The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [70]
I did my best. “Nothing unusual … no more bodies … no, boss, I can’t say that I did. Just a normal inside of a refrigerator. Why?”
“It was normal, all right,” he said. “I remembered this last night … it was full of food.”
“So …?” I asked, even as it came to me.
“You don’t leave your refrigerator stocked when you’re planning to be gone for three months.”
“Right. You’re right. Son of a bitch, you’re right!”
A minor problem, though. Cletus was now back in residence. Unless we had it documented during the crime scene examination, there was no way to prove it now.
“I already checked with the lab guys,” he said. “They looked in there, just a cursory inspection. No documentation of contents, although Jake thinks he remembers seeing food.”
Jake was a lab tech. He’d had no reason to inventory the refrigerator, and he’d sure as hell been busy with enough other stuff that night.
“Damn. But I can understand it. I should have thought of that…”
“Ain’t you supposed to be workin’ today?” Gruffly.
“Can’t come to work if I’m standing here talkin’ on the phone.” Take that, boss. It did make me wonder when he slept, though.
I figured I’d go out of uniform, as much to remove the 15 lbs. of gun belt and gear as anything else. I might not be feeling much pain, but I sure didn’t want to aggravate my back. As I got dressed, I went over things in my head. Not too bad, for a short day. Somebody had been staying at Borglan’s. No doubt. Again, no conclusive proof, but we were on the right track. On the upside, we did have testimonial evidence that the Colson brothers had, in fact, impersonated undercover officers on a previous occasion. Thanks to Phil. I was in good spirits when I hit the office. I think it was mostly the ibuprophen.
Art’s car was in the parking lot, along with a blue Ford sedan that had FBI written all over it. George, I was willing to bet.
I walked carefully up the steps, but the medicine was beginning to kick in, and I hardly felt a twinge. Cool. Now, if I could just stay awake …
Art knew George, as did most law enforcement personnel in our area of the state. I wasn’t sure how well, but he certainly knew who he was. Both of them were sitting in the main office, and both of them appeared to be waiting for me.
“Hi,” I said.
“You talk to Lamar this morning?” blurted Art.
“Yep.”
“About the refrigerator?”
“Yep. I think he’s right. I remember that, now, too, I think.” I was being oblique because I didn’t know if Art had told George anything, and since Art had raised “need to know” to an almost mystical level in his own head, I didn’t want to aggravate him unnecessarily.
“I don’t think it proves a lot,” he said. “No connection with anything.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. I looked at George. “Have you told him …”
“No,” said George.
I looked around to make sure we were alone, and then closed the door. Dramatic, but fun. “We arrested an FBI agent near the murder scene last night,” I said.
“Oh, bullshit,” said Art. “Get serious.”
“It’s true, they did,” said George.
Art went blank-faced. He was one of those cops for whom all status resided in the kind of badge you carried. Credential envy, sort of.
“And,” I said, savoring the moment, “after we got him to the office, we busted another one who was sneaking around behind the jail…”
“Correct,” said George.
I thought Art was going to … well, swoon seemed pretty close. His face got noticeably redder, and he said, “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
We filled him in on the activities of the previous night. I did most of the talking, and even George was aghast at the thought that we had what I referred to as “the Hernandez bust” on videotape.
I did only fact. No conclusions. I wanted to see what everybody else would think. When I was done, George simply said, “I keep telling these guys that you aren’t a bunch of hicks. I keep telling all of them …”
Art, who seemed to have recovered pretty quickly, just shook his head. “So, what does all this mean?” he asked George.
“Ask Carl,” said George.
Art just looked