Hugger Mugger by Robert B. Parker Page B

and thus don’t have it shoved in your face from such close range.”
    â€œMaybe. Do you think there’s a connection?”
    â€œI have no way to know,” Susan said.
    â€œDo you think a man who prefers boys, or a woman who is married to a man who prefers boys, would have a reason to kill some horses?”
    â€œAs I’ve said, mine is a retrospective profession, as isyours. We’re much better at explaining why people did things than we are at predicting what they might do.”
    â€œOur business is generally after the fact,” I said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re not going to solve this for me, then.”
    â€œNo. I’m not.”
    â€œAnd what about my sexual needs?”
    â€œI could talk dirty on the phone.”
    â€œI think I’m too old for that to work anymore,” I said.
    â€œThen unless you’re coming home soon, I guess you’ll have to mend your fences with SueSue.”
    â€œAnd if I do?”
    â€œI’ll shoot her, and swear I was aiming at a horse.”
    â€œI thought you shrinks had too much self-control for jealousy,” I said.
    â€œOnly during office hours.”

THIRTEEN

----
    I WAS JUST finished shaving when I got a call from Becker, the Lamarr sheriff’s deputy.
    â€œGot a horse shot over in Alton, in South Carolina. Thought I’d drive over and have a look. You want to ride along?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œPick you up in ’bout fifteen minutes.”
    I was standing in front of the motel by the lobby door when Becker pulled up in a black Ford Crown Victoria. There was a blue light sitting on the dashboard, and a long buggy whip antenna, but no police markings. When I got in, the car smelled of food. Becker was drinking coffee. On the seat beside him was a large brown paper bag.
    â€œGot us some sausage biscuits,” Becker said, “and coffee. Help yourself.”
    He pulled the car away from the motel and out onto the county road.
    â€œWhat about granola?” I said.
    â€œHave to go over to Atlanta for that,” Becker said. “People in Columbia County don’t eat granola and don’t tolerate those who do.”
    I poured a little container of cream into a paper cup full of coffee and stirred in several sugars. I drank some, and fished out a large biscuit with a sausage patty in the middle.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll make do.”
    â€œFigured you’d eat most things,” Becker said.
    â€œWhat about the horse shooting?”
    â€œStable over in Alton, Canterbury Farms, somebody snuck around their stable last night, shot a filly named Carolina Moon.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œDon’t know,” Becker said. “Just picked it up off the wire. Got no jurisdiction, you know, over in South Carolina.”
    â€œMe either,” I said.
    â€œHell, you got no jurisdiction anywhere,” Becker said.
    â€œIt’s very freeing,” I said.
    I drank some more coffee as the Georgia landscape gave way with no discernible change to the South Carolina landscape. I checked my arteries. Blood still seemed to be getting through, so I had another sausage biscuit.
    I was experiencing a little of the separateness I always felt when I was away from Susan. It wasn’t unreality exactly, it was more a sense that there was a large empty space around me. Even now, sitting in a squadcar, maybe eighteen inches from another guy, there was a sense of crystalline isolation. It was not loneliness, nor did the feeling make me unhappy. It was simply a feeling different from any other, a feeling available only when I was away from Susan. I was alone.
    â€œWhat do you know about the Clive family?” I said.
    â€œSomebody been shooting their horses,” Becker said.
    â€œBesides that,” I said. “Any of them had any problems with the law?”
    â€œClives are the most important family in the whole Columbia County,” Becker said.