Grave Matters

Liking this conversation less and less, Brass tried to bow out. 'I was just going to stop by my office for a second, then head over to CSI to check on some evidence….'

Atwater's grin carried no mirth. 'This meeting takes precedence.'

The bell announcing the second floor interrupted any further explanation Atwater might have offered. Passengers scurried between and around them, all but two others getting off. The sheriff and his subordinate eyed each other as the doors whispered shut and the car again rose.

Brass twitched a noncommittal smile. 'Mind if I ask who I'll be meeting?'

With his voice lowered almost theatrically, the sheriff replied, 'Rebecca Bennett…. You recognize the name, of course.'

Brass shook his head. 'Can't say I do.'

'I guess that's understandable,' the sheriff said, as if forgiving the detective. 'She hasn't been around for a while-most of the last decade, actually.'

'Afraid you've lost me, Sheriff.'

The doors opened on the third floor and the other two passengers got out to finally give the two law enforcement officers some privacy. As the door closed, Atwater said, 'Well, you've no doubt heard of her mother.'

No bells rang for Brass. 'Bennett' was the kind of name the phone book had no shortage of.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. 'Rita Bennett?'

The third floor bell rang and so did another in the detective's mind-an alarm bell.

They stepped onto the third floor.

'The car dealer,' Brass said. And a major political contributor of yours, Sheriff, he thought. 'But didn't she pass away not long ago?' Right after your election…?

'Yes, she did. She was a dear woman, a dear friend.' The sheriff's grief seemed genuine enough; but perhaps any politician had the ability to truly mourn the death of a money source.

And Rita Bennett had been money, all right. She had won custody of one of her ex-husband's used car lots in their divorce settlement some fifteen years ago, after she'd caught hubby using his dipstick to check his secretary's oil in his office. She had turned the used car lot into one of the top GM dealerships in all the Southwest, leaving her ex in the dust.

The two men were walking down the hall toward the sheriff's office.

'Mrs. Bennett had a solid reputation in this town,' Brass said, and he was not soft-soaping his boss. 'But why is it we're meeting with her daughter?'

'Let's let the young woman tell her own story.'

In the outer office, Brass saw Mrs. Mathis, the forty-something civilian secretary and holdover from Mobley's regime. Coolly efficient and constantly a step ahead of either boss, Mrs. Mathis ran the sheriff's office with a velvet hammer.

'Miss Bennett is in your office, Sheriff,' Mrs. Mathis said as Atwater and Brass passed her desk.

Atwater thanked her and opened his door, going in ahead of Brass.

The room hadn't really changed since Mobley had called it home-different awards, different diplomas, different photos of the current resident with various celebrities and politicos. The most remarkable thing about the masculine office was the striking female seated in the chair in front of the sheriff's desk.

She rose and turned to them-a brunette in her late twenties, beautiful even by Las Vegas standards, though her clothing was decidedly not flashy: light-blue blouse, navy slacks, navy pumps. She wore her black hair short and in curved arcs that accented her high cheekbones; her eyes were wide-set, blue and large, conveying both alertness and a certain naivete. Her nose was small and well-sculpted, possibly the work of a plastic surgeon. And her full lips parted to reveal small, white teeth in a narrow mouth.

The smile, however, was joyless, like the sheriff's was in return. Also like the sheriff, the young woman showed no sign of the heat. How did they do it? Brass wondered; as he crossed the room toward her, Brass could almost hear himself sweating. But now he wondered if it was from the heat or in anticipation of whatever card Atwater was keeping up his sleeve.

'Rebecca Bennett,' Atwater said, 'this is Captain Jim Brass-if there's a finer detective in the department, I'd like to meet him.'

This ambiguous praise sent another round of warning bells clanging inside Brass's brain as he stuck out his hand toward the Bennett woman. Atwater was about to spring some surprise, Brass just knew it-but didn't know where it would hit him.

Rebecca Bennett had a firm handshake and a no-nonsense cast to her eyes. And was there something predatory in those small, white, sharp teeth…?

'Captain Brass,' she acknowledged as they shook.

'Ms. Bennett,' Brass said. 'My condolences on your recent loss.'

'Thank you, Captain. Actually, that's why I'm here.'

Atwater moved behind his desk and motioned for her to sit and for Brass to sit next to her. 'Miss Bennett,' the sheriff began.

'Rory, you're a family friend. Just because you haven't seen me since I was a kid-it's still 'Rebecca'….'

'Rebecca.' His eyes narrowed. 'I know this has been…difficult for you.'

'I'm sure you do.'

Atwater looked thoughtful, then assumed an expression that Brass knew all too well: sad eyes, soft frown, the staples of generic concern. 'Rebecca, why don't you explain your…situation…to Captain Brass.'

Odd way to put it-situation. Glancing sidelong at the woman, Brass could see Rebecca composing herself. Something was wrong here, or anyway…weird.

'You offered your condolences about my mother,' Rebecca said, her voice strangely businesslike.

'I hope that was appropriate,' Brass said, wondering if he'd committed a faux pas.

'Actually, it wasn't,' she said with an odd little smile. 'But you couldn't know that.'

'Your mother was a unique woman,' Atwater put in. 'Larger than life-it's understandable that you'd be… conflicted.'

What the hell was up, here?

Rebecca shrugged. 'You could call it that.'

'If you'll excuse me,' Brass said, 'maybe I'm the great detective the sheriff implied…maybe not…but I'm definitely not good enough to read between these lines. Please, Ms. Bennett-what's this about?'

'Excuse me, Captain Brass,' the woman said. 'I sort of…forgot that you were in the dark here. You see, I already filled in Sheriff Atwater, in some detail.'

Brass shot a look at the sheriff who wore his politician's smile and shrugged, just a little.

Rebecca said, 'You see, my mother and I had been estranged since I was eighteen. I moved in with my father after high school, and never looked back.'

'Sorry to hear this,' Brass said. A thought of his own estranged daughter, Ellie, flashed through his mind; but then something gripped him: Why was the disaffected daughter of a political contributor important to Atwater?

'Captain Brass,' she was saying, 'I do regret it…now. You get a little older and understand that you've probably held your parents to an unrealistic standard. But the bitterness between us was very real. She wrote me a letter, oh, seven years ago, but I never responded, and…Anyway, I always meant to reestablish contact with Mother, but the timing just never seemed right. And now, of course…it's too late.'

She shrugged. No tears, not even wet eyes-just a shrug.

Atwater said, 'You should give Captain Brass the background of this…situation.'

Situation again.

'Captain, it wasn't long after my mother finagled my father out of his flagship car lot…in their divorce…that I learned her new boyfriend was actually someone she'd been seeing at the very same time my father was indulging in his own extramarital meanderings…. In other words, she was playing the violated wife in the divorce court, when she herself had been cheating. Her lover was one Peter Thompson, and they'd been seeing each other for months before Mother caught Daddy…what's the term? In flagrante delicto?…with that bimbo secretary of his. Would you like to know something interesting?'