Start with Chapter 1
CHAPTER 6
The police station was in the basement of the town council building, itself a modest two-story renovated home. Brick with thick, white columns at the front entrance. To get to the police station, however, Dean used the side entrance down a ramp of concrete that also served as an efficient channel for water during heavy rains. He swung the door open.
In New York City, the front desk was manned by a uniformed officer who controlled all access into the building, usually several floors. Here, during the day, the chief’s civilian secretary, Laura Mannheim, took the calls, told people to wait, managed the chief’s calendar and appointments, and handled dispatching. At night, one of the two officers on duty fielded any incoming calls. That night Reginald Hargrove sat at his desk reading a copy of Sports Illustrated, an issue from December that Dean had already read with Earl Campbell on the cover.
Reggie looked up and nodded. “Hey.”
“Any messages?”
Reggie shrugged and went back to the magazine, licking the tip of his thumb, touching a corner of the page, and lifting it—pausing before turning it over.
Dean walked by the largest office in the basement, his father’s, and past the hall that led to an interview room and a small evidence locker, which had a clipboard hanging from a string wrapped around the wire gate enclosing it. Dean’s desk was at the far end of the room, where he had requested it, in the shadows. A gray IBM Selectric II sat on the left side of the desk and a desk light just behind it. On the left side, a beige phone beside a container full of pens, the blue and black end caps chewed up.
He tossed the manila envelope on the desk and sat down in the wheeled, cushioned chair, and pulled the plastic white ashtray toward him. He squeezed out a cigarette, tapped it on the top of his hand, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a red disposable lighter, which he stuffed back into his pocket. He inhaled and held before audibly exhaling. He pulled out the flask, took a swig, and refilled it from the bottle in the bottom drawer. He stared at the envelope.
He smoked the cigarette down to its end and stamped it out in the ashtray full of butts and ash. He scratched his chin and opened the envelope, pouring the bundles of wrapped ten-dollar bills onto the desktop. The unwrapped bundle and rubber band fell over the top of those followed by The Communist Manifesto. He recounted the bundles, fourteen and slid them and the book back into the envelope. He tossed in the rubber band. He counted the loose ten-dollar bills until he totaled ninety-five three times. He slipped two of them into his front pocket, watching Hargrove still immersed in his magazine as he did it. He slipped a blank evidence form in the typewriter and wrote up the contents of the envelope, noting only ninety-three loose bills. He slipped the envelope and the typed sheet into a larger manila envelope and grabbed the evidence locker key from his top, center desk drawer.
He grabbed the clipboard that hung from a string, looked at his watch, wrote his name and the time on the first blank line available, about two-thirds down the page. After unlocking the metal gate, he found the boxes Zach had brought back from the Pratt farm and tossed the envelope in it. He locked up and walked out, nodding to Hargrove as he left.
* * *
Sadie Harper pulled the cigarette out of Dean’s mouth, inhaled, and put it back in his mouth. She smiled as she let out the smoke. Underneath the diaphanous black robe, she was naked. He loved her body best this way. After the sex, when they were relaxed, but the sensuality of her body was just visible, fleeting, and surprising. She pulled her long, blond hair back into a pony tail, letting the band snap. “Light me one,” she said, her native Georgia accent just leaking into the sentence.
He pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, used his other one to light it, and gave the fresh one to her.
“What’s this about the Pratt farm?”
“News travels fast.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. “It’s a small town.”
“We found William Nimitz out there, near the border.”
“Oh dear. Was he the kid at the body shop? McCord’s?”
“Yeah. You knew him?”
She drank from the glass of water sitting on the end table. “I know some of the guys that work there. Not Billy though. But he seemed like a nice boy.”
“Hmm.” He leaned up on this elbow and twisted around. His watch was on the side table. Approaching midnight. “Does everyone call him Billy?”
She ignored his question. “Is Jenny still coming up?”
He nodded. Jenny was his ten-year-old daughter who lived with his ex-wife most of the time. “She is. I pick her up tomorrow.”
“Is Cindy bringing her up?”
“Yeah. Going to see her old man while she’s at it.”
“Most men don’t care, you know?”
He squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
“Like you, is what I mean. Taking your daughter for the weekend and days at a time. Most men, they want to forget about their kids. Wham bam, see you later, and all that. Not you.”
“You’re too cynical.” He tossed off the covers and sat up. Shrapnel scars in the thick meaty part of his thigh and calf dotted down the outer side of his right leg. He slipped on his pants and buckled the belt.
“I’m not. And you’re the cop. Aren’t you guys supposed to be the cynical ones?” She cinched the robe around her tightly. “When will I see you next?”
As he stuffed his shirt into his pants, he said, “With Jenny here and this case, probably a few days. Can you handle that?” He half smiled, a touch of the devious in him.
She smiled broadly, letting all her teeth show, the smile that pleased him most, the one that seemed genuine. She walked over to him and put her arms around his neck. “I’ll be lonely. I’ll miss you. But I can handle that.”
“I see.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight, his arousal apparent to her.
“Oh, Dean, you know how to turn a girl on.” She let go and stepped back, letting her hand fondle the front of his pants before stepping back and giving him a clear path out of the room.
He adjusted himself. “I think you tell that to all the guys.” He laid the two tens from the shoebox and another ten on the dresser as he walked out.
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