politics.”
“Oh, really?” she noted. “You think Hap Brewster is totally above such a thing?”
“Dr. Barnes,” he said with a shake of his head, “I have no love for Brewster or his crowd, but they’re not murderers.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Pamela with a shrug. “But someone is a murderer, James. And if it’s not you, then who?”
Chapter Thirteen
As she climbed the short flight of stairs leading from the Reardon city jail to the City Hall parking lot, she ran smack dab into her friend and nemesis Detective Shoop, ostensibly on his way back to his office from the parking lot.
“Dr. Barnes,” he exclaimed in his typical deadpan manner, “as I live and breathe.” He had stopped in his tracks and was now barring her way, leaving her stranded on the next-to-the last step from the basement jailhouse. The result was that the tall, gangly policeman hovered even more over her like some predatory gargoyle—his open raincoat flapping like wings as he gestured his greeting to her. “What brings you to City Hall? Surely, you’re not interfering—I mean—messing around in a police case, are you? It wouldn’t by any chance be the James Grant murder investigation, would it?
“Detective,” she replied, ducking under his outstretched arm and securing a position leaning against the banister leading to the second floor where she recovered her equilibrium. “How delightful to see you again. You must be on your way back to your office. Please don’t let me detain you.” She scooted around him, aiming for the outside, double-glass door entrance to the building.
“Oh, Doctor,” cried Shoop, grabbing her by the elbow. “Please do come up to my office for a chat.” He gave her arm a decided squeeze and immediately bounded up the flight of stairs leading to the Police Department on the second floor. Pamela sighed and followed him. Surely, this would be a brief social visit and she could be quickly on her way.
Shoop’s office was just inside the back door entrance to the second floor and immediately to the right. His, like most of the detectives’ offices in the Reardon Police Department, was small and encased with wood paneling up to waist height with glass partitions the rest of the way up. She always thought how awful it would be to have such an office because it would allow the resident no privacy whatsoever. Inside the office, she recognized Shoop’s cluttered desk and his torn and tattered, small, plastic sofa. One tiny window overlooked the parking lot. In the corner, Shoop’s space heater stood vigil. Thankfully, it wasn’t running on this sweltering August day, but Shoop seemed to have a persistent cold and every time she’d been in this office in the past, the space heater had been churning out warmth—often too much.
“Sit, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop ordered, as he flung his dilapidated raincoat over the top of a wooden coat stand, moving behind his old-fashioned desk. She positioned herself primly on the edge of the sofa, knowing full well that probably a month’s worth of junk food had slid into the cracks and crevices. “I’m guessing that you were down in our jail visiting Mr. Grant. Am I right?”
“He is allowed visitors,” she retorted. After working together—sometimes cooperatively and sometimes not—Shoop and Pamela had developed a grudging respect for each other. Nevertheless, he needled her whenever they worked together and she tried to give as good as she got. Theirs was a relationship filled with rivalry.
“So, it was a social call?” he asked, leaning back in his squeaky roll-chair. “I didn’t realize that the two of you were friends. I mean, you certainly didn’t indicate such when I saw you at his wife’s funeral the other day.” He leaned over his desk and leered at her.
“If you must know, I was asked to talk to him—by his lawyer,” she replied with a huff.
“And why
“Oh, really?” she noted. “You think Hap Brewster is totally above such a thing?”
“Dr. Barnes,” he said with a shake of his head, “I have no love for Brewster or his crowd, but they’re not murderers.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Pamela with a shrug. “But someone is a murderer, James. And if it’s not you, then who?”
Chapter Thirteen
As she climbed the short flight of stairs leading from the Reardon city jail to the City Hall parking lot, she ran smack dab into her friend and nemesis Detective Shoop, ostensibly on his way back to his office from the parking lot.
“Dr. Barnes,” he exclaimed in his typical deadpan manner, “as I live and breathe.” He had stopped in his tracks and was now barring her way, leaving her stranded on the next-to-the last step from the basement jailhouse. The result was that the tall, gangly policeman hovered even more over her like some predatory gargoyle—his open raincoat flapping like wings as he gestured his greeting to her. “What brings you to City Hall? Surely, you’re not interfering—I mean—messing around in a police case, are you? It wouldn’t by any chance be the James Grant murder investigation, would it?
“Detective,” she replied, ducking under his outstretched arm and securing a position leaning against the banister leading to the second floor where she recovered her equilibrium. “How delightful to see you again. You must be on your way back to your office. Please don’t let me detain you.” She scooted around him, aiming for the outside, double-glass door entrance to the building.
“Oh, Doctor,” cried Shoop, grabbing her by the elbow. “Please do come up to my office for a chat.” He gave her arm a decided squeeze and immediately bounded up the flight of stairs leading to the Police Department on the second floor. Pamela sighed and followed him. Surely, this would be a brief social visit and she could be quickly on her way.
Shoop’s office was just inside the back door entrance to the second floor and immediately to the right. His, like most of the detectives’ offices in the Reardon Police Department, was small and encased with wood paneling up to waist height with glass partitions the rest of the way up. She always thought how awful it would be to have such an office because it would allow the resident no privacy whatsoever. Inside the office, she recognized Shoop’s cluttered desk and his torn and tattered, small, plastic sofa. One tiny window overlooked the parking lot. In the corner, Shoop’s space heater stood vigil. Thankfully, it wasn’t running on this sweltering August day, but Shoop seemed to have a persistent cold and every time she’d been in this office in the past, the space heater had been churning out warmth—often too much.
“Sit, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop ordered, as he flung his dilapidated raincoat over the top of a wooden coat stand, moving behind his old-fashioned desk. She positioned herself primly on the edge of the sofa, knowing full well that probably a month’s worth of junk food had slid into the cracks and crevices. “I’m guessing that you were down in our jail visiting Mr. Grant. Am I right?”
“He is allowed visitors,” she retorted. After working together—sometimes cooperatively and sometimes not—Shoop and Pamela had developed a grudging respect for each other. Nevertheless, he needled her whenever they worked together and she tried to give as good as she got. Theirs was a relationship filled with rivalry.
“So, it was a social call?” he asked, leaning back in his squeaky roll-chair. “I didn’t realize that the two of you were friends. I mean, you certainly didn’t indicate such when I saw you at his wife’s funeral the other day.” He leaned over his desk and leered at her.
“If you must know, I was asked to talk to him—by his lawyer,” she replied with a huff.
“And why
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