“The bypass. Same old, same old. I deliver the accident statistics on the highways, the locations, the times of the accidents, and the volume of traffic. They have the Department of Transportation statistics on volume but they want to hear what I have to say, and what I really have to say but I won't is that sooner or later the damned bypass will go through. If we work together I think we can limit the damage.” He ran his palm over the side of his head above his ear. “Truth is it will make an ungodly mess wherever the state puts it.”
“And we need it.”
“Hell, yes, we need it. Traffic grows, people's tempers shorten, and we'll be in gridlock before you know it. The commissioners don't want to face facts. The bypass is a necessity.”
He opened the long middle drawer of his desk, then pushed it shut after retrieving a rubber band, which he slipped on his wrist.
Cooper, recognizing his jog to his memory, the rubber band on his wrist, asked, “You could write yourself a note.”
“Yeah, stick it in my chest pocket and forget it. This way I don't forget.” He snapped the band against his wrist.
“What do you need to remember?”
“Milk. The missus asked me to bring home a quart of two-percent milk. Well, I'd better push off. I'll see you in the morning.”
“I've been thinking about the money in Don's safe. Would a merchant be able to get new money like that? A department store, a business like Wal-Mart, something with high volume?”
“I don't know. What would the purpose be? Money is money. Customers at Wal-Mart don't care if they get change in brand-new bills. We know the banks get new money supplies, the old money gets burned. I don't think I could stand to see that.” He stood up, clapped his hat on his head. “Daniel into the lions' den.”
“Boss, I'll say my prayers.”
“You do that.” He clapped her on the back, snapped the rubber band on his wrist, and left.
Paperwork had been accumulating on Coop's desk at a geometric ratio. She straightened up the piles, sighed, then gave in, sat down, and started sorting into three piles. The first one hit the trash can, the envelopes and letters making a little pinging sound in the metal wastebasket. The second pile was more urgent and the third pile was less urgent. She hoped that time would solve some of the questions and problems presented by the third pile. Her rule of thumb was if she waited three weeks, often she didn't need to answer. It wasn't the most scientific system in the world but it worked.
She e-mailed replies to the most urgent pile. For those individuals and organizations lacking an e-mail address she wrote out letters on the computer, then printed them.
In the background she heard the metallic grunting of the fax machine.
“For you,” Yancy said as best he could, since his jaw was still wired shut.
She rose and grabbed the fax from the dealer in Newport News. No one at the dealership recognized Wesley Partlow. “Rats.” She slipped the fax into her file box under her desk.
“No luck,” Yancy commiserated through clenched teeth. He'd gotten pretty good at talking despite his handicap.
“Hell, no. Say, Yance, when do you get the wires out?”
“Next week.”
“Bet you'll be glad.”
“Yep.”
“Does it ruin your sex life?” she teased him.
“Nope.”
She started to say something silly when Sheila at the front desk buzzed her. “Din Marks is here for you.”
“Be right out. Yancy, your attacker is here. Maybe you'd better stay put.”
“I'll get 'im in court.”
“Right, buddy.” She walked out front where a nervous Din Marks waited on a long wooden bench. An older man sat next to him.
“Mr. Marks.”
Both men stood up so Cooper surmised the older man was Din's father.
“Officer Cooper, uh, Dad said I had to come down here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Marks.” She shook the older man's hand, rough with calluses. “Why don't we go in this room here? It's more private. Can I get you all a drink?”
“No, no, we're fine,” the older Marks, rail thin, replied.
Once seated in the small room, Din squirmed in his seat. “I remember something.”
“Let's hear it.”
“Dad said I had to come on down.”
“That's right, son.” Mr. Marks was hoping his boy would make a good enough impression that perhaps the trial against him would not be so heavy to bear. Maybe Cooper would help Din.
“I remembered something that Wesley said. He said he was owed some money. Big money. He meant to collect it. Stealing hubcaps.” Din shrugged. “Said it wasn't how he made real money. He said stealing was like, uh, pitching. You had to keep limbered up.”
“Did he say who owed him?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Did he say how much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. Said he could make as much as he wanted. I didn't believe him but I was, well, you know.”
“Did he say how he'd make more money?”
“No, ma'am, but I figured it wasn't in the stock market.”
“Did he ever say what kind of work he did? Regular work? Like road work in the summer or roofing? Anything?”
“No.”
“Well, you were right to come down here. Thank you, Din. Thank you, Mr. Marks.”
As they stood up to leave, Mr. Marks, his eyes moist, said, “Will this help my boy?”
“Mr. Marks, the fact that he is cooperating with the sheriff's department can't hurt him. What can help him is if he goes to AA meetings. If he repents in front of the judge and produces evidence that he is mending his ways, going to AA, I think, will make a favorable impression on the judge. Hear?”
Mr. Marks nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma'am, I hear.” With that he put his hand in the small of Din's back, directing him toward the door.
They were no sooner out the door than Yancy, bright-eyed, strode into the front room. “Coop, Coop, will you look at this?”
She grabbed the fax he handed her. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This changes things.”
The fax from the manager of Roy and Nadine's read:
Dear Deputy Cooper,
I do not recognize Donald Clatterbuck nor does anyone on my staff. However, we recognize the man with him. He comes in about once a month, usually in the company of a local businessman, Bill Boojum.
Let me know if I can be of further service to you.
Yours truly,
Tara Fitzgibbon
38
Are you sure we should do this?” Harry asked Susan.
“Someone has to” was the terse reply.
“Why not BoomBoom? She uses the salvage yard. I mean she has to get sheet-metal scraps.”
Susan considered this. “Maybe all three of us should go to Sean.”
“I don't want to go.” Harry stubbornly dug her heels in.
“Mother hates anything that might become emotional.” Mrs. Murphy sighed. “I don't know why. Humans have highly developed emotions to keep them alive.”
“When they lived in caves.” Pewter shook herself, then sat down for serious grooming.
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Murphy edged toward the door. If the humans were going to the O'Bannons', she was going with them.
“All that adrenaline worked when they lived in caves but I can't see how it does them a damn bit of good now. Just gets them in trouble.”
“I'm not talking about violence, I'm talking about the whole range of emotion.”
“Piffle,” the cat sniffed.
“I don't think my emotions are any less developed than a human's,” Tucker stoutly said.
“Did I say they were?” Murphy was irritated that her two cohorts missed her point and she thought they were being deliberately obtuse. “What I'm saying is their emotions keep them alive. I am not saying those emotions are in the service of reality at this time in their evolution.”