me weekly reports."
The agency I work for has had a few whacky cases in
the past; some we took, some we didn't. But this is America, and even crackpots, if they have the money-especially
if they have money-have the right to be afforded fair
treatment. Not that she was a crackpot, at least, not certifiable. Still, I wondered if she was holding something back.
Did she know something that might help? Otherwise, why
throw good money after bad? Made no sense. I'd uncovered
enough evidence to warrant police intervention, at least as
far as I was concerned. Why was she resisting?
"Mrs. Morrison, is there anything I should know, anything you can tell me about Emmett Patterson that might
help, anything that you haven't told me or the police?"
Her eyes narrowed; her jaw stiffened. "Why, what would
I know about a common employee?"
I took a deep breath and threw deference aside. "Beats
me. Truth is, I figured the reason you're so insistent I continue is you suspect something that you're reluctant to talk
about. I got the impression in talking to Mr. Jackson that
he wanted to fire Emmett Patterson, but you objected."
Her pales eyes blazed. I stood my ground and added,
"Often, Mrs. Morrison, people are hesitant to speak up for
fear of involvement. I assure you, anything you tell me
stays with me."
For several seconds, she eyed me through cold slits.
"And I assure you, Mr. Boudreaux, that I am not used to
my integrity being brought to question." She straightened
her shoulders and tilted her jaw. "About anything. Especially common laborers with whom I have no association.
I leave all those sort of dealings to my supervisors." She
spat out the last two words, like exclamation points at the
end of a sentence.
We locked eyes. Was she talking about Emmett? Or me?
I was growing tired of her high-handed treatment. Except
for twelve million dollars, we were the same. Both put our
pants, relatively speaking, on one leg at a time.
No, on second thought, I couldn't imagine her putting
her pants on one leg at a time. She probably levitated, then
lowered herself into her pants. That was how she did it. I
shrugged. "If you say so, Mrs. Morrison." I kept my eyes
fixed on hers. It had become a contest now to see who
broke eye contact first.
She nodded, and I knew she had dismissed me. I considered backing to the door so I could hold her eyes, but
while I'm hard-headed and stubborn, I figured I would look
foolish backing across the library, dodging chairs and tables, just so I wouldn't take my eyes off her. I dropped my
gaze and headed for the door.
Outside, I drove around behind the maintenance barn to
Emmett Patterson's cabin, with what I hoped was the combination to his safe burning a hole in my shirt. Maybe I
should have refused her offer, but four big ones a day
wasn't something to turn down without contacting Marty
Blevins, my boss. I knew what Marty would say. He'd utter
a few curses then say, "Certainly. Take it. Do whatever she
wants. If the rich old broad wants you to mow her yard for
four hundred, do it." Old Marty, not a money-hungry bone
in his body.
The Yenko Camaro was gone, probably impounded by
a wrecker yard that planned on charging outrageous storage
rates. Once the charges reached a point exceeding the value
of the car, the wrecking yard placed a mechanics lien
against it. A painless means of acquiring fine automobiles.
I shut the cabin door and flipped on the light. I hesitated,
then locked the door. I didn't want anyone barging in on
me. Quickly, I scooted the gun cabinet from the wall.
I gave the dial a spin to clear it, then started dialing.
"Let's see. All right, left one, right two, left two . . ." I
continued dialing the entire set of sixteen numbers. Despite the sound rationale I had constructed assuring me this was
the combination, my doubts grew with each switch in direction.
Finally, I stopped the dial on two, the last digit in the
combination. I took a deep
The agency I work for has had a few whacky cases in
the past; some we took, some we didn't. But this is America, and even crackpots, if they have the money-especially
if they have money-have the right to be afforded fair
treatment. Not that she was a crackpot, at least, not certifiable. Still, I wondered if she was holding something back.
Did she know something that might help? Otherwise, why
throw good money after bad? Made no sense. I'd uncovered
enough evidence to warrant police intervention, at least as
far as I was concerned. Why was she resisting?
"Mrs. Morrison, is there anything I should know, anything you can tell me about Emmett Patterson that might
help, anything that you haven't told me or the police?"
Her eyes narrowed; her jaw stiffened. "Why, what would
I know about a common employee?"
I took a deep breath and threw deference aside. "Beats
me. Truth is, I figured the reason you're so insistent I continue is you suspect something that you're reluctant to talk
about. I got the impression in talking to Mr. Jackson that
he wanted to fire Emmett Patterson, but you objected."
Her pales eyes blazed. I stood my ground and added,
"Often, Mrs. Morrison, people are hesitant to speak up for
fear of involvement. I assure you, anything you tell me
stays with me."
For several seconds, she eyed me through cold slits.
"And I assure you, Mr. Boudreaux, that I am not used to
my integrity being brought to question." She straightened
her shoulders and tilted her jaw. "About anything. Especially common laborers with whom I have no association.
I leave all those sort of dealings to my supervisors." She
spat out the last two words, like exclamation points at the
end of a sentence.
We locked eyes. Was she talking about Emmett? Or me?
I was growing tired of her high-handed treatment. Except
for twelve million dollars, we were the same. Both put our
pants, relatively speaking, on one leg at a time.
No, on second thought, I couldn't imagine her putting
her pants on one leg at a time. She probably levitated, then
lowered herself into her pants. That was how she did it. I
shrugged. "If you say so, Mrs. Morrison." I kept my eyes
fixed on hers. It had become a contest now to see who
broke eye contact first.
She nodded, and I knew she had dismissed me. I considered backing to the door so I could hold her eyes, but
while I'm hard-headed and stubborn, I figured I would look
foolish backing across the library, dodging chairs and tables, just so I wouldn't take my eyes off her. I dropped my
gaze and headed for the door.
Outside, I drove around behind the maintenance barn to
Emmett Patterson's cabin, with what I hoped was the combination to his safe burning a hole in my shirt. Maybe I
should have refused her offer, but four big ones a day
wasn't something to turn down without contacting Marty
Blevins, my boss. I knew what Marty would say. He'd utter
a few curses then say, "Certainly. Take it. Do whatever she
wants. If the rich old broad wants you to mow her yard for
four hundred, do it." Old Marty, not a money-hungry bone
in his body.
The Yenko Camaro was gone, probably impounded by
a wrecker yard that planned on charging outrageous storage
rates. Once the charges reached a point exceeding the value
of the car, the wrecking yard placed a mechanics lien
against it. A painless means of acquiring fine automobiles.
I shut the cabin door and flipped on the light. I hesitated,
then locked the door. I didn't want anyone barging in on
me. Quickly, I scooted the gun cabinet from the wall.
I gave the dial a spin to clear it, then started dialing.
"Let's see. All right, left one, right two, left two . . ." I
continued dialing the entire set of sixteen numbers. Despite the sound rationale I had constructed assuring me this was
the combination, my doubts grew with each switch in direction.
Finally, I stopped the dial on two, the last digit in the
combination. I took a deep
Similar Books
