Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [70]
Claire decided she had someone else she had to talk to—Charles W. Folger, born seventy-one years ago. Claire remembered him telling her he was that old, bragging about it. Claire decided to look through the databases to see if she could pull up anything on Charles Folger, but she found nothing. He might be a weirdo, but he was a quiet, prudent weirdo. Possibly until now.
Thinking back to her first interview with Folger, she remembered how antagonistic he was. Maybe he just didn’t like women law-enforcement officers, but maybe he didn’t like women. Maybe he didn’t like authority figures. She wanted someone else there to watch how this man handled himself. Because she was going to push him hard to find out what he knew.
This might be the break they’d been waiting for.
Tyrone was on the phone in the conference room. He and Singer had set up in there. He thanked someone, then hung up. Looking up at her, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“You want to take a run with me?” she asked him.
“Sure. Where we going?”
“Check on an agronomist.”
She pointed out a patrol car to him and he climbed into the passenger seat. After they drove out of town, he wrinkled his nose. “Something smells around here.”
“Good fertilizer,” she told him as she waved her hand.
“So that’s what’s been coming off the fields as we drive through this county.” He laughed.
They drove a while in silence, and then she asked him where he was from. “Chicago. The Big Chi town.”
“How do you like Madison?”
“I dig it. For a smallish city, there’s a lot going on. The university saves it from just being another dairy town.”
“Do you miss Chicago?” she asked.
“Do you miss Minneapolis?” he returned.
“Yes,” she said. “But not as much as I would have when I was younger.”
“How old are you?”
She looked at him, surprised at his question, not sure what to do with it. “Are you serious?”
“Want me to guess?” he said.
“Absolutely not. That might ruin any chances we might have of getting along. I’m slightly past forty.”
“My, my, but you’re holding your own against time.”
“And what about you?”
“Thirty-five and climbing.” Tyrone looked out the window and said, “This is beautiful country. I didn’t realize Wisconsin could be so hilly.”
“Yes, this bluff country is gorgeous.”
Again, they drove a ways in silence. He shifted in his seat and asked her, “How do you get treated as the only woman in the sheriff’s office?”
“How do you get treated as an African American at DCI?”
“Touché,” he said.
“To answer your question—mainly fine. I think the younger guys—Billy, Scott—are easier with me. The older deputies don’t like it that I’ve jumped over them as the investigator for the office. They might grumble, but they do it softly, not so’s I can hear.”
“Yeah, I’ve had one or two problems, but I actually think some of the guys think it’s cool to work with a black guy. I’m more apt to run into problems out in the field.”
“How’ve you been doing in Pepin County so far?”
He gave it a thought, then turned and smiled at her. “Fine.”
Dinner had been good fresh green beans from the garden, homemade bread, and meat loaf. With just the two of them, they finished only half the meat loaf. That would be good, since his wife might not be up to cooking for a while. He knew what he had to do tonight. He wouldn’t wait too long to get it done, but he felt like sitting another moment or two and allowing his meal to digest.
“That was a good dinner,” he told her.
She looked over at him, surprised. He didn’t often praise her cooking.
“We should be getting some of the new corn any day now,” he said just to say something.
“That’ll be nice.” She started to clear the table.
There had never been enough fingers. There should have been seven and there had been only six. The sheriff’s office would know that by now. He had decided he needed to give them one more. The numbers had to be right. Maybe that was what had been wrong all along. Maybe that was why the truth had never come out. The numbers