CHAPTER 11
The Paradise police station was located two blocks off the beach in a two-story stone and stucco structure that had an orange terra-cotta roof and a pair of palm trees out front. It sat next to a Ritz-Carlton hotel and looked more like a country club than a place where cops went to get their patrol assignments and cruisers to go hunt criminals.
As Puller climbed out of the police car and looked around he said to Hooper, “Did you purposely locate in the high-crime area to keep watch over the criminal element?”
Hooper ignored him, but placed an arm on Puller’s elbow to shepherd him into the building. Apparently Hooper was under the impression that Puller was in custody and the only things missing were the cuffs over his wrists and a Miranda warning ringing in his ears.
The place inside looked much like the place outside. High-dollar, clean, orderly. In fact it was the cleanest, most orderly police station Puller had ever seen. The personnel working inside pristinely delineated office spaces barely looked up as the trio came in. Their clothes were starched, spotless, and looked to have been fitted by a veteran tailor. No phones were ringing. No one was screaming for his lawyer or declaring that he was innocent of all trumped-up charges. No uncooperative prisoners were puking on the floor. No fat, sweaty cops with major B.O. and pissed-off attitudes were waddling down the halls in search of a myocardial infarction in the form of a vending machine stuffed with chocolate and sodium.
It was such a total disconnect for Puller that he looked around for a camera, seriously wondering for a few moments whether he was being punked.
He glanced at Landry, who was walking next to him. “I’ve never seen a police station quite like this one.”
“What’s so different about it?” she asked.
“You been in any others?”
“A few.”
“Trust me, it’s different. I was looking around for a valet outside and a place to order a drink in here before I teed off for a quick round of nine holes. And I don’t even play golf.”
Hooper nudged his elbow harder. “So we’ve got a strong tax base. That’s a problem somehow?”
“Didn’t say it was a problem. Just said it was different.”
“Then maybe everybody else should follow our example,” retorted Hooper. “Because I think we’ve got it right. Money equals a better life all around.”
“Yeah, next time I’m in Kabul, I’ll let them know your thoughts.”
“I was talking the United States of America, not dipshit land where they talk funny and think their pissant god is better than our real God.”
“I think I’ll keep that one to myself,” replied Puller.
“Like I give a crap what you do.”
Puller tried to remove his elbow from Hooper’s grip but the man kept it there, as if he were a magnet and Puller were a block of metal. The guy was doing it just to piss him off. That was clear. And Puller could do nothing about it unless he wanted to end up in a jail cell, which would seriously crimp the investigation of his aunt’s death.
Hooper directed him to a chair outside of a frosted glass-enclosed office with the name Henry Bullock, Chief of Police stenciled on the door. Landry knocked twice and Puller heard a gruff voice say, “Enter.”
Hooper stood next to him as Landry disappeared inside the office.
Puller had nothing else to do so he looked around. His attention was captured by a man and a woman in their early forties because they appeared distraught in a sea of otherwise complete calm. They were seated at the desk of a man dressed in black slacks, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a muted tie. A plastic lanyard with a badge on it hung from his reedy neck.
Puller could catch only snatches of the conversation, but he heard the words “late-night walk,” then the names “Nancy and Fred Stor- row.”
The woman dabbed at her nose with a tissue while the man looked down at his hands. The guy behind the desk hit keys on his computer and uttered sympathetic noises.
Puller drew his attention away from this exchange when the door to Bullock’s office opened and Landry and another man whom Puller assumed was the chief of police stepped out.
Henry Bullock was a fraction under six feet with thick shoulders and hammy arms that pulled tight against his regulation uniform. His gut was widening and offered even greater strain against the fabric than did his muscles. His body was better balanced than Hooper’s because the man’s legs were thick but tapered down to unusually small feet. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, thick eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and skin that had seen too much sun and wind. The furrows on his brow were deep and permanent and left him with a perpetual scowl.
If he’d been in a different uniform Puller would have sworn the man was his former drill sergeant.
“Puller?” he said, staring down at him.
“That’s me.”
“Come on in. You too, Landry. Hoop, you can wait outside.”
“But Chief,” said Hooper. “I was in on the bust too.”
Bullock turned to look at him. “There is no bust, Hoop. Not yet. If there is, I’ll let you know.”
And in those few words Puller could tell that Bullock was a savvy man and knew exactly the limits of Officer Hooper.
Hooper stood there sullenly, his gaze on Puller as though this slight was somehow his fault. Puller stood and walked past the man, his elbow finally free.
“Just hang tight, Hoop” he said. “We’ll get
back to you.”