Clutching her bag tighter, Lizzie feels very alone.
19
RICK
It happens on the sidewalk outside the home of Precious Harper. He doesn’t see them at first because he’s having a quick look-see at the log Precious just gave him – checking for any mention of beige station wagons or women who fit the victim’s description – so he’s almost back at the jeep before he’s aware that they’re waiting.
‘You one of the patrollers?’
Rick looks over the top of the log and sees two grey-haired older guys standing in front of his jeep, blocking his path. They’re dressed similar – Hawaiian shirts, baggy cargo shorts and brown leather sandals. Both have greying ginger hair. One of them wears his hair longer, almost shoulder length, and has a string of dark beads around his neck. The other’s hair is cropped shorter, and rather than a necklace, he has a bunch of bracelets – leather straps, beads, and one made of knotted multicolour thread like a friendship bracelet – around his right wrist. It takes Rick a moment to realise that the men are twins. ‘I sure am.’
The longer-haired guy glances at his twin and gives him a meaningful look.
The man with the cropped hair starts to speak. ‘We need to know what happened in Manatee Park. We heard the police were swarming over the place this morning and there were ambulances and medics there. We have to know why.’
Rick says nothing. In law enforcement you hear all the stories – how the perpetrators of homicide and abduction sometimes return to the scene of their crime as rubberneckers. How some put themselves forward offering help. How they like to get close to the investigation and the investigators to feel part of the action, feeling clever all the while because no one has them identified. It’s true these two guys look harmless enough, but then if he’s learnt one thing in his career with the DEA it’s to be prepared for the unexpected.
His lack of answer seems to rile the men. The longer-haired one moves his weight from one foot to the other. His cheeks flush red. ‘Look pal, we have a right to know what’s been going on in our community. We live here and if something bad happened, then we should be told. We’re not children. We deserve answers. We’re . . .’
‘Fellas, I’m a resident here just like you, I don’t—’
‘But you’re part of the watch.’ The man looks pointedly at the log in Rick’s hand. ‘And you’re collecting this . . . evidence . . . so that means you’re doing things. You must know something.’
‘I’m doing my bit as a concerned citizen is all,’ says Rick, folding the log in half and tucking it into his pants pocket. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘So you’re concerned.’ There’s triumph in the shorter-haired guy’s voice, as if he’s just got Rick to reveal some kind of state secret. ‘Tell us what’s going on.’
Surely these guys have the news channel, or a news app or something, thinks Rick. It’s been a good few hours since the victim was found. The story should be churning on the news cycle by now. ‘What do you know already?’
The long-haired man clutches at the beads around his neck, rubbing them between his fingers. ‘We don’t know a whole lot. They said on the radio there’d been an accident in the park.’
‘But we don’t believe them,’ says the guy with shorter hair. ‘All those police and CSIs, that was too much for just an accident.’
The longer-haired man lets go of his necklace and shakes his head. ‘Can’t trust nothing the news tells you.’
‘Can’t trust nothing the government tells you,’ his brother replies.
‘Amen to that,’ says the guy with longer hair. He leans forward, his voice low. ‘Can’t trust nothing but God and what you see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears.’