we find. Just how old is this case, anyway?”
When Brandy said eighty-one years, the corners of his mouth twitched up. He shook his head again. “Miss O’Bannon, go with my partner, Detective Tennis.”
Brandy asked to follow the detective in her own car so she could continue on to Payne’s Prairie. In spite of everything, she didn’t want to miss meeting Grant Wilson and his grandfather.
* * *
The fog had finally lifted but the day remained gray and damp. Brandy sat in Noble’s office on a fake leather couch and waited for Sergeant Tennis to take a seat behind a wooden desk cluttered with papers and an overflowing in-box. A portrait of a woman with a boy about nine sat on one corner. Brandy assumed they were Mrs. Noble and her son. The only picture on the institutional beige wall was one of Florida’s governor, the only document a framed bachelor’s degree.
Tennis looked about thirty. Her brown hair was short and neatly cupped to her head and her lithe figure was rounded in the right places. She probably elevated a few pulses when she joined the Crimes Against Persons Squad, but today she was all business. She set a small tape recorder on the desk and glanced up. She had wide-set gray eyes and a shapely nose and mouth.
Brandy looked at her watch. “I need to call my apartment first. I’ve got a sitter. She needs to know that I won’t be home for lunch.”
Before the interview began, the desk phone rang. When Tennis picked up, she turned her head away, but Brandy still could hear Noble’s baritone. “About two hours before O’Bannon got there, a woman down the road heard a heavy car go by. Find out if O’Bannon heard or saw it.”
Brandy spoke up, “I didn’t see any car at all this morning. Last time I was there a small, light-colored car was parked beside the vacant lot almost a block away—a two-door model or a compact—but not a big, heavy one.”
Tennis walked out into the hall carrying the phone and lowered her voice. When she returned it to its cradle, she said, “Shot twice, thigh and chest, probably with a revolver. You hear any shots?”
“No.”
“Neither did the lady down the block. They’ll be able to recover both bullets.”
No officer was likely to report developments to her. Brandy explained that she was researching a book about Micanopy. The Sergeant led her through the account of her previous visit and then the discovery of the body this morning. Brandy gave her every fact and impression she could recall.
Before they left Noble’s office, Tennis put in another call to him and took it outside the room again. When she returned, Brandy stood. “Did they find the folder I told him about?”
Tennis shook her head. “No folder labeled “Losterman.” They’ve checked every drawer, every nook and cranny inside and outside. The folder’s not there. Before you leave, we’ll trouble you for your fingerprints.”
“Sure, but I didn’t touch anything in the house, only a bench under the arbor Saturday, and nothing today except Hunter’s wrist.”
“We’ll check.”
Brandy rose and followed the Sergeant out of the room. She knew she’d seen the folder. It disappeared.
After a deputy finished rolling her fingertips on a pad, Brandy walked out into the wan light of the parking lot. Strands of Spanish moss hung motionless from the branch of a live oak. It was good to be outdoors again.
* * *
By 1:55 Brandy turned off Route 441 at the entrance to the State Preserve. She pulled up to the toll booth, a small stone house, sheltered by a tall water oak and cabbage palms. A woman in a park preserve uniform stepped out to the car.
“I’ve got an appointment here at 2:00,” Brandy said. “Grant Wilson’s the ranger’s name.”
The woman handed her several Prairie trail maps. “I’m filling in here for the attendant,” she said. “You must be the lady wants to meet old Mr. Wilson. Grant’ll be here in a jiffy. He’s been surveying for the next burn and
When Brandy said eighty-one years, the corners of his mouth twitched up. He shook his head again. “Miss O’Bannon, go with my partner, Detective Tennis.”
Brandy asked to follow the detective in her own car so she could continue on to Payne’s Prairie. In spite of everything, she didn’t want to miss meeting Grant Wilson and his grandfather.
* * *
The fog had finally lifted but the day remained gray and damp. Brandy sat in Noble’s office on a fake leather couch and waited for Sergeant Tennis to take a seat behind a wooden desk cluttered with papers and an overflowing in-box. A portrait of a woman with a boy about nine sat on one corner. Brandy assumed they were Mrs. Noble and her son. The only picture on the institutional beige wall was one of Florida’s governor, the only document a framed bachelor’s degree.
Tennis looked about thirty. Her brown hair was short and neatly cupped to her head and her lithe figure was rounded in the right places. She probably elevated a few pulses when she joined the Crimes Against Persons Squad, but today she was all business. She set a small tape recorder on the desk and glanced up. She had wide-set gray eyes and a shapely nose and mouth.
Brandy looked at her watch. “I need to call my apartment first. I’ve got a sitter. She needs to know that I won’t be home for lunch.”
Before the interview began, the desk phone rang. When Tennis picked up, she turned her head away, but Brandy still could hear Noble’s baritone. “About two hours before O’Bannon got there, a woman down the road heard a heavy car go by. Find out if O’Bannon heard or saw it.”
Brandy spoke up, “I didn’t see any car at all this morning. Last time I was there a small, light-colored car was parked beside the vacant lot almost a block away—a two-door model or a compact—but not a big, heavy one.”
Tennis walked out into the hall carrying the phone and lowered her voice. When she returned it to its cradle, she said, “Shot twice, thigh and chest, probably with a revolver. You hear any shots?”
“No.”
“Neither did the lady down the block. They’ll be able to recover both bullets.”
No officer was likely to report developments to her. Brandy explained that she was researching a book about Micanopy. The Sergeant led her through the account of her previous visit and then the discovery of the body this morning. Brandy gave her every fact and impression she could recall.
Before they left Noble’s office, Tennis put in another call to him and took it outside the room again. When she returned, Brandy stood. “Did they find the folder I told him about?”
Tennis shook her head. “No folder labeled “Losterman.” They’ve checked every drawer, every nook and cranny inside and outside. The folder’s not there. Before you leave, we’ll trouble you for your fingerprints.”
“Sure, but I didn’t touch anything in the house, only a bench under the arbor Saturday, and nothing today except Hunter’s wrist.”
“We’ll check.”
Brandy rose and followed the Sergeant out of the room. She knew she’d seen the folder. It disappeared.
After a deputy finished rolling her fingertips on a pad, Brandy walked out into the wan light of the parking lot. Strands of Spanish moss hung motionless from the branch of a live oak. It was good to be outdoors again.
* * *
By 1:55 Brandy turned off Route 441 at the entrance to the State Preserve. She pulled up to the toll booth, a small stone house, sheltered by a tall water oak and cabbage palms. A woman in a park preserve uniform stepped out to the car.
“I’ve got an appointment here at 2:00,” Brandy said. “Grant Wilson’s the ranger’s name.”
The woman handed her several Prairie trail maps. “I’m filling in here for the attendant,” she said. “You must be the lady wants to meet old Mr. Wilson. Grant’ll be here in a jiffy. He’s been surveying for the next burn and
Similar Books
