Reyes-Gonzales was frowning.
"I'm afraid something's come up, Detective Beaumont," she said. "We're going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?"
It was my turn to smile. "I'm not going anywhere," I answered. "What about fingerprints? The deputy said you'd want a set of mine for comparison."
Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn't really listening. "That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It's almost lunchtime. I'll get back to you later this afternoon." She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.
"And if you don't mind, Detective Beaumont," she added, "stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?"
"Of course."
She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw's office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own .38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she'd come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she'd have to.
An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn't help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman's death. Homicide detectives don't break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there's some overwhelmingly compelling reason.
I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn't going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn't a detective at all. He was an outsider—a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.
More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…
The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too filled with a sense of foreboding to want to sit alone any longer in the depressing oak-lined cell that was Louise Crenshaw's office.
As people filed into the dining room, they were strangely silent, as though somehow word had spread through the general Ironwood Ranch population that something was dreadfully wrong. As yet, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was, but all were equally affected by it. There was no playful banter in the serving line, no joking or calling back and forth as people headed for tables. At the far end of the room, Calvin Crenshaw paced nervously back and forth in front of the huge fireplace. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he stared fixedly at the floor as he walked.
Ed Sample sidled up to me in line. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Everybody's acting as though their best friend died or something."
I glanced at him quickly, trying to assess if his comment was merely an innocent coincidence or if he had some inside knowledge of what had happened. Despite my questioning look, Sample steadfastly met my gaze, his countenance blandly open and indifferent, his smooth features the picture of a man with nothing to hide. Had I been the detective on the case, I would have paid attention to his comment and done some discreet digging into Ed Sample's personal life to see if there was a connection between him and that miserable
"I'm afraid something's come up, Detective Beaumont," she said. "We're going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?"
It was my turn to smile. "I'm not going anywhere," I answered. "What about fingerprints? The deputy said you'd want a set of mine for comparison."
Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn't really listening. "That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It's almost lunchtime. I'll get back to you later this afternoon." She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.
"And if you don't mind, Detective Beaumont," she added, "stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?"
"Of course."
She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw's office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own .38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she'd come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she'd have to.
An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn't help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman's death. Homicide detectives don't break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there's some overwhelmingly compelling reason.
I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn't going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn't a detective at all. He was an outsider—a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.
More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…
The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too filled with a sense of foreboding to want to sit alone any longer in the depressing oak-lined cell that was Louise Crenshaw's office.
As people filed into the dining room, they were strangely silent, as though somehow word had spread through the general Ironwood Ranch population that something was dreadfully wrong. As yet, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was, but all were equally affected by it. There was no playful banter in the serving line, no joking or calling back and forth as people headed for tables. At the far end of the room, Calvin Crenshaw paced nervously back and forth in front of the huge fireplace. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he stared fixedly at the floor as he walked.
Ed Sample sidled up to me in line. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Everybody's acting as though their best friend died or something."
I glanced at him quickly, trying to assess if his comment was merely an innocent coincidence or if he had some inside knowledge of what had happened. Despite my questioning look, Sample steadfastly met my gaze, his countenance blandly open and indifferent, his smooth features the picture of a man with nothing to hide. Had I been the detective on the case, I would have paid attention to his comment and done some discreet digging into Ed Sample's personal life to see if there was a connection between him and that miserable
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