N Is for Noose

property?"
    "Oh, I'm sure not," she said. "He told me he'd do anything he could to help. He was Tom's best friend, you know."
    But not yours, I thought. "One thing I'm curious about," I said tentatively. "The night he died… if he'd had any warning… he could have called for help if he'd had a radio. Why no CB in his truck? Why no pager? I know a lot of guys in law enforcement who have radios installed in their personal vehicles."
    "Oh, I know. He meant to do that, but hadn't gotten around to it. He was always busy. I couldn't get him to take the time to drop it off and get it done. That's the sort of thing you tend way to deal with it."
    Brant reappeared, wearing the blue uniform that identified him as an emergency medical technician for the local ambulance service. s. NEWQUIST was embroid ered on the left. His skin radiated the scent of soap and his hair was now shower-damp and smelled of Ivory shampoo. I allowed myself one small inaudible whine of the sort only heard by dogs; neither Brant nor his mother seemed to pick up on it. I sat at the kitchen table, just across from him, politely eating my sandwich while I listened to them chat. Midway through lunch, the telephone rang again. Selma got up. "You two go ahead. I'll pick that up in Tom's den."
    Brant finished his sandwich without saying much and I realized it was going to be my job to initiate conversation.
    "I take it Tom adopted you."
    "When I was thirteen," Brant said. "My… I guess you'd call him a birth father… hadn't been in touch for years, since my mom and him divorced. When she married Tom, he petitioned the court. I'd consider him my real dad whether he adopted me or not."
    "You must have had a good relationship."
    He reached for the plate of cookies on the counter and we took turns eating them while we continued our conversation. "The last couple of years we did. Before that, we didn't get along all that great. Mom's always been easygoing, but Tom was strict. He'd been in the army and he came down real hard on the side of obeying rules. He encouraged me to get involved with Boy Scouts-which I hated-karate, and track, stuff like that. I wasn't used to having restrictions laid on me so I fought back at first. I guess I did just about anything I could think of to challenge his authority. Eventually he shaped up," he said, smiling slightly.
    "How long have you been a paramedic?"
    "Three years. Before that, I didn't do much of anything. Went to school for a while, though I wasn't any great shakes as a student back then."
    "Did Tom talk to you about his cases?"
    "Sometimes. Not lately."
    "Any idea why?"
    Brant shrugged. "Maybe what he was working, on wasn't that interesting."
    "What about the last six weeks or so?"
    "He didn't mention anything in particular."
    "What about his field notes? Have you seen those?" A frown crossed his face. "His field notes?"
    "The notes he kept-"
    Brant interrupted. "I know what field notes are, but I don't understand the question. His are missing?"
    "I think so. Or put it this way, I haven't been able to lay hands on his notebook."
    "That's weird. When it wasn't in his pocket, he kept it in his desk drawer or his truck. All his old notes, he bound up in rubber bands and stored in boxes in the basement. Have you asked his partner? Might be at the office."
    "I talked to Rafer once but I didn't ask about the notebook because at that point, I hadn't even thought to look."
    "Can't help you on that one. I'll keep an eye out around here."
    After lunch, both Selma and Brant took off. Brant had errands to run before he reported for work and Selma was involved in her endless series of volunteer positions. She'd posted a calendar on the refrigerator and the squares were filled with scribbles for most days of the week. A silence settled on the house and I felt a mild ripple of anxiety climb my frame. I was running out of things to do. I went back to the den and pulled the phone book out of Tom's top drawer. Given the size of the town, the directory was no bigger than a magazinc. I looked up James Tennyson, the CHP officer who'd found Tom that night. There was only one Tennyson, a James W, listed on Iroquois Drive in this same development. I checked my city map, grabbed my jacket and my handbag, and headed out to the car.
    Iroquois Drive was a winding roadway lined with two-story houses and an abundance of evergreens. Residents were apparently encouraged to keep their garage doors closed. Backyards in this section were fully fenced