Evening Street by Julia Keller Page B

federal ID, not the license—but she still had it in her purse.”
    â€œYes,” Bell said. She was too stunned at first to offer more than one word. It was impossible to believe. Just a few hours ago, she’d been sitting with Darlene in the bar. She could remember the way her hand looked when she lifted the whiskey glass. She could remember the sound of her voice, the expression on her face. And now all of it—the hand, the voice, the face—was gone. Darlene Strayer was dead.
    Bell realized that she and Oakes were standing in the foyer, facing each other, in radically different states of attire. She wore a pink chenille robe and sweats and slippers. He wore a brown uniform and a black wool greatcoat, and a black toboggan instead of his usual flat-brimmed hat. The snow was melting from his boots onto the wide-plank flooring. Already two pools had formed around his feet.
    In other circumstances, the disparity would have amused them. Neither commented upon it now.
    â€œAnyway,” he said. “Just needed to inform you. And get a few basic facts for the timeline.”
    â€œYes. Of course.”
    He sensed her shock and kept his demeanor businesslike. Normally, Jake Oakes was a joker, a scamp, a cutup; he and Bell often clashed over his reliance on the inappropriate wisecrack as his primary communication tool. Not today. He was suitably serious. She appreciated that.
    â€œWe met at the Tie Yard,” Bell went on. “I know Darlene from law school. Haven’t seen her in years. She’s originally from Barr County. Lives in D.C. now. But she wanted to get together tonight. She left the bar just a few minutes before I did.” Bell realized she was still in the grip of the present tense. It was too soon to change.
    â€œRight.” He wrote some words in his notebook.
    Bell put her left hand on the newel post of the stair railing close to where she stood. She needed to hold on to something. Oakes knew better than to offer assistance.
    â€œWhat was the cause of the accident, Jake? I mean—yeah, the roads were in bad shape, with the snow and all. That switchback can be a bitch. And it was dark. But Darlene knows her way around these mountains. Was there anything else? Any other contributing factors?”
    Oakes looked at her. “Ma’am?” he said.
    Bell waited. She didn’t know what was going on, and waited for him to enlighten her.
    â€œMa’am,” Oakes repeated. He was tentative now, as if she might be testing him. “We don’t have the toxicology report yet, of course, but it’s an easy guess. There was a strong smell of alcohol on the body. And vomit in the car. She was drunk. That’s how she lost control and hit the tree. She was impaired.”
    â€œNo.” Bell’s objection was sharp and quick. “No way. I was with her. She had one drink. That’s it. She was definitely not drunk.”
    â€œMa’am, I’ve already checked with the bartender at the Tie Yard. He was none too happy to have to answer his door first thing on a Sunday morning, but he remembered her right away. Recognized the picture. He served her four shots in a row. Some guy came in and sat down next to her at the bar, he said. Looked like they hit it off right away. He bought her a few more. By that time, she was slurring her words. Bartender finally had to cut her off.”
    Bell was irritated now. “And I’m telling you he’s wrong. I was there, Jake. He’s got her confused with somebody else. Darlene had one drink. And we walked out together—just the two of us. She was fine. Totally sober.”
    The deputy flipped a few pages in his notebook, finding the passage he wanted. “What time did you leave the bar?”
    â€œNine thirty at the latest. I was home by ten forty-five.”
    â€œWell, that’s our problem, right there.” He tapped the page. “Bartender says he came on duty about ten. She was