us.
“Anything else, sir?”
I waved a hand. “No, nothing. We just need some peace and quiet for a while.” I grinned at her, and she touched my shoulder.
“I’ll be out front if you need me.”
The two of us were left in vinyl-padded silence. I sipped the tea, and it was wonderful, as usual.
“So,” I said.
Gray took a deep breath, leaving his tea untouched in front of him. “How well do you know Thomas Pasquale?”
“Uh,” I groaned, and sat back hard enough that I thumped against the seat. “Now what?”
“I’m serious. What kind of fellow is he? I don’t know him except to say hello.”
“He’s a local boy,” I said. “Worked the village PD for a while as a part-timer. Applied to our department a handful of times and each time was refused, mainly on my say-so.”
“And why was that?”
“Way too immature.”
“But you eventually hired him.”
“Yes. It’s been three years, going on four. He’s grown up a lot. Still eager, sometimes way too eager.”
“Ambitions?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What’s he want out of life? FBI? Some big department?”
“As far as I know, Posadas is his life. His family’s here, and he’s never mentioned anything else to me. Not that I pry much. He seems content working here. There are always surprises, of course.”
“Huh,” Gray mused. He looked down at the tea for a long minute and I let him think uninterrupted. I had all day. I knew the commissioner would get where he wanted to go eventually. “You ever hear anything about his finances?”
“His finances are none of my business. Or yours,” I said.
Gray grinned. “I appreciate that. But if Deputy Pasquale were in some kind of financial trouble, you’d know about it, probably.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t respond. Gray finally took a sip of his tea, grimaced, and reached for the sugar. “This is what I got,” he said, but made no move other than letting the sugar slide smoothly out of three packets. He swirled the tea, pulled out the spoon, and placed it on the table—all little preparatory gestures as he wound up to tell me what was on his mind.
“This is what I got,” he repeated, and reached in his pocket. He handed the white number-10 envelope to me, holding it by one corner. There was no stamp, just the name Dr. Arnold Gray typed in the address spot. It had been zipped open with either a letter opener or a knife. I looked inside and saw the neatly folded message. Laying the envelope to one side, I spread the message out, well away from my sweating glass of tea. It was typed, just a few lines:
Commissioner: you need to know that one of the Posadas Deputies Thomas Pasquale is hitting up on Mexican nationales when he stops them for routine traffic checks. In five instances that we have documented, he has collected an average of $100.00 each.
A concerned citizen
“Christ,” I muttered, and read the thing twice more, then adjusted my glasses and peered more closely at the typing. “Single-strike typewriter, or word processor,” I said. I looked across at Arnold Gray. His expression was pained. “This didn’t come in the mail.”
“No. Under the door of my office when I got there this morning.”
“Just this envelope?”
He nodded.
“Huh,” I said, for want of anything better.
“Do you believe it?” Gray asked.
I almost snapped out an unthinking response, then stopped. “Do you?”
“I’m not much for anonymous notes,” Gray said. “What worries me is why that note was written in the first place, and written to me, of all people.”
“You’re a county commissioner.”
“But why not to you? You’re sheriff. You’re Tom Pasquale’s boss, not me.”
“The implication there is pretty clear,” I said more offhandedly than I felt. “Obviously whoever wrote this note thinks that I’m in on the deal.”
“Oh, sure,” Gray laughed and sat back, some of the strain going out of his face. “I can see that. You don’t speak
“Anything else, sir?”
I waved a hand. “No, nothing. We just need some peace and quiet for a while.” I grinned at her, and she touched my shoulder.
“I’ll be out front if you need me.”
The two of us were left in vinyl-padded silence. I sipped the tea, and it was wonderful, as usual.
“So,” I said.
Gray took a deep breath, leaving his tea untouched in front of him. “How well do you know Thomas Pasquale?”
“Uh,” I groaned, and sat back hard enough that I thumped against the seat. “Now what?”
“I’m serious. What kind of fellow is he? I don’t know him except to say hello.”
“He’s a local boy,” I said. “Worked the village PD for a while as a part-timer. Applied to our department a handful of times and each time was refused, mainly on my say-so.”
“And why was that?”
“Way too immature.”
“But you eventually hired him.”
“Yes. It’s been three years, going on four. He’s grown up a lot. Still eager, sometimes way too eager.”
“Ambitions?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What’s he want out of life? FBI? Some big department?”
“As far as I know, Posadas is his life. His family’s here, and he’s never mentioned anything else to me. Not that I pry much. He seems content working here. There are always surprises, of course.”
“Huh,” Gray mused. He looked down at the tea for a long minute and I let him think uninterrupted. I had all day. I knew the commissioner would get where he wanted to go eventually. “You ever hear anything about his finances?”
“His finances are none of my business. Or yours,” I said.
Gray grinned. “I appreciate that. But if Deputy Pasquale were in some kind of financial trouble, you’d know about it, probably.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t respond. Gray finally took a sip of his tea, grimaced, and reached for the sugar. “This is what I got,” he said, but made no move other than letting the sugar slide smoothly out of three packets. He swirled the tea, pulled out the spoon, and placed it on the table—all little preparatory gestures as he wound up to tell me what was on his mind.
“This is what I got,” he repeated, and reached in his pocket. He handed the white number-10 envelope to me, holding it by one corner. There was no stamp, just the name Dr. Arnold Gray typed in the address spot. It had been zipped open with either a letter opener or a knife. I looked inside and saw the neatly folded message. Laying the envelope to one side, I spread the message out, well away from my sweating glass of tea. It was typed, just a few lines:
Commissioner: you need to know that one of the Posadas Deputies Thomas Pasquale is hitting up on Mexican nationales when he stops them for routine traffic checks. In five instances that we have documented, he has collected an average of $100.00 each.
A concerned citizen
“Christ,” I muttered, and read the thing twice more, then adjusted my glasses and peered more closely at the typing. “Single-strike typewriter, or word processor,” I said. I looked across at Arnold Gray. His expression was pained. “This didn’t come in the mail.”
“No. Under the door of my office when I got there this morning.”
“Just this envelope?”
He nodded.
“Huh,” I said, for want of anything better.
“Do you believe it?” Gray asked.
I almost snapped out an unthinking response, then stopped. “Do you?”
“I’m not much for anonymous notes,” Gray said. “What worries me is why that note was written in the first place, and written to me, of all people.”
“You’re a county commissioner.”
“But why not to you? You’re sheriff. You’re Tom Pasquale’s boss, not me.”
“The implication there is pretty clear,” I said more offhandedly than I felt. “Obviously whoever wrote this note thinks that I’m in on the deal.”
“Oh, sure,” Gray laughed and sat back, some of the strain going out of his face. “I can see that. You don’t speak