Killing Custer by Margaret Coel Page B

out her cell, and called 911. Then sirens had blared in the distance and intruded upon the quiet.
    â€œThis is still a crime scene.” The detective in blue jeans, leather vest, and white shirt, walked out of Skip’s office. He had introduced himself as Detective Madden. “Why were you here? Again?” He had asked the same question at least three times.
    â€œI told you,” Angela said. “I saw a light in the windows. I thought Skip was back.”
    â€œYou were just driving by and you saw a light.” He shrugged. “Did you get a look at the man who hit you?”
    â€œHe wore a black ski mask.” Angela shook her head. “It happened so fast. He must have yanked the door open, because I stumbled inside and he hit me. I blacked out. When I came to, I was on the floor. I heard him running away.”
    â€œWhat made you think Skip was here?” Detective Madden ignored the two uniforms on their haunches, peering at the piles of papers around them.
    â€œI hoped it was Skip. I thought maybe they let him go . . .”
    Madden lifted one hand, as if that might make sense. “Could be the same guy here this morning. Trashed the place. Didn’t find what he wanted on the computers, so he came back.”
    â€œHe took Skip!” She realized she was shouting. “All that blood, Skip could be dead by now. Why aren’t you out looking for him?”
    â€œWhat do you suppose the intruder was looking for?” Madden said, ignoring the outburst. He moved his big head side to side, taking in the papers cluttering the floor and trailing from Skip’s office. More papers and file folders than littered the floor this morning. The intruder had emptied more drawers.
    â€œHow should I know?” Her heart had turned into a drum.
    â€œYou’re Skip’s secretary. You handle mail, letters, e-mails, files. Correct? Type the office business into the computer?”
    Angela waited a beat, willing the pounding in her temples to stop. “I type what he tells me to type. I’m not a lawyer. Most of it doesn’t make any sense to me.” She tilted her head toward the computer. “Some things he handles himself, what he calls confidential lawyer-client stuff. I do routine stuff: documents he files with the courts, thank-you-for-your-business letters, a bunch of reports. I answer the phone, make appointments, and try to keep Skip on schedule. Visitors are always dropping in.” She could feel the balloon of tears expanding behind her eyes, and she swiveled toward the window and tried to focus on the dim haze of the streetlight in the blackness. Skip was out there somewhere, in the blackness.
    When she turned back, Detective Madden had pulled a chair over closer. He sat hunched over, big red fists clasped on her desk. “What else did you do for Skip Burrows?”
    Angela felt her breath stop in her throat. The pounding in her head speeded up. She stared at the bulky, big-chested man taking up most of the space in front of her, the curve of his shoulders, the office blurring at the edges. They had been so careful. Parking down the street, taking trips out of town. Except that people did know, she realized. That busybody landlady probably knew. Colin. Everybody on the moccasin telegraph. It was a joke, when she thought about it. All that sneaking around, and for what? People in town were talking anyway. She closed her eyes and stared at the image of Skip, hurt, bleeding, forced out the window, landing in the prickly bush below, thrown into the BMW.
    Madden pushed on, saying something about an intimate relationship that might throw light on Skip’s disappearance.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she heard herself say. “I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”
    â€œYou were in an intimate relationship?”
    She waited a long moment before she nodded.
    â€œThe landlady says you left Friday night and didn’t