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Only one car was parked in Heritage Realty's spacious lot --a slate-grey Land Rover. It was the first Land Rover Sam ever remembered seeing in Twin Rivers.
The company was located in a handsome two-story detached brick building in the far-western section of Twin Rivers, near the new high school. Evidently, the entire spacious structure was Heritage Realty. The door was open. Inside, Sam saw no one in the front reception area, but he heard a man's voice down the hallway, and followed the sound.
He found Ferguson at a desk bearing a large, wood-carved nameplate that said, simply, "DOUG". Ferguson, on the telephone, made voiceless talking motions at Sam, gesturing for him to sit. Ferguson was a big, rangy blond, maybe 35 or a little better. Sam thought he looked like a California beach boy, or maybe a lifeguard. Waiting for the phone conversation to end, Sam revised his own impression. "He looks like a deputy sheriff," Sam mused. "And me -- I'm the one who looks like a damned realtor."
It was true. Sam Wicks was no stereotypical police officer. He was barely five-foot nine inches tall, and when he'd begun his law enforcement career at the DEA, he'd weighed in at only 152 pounds. Now, 15 years and almost as many pounds later, he was a reasonably fit 45-year-old who'd recently surrendered and switched to bifocals.
Back in what now seemed like the Glacier Age, Sam had completed two years of law school at Duke. Much to the dismay of his father, an iron miner who'd never finished grade school, Sam had concluded that he loved lawyer jokes far more than lawyers, and that he didn't want to become one.
The DEA hadn't really turned out to be his calling, either, and it had contributed to ending his four-year marriage. Now, however, Sam was settled and satisfied as a lawman in this docile, semi-rural section of coastal Carolina. He had come originally from Northern Michigan, a beautiful land full of Swedes and snow banks. He had learned, while at Duke, to love North Carolina. Now he enjoyed Twin Rivers' mild climate, its placid, somewhat under-educated citizenry, and his sometimes challenging, but eminently manageable, law-enforcement job.
His ex-wife had hated his work at DEA, and he knew that if, somehow, she had managed to stick it out with him there, she certainly would have left him when he came to Twin Rivers. But Gloria was long-gone, and Sam didn't miss her. If Gloria wouldn't like Twin Rivers, it couldn't be all bad. Sam knew that he was slowly going to seed, becoming an aging bachelor with a little bulge at the belt line.
But he was a satisfied man. On occasion, he would find himself working long hours on serious cases; more often, he had ample time to indulge his two pedestrian passions -- lightweight literature and minor league baseball.
Waiting, Sam tuned in to Ferguson's voice on the telephone. He wasn't selling real estate; he was discussing his missing girlfriend with someone. "No, Susan, I haven't. Yes. Well, I have her mother's number, but I'm kind of chary about calling her, up in Evanston. She probably doesn't know anything, and I'd just scare her. Yeah, I know... I will, as soon as I talk to the cops again. I'm going to call 'em now. Someone's here... Yeah. Call me. Yeah... g'bye."
"Mr. Ferguson? I'm Chief Deputy Sheriff Samuel Wicks."
"Sheriff?... I talked to the city cops last night. Do you know something?"
"Mr. Ferguson, what is your friend's name? How old is she?"
"It's Emma. Majeski. I think she's 31. Mr. Wicks, do you know something?" Ferguson was instantly alarmed.
"I have to show you a photograph, Mr. Ferguson. It's unpleasant, but if it isn't your friend, we'll save us both a lot of time. This is a photograph of a dead woman, sir."
Ferguson accepted the photograph readily enough. "Oh, Jisus... It's her." The man's shoulders slumped, and his big body seemed suddenly deflated. "What happened?" he asked.
"Does Ms. Majeski have any family here?" Sam asked. He watched Ferguson closely. His devastation seemed genuine.
"Her mother... Not here. 'Near Chicago. Emma lives... lived here alone. What happened, for Christ's sake! That picture..."
"We found her, early this morning, outside town. We don't know the cause of death yet, Mr. Ferguson, but it doesn't look like an accident. Can you leave here and come with me? I need to talk to you -- a lot more -- and I need your help with this matter."
"We're going to the Sheriff's office?"
"That's right. Lock up, if you have to. Take your own car, Mr. Ferguson. I'll follow you there."
Back in his car, Sam used his cellular phone to call the Sheriff. "Is Fulcher back yet?" He was not. "Lester, I've identified the victim. Ask Myra to check with Butler Brown, right away, and get his latest estimate of the time of death. I'm bringing in the victim's boyfriend right now."
"You think he's good for it?"
"Who knows? But I'm going to need the time of death to check him out. Anyway, he seems to know about the woman, where she lives, and so on, and he can help us. He'll be coming in with me. Get the scoop on her time of death, but make sure this guy doesn't hear it when I do. His name's Ferguson... Real estate guy."
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