F Is for Fugitive

old Bert. I spent the rest of the night at the county sheriff's department, being variously questioned, accused, abused, and threatened – quite politely, of course – by a homicide detective named Sal Quintana, who wasn't in a much better mood than I was at that point. A second detective stood against the wall, using a broken wooden match to clean the plaque off his teeth. I was certain his dental hygienist would applaud his efforts when he saw her next.
    Quintana was in his mid-forties, with closely cropped black hair, big, dark eyes, and a face remarkable for its impassivity. Dwight Shales's face had the same deadpan look: obdurate, unresponsive, aggressively blank. This man was probably twenty pounds overweight, with a shirt size that hadn't quite conceded the point. The extra weight across his back had pulled his sleeves up an inch, and where his wrist extended, there were already a few gray hairs mingled with the black. He had good teeth, and my assessment of his looks might have been upgraded if he'd smiled. No such luck. He seemed to be operating on the theory that Bailey Fowler and I were in cahoots.
    "You're crazy," I said. "I only saw the man once."
    "When was that?"
    "You know when. Yesterday. I signed in at the desk. You've got it right there in front of you."
    His gaze flicked down to the papers on the table. "You want to tell us what you talked about?"
    "He was depressed. I tried to cheer him up."
    "You fond of Mr. Fowler?"
    "That's none of your business. I'm not under arrest and I'm not charged with anything, right?"
    "That's right," he said patiently. "We're just trying to understand the situation here. I'm sure you can appreciate that, given the circumstances." He paused while the second detective leaned down and murmured something indistinct. Quintana looked back at me. "I believe you were present in the courtroom when Mr. Fowler escaped. You have any contact with him at the time?"
    "None. Zippity-doo-dah."
    He didn't react at all to my flippancy. "When you spoke with Mr. Fowler on the telephone, did he give you any indication where he was calling from?"
    "No."
    "Was it your impression he was still in the area?"
    "I don't know. I guess so. He could have called from anyplace."
    "What'd he tell you about the escape?"
    "Nothing. We didn't talk about that."
    "You have any idea who picked him up?"
    "I don't even know which direction he went. I was still in the courtroom when the shots were fired."
    "What about Tap Granger?"
    "I don't know anything about Tap."
    "You spent enough time with him the night before," he remarked.
    "Yeah, well, he wasn't that informative."
    "You know who might have paid him off?"
    "Somebody paid Tap off?" I said.
    Quintana was unresponsive, simply waiting me out.
    "He didn't even mention the arraignment. I was astonished when I turned around and realized it was him."
    "Let's get back to Bailey's phone call," Quintana said.
    "I've covered most of it."
    "What else was said?"
    "I told him to get in touch with Jack Clemson and turn himself in."
    "He say he'd do that?"
    "Uh, no. He didn't seem real thrilled at that, but maybe he'll have a change of heart."
    "We're having a hard time believing he could disappear without a trace. He almost had to have assistance."
    "Well, he didn't get it from me."
    "You think somebody's hiding him?"
    "How do I know?"
    "Why'd he get in touch?"
    "I have no idea. The call was interrupted before he got to that."
    We continued in this monotonous, circular fashion till I thought I'd drop. Quintana was unfailingly civil, unsmiling, persistent – nay, relentless – and finally agreed to let me go back to the motel only after he'd milked me of all conceivable information. "Miss Millhone, let me make one thing crystal clear," he said, shifting in his seat. "This is a police matter. We want Bailey Fowler back in custody. I better not find out you're helping him in any way. Do you understand that?"
    "Absolutely," I said.
    He gave me a look that said he doubted my sincerity.
    I staggered back to bed at 6:22 A.M. and slept until nine, which was when Ann tapped on my door and got me up.

Chapter 14
----
    Ann was on her way to the hospital to see her father. The house cleaner, Maxine, had been delayed, but swore she'd be there by ten. In the meantime, Ann felt Ori was too anxious to be left alone. "I've called Mrs. Maude. She and Mrs. Emma agreed to sit with Mother, but neither one can make it till this afternoon. I feel like a dog asking you to fill