could also face charges of obstruction if Mila Driscoll suffered the fate I suspect. But I didn’t want to tell her that.”
They returned to the doctor’s office so Dr. Perkins could sign off on departmental paperwork. Thatcher remained in the waiting room. He noticed that Patsy had left her last cigarette smoking in the ashtray. He went over and stubbed it out, then he and Bill left the office together and started downstairs.
Bill slipped a small stoppered bottle into the pocket of his jacket, and when he saw that Thatcher noticed, he said, “For Daisy.”
“Is she all right?”
“For the past few days, she’s had a stomachache. Doc said this would settle it.”
Thinking of the picture gallery in the Amoses’ foyer, Thatcher said, “I wonder if Mrs. Kemp has a picture of Norma.”
“Lots. I saw them in the house when I went to interview them.”
“That’s good. When the boy gets older, he’ll want to know what his mother looked like.” Bill gave him an inquiring look, but he pretended not to see it and returned to the topic of the attack on Norma Blanchard. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Don’t hold back.”
“A man in a blind rage would have killed her outright. Whoever attacked that woman wanted to punish her to death. There’s a difference.”
Bill took that in, then gave him a wry smile. “Don’t talk yourself out of that badge, Thatcher. You were born for this.” He continued on his way down the stairs. Thatcher followed.
As they exited the building Bill cursed under his breath. Bernie Croft was between them and the sheriff’s car, waiting for his dog to finish peeing against a utility pole.
Forty-Seven
Hello, Bill. Hutton.”
“Bernie,” Bill said.
Thatcher didn’t believe that the mayor’s being here at this precise time was coincidental with his dog’s bladder. He was right. When the dog lowered his leg and wandered off to sniff at a patch of weeds growing against the side of the building, Croft strolled along the boardwalk to join them.
He looked Thatcher over. “I heard you actively participated in the raid on Lefty’s.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“A mutual acquaintance of ours.” Thatcher figured he referred to Chester Landry but didn’t remark on it.
Croft turned to Bill. “This young man is practically your shadow these days.”
“Thatcher is no one’s shadow, Bernie. But if I can twist his arm, I’m going to sign him on as a deputy.”
“That will raise eyebrows.”
“It’s certainly raised yours. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
“I saw the arrival of an ambulance from my office window.”
He looked across the street toward the second-story windows on the facade of city hall. Bill had told Thatcher that those office windows overlooking Main were to Bernie what the pope’s balcony was to His Eminence.
He was saying, “If I read the insignia correctly, the ambulance came from Dallas. Who was it for?”
“Doctor-patient privilege, Bernie,” Bill said. “You know I can’t divulge the—”
“Was it someone I know? Why was he shuttled off in secrecy behind the building? Was it the Johnson boy? What was his name again?”
“Elray,” Thatcher said.
Croft turned to him. “Elray, yes. I heard you tried to chase down his assassin. In fact, you seem to be Johnny-on-the-spot since you came to Foley. One can find you anywhere there’s disorder.”
Thatcher said, “That seems to make you nervous. I wonder how come.”
Croft puffed up like an adder, but he faced Bill again. “You had just as well tell me who was in that ambulance. I’ll wring it out of Dr. Perkins anyway. Save me the climb upstairs.”
Bill relented. “A local woman was assaulted.” Without going into detail, he told Croft what had happened.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Who was she?”
“I’m keeping it quiet, Bernie, out of respect for the lady and her family’s privacy.”
“Very sensitive of you, Bill. But other ladies should be made aware that there’s a rapist in our midst, don’t you think?” He gave Thatcher a significant look.
Thatcher adjusted his stance to a more confrontational one. “Why don’t you just come out and say it, Croft?”
“Say what?”
“Accuse me of preying on women.”
“I already did.”
“And it didn’t stick.”
“Gentlemen,” Bill said quietly. “Let’s not draw an audience, please.”
The only audience they’d drawn that Thatcher could see was Hennessy, Croft’s so-called chauffeur. Cap pulled low, he was leaning against the side of the mayor’s car parked across the street, his posture a little too indolent to be genuine, his entire aspect one of menace.
Thatcher hadn’t made out like he’d noticed him lurking there, but he was well aware.