“You’ll need to take a casting of those right away. While they’re still fresh. Then run a DMV computer check on all the vehicles in the county and you’ll find the culprit. Then bring the criminals to justice.”
“It doesn’t exactly work that way.” Kara reached down deep for patience.
The woman tossed up her chin. “I’ve seen it on CSI . And Law and Order .”
“What Sheriff Conway’s saying,” her deputy broke in before Kara could point out that the television shows were, in fact, fiction, “is that our crime scene techs are currently working with the feds on an important joint task force up in Salem.”
Feds? Crime scene techs ? Since when did her department of three deputies and two dispatchers have any crime scene techs? And what could those imaginary techs possibly be doing in the state capital?
“But it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain tonight.” He deftly cut off any comment Kara might be planning to make.
Studiously ignoring her questioning look, John O’Roarke rocked back on the wedged heels of his cowboy boots and glanced up at the star-studded sky.
“So, Sheriff Conway will send a tech out first thing in the morning to take the casting. Won’t you, Sheriff?” he asked.
“I guess,” Kara said. And was immediately hit by a razor-sharp look that reminded her of stories of how the elderly woman had once run her classroom with an iron hand. “Sure.” She tacked more enthusiasm onto her tone. “Absolutely.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously,” the older woman said.
“I always take crime seriously,” Kara said. It was the unvarnished truth.
“Your father was a good man,” Edna volunteered suddenly. The curlers bobbed as she shook her head with regret. “It was a crying shame, what happened to him, getting shot that way.”
“Yes.” Her father’s too-early death in what had been ruled a hunting accident—eighteen months after Kara had been widowed—still hurt. She suspected it always would.
“A terrible tragedy.” Edna looked a long way up at O’Roarke. “You never found the shooter.”
“No, ma’am.” Kara knew this was a sore point with the man who’d not only been her father’s deputy, but his best friend for nearly three decades. The two had gone hunting together in the fall, fishing together in the spring and summer, and argued about sports year- round, although the one thing they could both agree on was that the best place to spend a Friday night was at a Shelter Bay Dolphins high school football game.
“But you’re not going to close the case?” Edna pressed.
“No, ma’am.” His deep, cigarette- roughened voice was firm with resolve, but Kara knew they were both thinking the same thing: that unless the hunter who’d mistaken her father for a deer came forward, all they had was a spent shell—the same kind sold in gun stores, sporting-goods stores, and even Walmart—all over the country.
“Good.” Edna aimed her flashlight down at the flower bed overflowing with pink and purple petunias that surrounded the mailbox post. “That beer bottle wasn’t there when I brought my mail in this afternoon. Do you know what that means?”
Not having realized when she’d gotten the call to come out here that she’d be facing a pop quiz, Kara said, “It could have been thrown out of the car by whoever bashed your mailbox?”
“Murdered it,” Edna corrected briskly. “Thing’s a goner. You should take it in. The bottle, not the mailbox. Get DNA off it. Throw the little miscreant in the slammer.”
“That’s a good idea,” John O’Roarke jumped in again. “Would you happen to have a pair of gloves we could use to pick it up? Wouldn’t want to destroy trace evidence.”
“As a stroke of luck, I just bought myself a new pair of Rubbermaids while doing my marketing today. So we won’t have to worry about contaminating the evidence with any dish detergent residue.” Turning on a bunny-slipper-clad foot, she
“It doesn’t exactly work that way.” Kara reached down deep for patience.
The woman tossed up her chin. “I’ve seen it on CSI . And Law and Order .”
“What Sheriff Conway’s saying,” her deputy broke in before Kara could point out that the television shows were, in fact, fiction, “is that our crime scene techs are currently working with the feds on an important joint task force up in Salem.”
Feds? Crime scene techs ? Since when did her department of three deputies and two dispatchers have any crime scene techs? And what could those imaginary techs possibly be doing in the state capital?
“But it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain tonight.” He deftly cut off any comment Kara might be planning to make.
Studiously ignoring her questioning look, John O’Roarke rocked back on the wedged heels of his cowboy boots and glanced up at the star-studded sky.
“So, Sheriff Conway will send a tech out first thing in the morning to take the casting. Won’t you, Sheriff?” he asked.
“I guess,” Kara said. And was immediately hit by a razor-sharp look that reminded her of stories of how the elderly woman had once run her classroom with an iron hand. “Sure.” She tacked more enthusiasm onto her tone. “Absolutely.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously,” the older woman said.
“I always take crime seriously,” Kara said. It was the unvarnished truth.
“Your father was a good man,” Edna volunteered suddenly. The curlers bobbed as she shook her head with regret. “It was a crying shame, what happened to him, getting shot that way.”
“Yes.” Her father’s too-early death in what had been ruled a hunting accident—eighteen months after Kara had been widowed—still hurt. She suspected it always would.
“A terrible tragedy.” Edna looked a long way up at O’Roarke. “You never found the shooter.”
“No, ma’am.” Kara knew this was a sore point with the man who’d not only been her father’s deputy, but his best friend for nearly three decades. The two had gone hunting together in the fall, fishing together in the spring and summer, and argued about sports year- round, although the one thing they could both agree on was that the best place to spend a Friday night was at a Shelter Bay Dolphins high school football game.
“But you’re not going to close the case?” Edna pressed.
“No, ma’am.” His deep, cigarette- roughened voice was firm with resolve, but Kara knew they were both thinking the same thing: that unless the hunter who’d mistaken her father for a deer came forward, all they had was a spent shell—the same kind sold in gun stores, sporting-goods stores, and even Walmart—all over the country.
“Good.” Edna aimed her flashlight down at the flower bed overflowing with pink and purple petunias that surrounded the mailbox post. “That beer bottle wasn’t there when I brought my mail in this afternoon. Do you know what that means?”
Not having realized when she’d gotten the call to come out here that she’d be facing a pop quiz, Kara said, “It could have been thrown out of the car by whoever bashed your mailbox?”
“Murdered it,” Edna corrected briskly. “Thing’s a goner. You should take it in. The bottle, not the mailbox. Get DNA off it. Throw the little miscreant in the slammer.”
“That’s a good idea,” John O’Roarke jumped in again. “Would you happen to have a pair of gloves we could use to pick it up? Wouldn’t want to destroy trace evidence.”
“As a stroke of luck, I just bought myself a new pair of Rubbermaids while doing my marketing today. So we won’t have to worry about contaminating the evidence with any dish detergent residue.” Turning on a bunny-slipper-clad foot, she
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