Best Kept Secrets

Three

 

 

 

 

 

The sheriffs department was located in the basement of the

 

Purcell County Courthouse. For the second time in as many

 

days, Alex parked her car in a metered slot on the square

 

and entered the building.

 

 

 

It was early. There wasn't much activity in the row of

 

offices on the lower level. In the center of this warren of

 

cubicles was a large squad room, no different from any other

 

in the nation. A pall of cigarette smoke hovered over it like

 

a perpetual cloud. Several uniformed officers were gathered

 

around a hot plate where coffee was simmering. One was

 

talking, but when he saw Alex, he stopped in midsentence.

 

One by one, heads turned, until all were staring at her. She

 

felt glaringly out of place in what was obviously a male

 

domain. Equal employment hadn't penetrated the ranks of

 

the Purcell County Sheriffs Department.

 

 

 

She held her ground and said pleasantly,' 'Good morning.''

 

 

 

"Mornin'," they chorused.

 

 

 

"My name is Alex Gaither. I need to see the sheriff,

 

please." The statement was superfluous. They already knew

 

who she was and why she was there. Word traveled fast in

 

a town the size of Purcell.

 

 

 

"He expectin' you?" one of the deputies asked belligerently,

 

after spitting tobacco juice into an empty Del Monte

 

green bean can.

 

 

 

"I believe he'll see me," she said confidently.

 

 

 

"Did Pat Chastain send you over?"

 

22

 

 

 

 

 

Alex had tried to reach him again that morning, but Mrs.

 

Chastain had told her that he'd already left for his office. She

 

tried telephoning him there and got no answer. Either she

 

had missed him while he was in transit, or he was avoiding

 

her. "He's aware of why I'm here. Is the sheriff in?" she

 

repeated with some asperity.

 

"I don't think so."

 

"I haven't seen him."

 

"Yeah, he's here," one officer said grudgingly. "He came

 

in a few minutes ago.'' He nodded his head toward a hallway.

 

"Last door on your left, ma'am."

 

"Thank you."

 

Alex gave them a gracious smile she didn't feel in her heart

 

and walked toward the hallway. She was conscious of the

 

eyes focused on her back. She knocked on the indicated

 

door.

 

"Yeah?"

 

Reede Lambert sat behind a scarred wooden desk that was

 

probably as old as the cornerstone of the building. His booted

 

feet were crossed and resting on one corner of it. Like yesterday,

 

he was slouching, this time in a swivel chair.

 

His cowboy hat and a leather, fur-lined jacket were hanging

 

on a coat tree in the corner between a ground-level window

 

and a wall papered with wanted posters held up by yellowing,

 

curling strips of Scotch tape. He cradled a chipped, stained

 

porcelain coffee mug in his hands.

 

"Well, g'morning, Miss Gaither."

 

She closed the door with such emphasis that the frosted-glass

 

panel rattled. "Why wasn't I told yesterday?"

 

"And spoil the surprise?" he said with a sly grin. "How'd

 

you find out?"

 

"By accident."

 

"I knew you'd show up sooner or later." He eased himself

 

upright. "But I didn't figure on it being this early in the

 

morning." He came to his feet and indicated the only other

 

available chair in the room. He moved toward a table that

 

contained a coffee maker. "You want some?"

 

"Mr. Chastain should have told me."

 

 

 

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