Patricia listened quietly, but with a professional intensity, as I told her everything that had happened since we were last together. When I told her what Amber had said about the police knowing what went on at the truck stops but looking the other way, if not taking favors to allow it to continue, her brows knit and I saw her bristle a little.

We all have our tribes that we protect, and when one of our own is disparaged, we circle the wagons to fend off criticism—and cops, as much, or more so, than anyone.

“There’s no proof of that happening,” Patricia interjected with some heat.

I was silent a second and held her gaze before speaking again.

“Patricia, from what little I saw at that one place, it could not go on—it could not exist—without official knowledge and official protection. And from the information Amber gave me, these truck stops where this takes place are all located in small rural counties. There is a tradition to this sort of thing along the highways of the South. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of Ludowici.”

Ludowici, in Long County, Georgia, less than twenty miles south of Sally’s, had been notorious for its speed traps, tourist clip joints, and the crooked political machine that ran it all. The little town sat on the main East Coast highway to Florida and thrived on scamming the passing tourists. In spite of the efforts of three successive governors, the only thing that had brought an end to the depredations was when I-95 was built and the place was relegated to backwater status.

“Yes, I know about Ludowici,” Patricia replied. “And I’m sorry, Kennesaw. That was a knee-jerk reaction on my part. I’m more interested than anybody in stopping corrupt cops—they make it hard on all the rest of us.”

“Had you not shown up when you did, I think I was the one who was going to be charged with assault, not those other two boys. Even though I never said so, it was apparent the investigator knew I had been in some sort of altercation at Sally’s. But whatever he thought he knew couldn’t be twisted sufficiently—or admitted—to allow him to charge me. But he was close. However, as it was, he did keep my pistol for evidence.”

“What if this is true? What do you want to do, Kennesaw?”

“Do you have a good contact in the GBI, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?” I asked.

The GBI are the straight shooters in the state of Georgia. They have an unsullied reputation for rectitude and moral courage. When official wrongdoing is uncovered they are the only ones in the state with the standing and the clout to get to the bottom of the situation.

Patricia nodded. “Yes. I have a very good contact at GBI headquarters in Atlanta.”