Page 77 of Open Season

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Uh, what do you want me to do when the mayor hears about this?” Tony said “when,” not “if,” because in a small town there was no “if.”

“Stall him. Blow him off. Make it sound as if she’s drunk and you don’t believe a word she’s said. I don’t want to spook him until we have her statement.”

“Okay, Chief.”

“And don’t put anything on the radio about it; telephone contact only. That’ll buy us some time.”

Jack disconnected and called Todd, and brought him up to speed. “Jennifer Nolan’s statement will give us reasonable grounds for getting a court order on those phone records, so if you don’t already have them, now we can get them legally. She gave us a name, too: Sykes.”

“It’s always nice to do it legally,” Todd said dryly.

“Before, I was just curious and uneasy. It’s different now.” Now that he knew there was a crime involved, everything had to be by the book. He didn’t mind bending the rules—or outright breaking them—when it was personal, but it was more than personal now. He didn’t want this case thrown out of court because of a technicality.

“I’ll see what I can find on Sykes. If he’s had so much as a speeding ticket, I’ll find him.”

Jack stepped back into the detective’s office and told them what was going on. Detective Morrison made quick notes, his left hand bent in that peculiar position so many lefties used. “If your mayor was involved with Chad Mitchell, he isn’t particular about his friends. Mitchell was a bottom-feeder; we’ve had him on resisting, possession, attempted rape, theft, B and E. We got him last year on date rape, but the prosecutor couldn’t make it stick. He never did any major time, six months here, a year there.”

“Possession,” said Jack. “Of what, exactly?”

Morrison consulted his file. “Marijuana, mostly. A small amount of cocaine. Rohypnol, clonazepam, GHB.”

“He was big on the date-rape drugs.”

“How does Mayor Nolan fit in with this?” Daisy asked. “He wasn’t one of the three men I saw with Mitchell, but he has to be involved somehow.”

“My guess is Sykes was one of the three, though, and Sykes is tied to the mayor in some shady deal they’re working.”

“That’s the most logical scenario,” said Morrison, getting to his feet. “Miss Minor, you said you saw them briefly, but clearly. I know it’ll take a lot of time, but I’d like you to look at our mug shots, see if you recognize anybody. Don’t guess; be sure, because if you aren’t, the defense lawyer will tear the case apart.”

Midas had been an angel the whole time, sitting in Daisy’s lap, but when she stood up to follow Detective Morrison, he decided it was time to do some exploring and began wriggling madly in his effort to get down. Daisy set him on his feet, and he immediately made a dive for the detective’s shoes. “Quick, where’s his duck?” she said as she rescued shoelaces, which was more difficult than it should have been because Detective Morrison started laughing and shuffling his feet, sending Midas into a spasm of joy at the new game.

“Here.” Jack separated the duck from the rest of puppy things he’d brought in with him, and tossed the duck across the floor. Seeing a new target, and one that was evidently running from him, Midas abandoned Morrison’s shoes and bounced after the duck. When he captured the escapee, he gave it a hard shake, then tossed it over his head and pounced again.

“I’m sorry,” Daisy apologized. “I just got him yesterday, and he’s only six weeks old, so I couldn’t leave him alone, especially not knowing if whoever was looking for me might hurt Midas if he couldn’t find me.”

“Yes, ma’am, some folks are mean,” the detective agreed. “It’s best to be safe. Tell you what; since you have the puppy, I’ll bring the mug shots in here for you to look at. That way he won’t get too excited, seeing a lot of people at once.”

“That’s a real good idea,” Jack said, grabbing the duck before Midas could get to it, and tossing it again. His black eyes bright with glee, Midas bounced and pounced, then dragged the duck back to Jack and dropped it at his feet.

“Well, look at that,” said Morrison, marveling. “Didn’t take him long to catch on, did it?”

Jack was still throwing the duck when the detective came back, his arms laden with pages of mugshots. Entranced with the game, Midas ignored Morrison’s return.

Daisy settled at the desk with the photographs in front her, for the first time realizing the enormity of the task. This wasn’t a matter of looking at fifty pictures, or even a few hundred. There had to be thousands of them, and the photographer seemed to be particularly unskilled, because the photographs could scarcely have been more unflattering to the subjects.

She closed her eyes and pictured the three men she’d seen, then picked out the most distinctive face: long, narrow, with prominent brow ridges. He’d had long, dirty blond hair and long sideburns, a distinctly unappealing style. Hair could be changed, though—she was an expert on that—so she disregarded that and concentrated on face shapes. She could also automatically disregard anyone in a minority. By adapting the system she’d learned in a speed-reading course, she began skimming pages and turning them at a faster clip, occasionally pausing to study a face and then move on.

After fifteen minutes, Midas lay down on her feet to take a nap. Daisy stopped to glance down at him, and Jack used the opportunity to ask, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? A soft drink?”

“I don’t recommend the coffee,” said Morrison.

Daisy shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Morrison said, “Then I’ll leave you to it. I have some calls to make, so I’ll borrow an office and check back when I’m finished.”

Minutes ticked by, marked only by the soft swish of the pages as she turned them. Midas eventually roused, and Jack took him outside. When he came back, with the puppy prancing on the end of the leash as if he’d done something wonderful, Jack said, “It’s time for lunch. You need to take a break.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said absently.

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