theme and my mood. I was ready with half an hour to spare before my meeting with Tomas.
There was no surprise finding Smith with his finger extended toward the doorbell when I opened my door. Who else had timing that bad?
“Will it keep? I can’t talk now,” I growled, for once not trying to hide my irritation. “I’m going out.”
Inside I was quaking with fear that he’d sense the pilfered file in the backpack slung over my shoulder.
“No.” he answered firmly. “It won’t keep. After you left, someone ransacked Mr. Twitchell’s office. I need you to come with me. See if anything is missing.”
“I suppose I could, but I’ll follow you downtown. This is nothing but a big waste of time,” I protested, my insides turning to Jell-O. Was this a test to see if I’d confess to the theft?
Back at the office, a small crowd continued to mill aimlessly about the lobby even though it was nearly closing time. A young police officer sorted large white cards on the reception desk and looked up when we entered.
Smith steered me across the carpeted lobby to the counter, saying, “Martinez, this is Mia Ingalls. When you finish taking her prints, send her back to the studio.”
Martinez looked startled then said to the detective. “Uh, Sir?”
“What? Oh, very well. Miss Ingalls would you mind letting him take your fingerprints? It’s just a formality to eliminate you as a suspect.”
How could I refuse such a gracious invitation?
Some of the remaining staff, morbidly curious (and needing to get a life!) followed me to the studio. No one spoke to me, but I heard their muted buzz as they gleefully speculated on my imminent incarceration. None of them claimed to like the Twit any more than I did; yet they happily assumed my guilt.
It was rumored around the office that I authored numerous graphic doodles depicting his demise and that seemed to be all the evidence they needed. For the record, I’ve never admitted to being the creator of those cartoons.
The snicker of the day showed Twitchell mocking his executioner. “You call yourself a professional? You can’t cut my head off holding the blade backward, you moron!” He sneered at the hooded giant wielding a single-edged ax, while lounging insolently on the chopping block.
Of course, after you reach the big 5-0, you’ll say things you wouldn’t think of uttering before. I still don’t take credit for it, though it was quite clever if I do say so.
Wiping greasy ink from my fingers, I found Smith leaning against my desk as I approached. He was studying my drawings of his hands. He dropped the pages to the blotter without comment, turned and raised the yellow barrier tape across Twit’s office. He signaled for me to duck inside then followed.
Both of the tall filing cabinets were empty and folders from the overturned drawers were scattered across the desk and floor. One of the heavy drawers crushed the keyboard and a fine gray film lay everywhere.
“Fingerprints,” Smith answered my questioning look as I swiped a finger through the dust.
“There’s more files lying around now than last time. How am I supposed to know if anything’s missing?” I shrugged my shoulders.
Another opportunity to admit I’d taken the file whizzed right on by. I felt the wind of its passing caress my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Not yet.
I had to see the Twitch first and hear his explanation. If he had none, then he was in deep trouble and I felt myself going under right along with him.
I wasn’t protecting Conrad. The fact that his office was ransacked so soon after the shooting made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It also made me dig in my muley heels like I always do. I hate it when someone or something tries to control me, especially through fear.
By then I was beginning to have some serious doubts about Smith and anyone else who knew my every move. It suddenly occurred to me that a little paranoia might help keep me alive.
Smith’s pager beeped. He turned away but I read over his shoulder, T is awake.
He looked up from the tiny screen and drawled in a suddenly cool voice, “That’s all. You may go now.”
He dismissed me again! After ordering me to put my life on hold and help him with his investigation, he was discarding me like a soggy cigar butt!
I’m not a disposable person, so this treatment merely goaded my mulish desire to get to the bottom of all this with, or without him.
Preferably, without.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I followed so closely on Smith’s heels that he stopped me in the hospital doorway by cracking my jaw with the back of his head.
His sudden tears of pain diluted the dirty look he threw in my direction making me change my mind about a confrontation.
With a sharp right turn, I veered across the corridor toward a bank of telephones. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the splintered stars twirling around my head.
I called Tomas again. He cheerfully agreed to wait a while longer for me at Digger’s Café in the Golden Hotel.
“You’re not late yet and the coffee’s good,” he said. “I have enough to read and the scenery’s quite pleasant.” I heard a giggle in the background and the slosh of pouring coffee.
Fortunately, the hotel was only a few blocks from the hospital, but first I had to know what Smith was telling the Twerp.
No one guarded his room so I tapped briskly and walked in. Twit lay curled on his side, listening intently to Smith, who huddled in a chair beside the bed. The detective jumped up at my entrance and rudely hustled me out.
“There’s no need for you to be involved in this,” he barked.
What was he thinking? I was involved.
I hovered shamelessly in the hall listening to him question the Twit until the wail of a rapidly approaching ambulance echoed through his open window, drowning Smith’s voice.
The kid was no help. He just repeated his desire to get his hands on whoever wanted him dead. He actually mentioned my name as a possible suspect.
To think I lost precious sleep over that ungrateful philistine. Whatever guilt I may have felt was revoked, deleted forever!
I still say it was his fault for being such a two-faced pain in my backside! Whoever targeted him had obviously decided, as I had, that he was insufferable and expendable.
My guess was GQ, though I couldn’t begin to guess how or why. It made no sense. What was the connection? Did they know each other? If so, I smelled a mystery. A real live one and it was my very own!
The officer, who’d drifted across the hall to use the phone at the nurse’s station, finally noticed me loitering. He terminated his call then shooed me away with flapping hands. I suspect he didn’t want the detective to know he’d left his post, but I had better
