Рита Браун - Catch As Cat Can

That was the same feeling Cynthia Cooper had when she finally pulled back into department headquarters. At four-thirty in the morning her eyes burned, her mouth was dry. It had been one fender bender after another.

She pushed open the heavy swinging door. The odor of fresh coffee greeted her.

Rick smiled. “Doughnuts right here. Krispy Kremes.”

“I could eat a bug.” She poured coffee, grabbed a glazed doughnut, and slumped into her desk chair. “Where is everybody?”

“Out. I called Krispy Kreme and told them to give everyone doughnuts and coffee. I'd pick up the tab. Mercifully, things are slowing down. Next shift comes on at six. Hey, want a jelly doughnut?”

“No. You don't fool me. You bought those for you.”

“Uh—yes. I even bought a carton of cigarettes, which I am stashing in your desk.”

“Why?”

“Because if my wife comes in she'll check my desk.”

“Little lies lead to big ones.” Coop rolled her eyes.

“It's my one vice. I've tried to give it up and I finally decided, to hell with it. I might as well enjoy it.”

“Yeah.” She reached for another glazed doughnut. “My problem is I enjoy the first two puffs, then I can't stand the taste. Lot of money to spend for two puffs. I'm hungry. I think I'll call Miranda and ask her to make her orange-glazed cinnamon buns tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Oh—well, the next tomorrow.” She licked her fingers. “Mim threw another grand party. She was afraid it would be subdued because of Roger O'Bannon's death but it wasn't. Not really Roger's crowd.”

“I wouldn't think so. What happened?”

“He keeled over in his chair. Pretty much like you heard over the radio.” She mentioned the radios in the squad cars. “Makes you think. I mean about stuff like smoking and eating doughnuts and greasy hamburgers.”

“Coop, when your number's up, it's up.” Rick folded his hands over his chest as he leaned back in his big chair. “And Sean won't agree to an autopsy?”

“No, unless he's changed his mind. He was, well, you can imagine. Held it together but what a shock.”

“People have strong feelings about autopsies. If it were my brother I'd do it. In case it's something hereditary, something I could attend to.”

“Now wait a minute. You just said you're smoking, to hell with it and when your number's up, it's up.”

He grinned. “Me?”

“Wasn't it Emerson who said, ‘Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds'?”

“You're the reader but it sounds good to me.” He cocked his head. “Christ, the storm is getting worse.”

She polished off the last of her doughnut. “Who's back in the Taj Mahal?” she said, referring to the jail.

“A full house. Students. People who should know better and Din Marks, the jerk who smashed Yancy.”

“Din? Well, I suppose it's better than Spirit-Moves-Us. Remember him?”

“Easy wardrobe. Bedsheets.” Rick laughed. “And people give money to guys like that. Religious nuts. I'm in the wrong business. I'll shave my head, put a dot in the middle of my forehead, wear bedsheets, and chant ‘Om'—instant riches. Tell people they're stressed out and need to find inner peace.”

“Spirit-Moves-Us did, with prepubescent girls.”

Rick grimaced, shaking his head. “Said it was part of his religion. He won't be out of jail for years.”

“Is the guy's real name Din?”

“That's what his driver's license said. Oh, can't really hold that Partlow kid on hubcaps. I'll let him go later. Actually, I ought to release him now. Kick his sorry ass right out in the storm. I'll run him by the salvage yard first.”

“I think I'll pay him a visit.” She glanced at the clock. “A five o'clock wake-up call ought to bring a smile to his face.” She walked into the cell block, Rick with her. The arrested were sprawled in cells, dead drunk, sleeping it off. Wesley, though, sat straight up, listening to the storm. “Good morning, glory,” Cynthia said teasingly.

“Sounds like a tornado.”

“They're louder,” Rick answered him. “We're going to take you over to O'Bannon's Salvage later this morning. If Sean makes a positive I.D. your ass is grass. If not, you're free.”

“I didn't steal nothin'. He'll tell you.” Wesley listened as the hail intensified.

“Okay.” Rick shrugged.

“Wesley, if you cooperate things will go easy.”

He glared at her. “Nothin's easy.”

“Fine.” She turned and walked out, Rick with her.

Once outside the cell block they paused for a moment.

Rick sighed. “I need to pay my respects anyway. I'll ask Sean if he's up to identifying the little jerk. If he's not, we let him go.”

Unexpectedly, Sean agreed to do it, said he could handle it. When Rick brought Wesley to him he swore he'd never seen the kid though Wesley matched the description he'd given. Either there were two young men with a pronounced scar over the left eye or Sean was too rattled to make sense of anything. Then again, in his vulnerable state he could have figured nailing a kid for hubcaps wasn't worth it.

Rick released Wesley Partlow. He'd already run a check with DMV on the kid's license, which was current and clean. His address was Randolph Street, Waynesboro. He didn't really think too much about it. Small-fry.

16

At seven o'clock Sunday morning, Fair Haristeen drove through the puddles in Harry's driveway. He stopped in front of the barn because he knew she'd be feeding the horses. At the slam of his truck door, Tucker joyously dashed out to greet the vet. Tucker loved Fair.

“Wasn't that an awful storm?” The corgi wagged her tailless bottom.

Small tree limbs were scattered over the yard and dogwood petals covered the ground.

“You're the best dog.” Fair bent over to pat the silky head.

“I'm in here,” Harry called out from the center aisle of the attractive old barn.

“Figured.” Fair jumped over a puddle. “You should see the roof of BoomBoom's barn. Swiss cheese.”

“Your first call?”

“Not exactly. When I drove by I saw her and Thomas standing out by the barn so I pulled up. You know when Kelly”—Fair mentioned BoomBoom's deceased husband—“built that barn I couldn't believe he'd put on such a cheap roof. The man was a paving contractor. He knew better.”

“Yeah, but riding wasn't his thing so he built a cheap barn. Pretty tacky of him.”

Fair removed his baseball cap. “Never thought of it. He had more money than God.”

“Just a little revenge on his part. Control. And to what do I owe your company?”

“Does the word ‘control' have anything to do with it?”

Mrs. Murphy, lounging in the hayloft with Simon, the opossum, remarked, “You know, I think he's gaining insight.”

“M-m-m.” Simon evidenced scant interest in human couplings and uncouplings. “Did I show you the beads I found?” He rolled out his treasure.

“Simon, those aren't beads, they're ball bearings, and if you found them around here it means a piece of Mom's equipment is about to die a horrible death.”

“Really?”

“Really. Where did you find them? And I assume this had to be a few days ago. You weren't fool enough to go out in that storm.”

“I'm not telling.”

“All right. Don't tell but put them back—maybe she'll see them before the damage is done. Something's broken.”

“I'm not putting them back and I'm not telling. Anyway, maybe I didn't find them here. They're shiny and I found them fair and square. I like shiny things.”

“Marsupials are weird.” Mrs. Murphy lashed her beautiful tail to and fro. She didn't like being disobeyed.