Lark by Richard; Forrest Page A

supermarket.”
    A car beeped on the apron outside. “When was the last time you saw her?”
    â€œSaturday. I was working here and she came by to borrow a ten.”
    Lark calculated that would have been the day before she died. “What time of day did she come by?”
    â€œI don’t know, sometime in the morning, maybe ten or so.”
    â€œDid she say where she was going?”
    The impatient customer outside began to honk repeatedly. Mike Lawton squirmed nervously at the desk. “I got to take care of that car.”
    â€œI need more on Vicky.”
    â€œListen, mister, you can beat on me all you want, but I’m the only one at the station until noon. I got to take care of that customer.”
    â€œOkay, go do it.” Lark followed Mike Lawton outside and watched as the surly young man halfheartedly serviced a Corvette. “I’ll be back at noon.”
    Lawton mumbled an acknowledgment.
    Warren’s town green might have been picturesque if the town’s fathers had kept their wits about them. Instead, they had allowed local business to take the lure of the dollar, and now the remaining nineteenth-century facades were decaying and the area was sprinkled with fast-food outlets that incongruously dotted the square. Parts of old newspapers blew across the green itself, and the grass covering was scuffed to bare earth in many spots.
    Lark located the town’s small police station in the rear of the building that housed the library. He parked the pickup in a no-parking zone directly in front of its double glass doors.
    He knew that Warren was on the Resident State Trooper Program, and hoped the state cop would be on duty rather than an ill-trained and part-time constable. He knew that the troopers who policed these small towns were well-trained men who received their assignments through competitive examination and considered it good duty.
    When Connecticut curtailed most county government functions and severely reduced the police powers of the sheriffs, many small towns and villages were unable to provide adequate, well-trained police services. The Resident Trooper Program filled the void. State cops, with years of experience and advanced training, were assigned to these towns, and in conjunction with the constables, they provided efficient services.
    Lark entered the small office and blinked as his eyes refocused from the bright exterior light to the dim interior.
    A bulky state trooper sergeant looked up at him, pushed his chair back, and walked forward with balled fists. “Lark, you son of a bitch!” His right hand shot forward into Lark’s solar plexus.
    Lark’s rigid abdominal muscles deflected the blow and he countered with a left to the trooper’s midsection. The sergeant reeled back with a deep exhale of breath. His hands tenderly felt his aching stomach.
    â€œWhat in the hell are you doing here, Black Jack?” Lark asked with a smile. “I thought they’d exiled all you black Irishmen.”
    â€œSon of a bitch, you’re still hard,” the trooper said. “I’ve been here nearly a year. It keeps me away from the likes of you, and I got tired of prying teenagers out of wrecked cars.”
    â€œWarren must be desperate.”
    â€œNot as bad off as Middleburg is with you still on the force,” the trooper countered with a grin.
    â€œThey’re working on it,” Lark said, knowing how true that was. “I need some help, if you’re not too hung over, you broken-down bastard.”
    â€œIf you’re up here, that means I got drug problems.”
    â€œI’m not on the street anymore, Black Jack. One of your kids bought it in Middleburg the other day.”
    â€œOh, Christ.” The other officer’s grin faded. “The body of the girl you found was from Warren?”
    â€œShe’s been identified as Vicky Stanton. The mother’s making the final ID right now.”
    Black Jack nodded.