“I want you to find McCullough. Check with his friends and family and neighbors. See if anyone knows where he is or if they’ve seen him. For all we know, he’s down at the VFW playing bingo.”

“I’m on it.”

But we both know that’s a best-case scenario. With two of his friends dead and ties to a deadly cold case creeping steadily into the picture, I’m not sure we’ll find Jerrold McCullough alive.

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Blue Branson lives in a modest single-story bungalow with dormer windows, a homey little porch, and crisp white trim. A six-foot privacy fence separates his property from Brewer’s Salvage Yard, which is situated on the lot next door. I turn into the driveway, plow through slightly mushy gravel, and park a few yards from the front door.

I get out and pass by his Mustang as I make my way to the house. Within the glow of the porch light, drizzle floats down. Opening the storm door, I knock.

A moment later, Blue appears; he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I guess you knew I’d be back,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond, and I remind myself he’s no greenhorn when it comes to dealing with the police. Most people talk too much when they get nervous, usually to their detriment. Not Blue. He looks at me coolly, eye contact steady, as if trying to decide if he should invite me inside or send me packing.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“You heard about Julia Rutledge?”

He sighs, looks away for a moment. “I heard.”

“Jerrold McCullough is missing.”

His gaze jerks to mine. I see both shock and concern on his face. He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”

I enter a comfortably furnished living room. Starving artist paintings on the walls. A newish flat screen mounted above the hearth. The air smells of some spicy aromatic I can’t quite place. Classical Spanish guitar hums from speakers on either side of the TV. A sleek laptop hums atop a TV tray next to a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. Blue has shed his sport coat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing forearms that are covered with tattoos—a strange mosaic of blue and red and green on flesh browned by the sun.

He notices me looking at his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He motions toward a newish sofa. “Have a seat.”

I don’t take him up on the offer. “Have you seen or spoken to Jerrold McCullough?”

“No.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“I haven’t seen her.” He grimaces. “I heard she was stabbed to death in her home. Is that true?”

I don’t answer. “Where were you last night between eleven P.M. and five A.M.?”