John Brown’s Body

Their black Crown Vic fishtailed leaving the parking lot, Blackbeard throwing gravel behind him. Terry said nothing. Blackbeard’s cell rang. He picked it up, listened, said, “Got it,” and hung up.

“How about lunch over in Destin, little place over in the outlet mall?” he said, the marina behind him now, just back to being Terry’s partner.

Terry looked. “I can always be talked into a thirty mile drive for lunch,” and left it at that, not asking for a reason.

“We got a witness,” Blackbeard said. “Jeweler says he knows our victim.”

They caught 98 West, through pine forests into Walton County, past the Sandestin development, and parked in the big factory outlet. Terry grabbed the case folder from the glove compartment.

“Hand me that other one, the hit and run, for a minute,” said Blackbeard.

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