Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

Sheriff Babitt: Mavis, shut the hell up. Dave, go home. I need a word with your mother.

Cable looked up from his reading. "This might've been the shortest interview I ever conducted."

"That was the only interview with Dave. You felt sorry for him, didn't you? His crazy mother and all."

"Son, I misspoke. Your old interview was even shorter than this one."

"Dave Hardy was the only one who ever hurt my brother. I was there. He didn't push Josh. He picked him up and threw him into a wall of lockers. Dave should've made your shortlist."

The sheriff shrugged. "It was just a matter of time before he got around to Josh. Dave had fights with every boy in school."

"I know the second victim you found in Josh's grave was a woman."

A worry line cut down the middle of the sheriff's forehead and deepened. "I have to wonder how you know that, Oren."

"You just told me. And that's another strike against Dave. His mother probably taught him to hate all women."

"No, that was his father's job," said the sheriff. "That bastard used to beat on Mavis all the time."

"And what about crazy Mavis Hardy?"

"Not so crazy. I think Mavis was real smart about getting sympathy for Dave. I sure felt sorry for him. The kid never did anything that his mother couldn't top. Every parent-teacher night was a crawling horror show. One time, Principal Mars found a teacher hiding under her desk, crying real soft so Mavis wouldn't find her. Everybody felt damn sorry for Dave. No matter what kind of trouble that boy got into, he never got thrown out of school."

And you never suspected him? You couldn't see Dave beating Josh to death?"

"I thought about it. I even thought it couldn't hurt to keep the boy close. So, when he came back to town, I made him my deputy. Satisfied, Oren?"

Only days ago, Henry Hobbs had been crazed by Dave Hardy's threat to dig up the flower garden, and now Hannah was surprised by the old man's calm demeanor. While five state troopers opened every drawer in the living room and dumped them out on the floor, the judge was content to sit and read a search warrant by the light of the bay window.

Special Agent Sally-damned if Hannah would call her Sally-Polk stood by the judge's chair. The woman had a down-home country way about her-miles too friendly, and every word out of her mouth was suspect, even to saying hello at the front door.

"I'm so sorry about this mess," said the CBI agent, as if this carnage had come about by accident.

"Sorry? No," said the judge, "I don't think you are-not yet. But just wait half a minute." He read a few more lines. "Your work is a bit sloppy Miss Polk."

"Agent Polk," she said to sweetly remind him that she was in charge.

He raised his eyes from the warrant to watch another drawer crash to the floor. "And, by sloppy, I don't mean the ham-handed way these boys conduct a search. Now that mess, as you put it, is all for show-pure intimidation. And I can make that charge stick." He held up the warrant. "This doesn't cover the common areas of the house. The way I read it-the way any judge would, retired or not-you're restricted to Oren's residence, and that's his bedroom. He doesn't own this place. I do. And the only item you can seize-from Oren's room-is a red folder that holds standard-size documents."

He pointed to one of the young men in uniform. "So that boy shouldn't be searching anything as small as that ceramic candy box. Incidentally, the box belonged to my late wife. Trust me on this-you really don't want the trooper to drop it, not until you find out just how many ways I can hang you out to dry. So tell him to put it down right now."

The young trooper never even glanced at his boss. He was looking at Hannah's angry upturned face and finding the tiny housekeeper more formidable. Very gently, he set the ceramic box back in its place on the mantelpiece.

"So this," and this, by the wave of the judge's hand, included everything in sight, "this is illegal and damned incompetent."

The telephone rang, and Hannah retreated down the hall to the kitchen to answer it in privacy. When she returned to the front room, the search had ended. "Not good enough," she said to the troopers. "I wasn't born to clean up after you boys."

Two of these young men had known the housekeeper all their lives, and now they gathered up the spilled contents of drawers. They treaded lightly around Horatio, who lay on the rug, doing his only trick-pretending to sleep while dead.

Hannah stood at the center of the room and raised her voice for all to hear as she spoke to the judge. "That was the sheriff returning your call. He wants you to know that he found that red folder behind his credenza."

Heads lifted all around the room.

"And he's real sorry that Miss Polk went off half-cocked the way she did. But she just wouldn't wait till he had time to do a proper search of his office." Hannah glared at the CBI agent. Why was that woman still smiling?

Another state trooper entered the house. The first person he saw was Hannah with her arms folded-waiting. And now the young man backed up a step to make his courtesy knock on the front door. He removed his hat and nodded hello to the housekeeper, who knew his parents and their parents all too well. The trooper drew Sally Polk into the dining room, wanting a word with her alone. Their voices were so low that even Hannah could not make out the conversation, though it was rumored that she could hear birds fluffing their feathers in the next county.

"You arrested my son?"

The trooper and Sally Polk whirled around to see Henry Hobbs standing behind them. Hannah grinned as she looked down at the judge's sandals, the old man's creepers.

"Well, that's another warrant I'd like to see," said the judge. "And all of your paperwork should be in order. Now what are the odds of that?"

Agent Polk's folksy veneer was still holding. "I'll be more careful from now on." Her voice was butter-smooth when she asked, "Have you always been in collusion with the sheriff-or is that a recent thing?"

A plate of brownies had pride of place on the desk. The fresh-baked aroma was tantalizing and unexpected at the local headquarters of the California Highway Patrol.

"Oh, is that light too bright? Well, of course it is." Sally Polk drew the blinds in her office. "There, that's better." Smoothing back her gray hair, she smiled benignly as she faced her prisoner, Oren Hobbs. "I can't see Cable Babitt just giving you that red folder." She paused a beat, most likely waiting for a signal that she was on the right track-and that the county sheriff was dead meat. Apparently, she did not believe the fairy tale of a critical piece of evidence getting lost behind Cable's credenza.

Disappointed by Oren's tell-nothing face, she moved on. "So let's say you borrowed that old folder without permission. But wouldn't the sheriff's credenza be locked? I'm so sure I remember a set of keys hanging from a lock on the bottom drawer." Her smile broadened as she waited out the silence of a few seconds. "All right then. We'll just forget those pesky charges of stealing official documents. And-no promises, mind you-but maybe the sheriff can keep his badge."

She turned her back on him to water a potted geranium on a stand in the corner. Smaller plants, pansies and African violets, sat on the window-sills, and personal photographs lined the walls. The whole room was a study in domesticity-and it did not have the look of an office on short-term loan to the lady from Sacramento.

Special Agent Polk sat down at her desk and straightened a stack of papers, then picked up loose pens and pencils and returned them to their glass container-just tidying up in a housewifey way. She pushed the plate of brownies toward him and raised her eyebrows to ask if he would like one.