a little harsh,’ said Ren. ‘If it was one of my brothers …’
‘Older, I bet,’ said Bob.
‘Yes they are. How did you know that?’
‘Women are different if they have older brothers. They don’t take any shit from men. Sadly, my wife has older brothers …’
‘But, luckily, she has a very nice husband.’
Bob looked at her.
‘What are you looking at me like that for? I mean it.’
‘Well, that’s very nice, thank you.’
Ren smiled as Bob shuffled some papers around his desk.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Terrence Haggart was known around town for being a troublemaker – by the older people anyway. We’ve taken him in a few times. Breck PD knows him well. So the ski-pole of suspicion was pointed his way. Do you like that? My Casey Bonaventure? Anyway, people here didn’t give a shit about Mark Wilson disappearing – Christ, his own family barely gave a shit – but they didn’t want their own kids to get sucked in by Haggart. Terrence Haggart’s a loser, but a charming one – the guy who has the party house that everyone wants to go back to …’
‘Like your place,’ said Ren.
‘Exactly,’ said Bob. ‘And I’ll stress he’s charming – if he’s been drinking the right kind of alcohol. Throw some hard liquor into the mix and anything can happen. He doesn’t do it a lot, but when he does, it can get ugly. The next day, he’s all remorseful, so people give him a break.’
‘So … where’s he now?’
‘He moved away. He got too much grief on this one. Either way, Ollie should know better than to pay attention to the media. If something happens around here, they bring up three cases – the 1982 case about the two murdered hitch-hikers, the Quandary disappearance, and the Scoop Daniels missing attorney case.’
‘Right now, I’m having a Quandary quandary,’ said Ren.
‘It was inevitable,’ said Bob. ‘One of us was going to crack and say that … I’m just glad it wasn’t me.’
‘The word has three syllables, Bob. It was never going to be you.’
Gressett broke up their laughter. ‘That Haggart guy is being an arrogant prick if he thinks his job is going to be compromised because of his last name. That’s his problem.’
‘And it’s a problem he wants us to solve,’ said Bob.
Gressett stared at Ren. ‘You’re being taken for a ride… Haggart sees a woman –’
Bob could see the fire flash in Ren’s eyes. He tried to put it out with the calm in his.
‘Yes,’ said Ren, turning to Gressett. ‘You’re right. He said a dick was the last thing he needed to deal with.’ She turned back to Bob. ‘Look, it’s in Haggart’s interest if his brother is cleared of any association. But if this case is re-examined in the middle of a media circus and it is discovered that his brother is a murderer, Ollie Haggart is grabbing a big huge spotlight and shining it down on his family again. Why would he risk all that? He has to believe that something else happened.’
‘Back to my point,’ said Gressett; ‘the family always believe something else happened.’
Stay calm. Stay calm.
‘Like what, though?’ Gressett continued. ‘In the course of investigating Jean’s homicide, we’ll trip over Wilson’s frozen body covered in Big Foot’s massive frozen footprints?’
Ren didn’t like people who had no sense of humor. But they were always more welcome in her life than people who had a bad one. Especially the smart-mouthed, unfunny crap that came out of Tiny Gressett.
She beamed angry eyes and a matching smile. ‘Let’s just agree to disagree.’ You overbearing shit.
Gressett was a smiler too. He stood up and left the room, his hand hovering over his belt.
Ren turned to Bob. ‘Why does he do that? Start opening his belt on his way out the door to go to the men’s room?’
‘Maybe he feels he has such a long length of cable to unroll, he needs a head start.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘What’s this? Bring-a-Hideous-Mental-Picture-to-Work Day?’
Bob laughed.
‘One thing that’s interesting,’ said Ren, ‘is that the Brockton Filly where he was last drinking is also the place where Jean Transom may have been last seen.’
‘Hmm,’ said Bob. ‘You know what’s funny?’ he said. ‘You don’t seem to do anything for Gressett.’
Ren laughed. ‘What? Yeah. Him and millions of other men.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. ‘I’m kind of used to seeing guys get a little, you know, weird around you.’
‘What? Are you high?’
‘I’d like to be.’
‘What could have happened that night to poor, drunk, beaten-down Mark Allen Wilson?’ said Ren.
‘S.E.P.,’ said Bob. ‘Someone. Else’s. Problem.’
The Brockton Filly leaned left in pitch country blackness. The skeletal trees that ran around it were wrapped at their base in hard, dirty white snow. The bar was named after an Irish madam who was run out of Boston and came west in the mid-1800s for lonely miners and their gold.
Todd pulled into the oversized side lot that might have been packed with wagons a hundred years ago, but was scattered with few trucks tonight. Ren zipped her jacket to the chin and pulled on a fleece hat for the short walk. Todd started to get out.
‘Would you mind?’ Ren shrugged the request, looking toward his open door.
Todd paused. ‘What, waiting out here?’ His eyes flashed with the anticipation of diminishment.
Ren nodded. ‘It’s just, Jean came here alone. And I’m thinking there was a reason for that. Waites might just respond better to women. And maybe not to intimidating blond men.’ She smiled. Todd didn’t.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Whatever you think. I’ll be here. Intimidating the bears.’
‘Thanks, Todd. I appreciate it.’
Ren walked to the door, pushing on it three times, finally shouldering it open. Inside, the boxy hallway was peeling wallpaper, flaking paint, creaky floorboards and photos of long-dead alcoholics with their arms around other long-dead alcoholics. And a few recent ones of gummy regulars; a sparse
