he would do anything you ask him to do. So let him be possessive for a while longer. Set him out to find Cummings.”
Claire straightened, tightened her obi, and nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course. I’ve already set him on finding Cummings. How are the preparations going at Redemption House? Are we ready for the bankers, ready to start making money on Monday?”
“Yes, but I do worry about Savich. I can’t see him giving up if he gets involved, not when his wife nearly lost her life in that accident.”
Claire walked to Nikki, took her face between her palms. “Little sister, it will be all right. I’ll eventually have to let him come see me, and I’ll handle him. No question. We’re almost there, so stop your worrying, and let’s go get warmed up.”
18
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
The Gaffer’s Ridge sheriff’s station on High Moon Street had gotten a paint job and a new roof the previous year to show the tourists the townspeople cared about law and order. But the station was still what it was—a 1950s box-style concrete building, with two skinny windows in the front.
Sheriff Bodine and his deputies marched Griffin and Carson through an empty hall with benches along the walls to a high counter presiding over a central room behind it, topped with an ancient computer, a printer, and two telephones. No one was there.
The sheriff stopped and whispered, “Fayreen, get in here.”
The young deputy, Jewel, said behind them, “Just you wait. Fayreen’s got mother-in-law ears. She can hear a guy chewing tobacco in the men’s room.”
Brewster nudged him with an elbow. “Shut up, Jewel.”
Sure enough, a heavyset older woman came barreling out of a door opposite them. She was about the same age as the sheriff, and wore a deputy’s brown uniform a size too small, the buttons pulling over her healthy bosom. Her gray-brown hair hung straight and long, nearly to the middle of her back, and she even wore a woven band holding it back. It was a hippie look that stopped there. She wore a boatload of 1970s-style makeup, from fire-engine-red lipstick to black eyeliner. “Sorry, Booker, had to use the facilities and refresh my lipstick.” She said toward Griffin and Carson, “I’m Fayreen Hertle, I’m the dispatcher here, and the sheriff’s right hand.” She pointed a finger at Griffin. “And you’re the critter who hurt Rafer, aren’t you?”
Sheriff Bodine said, “He sure is, and the girl here helped him. What do you think, Fayreen? Bonnie and Clyde pretending to be real folk?”
She looked Griffin and Carson up and down. “He’s eye candy, for sure, and this one? Even looking like a mutt, dirty and her hair all squirrelly, you can see she’s hot. How’d she get so dirty? Did she try to escape?”
“Nah, she’s got claims against Rafer, says she’s dirty because he had her duct-taped in his basement.”
Fayreen snorted. “Yeah, right. As if anyone would believe Rafer would hurt a fly. Listen, Booker, there’s a man holding on the telephone. He refused to hang up, says he’s Special Agent Dillon Savich of the FBI and he wants to talk to you.” She shot a sneer at Griffin. “Says he’s this fellow’s boss, wants to clear up any confusion you might have.”
“Yeah, well, he could be this guy’s cousin, for all we know. Tell him I don’t have the time. He can leave his number if he likes.” He sounded quite pleased with himself.
“You got it. My pleasure,” and Fayreen marched to the big front desk, picked up one of the phones, and turned away. Griffin wanted to grab the phone but knew he couldn’t. When she hung up, the sheriff said, “Call Tommy Denmark, tell him Judge Pinder’s out fishing for bass on Commodore Lake and I need him here as a witness.”
“On it, Booker.”
The sheriff led them back down the short hallway and into a nicely furnished office at the back of the building with two large windows overlooking the parking lot. Beyond the dusty lot sprawled the ever-present mountains, blurred with low-lying haze. There was a big antique partner’s desk with two chairs facing it and a beautiful mahogany credenza behind it, one photo on top showing the sheriff, a striking-looking older woman, and a young man and woman, big smiles on their faces. A rich black leather sofa sat against the far wall, a coffee table with a dozen perfectly aligned magazines on top, flanked by four matching leather chairs. There wasn’t a coffee stain anywhere.