the edge from his voice.
Come on, Brothers. Call. I’m going to the sheriff with a double helping of nothing much.
The county office was small and brightly lit, papered in the kinds of public service posters that made civilians feel that things were completely under control, with all bad guys numbered, known, and destined for justice. There was a door off to one side, leading to a small office. Tanner assumed that if the sheriff was in, he was behind the closed door.
The secretary’s desk had a nameplate— Ms. Jones —and a man frowning over the phone system like a spaniel confronting a page of quadratic equations. The tag over his right pocket said he was Deputy Feldt. His attitude said he wasn’t interested in visitors.
“That’s the first deputy on scene at Lorne’s death,” Shaye said in a voice too low to be overheard.
“The one who didn’t ask about Lorne’s clothes?” Tanner asked quietly.
“Yes.”
That, plus the deputy’s attitude right now, told Tanner all he needed to know. He walked up and loomed over the desk like the Sierras over the valley, threatening to slide down at any moment.
At first Shaye thought he had growled. Then she realized he was only clearing his throat.
“Yeah?” the deputy said without interest.
“I’m Tanner Davis. I want to talk to the sheriff about my uncle’s death.”
Without looking up, the deputy punched a button. He frowned when nothing happened. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, eyes on the phone.
“So am I,” Tanner said in his cop voice. “Is the sheriff in?”
No wonder Tanner expected the sheriff to be rude to him, Shaye thought. Cops have it down to an art form.
“Listen, Mr. whoever-the-hell—”
A newspaper rattled loudly.
Tanner glanced to the rear corner of the room. Separated only by a waist-high wooden divider and a gate made of the finest wood laminate that the taxpayers would foot the bill for, another deputy sat with his boots propped up on a tiny desk. He didn’t look up, simply rustled his newspaper again, sharply, making the sound of dry weeds harried by the wind.
Deputy Feldt straightened like he had been smacked. “Sorry, I hate this damn phone. What’s the name of the deceased?” His gaze shifted to the phone.
“Lorne Davis.”
“Oh, of course. Same last name and all.”
The deputy in back glanced up from his paper.
Shaye nodded, recognizing him. When Deputy Nathan August wasn’t being an investigator, he often moonlighted as security for Conservancy galas. He had been the second official on scene, but had been called away before he could take pictures with his cell phone.
“Oh, that Davis,” Deputy Feldt said. He looked as earnest as the spaniel breed he resembled. “I was sorry to hear about that. Lorne was a real . . . uh, real.”
“Uh-huh,” Tanner said. “Has there been a ruling on the cause of death?”
“We, ah . . . gimme a moment.” He glanced back toward the other deputy. No response. “I think the sheriff was just looking at the results for that, not sure . . .”
“I’ll need to see them,” Tanner said in a tone that was just short of a demand.
From the back of the room Deputy August said, “Not until the sheriff signs off on the report.”
“Hello, Deputy August,” Shaye said, trying to add some politeness to the conversation.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Townsend.” He looked from the newspaper to Shaye. A long look of male appreciation. “You left the party early last night.”
“Um, it had been a long day,” she said, surprised he’d noticed.
Tanner wasn’t. He made a sound that could have been a growl. The deputy was giving her a visual pat-down.
August looked away from Shaye to Tanner. “My sympathies for your loss.” His gaze went over Tanner, sizing him up like a cop.
Tanner returned the favor.
The other deputy hurried back to the closed door of the office and disappeared. The light came on. A few moments later he returned to the front, carrying a
Come on, Brothers. Call. I’m going to the sheriff with a double helping of nothing much.
The county office was small and brightly lit, papered in the kinds of public service posters that made civilians feel that things were completely under control, with all bad guys numbered, known, and destined for justice. There was a door off to one side, leading to a small office. Tanner assumed that if the sheriff was in, he was behind the closed door.
The secretary’s desk had a nameplate— Ms. Jones —and a man frowning over the phone system like a spaniel confronting a page of quadratic equations. The tag over his right pocket said he was Deputy Feldt. His attitude said he wasn’t interested in visitors.
“That’s the first deputy on scene at Lorne’s death,” Shaye said in a voice too low to be overheard.
“The one who didn’t ask about Lorne’s clothes?” Tanner asked quietly.
“Yes.”
That, plus the deputy’s attitude right now, told Tanner all he needed to know. He walked up and loomed over the desk like the Sierras over the valley, threatening to slide down at any moment.
At first Shaye thought he had growled. Then she realized he was only clearing his throat.
“Yeah?” the deputy said without interest.
“I’m Tanner Davis. I want to talk to the sheriff about my uncle’s death.”
Without looking up, the deputy punched a button. He frowned when nothing happened. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, eyes on the phone.
“So am I,” Tanner said in his cop voice. “Is the sheriff in?”
No wonder Tanner expected the sheriff to be rude to him, Shaye thought. Cops have it down to an art form.
“Listen, Mr. whoever-the-hell—”
A newspaper rattled loudly.
Tanner glanced to the rear corner of the room. Separated only by a waist-high wooden divider and a gate made of the finest wood laminate that the taxpayers would foot the bill for, another deputy sat with his boots propped up on a tiny desk. He didn’t look up, simply rustled his newspaper again, sharply, making the sound of dry weeds harried by the wind.
Deputy Feldt straightened like he had been smacked. “Sorry, I hate this damn phone. What’s the name of the deceased?” His gaze shifted to the phone.
“Lorne Davis.”
“Oh, of course. Same last name and all.”
The deputy in back glanced up from his paper.
Shaye nodded, recognizing him. When Deputy Nathan August wasn’t being an investigator, he often moonlighted as security for Conservancy galas. He had been the second official on scene, but had been called away before he could take pictures with his cell phone.
“Oh, that Davis,” Deputy Feldt said. He looked as earnest as the spaniel breed he resembled. “I was sorry to hear about that. Lorne was a real . . . uh, real.”
“Uh-huh,” Tanner said. “Has there been a ruling on the cause of death?”
“We, ah . . . gimme a moment.” He glanced back toward the other deputy. No response. “I think the sheriff was just looking at the results for that, not sure . . .”
“I’ll need to see them,” Tanner said in a tone that was just short of a demand.
From the back of the room Deputy August said, “Not until the sheriff signs off on the report.”
“Hello, Deputy August,” Shaye said, trying to add some politeness to the conversation.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Townsend.” He looked from the newspaper to Shaye. A long look of male appreciation. “You left the party early last night.”
“Um, it had been a long day,” she said, surprised he’d noticed.
Tanner wasn’t. He made a sound that could have been a growl. The deputy was giving her a visual pat-down.
August looked away from Shaye to Tanner. “My sympathies for your loss.” His gaze went over Tanner, sizing him up like a cop.
Tanner returned the favor.
The other deputy hurried back to the closed door of the office and disappeared. The light came on. A few moments later he returned to the front, carrying a
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