Melting Clock by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

with the troopers Rangley,” he said.
    “I’m your prisoner,” I reminded him.
    “I have washed my hands of the whole—Martin Sawyer, get the hell away from that window.”
    We were at this crucial point in the conversation when the Rangleys and the doctor came back in, leaving their audience outside.
    “Peters,” said the senior Rangley, “when did you get to Mirador?”
    “About an hour ago, maybe an hour and a half,” I said.
    “And,” he went on, “you went right to the antique shop?”
    “No, I got gas from that kid, the one standing out there on the sidewalk. The pimply one with the overalls.”
    “He told us,” said Rangley.
    “I’m going back to the body,” said the old doctor wearily.
    “Hold your horses,” said Rangley, holding up his hand. Then to me, “Where were you last night, between—”
    “Midnight to five or so,” said the doctor. “That’s safe enough.”
    “Culver City lockup,” I said, standing up. “From about eleven to nine in the morning.”
    “Go check it, Mel,” Rangley said. His brother nodded and went out the door. I watched him muscle through the watching kids and head for the car.
    “I’m going back,” said the doc. He turned and went back to the street, leaving me, Nelson, and the trooper who hated puzzles.
    No one spoke for a while. Nelson sat. Rangley stood and I held onto the bars with one hand and used my other one to dab my bloody nose with Rangley’s handkerchief. My head hurt but I decided to put on a happy face.
    Mel Rangley came running back in about two minutes.
    “He was in the Culver City lockup,” Mel said.
    I grinned broadly and threw the bloody handkerchief to Beau Rangley, who wasn’t ready for it. The balled piece of cloth hit his neatly pressed shirt, leaving a dark, deep spot, and fell to the floor.
    “Sorry,” I said pleasantly.
    “I think you’d better come with us,” he said. “We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. Somewhere quiet. Let him out, Nelson.”
    Nelson put his straw hat on his head and swiveled toward Rangley.
    “I think not,” he said.
    Rangley shook his head as if the world were a series of unexpected little heartbreaks that had to be endured.
    “Open it,” he repeated.
    “No,” said Nelson, standing.
    Rangley was not looking at the sheriff, but I was. I could see the tremor in his knees, the twitch of his jaw, and the determination in his eyes.
    “Nelson, one half-hearted piss and you’d flush down the toilet.”
    “Given the information provided by the good doctor, the confirmation of presence by the Culver City police and your obvious hostility toward the prisoner,” said Nelson, “I do not believe it is in the best interest of the laws of the State of California and the Municipality of Mirador to release the prisoner to you. And that I do not intend to do.”
    Rangley turned to the sheriff and took three steps till they were nose to forehead. Nelson quaked and almost lost his straw hat, but he didn’t back down.
    “You’re one simple shit, Nelson,” Rangley hissed.
    “That is as it may be,” Nelson agreed, “but Peters remains in my charge.”
    With that Trooper Rangley stormed out the door and went to join his brother in their car. The small crowd turned to watch them drive off.
    “Thanks,” I said as Nelson’s knees began a serious wobble. He made it back to his chair and grasped the arms as he sat heavily.
    “There comes a moment when one least expects it that dignity takes precedence over survival,” he said. “That is a moment to be watched for and avoided or one runs the risk of losing a secure job with a pension.”
    “What now?” I asked.
    The crowd on the street was still there but it had dwindled to three, including the retarded man who had now fixed his gaze on me. I waved to him. He waved back and Doc appeared behind him, started toward his car, changed his mind, and entered Nelson’s office, closing the door behind him.
    “Street was killed by a gunshot,” he said.