“Did I ask a hard question?” says Zoey. “You seem to be having trouble answering it.”
“Not hard,” says Clay. “But also not exactly reassuring when it comes to my uncle. Teddy is my big concern. And you’re talking about your social life.”
“Oursocial life,” says Zoey. “Listen, Clay. I do my job. I’m good at it. What I don’t do is tell people I’m good at my job. Except just then. Because the people out there telling you they’re good at their job are bad at their job or politicians or professional liars or all three.”
Clay happens to agree with this. He ran into the same phenomenon as a professional athlete. Especially at the coaching level. So many incompetent coaches talk themselves into a job. That’s their real skill. Buttering up the owners. But it was often the aloof coaches, the quirky thinkers and doers, who motivated their players to greatness not with a sales pitch but by instilling in them a belief that they could win. As individuals and as a team. The great coaches show their players, ownership, and fans a winning system. They don’t sell them a winning a system.
“Friends?” says Clay. “I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”
“Well, good.” Zoey extends her hand over the table. “Friends.”
Clay shakes it.
“I have a question, friend,” says Zoey. “Your dad’s been off the job less than a year. Why don’t you ask him about local criminal activity?”
“A couple of reasons,” says Clay. “I don’t want to look for Teddy with my dad. He doesn’t exactly see things clearly when it comes to his brother. And he doesn’t exactly see things clearly when it comes to me. It’s a bad combination. Also, you have the most recent information. You have active cases, I assume. Or at least suspicions and hunches about what’s going on out there in your jurisdiction. So I figured why not go to the best source of current information?”
Zoey’s about to respond when her cell rings. She takes the call. “This is Chief Jensen.”
Clay can hear Sue’s garbled voice on the other end.
“Tell Wahlquist to drive out and have a look.”
More garbled Sue.
“Is Kimmich out on a call…? Okay, I’ll head that way soon. Tell them I’ll be there in twenty.” Zoey ends the call.
“Busy day?” says Clay.
“The usual,” says Zoey. “But it’d be less busy if that fancy boarding school of yours had its own security. We’ve been up there twice already this summer. Stretching my department kind of thin.”
“What’s going on at Dorset-Cornwall? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Theft. Computers out of the library. Building supplies from that new wing you’re adding. A bunch of apparatus from the chem lab.”
“I’ll suggest we hire private security at the next staff meeting,” says Clay.
“Look at that. I’m helping you, you’re helping me. I love a transactional relationship. Hey, here’s a question: Are you a shower or a bath guy?”
“Shower,” says Clay. “Taking a bath is just sitting in your own dirt.”
“Yes!” says Zoey, looking genuinely impressed. “That’s exactly right! I knew I’d like you. I just knew it. What’s your cell number? I’ll send you my contact info.”
CHAPTER 8
Clay returns to his truck to find a parking ticket on the windshield. He’s not parked illegally and pulls off the ticket to see what infraction he’s supposedly committed. No boxes are checked. Instead he sees handwriting in black Sharpie:Betty-Mae’s. We need to talk.No signature. No nothing. Clay checks his watch. He has plenty of time before he has to pick up Braedon, so he shoves the ticket into his jeans pocket and walks a block and a half south on Main Street to Betty-Mae’s Bakery.
The place smells of sugar and butter. Baked goods fill glass cases, and people sit at orange Formica tables in aluminum chairs. Clay spots Riverwood police officers Mike Wahlquist and Andy Kimmich with coffee and a dozen assorted donuts. Both men are about Judd’s age. Clay approaches, drops the wadded-up ticket into the donut box, and says, “Heard you guys want to chat.”
Mike Wahlquist carries an extra fifty pounds, mostly between his chest and former waist, and has gray eyes between heavy lids and swollen bags, a gin-blossom nose, and silver stubble atop his head. If he were standing, he’d measure six feet, three inches. He says, “Pull up a chair,” in a mismatched voice for his ample size. It’s weak and high-pitched, as if he’d been punched in the larynx when he was eleven and his voice didn’t mature after that. “Have a donut.”
“I’m good,” says Clay. “Just ate a scone at Maisy’s.”
“A scone?” says Andy Kimmich. “Ooh-la-la. You can take the boy out of Europe…” Kimmich started dyeing his hair black in his thirties with a store-bought dye that might as well be called Black Hole because it sucks in everything around it. He’s thin with slight shoulders and a bit of a neat freak about his appearance. His uniform is clean and pressed just so. He also has a meticulously trimmed mustache, also dyed black. It is currently flaked with specks of glaze from a just-eaten donut. “Come on, eat a donut like an American.”
“No thank you,” says Clay, “but I appreciate the offer.”
“Used to be ‘Uncle Andy’! ‘Uncle Mike’! Now he won’t even eat with us. Will you at least have a seat?”
