Cat's Claw by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

She’d found her daughter before it was too late. A pretty neighborhood, yes, if you only looked at the facades.
    Sheila made a left onto Pecan, suddenly conscious that she envied Detective Jack Bartlett. Of course, there probably wasn’t much involved in this investigation, since it was a suicide. But if there were, she would loveto join him, maybe even team up with him. It would be a pleasure to get out from behind the damned desk and do some serious fieldwork, instead of simply tending to the endless crop of memos and reports. And with the sudden envy came the recollection of the heady, almost joyful rush she always felt when she knew she had righted a wrong, when she apprehended someone who had broken the law. When she brought to justice a man or woman who had inflicted pain on a weaker, less powerful, more vulnerable person.
    Brought to justice
. For her, the phrase had never been empty, not just one of those things you tossed off without thinking what it meant. Those three words had always held a profound significance, always made her feel that what she was doing wasn’t an ordinary job. It was
important
. She was helping to preserve order in an otherwise disorderly and chaotic world. She was enforcing the laws that bound people together, that preserved their rights and upheld their obligations
—
although the law was never as simple and clear-cut out there in the world as it seemed in the criminal code.
    And on top of all that, there was the pleasure of collecting odd bits of seemingly unrelated information, assembling and reassembling the pieces like a complicated jigsaw puzzle, until finally you could see the whole picture come together, you could say,
Yes! Yes, that’s it! That’s the answer!
to the only and obvious conclusion.
    Sheila’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and she took a deep breath. What was stopping her from teaming up with Bartlett on this one? Nothing really, was there? And with Hardin off fishing in the Gulf for the duration, this might be the only chance she’d have. Why not go for it?
    Then she made herself loosen her grip. Not a good idea. Since thiswas likely a suicide, the investigation would be limited. Anyway, it was Bartlett’s investigation. It was her job to make him look good, not steal the limelight or intrude on his turf, the way Hardin often did.
    No. She would put in a brief appearance, take a quick look at the scene (mostly to remind herself of what real, on-the-ground fieldwork was all about), and then let Bartlett get on with his work while she went home and had her supper. But first, she needed to get Rambo settled. So instead of stopping at the scene, she made a right at the next cross street, a left onto Hickory, and another left into her driveway.
    The house where she and Blackie were currently living was an older two-bedroom, two-bath rental that Ruby Wilcox had found for them on Hickory Street, on the other side of the alley and a couple of doors down from Ruby’s house on Pecan. It had a large yard with a dog run and shelter for Rambo, which was what had decided the matter as far as Sheila was concerned. She had loved her little, low-upkeep frame house on the west side of town, but it was too small for two people and a big dog, so she’d put it on the market and (luckily) had sold it within a couple of weeks. Blackie had a big house with a barn and thirty-five acres, and Sheila would have loved to live there. But it was a half-hour drive from town, and her job meant being on call twenty-four-seven. So he had rented the house to a CTSU faculty member and kept the barn and pastures for his horses. The two of them spent time out there when they had it to spend. Sheila was learning to ride, and Rambo loved having plenty of open space to run.
    Sheila let Rambo into the fenced backyard to take care of his business while she went into the kitchen to get his dog food, then put him in his run with his dinner, which he happily attacked. She briefly debated whether to