“An agent approached me today, an old friend. He’s been working on a money-laundering case. Hasn’t made an arrest. A woman charged with identity theft offered info in exchange for a lesser charge. She said a money-laundering operation had roots in Sharp’s Creek. The agent probed deeper, and she gave a name. That’s when he came to me because it concerns one of our old cases.”

“Which one?”

“Shelby Pearce. Ready for this? Clay Pearce is a money-laundering suspect.”

“Are you kidding?” I told him about my hospital stay, the goings-on, and Eli Chandler. “I was in Sharp’s Creek yesterday, drove Shelby to see her mother. She’s dying of cancer and requested to see her daughter. Anyway, I don’t care for the guy, but if Pearce is involved in money-laundering, he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”

“Points to him taking the $500K from Marissa and Travis Stover and cleaning it up for himself.”

“Yep. When did he intend to use it? Stuff it in his casket?” I missed something in talking to him, and it aggravated me. “I’d like to see the report.”

“Figured so. I’ll make sure you get it when we’re finished talking.”

“Have you talked to Pearce?”

“Another reason for my call. Since we worked the Pearce case, good old Clay might feel more comfortable if we conducted the interview.”

“He hasn’t won the Most-Likable Citizen Award.” I definitely could live my days without talking to him. “When do you want to go?”

“Monday?”

Gave me an extra day to recuperate, possibly get something to manage the pain without the nondrowsy additive.

“It’s no coincidence Clay Pearce’s name is connected to more than one crime,” Mike said. “Where is Shelby now?”

“On her way to a hotel in Houston. Isaac will have an adjoining room.” I drew in a ragged breath, accompanied by an agonizing throb in my leg, and gave him the latest news. “Shelby is one stubborn lady. She insists she’s okay. Her belief is Isaac’s nighttime stay at the hotel is all the protection she needs.”

“We obviously have a lot of catchin’ up to do. Tomorrow I’ll drive to Austin, pick you up, then on to Valleysburg. We’ll leave early Monday morning.”

I thanked him, and we ended the call. Hard for me to wrap my brain around Clay Pearce as a kingpin in a money-laundering scheme. That was as far-fetched as I could imagine. I replayed my brief encounter with the man who claimed the role of a beaten and grieving man. I’d justified his ill temperament . . . felt sorry for him even if I didn’t like him. Something didn’t add up, and it would take a lot to convince me Clay had money tucked away somewhere. But I’d follow up. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d spent time and energy on a false accusation.

Worn-out and hurting, I hit the call button, and my giggle angel of mercy agreed to pain meds. With any luck when I wakened, the FIG might have the requested information.