Anyway, he vanished and returned with a stranger, amiddle-aged guy in clean gray coveralls with the logo patch of a fuel companyover one pocket and “Wes” over the other. I sniffed the guy, and he also had “Kratz” written all over him. Icould taste it clear across the room.
“Is this the guy who stole your truck?”
No preliminaries, no lineup with civilians grabbed off thestreet, no removing the cuffs — the way First Cop was tampering with hiswitness, I’m surprised the guy shook his head.
“Hey, I told you Ican’t remember a damn thing after I stopped for my break. Never saw this guybefore.”
Yeah, the truck’s driver survived. That confused the hell outof me. The story as I got it, eventually, he’d stopped for his lunch break atthat crossroads convenience store, woke up down the road with ten miles andfour hours gone. He ended up with a blank space in between with an Al Kratzsignature to it. And since the crossroads sat about two hundred yards from theRidge driveway, I dumped my puzzlement over a possible accomplice. Kratz couldhave walked the distance.
Which left the question of why Kratz hadn’t killed him. Asbest as I could figure out then, old Albertus Magnus didn’t think he had thetime to do a proper artistic job ofmurder and wouldn’t settle for less. Or he was messing with my head. Or twobirds with one stone — those weren’t mutually exclusive.
Anyway, Second Cop had holstered his weapon before fetching “Wes,”which lowered the threat level to yellow. I took a chance.
“What time did you take your lunch break?”
“Shut up.” First Cop again, exercising his chiefly right to bea total asshole.
But Wes answered anyway, apparently a nice guy. “Eleven-thirty,maybe a bit earlier. Take my lunch anytime between eleven and one, depends onhow it fits my route.”
I nodded my thanks. “I was inside Malcolm Ridge’s house,always in his sight, from nine until three. Call him and check.”
“Shut up.”
But Second Cop picked up the phone and placed a couple ofcalls. One was apparently Ridge, to judge by this end of the conversation, andconfirmed my alibi for the hijacking. I could tell by First Cop’s face that he then decided I was part of a conspiracyinstead of the sole perp. After all, I was a wizard. That meant I had to beguilty.
The second call, finally, was to the State Police barracks, arequest for someone from Professional Regulation. They should have placed thatcall at least two hours earlier.
Meanwhile, I had time to stare around the office and think.Kratz. The bastard must have followed me up from the city — a thought that gaveme the heebie-jeebies right there — marked me to ground at the Ridge mansion,and then cruised around until an opportunity smacked him in the nose. The mancould think well on his feet, I’ll hand him that. With an improvised plot andthe materials at hand, he’d come within a few inches of killing me. I wonderedwhere he’d learned to drive a truck.
“Second Cop” hung up the phone and shook his head. Yeah, I’dread their nametags by now and memorized them, but I’m not about to give youthat much of a clue on where this happened. Likewise, I’m not going to tell youhow long before the state wizard showed up, because then you could work out howfar Podunk Hollow sits from State Police HQ at the capitol. That’s allclassified information.
I focused on First Cop, anyway. He was the boss. “Any chanceon getting these cuffs off? That would look better when we go to court withfalse arrest charges.”
“Shut up.” The man had a limited vocabulary.
But Second Cop came over, unlocked the cuffs, and at leastswitched them to allow some circulation and hold my hands in front, so I couldsit down. So I sat and waited with my fingers tingling as the blood got back tothem and a dull ache where my wrists swelled from the bite of the steel. Theygave me a hard chair, small enough seat that my butt cheeks hung over theedges, but at least it held my weight. Police department chairs aren’t supposed to be comfortable, anyway. That’suniversal policy.
Eventually a face and badge-case showed up at the glass doorto the office. First Cop let him in and I recognized Rick McWilliams, detectiveand wizard, I knew the guy from before I retired. He’d gained maybe ten poundssince I’d seen him last, all to the good. A bright kid, even if he was still abit too young for the job.
But we’re all too young for the job, at some point. Then,seems like maybe fifteen minutes later, we’re too old. Like me.
Anyway, no, I didn’t luck out and have Detective Sergeant Cashshow up. That would have been moreentertainment than I could stand at the end of a long day. I could just see hergetting into it with First Cop.
Instead, Mac just glanced at me, did a double-take, noted thecuffs, shook his head, and then grinned. “Hi, John. You been stirring up thenatives again? They never should let you out of the big city without a keeper.”
Then he turned to the two locals. “You know, if ChiefInspector Patterson really had beenthe Big Bad Wolf, your brains would be dripping out your noses by now. Why don’tyou take the cuffs off him and let the nice man tell us what’s been going down?”
Yeah, I’d made it up to Chief Inspector before I retired. Bigdeal. Live long enough, you get rank. Just like the army, it’s up or out.
“You’re not helping, Mac.”
But Second Cop didunlock the cuffs and leave them off this time. I collected my stuff, checkingthe SIG and the Smith for scratches and grit from their detour into theroadside gravel, then looking through my wallet and glaring at Second Cop afterI’d counted the contents. He’d been the one who bagged everything as evidence.I never got my pipe tool back, either, solid sterling silver except for
