Tough Cookie полностью

“No.” Why would I? Belatedly, I remembered Cinda Caldwell, and her customer who’d mouthed threats about poisoning a cop. Did a parole board chief qualify as a cop? “Wait, there’s something else—” I told them of this morning’s interchange with Cinda. “Tom, didn’t you get the message I left?” He shook his head and said he hadn’t yet retrieved his messages. Bancock wrote down the name of Cinda’s café. He asked Patrolman Hoskins if he had any further questions; Hoskins replied in the negative. The young deputy reviewed his notes, then asked for our phone numbers. While Tom recited them, I walked to the outer office to check on the snow. It was still coming down hard.

Does your husband know I’m meeting you?

I’ve got something for Tom in my car….

Doggone. I dashed back to the office. “Sergeant Bancock. There is something else I forgot to tell you. This morning, just before we left the bistro? Doug told me he had something for Tom.”

Bancock gave me a curious look, then transferred the curiosity to Tom. “Had something for your husband?” he asked me. “What?”

“I have no idea. He mentioned it was in his car.”

“Know what kind of vehicle he was driving?” Bancock asked.

I did not. Hoskins and Bancock went out to phone Portman’s office, in search of a description. Tom asked, “Have you received any mail from the Department of Corrections lately?”

“No. Why?”

“The DOC sends out notices to a convict’s victims and relatives of victims, before the convict comes up for parole. The board holds a hearing before parole is granted, so the victims can give their opinion on the guy getting out. Or not getting out.” He shook his head. “If the DOC sent you a notice about John Richard, it might mean trouble for you. You see that, don’t you?”

“Why? What trouble? What does this have to do with The Jerk? Look, Tom, all I did was go out with Doug Portman, eight years ago. Today I was just going to sell him some skis. Which one of those is a crime? What could that have to do with my ex-husband?”

Tom gnawed the inside of his cheek. “John Richard has been in the Furman County Jail for how long, four months?”

Blood rose to my cheeks. No. Not parole for The Jerk. Not yet. Please. I counted back. In September, John Richard had finally been convicted of assault—not of me, but of another woman. With the state penitentiary operating at double capacity, he was currently serving his two-year sentence in the Furman County Jail. “Almost four months.” I searched Tom’s face. “That’s got to be too early for parole.”

“Sorry, Miss G. I haven’t memorized all the statutes.”

“He couldn’t be. Anyway, Tom, no matter what’s going on with John Richard, Doug Portman died while skiing. This can’t have anything to do with John Richard. End of story.”

But I knew all too well that wasn’t quite the end of the story. Why would Doug insist on buying Tom’s skis with cash instead of a check? Wasn’t that foolhardy? And speaking of foolhardy, if the run was closed, why was Doug Portman on it? People who died skiing usually suffered heart attacks. Or they collided with an obstacle and died of internal injuries. If Doug suffered an internal injury, there was an awful lot of his blood on the slope.

I knew, too, that a suspicious death raises questions first about the person who discovers the body. Say a woman finds the body of a parole board member. Say she has an abusive ex-husband, now in jail. The ex-husband is no threat, until he comes up for parole. If he’s granted parole, what happens if the formerly abused wife takes exception to the decision of the parole board?

My body felt numb. This time, however, it wasn’t from the cold.

CHAPTER 6

Hoskins and Bancock reappeared to say they had a description of Portman’s BMW and were going to search for it. When the door closed behind them, Tom scraped a chair over, clasped my elbow, and spoke in a gentle voice.

“Look. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“They were your skis. I should have told you—”

“Goldy, please. There’s a lot going on here that’s out of whack.”

“No kidding.” I finally took a sip of my coffee. It was cold.

“For one thing,” Tom went on calmly, “why would Portman give you something for me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s an article discussing the rising values of collectible skis. Wouldn’t he have called the Sheriff’s department directly if he’d had something to give you from work?”

He waved a hand. “We’ll know pretty soon. If this is work-related, if it has to do with a case, you shouldn’t be acting as courier.”

“What could he have had for you, relating to one of your cases, that couldn’t wait until Monday morning?”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Portman was kind of an eager beaver, very self-impressed. Of course, maybe on your dates, he didn’t give that impression—” He chuckled.

“That’s not funny,” I said as he smiled.