Fool's Puzzle Earlene Fowler (microsoft ebook reader TXT) 📖

was the only word to describe the office. Everything matched, down to the brass-and-oak desk accessories. They say you can tell a lot about a person by their work surroundings. But this office was a loaner, so any stories it had to tell wouldn’t be his. The top of the desk in front of him was bare. I wondered if he kept a file cabinet at Liddie’s. I decided not to ask.

“Where’s your cousin?” he finally asked, his voice smooth as the burnished wood desk in front of him.

I told him my story and waited for the meltdown.

“Did he touch anything after they found the body? Did your cousin? Did they remove anything from the premises? Did he call anybody?” His voice became louder with each sentence.

“I don’t know.” I tried to make out the signature on the painting behind him. It was a surrealistic desert scene with cacti shaped like green bullets. It looked like Crap. The artist’s name, not the painting.

“Why did he go for gas? Where? Had his hands been recently washed? Were there stains on his clothes?” Two deep lines formed on either side of his black mustache.

“I don’t know.” A strong urge to chew on the tip of my braid, a childhood habit, came over me as I readjusted myself in the stiff chair.

“Why did he duck down when he saw you drive by? What did he and your cousin talk about after they discovered the body? Which way did he start walking when your cousin dropped him off?”

“I don’t know. I ... didn’t think to ask.”

He slammed a hand down on his desk; the unexpectedness of it caused me to jump. He rose, tore off his glasses and pointed them at me.

“Exactly. You didn’t think to ask those things because you’re not a cop, which is why I should have been the one talking to her, not you.” He shoved his glasses back on, walked over to the window, and stood there muttering to himself in an incomprehensible mixture of Spanish and English.

I froze, wondering what I should do. Bolting out the door was my first choice, clearly not a viable one. Too many guns between me and my truck. Still, doing nothing had never been my style.

“She never would have called you,” I said. “And I tried to get her to come in and talk to the police but she refused. I couldn’t force her. You have more information than if I hadn’t seen her at all.”

He turned and looked at me, the flinty lines of his face grim. “You could have taken me with you.”

Good point. But it didn’t take into consideration family loyalty.

“She didn’t have anything to do with Marla’s murder. She was just an innocent bystander. I think you should find Eric. Were his fingerprints on the murder weapon?”

He was silent so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“That is none of your business,” he said, walking back to his chair and sitting down. I watched with apprehension as a small muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Anything else you care to add, Ms. Harper?”

“No.” I scooted forward in my chair. “That about covers it. Now can I go?” Even I cringed at the adolescent ring of petulance in my voice. Except that’s how it felt. Like being sent to the principal’s office. Of course, detention here took on a whole different meaning.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ankle to knee. Pulling at his thick mustache, he studied me with solemn eyes. I stared back. Boldly. I think.

“Ms. Harper,” he said quietly. “What am I going to do with you?”

I had a few suggestions but I suspected my vote didn’t count for much. Dove’s voice came through loud and clear in my mind—Kiddo, sometimes your best bet is to keep your trap shut.

He stood up, walked over to the door and held it open. I jumped up, and squeezed past him.

“Just one minute.” He grabbed my shoulder as I started to walk away. “I have something I want to show you.”

He held my upper arm in a firm grip and steered me down the long hallway outside his office to a large white door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” It opened to a stairway leading down two flights. Another white door. No writing on it. He slipped a small blue plastic card in a slot at the side of the door. A loud click. He pulled the thick door open, and with the flat of his hand, he gave my back a gentle but very definite shove.

“Where are we?” I asked. It was obvious once I looked around. The cold, bland air, the beige walls, the fingerprinting equipment, the Breathalyzer, the DMV-like photo setup and a long hall of open metal doors revealing small rooms with single attached bunks. Detention in its highest life form.

“I wanted you to see where you’ll be staying if you pull one more stupid stunt like last night.”

“Very funny.” I crossed my arms. “Isn’t psychological intimidation a form of police harassment?”

“We can only hold prisoners six to eight hours.” He studied the blue card in his hand with exaggerated interest. “We have no facilities for food or clothing, although I do have the authority to make an exception. We could send out for food.” He leaned against the door and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Tell me, do you prefer Taco Bell or Burger King?”

“You’re not scaring me.” I glanced around, noticed a phone in the narrow white room where they took mugshots. I was tempted to go over and use it.

And what, I said to myself, call the police? I felt a hysterical laugh gurgle at the back of my throat. I turned my head in an effort to hide my smile.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” Ortiz said mildly. “You know, this isn’t college high jinks. It’s a bit more serious than locking a goat in the science lab.”

I looked at him, incredulous. “How do you know about