this?
As I gunned the van down I-70 in the direction of the sheriff?s department, I grew increasingly certain of one thing: Shockley was behind all this. Shockley the big investor, Shockley the paranoid cop, Shockley who knew all about Tony’s gold watch and who had wanted to know where Marla had gotten the money for her expensive car. I braked abruptly as the van hit a patch of thick mist. Keeping Tom ignorant of a homicide investigation that implicated his wife’s closest friend would probably give the boss-guy a keen sense of satisfaction. I’d bet anything that was why the captain had sent his two Rottweilers to interrogate Marla.
The fog thinned slightly as I drew up to the jail’s garage entrance. The new ten-story building towered above the parking lot. There was enough visibility to make out a department car disappearing through the closing automatic door. I cursed silently and drew the van up to the video camera. The lens was trained on drivers wanting to go through the police entrance to the garage.
Static issued from the speaker under the lens. “State your business,” a no-nonsense male voice demanded. Or at least I think that’s what it said.
I exhaled in frustration. They’d never let me in now. I said, “Never mind. I’ll just use the public entrance.” I don’t know what I was expecting when I pushed through the entrance door to the jail. Despite my occasional involvement with investigating crime, I had never been to the place. Surprisingly, the reception area was similar to what one would expect in a small hotel, although more austere. Three pairs of plain beige couches were precisely placed on a spotless beige carpet. A free-form counter protruded from one of the beige walls like a concrete water lily. Breaking up the walls were vast expanses of wavy glass bricks held together with inch-thick white mortar. The thick glass was undoubtedly designed to allow sunlight to penetrate the lobby in a way that the eye ? and bullets from avenging relatives, I imagined ? could not. I hugged Marla’s purse to my chest and pressed forward.
“I need help,” I said haltingly to the short police-i: woman behind the forbidding counter. The deputy’s dark green uniform stretched across her plump frame, and she wore her streaked blond hair in a French braid woven so tightly it would have given me a headache. “I’m here to see a friend, Marla… Marla Korman.
She has… just been taken into the jail.” I cleared my throat and willed control. “You see, there’s been some terrible, terrible mistake,” I said firmly, “because she would never ? “
“Hold on,” said the policewoman. She asked me to spell Marla’s name as she typed on a computer keyboard. She puzzled over the screen for a minute, then turned to me, shaking her head. “I don’t know what the charge is, and probably won’t for a while ? “
“Please,” I begged, shameless now, “please. I’m Mrs. Schulz. Mrs. Tom Schulz. Couldn’t you please call the officer on duty at the jail and find out what’s going on with my friend? She’s in poor health, and she’s been badly beaten, and the cops who arrested her were hurting her… .”
The policewoman leaned forward. “There’s no one to call, Mrs. Schulz. There won’t be anyone until she’s processed. I’m sorry to say this, but unless you’re her attorney you’re not going to be able to see your friend until visiting day Friday ? “
“Friday! She could have a heart attack before Friday! She doesn’t even have her medication!” I yanked Marla’s purse up. “It’s called Inderal. It’s in here and they wouldn’t let ? ” The policewoman relieved me of the purse in a smooth motion and stowed it under the desk.
“What you need to do,” she scolded in a calm, even tone that indicated she had dealt with far more hysterics than she cared to, “is go home. Wait for your friend to call.”
I was getting nowhere. I had to think of another way to help Marla. I ran back out to the parking lot and considered my options. I knew one thing: I was not going home to wait for Marla to call. Her plaintive cry to me as she was hauled away still echoed in my head. I trotted down the steps to the sheriffs department’s main entrance.
“Tom Schulz, please,” I told the duty deputy at the counter. His desk was a smaller version of the one in the jail lobby. The young deputy himself was so thin his uniform hung on him; he looked like a scarecrow. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty. “Deputy … ?” I glanced at his nameplate. “Carlson? Would you please tell Tom Schulz his wife’s here?”
Deputy Carlson picked up a phone and punched buttons, then spoke in low tones. I couldn’t make out what he was saying and couldn’t tell if he was calling Tom, the upstairs duty officer, or, heaven forbid, Captain Shockley. I vigorously shook off this last thought. My paranoia did not extend that far. After a moment the deputy hung up and said Tom would be right down.
Five minutes later, Tom strolled toward me with all his usual self-confidence. It felt like ages since I’d seen him last, although it had only been the previous night. His green eyes sought mine and he seemed to assess my mood instantly.
“Let’s go up and get some coffee,” he said pleasantly, as if I’d arrived to go over the grocery list.
He smiled and waved at the cop at the desk. I’m in control here. Nothing to worry about. Sure.
“Come on,” he said aloud in the tone that warned, We’re in public; act like nothing’s happened. “Let’s go get some caffeine. There’s an old friend of yours who wants to talk.” When I gasped and brightened, he lowered his voice, but kept the same smile. “It’s Armstrong. He’s been up to the Grizzly Creek scene. He was in the vicinity checking a mountain lion report, and heard about the trucker’s call on the radio.”
I slipped my arm in his and walked by his side, as if I came down to the sheriffs department all the time to drink bitter vending machine coffee with my husband.
Three uniformed officers were leaving the break room just as we entered it. They nodded and said, “Schulz,” but sent furtive glances in my direction. No doubt my wild eyes and splotched cheeks didn’t play very well. Poor guy, I could imagine them thinking, she’s got some problem and expects him to solve it.
“Does everyone know what’s going on?” I murmured once Tom had brought me a steaming coffee with powdered creamer still dissolving on top. I stared into the brew with dismay.
“Tough to tell.” Hardly had he spoken when Deputy Armstrong pushed into the room. I had known Armstrong, pasty ? faced man with thin brown hair ? for a couple of years. He gave me a sympathetic look and joined us.
“They’re putting her into jail pending formal announcement of charges,” he began without cushioning the blow.
“When can I see her?” I asked. I sounded absurdly calm. “Is there anything I can do?”
Armstrong frowned. “They have visiting days. And no, there’s nothing you can do to help. She’ll call the lawyer she wants. They arrested her today because they found out she was planning on leaving the country.”
Marla’s calendar. I nodded, heavy-hearted. “But listen. She needs the medication I gave to the jail receptionist. That won’t get lost in red tape, will it? Plus, she needs to see a doctor.”
Tom touched my shoulder. “The jail nurse will see her. She’ll get her pills. The last thing they want is a wrongful death lawsuit, believe me. Is she hurt? Or are you just worried about her heart?”
“Someone beat her up at the campsite and left her to die. And whoever it was did the same to Macguire, I’m sure. Tom, Tony Royce is missing, and those two cops are saying she killed him. It’s utterly absurd. Marla couldn’t hurt anyone.” Except the Jerk, and he’d asked for it.
“Do they think they fought, and she killed him in self-defense?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know! Those cops tricked her,” I told him ferociously. “That horrid DeGroot Mirandized her when she hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. Had her sign a document saying they could search her home. She thought they were looking for Tony. I tried to stop them, but no one would listen to me. De Groot kept telling me to shut up. They shoved me, Tom. But they hurt her… .” I fell silent.
“She told them she was in a fight, right?” Tom asked gently. When I nodded, he added, “That’s when she became a suspect in their eyes.”
“But is Tony Royce dead? Do they have his body? How did he die? And what about his missing partner, Lipscomb? Marla said a bald guy was beating her up! Do you have any idea where he is? Why isn’t he under suspicion?”
“Miss G., for what? Do you think Lipscomb was camping at the site and they surprised him?” Tom’s eyes questioned me. I shrugged, and he went on: “Maybe a bald guy attacked her. But my bet is that the missing partner is long gone. He took that money and skipped. The one Shockley theory I’ve heard is that Albert Lipscomb, Tony Royce, and Marla were in on a scam together. When it went bad, she murdered Royce.”
“Oh yes,” I said impatiently. ‘.They tried that one out on us. Then what bald guy attacked Marla?”
Tom tapped the table with his coffee cup and shook his head. “Who knows? If Lipscomb running off with all
