Agnes Hahn case.”
Her eyebrows arched high. “I heard they caught her. I’d like to shake her hand. My old boyfriend did a number on me and I’d like to do to him what she’s been doing.”
A little closer. “The woman in jail is Ella’s niece, and she may not be the murderer. I need to talk to you about Ella.”
The woman scanned downward to his shoes, then back up to his face. She put her hand on his elbow. “I have to go get her now. I get off at ten. Meet me out front?” She brushed against him as she passed, slowly sliding her hand off of his arm.
He turned and watched her exaggerated hip-sway. “Your name?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Ten o’clock. Out front.”
Two evening hours were tough to kill in Mendocino, so Jason headed for his motel. He drove five miles under the speed limit, signaling for every lane change, veer, and twist. A yellow light meant stop here, and it gave him time to dial his cell phone—the number Mulvaney had given him.
“Officer Wilson here.” The voice sounded distant. A cell phone?
“Hi. Jason Powers. Do you know if Agnes Hahn is going to be released anytime soon?”
“Detective Bransome is looking for you. Where are you?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll try to stay out of his way for the next couple of days. Is she going to be released?”
“Yeah. It’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow, around one, I think.”
“Why not tomorrow? You can’t hold her that long, can you?”
“Bransome said the paperwork couldn’t be processed until then.”
Jason checked his speed. “And her lawyer bought that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Never mind. You think she’ll be released around one in the afternoon, or you know it will be at one?”
He heard papers shuffling. “It’ll be at one.”
“Good. I’d like to pick her up and drive her home. Do you think that’d be all right?”
Laughter. “You think Bransome would agree to that?”
“Can’t you keep him busy with something around there? I’m working with you guys on this one, not against you.”
More laughter. “Yeah. Right. The best I can do for you is pretend this conversation never happened. You’re on your own with Bransome.”
Jason mouthed a curse. “I really appreciate that. Don’t tell him I’m coming. Okay?”
More laughter.
He folded the phone and threw it on the seat. His foot hit the accelerator hard, but he pulled it back, checking his mirrors. Bransome really knew how to hold a grudge. Maybe what had happened two years ago wasn’t for the better, but it had been the right thing to do. Jason pounded the steering wheel with his fist. No matter how many times he repeated his justification, it didn’t give him peace. Two years ago wasn’t personal. But he knew Bransome wouldn’t see it any other way.
Jason shook his head. To him, Bransome was an enigma. A previous background check had revealed that the detective hadn’t served in Vietnam. He’d somehow managed a 2-S student deferment for six consecutive years of higher education, first at Santa Rosa Community College, then at Chico State, where he graduated with a degree in sociology.
Jason had found a picture of Bransome when he was in the debate club at Chico. It still bothered him. Bransome’s hair was curly, kinky—the kind that yanked teeth from a comb in a single pass. In its current state the gray fringe that encircled his naked crown looked like steel wool. But that kind of hair was a source of envy in the late sixties when the Afro was in style. The bigger, the better. Yet, in the photograph, Bransome’s full head of hair was trimmed short, nearly military, and his sideburns barely dipped below the bottoms of his ears. All other males in the photo had full beards or triangular muttonchop sideburns that teased the corners of their mouths. And Bransome was the only person, male or female, whose pant legs ran straight to the cuffs. The others had pants that ballooned below the
Her eyebrows arched high. “I heard they caught her. I’d like to shake her hand. My old boyfriend did a number on me and I’d like to do to him what she’s been doing.”
A little closer. “The woman in jail is Ella’s niece, and she may not be the murderer. I need to talk to you about Ella.”
The woman scanned downward to his shoes, then back up to his face. She put her hand on his elbow. “I have to go get her now. I get off at ten. Meet me out front?” She brushed against him as she passed, slowly sliding her hand off of his arm.
He turned and watched her exaggerated hip-sway. “Your name?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Ten o’clock. Out front.”
Two evening hours were tough to kill in Mendocino, so Jason headed for his motel. He drove five miles under the speed limit, signaling for every lane change, veer, and twist. A yellow light meant stop here, and it gave him time to dial his cell phone—the number Mulvaney had given him.
“Officer Wilson here.” The voice sounded distant. A cell phone?
“Hi. Jason Powers. Do you know if Agnes Hahn is going to be released anytime soon?”
“Detective Bransome is looking for you. Where are you?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll try to stay out of his way for the next couple of days. Is she going to be released?”
“Yeah. It’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow, around one, I think.”
“Why not tomorrow? You can’t hold her that long, can you?”
“Bransome said the paperwork couldn’t be processed until then.”
Jason checked his speed. “And her lawyer bought that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Never mind. You think she’ll be released around one in the afternoon, or you know it will be at one?”
He heard papers shuffling. “It’ll be at one.”
“Good. I’d like to pick her up and drive her home. Do you think that’d be all right?”
Laughter. “You think Bransome would agree to that?”
“Can’t you keep him busy with something around there? I’m working with you guys on this one, not against you.”
More laughter. “Yeah. Right. The best I can do for you is pretend this conversation never happened. You’re on your own with Bransome.”
Jason mouthed a curse. “I really appreciate that. Don’t tell him I’m coming. Okay?”
More laughter.
He folded the phone and threw it on the seat. His foot hit the accelerator hard, but he pulled it back, checking his mirrors. Bransome really knew how to hold a grudge. Maybe what had happened two years ago wasn’t for the better, but it had been the right thing to do. Jason pounded the steering wheel with his fist. No matter how many times he repeated his justification, it didn’t give him peace. Two years ago wasn’t personal. But he knew Bransome wouldn’t see it any other way.
Jason shook his head. To him, Bransome was an enigma. A previous background check had revealed that the detective hadn’t served in Vietnam. He’d somehow managed a 2-S student deferment for six consecutive years of higher education, first at Santa Rosa Community College, then at Chico State, where he graduated with a degree in sociology.
Jason had found a picture of Bransome when he was in the debate club at Chico. It still bothered him. Bransome’s hair was curly, kinky—the kind that yanked teeth from a comb in a single pass. In its current state the gray fringe that encircled his naked crown looked like steel wool. But that kind of hair was a source of envy in the late sixties when the Afro was in style. The bigger, the better. Yet, in the photograph, Bransome’s full head of hair was trimmed short, nearly military, and his sideburns barely dipped below the bottoms of his ears. All other males in the photo had full beards or triangular muttonchop sideburns that teased the corners of their mouths. And Bransome was the only person, male or female, whose pant legs ran straight to the cuffs. The others had pants that ballooned below the
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