Page 12 of Silent Ridge

Ronnie holds the door for me. “What were you doing out there? Did you lose something?”

“Actually, I found something,” I say, and go to my desk. I take the three evidence bags from my blazer pocket and lay them on the desktop.

“That’s the start of a joke,” she says. “A cigarette butt, a candy wrapper, and a pair of panties walks into a bar…” Ronnie giggles. It’s not funny. Well, kind of. Lately she’s started telling lame jokes. She says it’s stress relief. I guess it’s better than her incessant chatter about absolutely nothing.

“Did you run the name Sheriff Gray gave you?” I ask.

She’s holding a manila folder and lays it on the desk.

“I’ve run the name through local, state and federal databanks. And the Washington State Department of Licensing. The DOL had a license photo and I’ve made a copy of the license.”

She opens the folder and the driver’s license copy is on top. There’s a driver’s license number, the date the license was issued, the expiration date, the license class, MoniqueD.Delmont’s name and date of birth, a physical description, and her photo. Hard to believe that an entire person’s life can be documented on a three-by-four-inch piece of paper.

My high school photo the sheriff gave me is laminated. I wonder about that. You laminate something to preserve it. Why would someone go to that trouble and then leave it at the scene of a murder? I feel my jacket pocket to be sure the photo is still there. I panic when I don’t feel it. I check my other pockets. It’s in my shirt pocket. I don’t remember putting it there. I’m rattled. I can’t afford to be this way.

“Sheriff Gray called and said you requested me on this case. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes.”

She looks excited. I take a moment to steady myself for the dam burst of words that flow whenever Ronnie is excited.

“I’d be happy to work another murder case. I mean, it’s not anything to be happy about. Someone died and that’s really bad. But I can’t wait to get to work on it. I’ve already run the records from the name, but what else do you need? Sheriff Gray says I’m not to leave the office. I don’t see how I can be much help if I stay at my desk. But if he says not to leave the office, I won’t. Unless you ask me to, of course. Then I’ll—”

I hold a hand up to stop her. My head is spinning already.

“Breathe, Ronnie.” I don’t realize I say this out loud until it’s out.

“Sorry, Detective Carpenter. It’s just that I’ve been sitting around, doing nothing for so long that I think my butt is going flat. I’m so bored. And I love working with you. I hope I don’t sound like one of those, uh…”

“Ass kissers?” I say.

“Yeah. One of those.”

“Don’t worry. Someone else holds that trophy,” I say, and look toward Nan’s desk. Nan turns to me like she heard my comment. She probably did. Sometimes it seems like she has super-hearing. It helps with her super-nosiness. I notice she’s wearing the same color lipstick as that on the cigarette butt. Come to think of it, the underwear is about the right size too.Double eww!

“Do you want me to call Marley?” Ronnie asks.

I hand her the stuff I found in the woods. “I hate to ask.” I don’t really.

“If he wants me to bring it to him, is it okay if I leave the office to do that?”

I give her my blessing and she gets on the phone.

Nan may have super-hearing, but I have Ronnie.

Eleven

While Ronnie chats Marley up, I open the file she has given me. Monique’s driver’s license photo is a newer one. Her hair is shorter and seems to have lost its luster. Her face looks craggy, as if she hasn’t gotten much sleep. Of course, the DOL counter employees take only the worst side of you. Eyes half-closed. Every chin exposed. I’m all but certain they have a contest to see who can take the worst picture.

I close the folder and decide to take the file home to read. With Scotch. I don’t like invading the privacy of a friend.

Even a dead one.

* * *

I throw my purse on the table by the door, kick my shoes off and hang up my blazer. I keep the shoulder holster on. It’s become a habit after receiving my stalker’s emails. Now I have a better reason. Someone knows who I am. They know about my past. If it’s not my stalker, I have double trouble.

A bottle of Glen-something-or-other Scotch beckons. After the first sip they all taste the same, so I’m not picky when I buy it. I pour a generous amount in a plastic cup.

---