Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,31

a high enough temperature to meet sanitation requirements.”

“Do you have video surveillance on the parking lot?”

“Right around the buildings, yes.”

“Not the entrance or the cleaning bay?”

“No. We park the vehicles in the big garages at night, and that’s locked up and protected by alarms. There’s nothing in the parking lot worth bothering, and we’ve never had a problem with random after-hours washing.” Davenport shot her a wan smile. “Are you asking for a particular reason?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, watching the murky water running out of the back of the rented truck. “Would it be possible to get a copy of all your rental agreements for the past five months?”

Davenport frowned. “That seems unnecessarily intrusive, Detective.”

“I could arrange for a warrant,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure that was true, especially since she wasn’t even in her own jurisdiction.

“Then that’s what I would suggest you do,” Davenport said firmly. He smiled again to soften his words. “I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“No, I understand,” she assured him, and she did. People had a right to privacy, even in a murder investigation. She’d try to get what she wanted going the legal route and hope she could make a Blount County lawman see things her way. She’d need local law enforcement to get a warrant.

“If you come across anything strange or remember anything you care to share, I can be reached at this number.” She handed him one of her cards. “Thank you for your help.” She watched George Davenport head back to the office, wincing as she saw his legs seem to buckle a little more with every step. Definitely ill, she thought. Should he even be at work?

As she started toward the department-issued Ford sedan she’d driven to Maryville, she looked for Sutton’s truck. It wasn’t parked anywhere in the lot. Of course, she hadn’t noticed it when she came in, too focused on the questions she’d wanted to ask.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring. “Hey, Ivy.”

Damn, but even his voice could send shivers down her back. “I thought we were going to J.T.’s Barbecue for lunch.”

“Yeah, about that—I’ve had something come up. Rain check?”

“Will I see you back at the house tonight, or are you going to find somewhere else to stay?” She hoped the question didn’t sound needy.

“I’m not sure. I’ll call to let you know. I’ll have to get my things from your place if I stay somewhere else anyway.”

Nice and noncommittal. Hell, she should be glad if he had decided to put a little distance between them. The sooner Sutton Calhoun moseyed off to wherever he’d come from, the sooner she could go back to being a sensible cop instead of a flutter-headed idiot.

Unfortunately, the Maryville police captain to whom she outlined her case disagreed there was enough probable cause to approach a judge for a warrant. “You have a hunch, not evidence. Get me evidence and we’ll talk again.”

So she ended up driving back to Bitterwood in time to run into Captain Rayburn heading out to lunch, accompanied by a silver-haired man dressed in a dark blue suit. She recognized the man as the Sevier County Sheriff’s Department’s deputy chief of operations. They were both smiling as they came out of the building, but Rayburn took one look at her and his expression went from cheerful to thunderous. “Hawkins, I want to see you in my office when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave a crisp nod and moved out of his way before he and his companion bowled her over heading down the concrete steps to the personnel parking lot. She watched the two men walking away, noting that the silver-haired man was still grinning but her captain’s back was as rigid as a steel girder. She released a sigh. Her day was turning out to be one giant barrel of horse manure.

Antoine Parsons caught her up on what she’d missed while she was in Maryville. “Apparently Rayburn and the chief deputy are old fishing buddies from way back. Tommy Logan dropped by to take Rayburn to lunch but mostly, I think, to give him a few friendly whacks about one of his investigators getting herself caught in a shoot-out up on Clingmans Dome in the middle of the night.” Parsons sent a pointed look her way. “Which, by the way, you didn’t think that was something worth telling your old buddy Antoine?”

He was smiling, but she heard a tone of offense

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