You Can’t Stop Me Read Free Page B

would find the killer of his wife and son.
    “J.C.,” Johnson asked, “you all right?”
    Harrow just stared at him.
    After a moment, the deputy blanched and said, “Sorry, stupid damn question.”
    The detectives drove up then, putting the awkward moment out of its misery, and Harrow was left alone to finish his cigarette as the two deputies talked to the investigators.
    The secondary was some young pup that Harrow never saw before—short black hair, a suit that probably cost almost a month’s pay, and the well-scrubbed shine of someone who didn’t like getting his hands dirty. What the hell was he doing in this job?
    The lead detective Harrow knew. A short, wide-bodied man in jeans, an open-collar shirt, and a cheap sportcoat, Larry Carstens looked like the one-time college football player he’d been—close-cropped blond hair, wide forehead, wide-set brown eyes, formless nose, and lips as thin as a cut.
    Carstens had been a uniformed deputy under Harrow, and had made detective three years after Harrow’s departure. In the last couple of years, they’d even worked a couple of cases together, Harrow representing DCI.
    When they had been filled in by the uniforms, the detectives walked over to where Harrow stood next to his truck, his eyes darting between them and the house, which seemed to call to him in a low whisper.
    “Larry,” Harrow said with a faint nod.
    Carstens returned the gesture. “J.C., we’re all very sorry about your loss.”
    Harrow gave another nod, but said nothing.
    “We’ll do it by the book,” Carstens said with a world-weary sigh.
    “Please.”
    “I had patrol cars set up a half-mile in either direction. Any reporter, national or local, that wants to turn this into a circus will have to hike his ass in.”
    Harrow sighed. “Appreciate that.”
    “Tell me what happened. I know about this afternoon—it’s been all over the media. Start with leaving the state fairgrounds.”
    Harrow told Carstens what little there was, right up to the 911 call.
    “Let’s back up,” Carstens said. “Take from the morning till the presidential assignment kicked in.”
    Harrow did.
    Finally Harrow said, “Look, Larry, you’ve got my gun. Run it, and you’ll see it hasn’t been fired.”
    Carstens nodded absently. “By the book, J.C. We’ll want to do a GSR test too.”
    “Fine, then where the hell is Ogden?” Harrow referred to the only real criminalist employed by the Story County Sheriff’s Office, the man who should be doing the gunshot-residue test.
    His eyes narrowing in the darkness, Carstens took half a step toward Harrow. He kept his voice low, tone clipped but not disrespectful. “Try to remember, J.C., you’re not running this investigation. For now, in fact, you’re a suspect.”
    Harrow stepped back, stubbed the cigarette out under his foot. “Okay, I’m a suspect. You’re right. But can I ask one question?”
    “You can ask.”
    “Was there any sign of robbery in there?”
    “Nothing so far, unless precious items turn up missing. You have a safe, or a locked box with jewelry or money or anything in it?”
    “No.”
    Carstens frowned. “Then why the question?”
    “Ellen’s wedding ring is gone.”
    “…Could she have taken it off to do the dishes? Maybe it’ll turn up on her nightstand or—”
    “No. She never took it off. She had a thing about that.”
    “Was it valuable?”
    “Not particularly. Less than half a karat. She’d never let me upgrade. She was…sentimental.”
    Carstens swallowed. “J.C., I’ll look into it.”
    “Please.”
    When the crime scene van did turn up, Harrow was surprised to see not Story County’s criminalist Ogden, but a crime scene team from the state Department of Criminal Investigation, his own employer.
    He watched with detached professionalism as the DCI crime scene team, people he had known for decades and worked with for years, started in. Several went into the house, while others worked the exterior and the driveway.