping to a whisper. Billy raised his eyebrow. He didn’t recognize the woman. And he would have remembered if he had met her before.
She had long black hair that framed a clear and determined face. Dark eyes that openly searched his expression, trying to figure him out for whatever reason, high cheekbones, pink, pink lips, and an expression that was split between contemplation and caution. All details that created a truly beautiful woman. One who had the deputy’s full attention.
“Yes, that’s me,” he answered. “But I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
The woman, who he had placed just under his own age of thirty-two, pasted on a smile and cut her eyes around them before answering.
“I