Murder at Fire Bay by Ron Hess Page A

it was the criminal’s screw-up.”  
    I didn’t mention my suspicions about Ashley. I couldn’t help wondering if she tied into this crime scene. After all, she was the only one besides Wattle and me who knew.  
    “What was that, sir?”
    “I said, Bronski, ‘you are in charge down there. I might have waited another night, but that’s just me.‘“ There was a sigh of exasperation. “Bronski, are you there?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Well, try to stay awake!”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good-bye!” There was a click and then a dial tone.
    I nodded and thought, Good-bye to you too. The Boss was not having a good day.  
    There was a knock at the door to the main floor. Without waiting, Ashley poked her head around the corner of the door. Her eyes were red. She looked liked she hadn’t slept at all the previous night.
    “Any luck last night?” she asked in that drawl of hers.  
    I motioned her to come in and to shut the door. I shook my head.
    “No. I’ve decided to forego sitting out there another night. I think it would be a waste of time. Either the bad guys have gotten the word we’re waiting for them or else they’ve had a scheduling screw-up themselves. You didn’t talk to anyone about this, did you?”
    “No. No sir!” came the angry denial.
    I held up my hand. “I had to ask,” I said. “We have to cover all the possibilities, right?”
    She gave a vague nod. I went on to explain how I was going to have the local cops show up when the owner of the package came in that afternoon. We went on to discuss a few admin things and then she left the office, maybe a little miffed I’d questioned her discretion.I threw my wire-rims on the desk, leaned back in my fake leather chair, and ruminated about previous illegal actions of my own. Like the time I tried to get a manager cohort to ship a case of whiskey out to a dry village in Western Alaska. Of course, I wasn’t thinking of it as illegal—just expedient. But the Boss caught me. It was not one of my prouder moments. Spilt milk that could not be poured back into the jar.  
    * * *
    The stage was set for the opening of the package. Wattle came into the office first. All official with his no-see through dark glasses and dressed to the”nines” in his city cop uniform.  
    I threw out one little barb. “There’s no sun shining in here. You can take off your sunglasses.”
    Without a word, he removed his glasses. His eyes were red and heavy, dark bags hung under them.  
    “Good God, Wattle, put them back on; you look like hell!”
    Still without a word he put them back on and regarded me. Probably thinking what a dumb-ass civilian I was.  
    I decided to be gentle. “You . . . ah . . .get any sleep this morning?”
    “I had a drunk and an accident to work at nine o’clock this morning, what do you think?”
    My attempt at pleasantries was saved by a knock at the lobby door to my office.
    “Come in!” I barked, trying not to notice the good chief’ grimacing.
    Bill Stevens burst into the office. “You have my prop?” he asked, hand still on the doorknob.
    “Come on in, and close the door,” I said. “Well, I hope so. However, I do have a request.”
    It was after he closed the door that Stevens noticed Wattle sitting in the chair. “Hi, Jim.”
    The chief nodded in return. “Hello, Bill.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    Wattle gave the usual cop answer. “Just routine. Whenever foul play is suspected, we show up.”
    Bill Stevens pursed his lips, looking at me. “Am I in trouble?”
    Wattle interrupted with another usual cop answer. “I don’t know, are you?”
    “We would like to see what’s in the box,” I said, trying to steer the poor guy away from feeling he was already in the poky.
    “Yeah, sure, I guess so,” he answered.
    In a heartbeat, I had my penknife out, slicing at the cardboard top. Wattle told me later I should have seen the look on Bill’s face. I probably should have been a little more diplomatic, but I was