Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

and whirled and darted for the file room.
    Harmon was quick. But Bartlett was even quicker, and her tight red skirt and three-inch heels slowed her up. He caught up with her before she managed to escape through the door into the backyard.

Chapter Seventeen

    By the time they got to the station, Harmon had gathered her wits, composed herself, and asked to call her lawyer, whose office was in San Antonio. He would get there as soon as he could, but he had a couple of clients and wasn’t sure how long that would be. After she was fingerprinted, Sheila escorted her to one of the department’s two interrogation rooms, a narrow, windowless space with only a table, several chairs, and a one-way window. The duty officer turned on the tape-recording equipment, read her the Miranda warning, and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee.
    “I’m waiting for my attorney,” she said, and sat, arms folded, sullenly staring at the wall.
    While Bartlett was out with Sheila, Dr. Morse had called to say that she had moved up the time of the autopsy and was ready to begin. When they got back to the station, Bartlett left immediately for the Adams County hospital. Sheila went toward her office. Connie’s desk was in the small anteroom, and she stopped there.
    “Been wondering where you were,” Connie said, reaching for a stack of pink phone messages. “Busy morning, huh?”
    Connie Page had been Sheila’s assistant for the past couple of years.A competent, alert woman, not quite middle-aged, she was perfectly capable of handling a lot of the paperwork herself—and she did, with Sheila’s signature stamp. She had a good eye for what the boss needed to see and what she didn’t, and Sheila was grateful.
    “Busy doesn’t begin to describe it.” Sheila took the sheaf of messages and glanced up at the clock, startled to see that it was just twelve thirty. It felt as if she’d been out of the office for a week.
    “We need to get some food down you,” Connie said, reaching for a sweater. “How about if I run over to the diner and get a hamburger to go?”
    “That would be terrific,” Sheila said, suddenly aware of how hungry she was. Breakfast seemed like a century ago. “Fries, too.” The diner’s fries were crisp and delicious. “Double up on the catsup. Okay?”
    She went into her office, sat down at her desk, and reached for the phone. By the time Connie got back with the food, she had finished returning the most crucial calls and had begun to attack the stack of paperwork. She’d been working for a half hour, reading and signing documents while she devoured her hamburger and fries, when Detective Matheson called. Since Bartlett was still at the hospital, Sheila took it.
    “Hey, Chief, we got something good from one of those garbage guys,” Matheson said enthusiastically. He was a big, burly man with a voice to match, so deep a bass that it rumbled. One of Bubba Harris’ team of good old boys, he had been with the department for twenty-some years. “The driver didn’t see anything. But the guy who picks up the cans—Carlos Gutierrez—remembers seeing a woman in the neighborhood yesterday, when they were picking up. Some babe in a blue suit, real short skirt.” There was a smile in his voice. “Says he whistled at her, but under his breath. Didn’t want to get into trouble.”
    “Description?” Sheila asked, taking notes. “How far away was she when he saw her? What were the circumstances?”
    “She was coming down a driveway between two houses. Gutierrez was at the curb, replacing an empty can. He saw her straight on at about ten, twelve yards, so he got a pretty good look. He said she was plenty startled to see him. Anglo, blue suit, black hair, red lipstick, good legs, nice round little—” Matheson stopped and cleared his throat. “I hear we’ve got somebody in custody. Want me to bring this guy down for a show-up? Maybe he can give us a positive ID on this chick you’re holding.”
    “We’re doing this by the book, Mattie,” Sheila said. “Gutierrez could be our case. We don’t want to risk tainting his identification.”
    Driven by too many flawed convictions, the state of Texas was considering legislation to improve police lineups. Too often, the eyewitness was asked to identify the suspect in what was called a “show-up,” where the police show a single suspect, often handcuffed or sitting in the back of a police car, to the witness or the victim, and simply ask, “Is this the guy that