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Splendor Bay

Copyright 2001 by LB Cobb. All rights reserved.

THREE

Saturday, May 26, 11:00 AM

Splendor Bay Police Chief Murphy Sanders was redder-faced than usual. "Damn it, Bill, what did you see?"

We had been talking only a minute when Chief decided to get high-handed on me and I shut up. You would have thought the voters were watching his performance, but I suspected the viewing audience was merely a minor contingency of state police and FBI agents behind the two-way mirror. Heck, the video camera wasn't even on, or the little red light was burned out. Equipment maintenance wasn't a major item in the city budget.

"Have you had your blood-pressure checked lately?" I asked politely. "A man your age ought to avoid stress."

The least I could do with my part in this passion play was to act like a concerned citizen. Chief Sanders, Tiny's uncle, was pushing seventy-five. He'd been Splendor Bay's police chief most of our lives, his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him. Best I could figure, his ancestor must have broken up a gun fight in one of the founding father's saloons, been appointed chief, and like some English lordship, the title had been passed down to the male heirs ever since.

"Cut the crap, Bill," Tiny interjected, resting his big hand on the flap of his holster like he was going to draw on me. Tiny didn't like any sort of controversy, but he was big on respecting elders and protecting children. Besides, he had to set an example for Gomez as well as a starring role to play in the SBPD version of Hill Street Blues.

I acted contrite. "I've already told you, Tiny. I didn't see anything until I saw you guys down at the beach. I had just come out on the deck to drink my coffee. Saw you guys messing around. Thought I'd see what all the commotion was about."

"Did Sally see anything?" Tiny asked.

"I don't know. She was gone when I woke up. Our state's attorney general has more important things to do than lie in bed past daybreak with the likes of me."

"Know where she is?" the Chief asked, his face not quite as red as before since I was now being a cooperative witness, and I'd reminded him I had connections. I'm not proud of it, but I can name drop with the best of the have-beens or never-weres.

"No," I answered the question asked.

When I was a lawyer, I always told my clients to never volunteer information. As the Miranda warning clearly declares, what you say to the police can, and will, be twisted in ways you never dreamed possible and used to screw you over in a court of law if they can't find anyone else to pin the blame on, or just because you're handy, or just because they don't like your face. The only smart thing to say to an inquiring cop is, "Get me a lawyer." Then shut your mouth.

"Do you know when she left?" the Chief asked politely.

Cops were taught in police school to ask questions lawyers were taught in lawyer school to tell their clients not to answer. If both the suspect and the cop play the game properly, it can take a long time before the suspect gets trapped in enough uncertainty to raise the ante to probable cause for an arrest.

"No," I answered, disregarding my own internal lawyer advice so we could get this game of twenty-questions over. I then proceeded to elaborate. "We were getting along just swell until she got mad about something and left our bed. I have no idea what she did after that."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember. In the heat of the night. Before dawn."

"What did she get mad about?" Tiny asked.

I shrugged my shoulders over the mystery of it all. "Who knows with women? One minute we were being friendly. Then she got mad and started yelling. Now that I think about it, it was when she asked me if I loved her enough to marry her. Have you ever noticed how women wait until you're too weak to argue to ask such a question?"

"So what happened next?" Tiny asked.

Tiny liked my women-adventure stories, which I fabricated just for him. To my credit, I never talked about the actual details of any intimate relationship I've ever had because those have been with women I cared about. Of course, I've fabricated the number of adventures and the number of women and given lots of those "you know" hints, which Tiny was too proud to admit he didn't.

"Guess I gave the wrong answer," I answered just in time to keep Tiny from beating it out of me. "So nothing happened. She left the bed. I went back to sleep. Next thing I know, the sun's up, I'm awake. She isn't there. So I made coffee, took it out to the deck, saw you and Gomez on the beach kicking sand at the stiff. Now we're here. Together again."

The Chief glared at Tiny, then at me, and snapped, "Where can we find Sally?"

Good question, I thought, and proceeded to elaborate on my connections. "Seeing as how it's Saturday, I doubt you'll find her in her Center City office. She might be at her Center City townhouse, though. But you probably should try her sister's beach house first. That's where Sally usually goes when we have a tiff. Her sister's name is Lizabeth Thorton. She's married to Chester Thorton, Harvard Law lawyer, heck of a nice guy. They have a small cottage, about an acre under roof off Bayside Road, and a house on Grandview Avenue in Center City, and an apartment in New York, a ranch in Texas, and a place in Beverly Hills, and one in Paris, and --"

"That's it for now," Tiny said, concluding the interrogation before I got around to confessing under the pressure of it all. "But just in case you were thinking of leaving town, don't. We'll be talking to you again."

"Looking forward to it." I extended my hand. "And thank you, Tiny, for the ride into town. I'll find my own way home, if you don't mind."

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