all wished he’d just disappear. They won’t care that he’s dead. They’ll be glad. All because of that goddamned paper mill.” Her lips curl in disgust. “Have you talked to Jet about the Poker Club?”
“I’m talking to her at three o’clock,” I reply. “But nobody else needs to know that.”
“How does that work, Marshall? Her husband’s father is one of the richest members of the Poker Club, yet she’s fought their corruption for years.”
“I’m not sure it works, actually. I think their marriage is pretty strained.”
She nods as if this only makes sense. “She’s a firecracker, that girl.” Quinn finally pulls out her chair and sits, her eyes settling on mine with what feels like maternal concern. “You still have feelings for Jet.”
I force myself to hold eye contact. “I probably always will. First love and all that.”
A wistful smile touches Quinn’s mouth. “Buck used to think you two would end up together.”
“But not you?”
She shrugs. “Jet’s special, no question. But she had issues. From her father leaving like that.”
“And I didn’t?”
“Different issues.” Quinn reaches out and touches my hand. “You’re not thinking you might still wind up with her?”
Am I that easy to read? “What makes you ask that?”
“Your eyes still change when her name comes up. Your voice goes up a half-step in pitch.”
“Really? Well. We went through a lot together. What matters today is that if we try to halt construction of the mill to search for evidence, it’ll be Jet who files the papers.”
Quinn knows I’m trying to change the subject. Graciously, she allows me this. “I know who to call at the state level,” she says, “if that’s the way you want to go.”
“Does Archives and History have the stroke to override pressure from the governor? Even national pressure?”
“In theory? Sure. William Winter fought off serious pressure during the casino boom. In reality, I don’t know. That’s why Buck went back looking for bones.”
I take a long sip of my tea, which has already started to cool. “Why did he risk going last night, if he knew there were guards posted?”
“No, no. He went in to dig because there weren’t any guards. He called and told me that.”
This is new information. “What?”
“He drove out and parked well south of the site, then walked up the riverbank. The whole way he watched for lights. He didn’t see a single guard.”
“That doesn’t mean there weren’t any. They could have been using night vision.”
“To guard a small-town paper mill site?”
“With so much money at stake, it’s possible. Quinn, why didn’t you report Buck missing when he didn’t come home last night?”
She closes her eyes with obvious pain. “Because I knew he was trespassing, and he would stay out there all night if he could. I also knew he’d cache any finds somewhere other than here, to protect me. That would take time. I’ve cursed myself a thousand times for not saying to hell with it and calling the police. Buck might still be alive—”
“No,” I tell her. “The local police and sheriff’s department wouldn’t have been a source of aid for Buck. Not at the industrial park.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Do you know if Buck was in contact with anyone outside the city? Other archaeologists? Academics? The government?”
She shrugs again. “You know Buck. He was always talking to friends around the country. I don’t know how much he told them about this specific find. He was so excited, but also secretive about it. I think he saw this as his legacy, the great work of his life. By the way, the sheriff told me they didn’t find Buck’s cell phone. So I don’t know who he might have called.”
“If they found his phone, they wouldn’t have entered it into evidence. Do you know whether Buck dug up anything else at the site? You said he would be caching his finds somewhere other than here. Why?”
Quinn studies me as though making some difficult judgment. “Buck got pretty paranoid over the past four weeks, especially the last two. One night he decided to move some stuff, so it wouldn’t be lost if our house happened to catch fire or something. We own a small rental house. He’s worked there most nights for the past week.”
Before I can even ask, Quinn reaches into the pocket of her jeans and takes out a brass key. “This will get you in, if you want to look.”
“Address?”
“Three-two-five Dogwood. There’s a renter there, but he’s an old friend of Buck’s. Jim’s gone a lot, but I’ll