“Dark as a damn speakeasy,” he said. “I doubt they even have crime scene tape up.” Randall Regan braked, then tensed as the squeal of rotors echoed down the street. “I don’t see a soul. I figured after what happened to Henry, the sheriff would have posted a man outside.” “Amateurs,” said Brody. “Just like your nephew and his crew. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They couldn’t drag one fifty-year-old man into a truck?” “They didn’t figure on a secretary packing a pistol.” Brody grunted and peered down the dark street. “This town’s dying. There’s nobody on this side, this time of night. Not during the winter, anyway. It was different back in sixty-four. That night we burned Norris’s store, the signal was the end of the last shift at the King Hotel. That meant Ferriday was shutting down for the night.” “When did the King close down?” “Oh, hell, thirty years back.” “There’s not even a crack dealer back here,” said Regan, chuckling as he rolled toward the Concordia Beacon building.
