The Lesson of Her Death

This was fun. It was the way Mahoney used to look at perps and he missed doing it. “There’re a couple things I’ve got to talk to you about.”
    Ribbon responded exactly the same way the perps had—fiercely studying the scenery behind Mahoney as if memorizing the wall or window or front door.
    “But first off. Good news. I just talked to Mr. Gebben.”
    “Did you now?”
    “And you know that reward I was talking about?”
    “Reward?” Ribbon frowned. Then he nodded. “Right, yeah, I recall you mentioning that.”
    “Well, he’s authorized me to release some of it now.”
    “We haven’t caught anybody yet, Charlie.” Ribbon snorted a laugh.
    “Well, I’ve told him you’re doing a good job and he wants to show his support.”
    “That’s real kind of him, Charlie.”
    “He’s a generous man. But I’m afraid we’ve got to talk about something. Kind of an unpleasant situation.”
    “Unpleasant.”
    Ribbon licked the rim of his cup and Mahoney let him fret for a delectable minute before he said, “Again, I don’t want to be imposing myself. You’re the boss here, Steve.”
    “I value your opinion. You’re surely more of an expertthan any of us.” Ribbon seemed at sea and took refuge in the scotch. He drank long and busied himself with pouring another glass.
    “I hate to say anything.”
    “Naw, go ahead, Charlie.”
    “Well, it’s about this Bill Corde.”
    Corde pulled into the Town Hall driveway and saw three deputies standing in front of a new Nissan Pathfinder 4×4. It was a beauty. Corde admired it. He saw nothing wrong with buying foreign as long as the quality was better than American. He had a little problem
paying
foreign, having test-driven a Pathfinder himself; he knew he was looking at over twenty thousand dollars worth of transport.
    Corde turned his attention away from the truck and back to the lardy figure of Dodd Humphries he was helping out of the squad car and through the parking lot. As he passed the truck Corde said to the men, “Who’s the proud father?”
    “Steve bought her.”
    Corde laughed in genuine surprise. “Steve Ribbon?”
    “Surely did. Walked right into the dealership and drove out this morning.”
    “Hell you say. He was gonna drive that Dodge till it dropped.” Corde looked at the shimmering chrome and metallic-flecked burgundy paint and he said to Lance Miller, “He’s gone and set a bad precedent. Now everybody’s gonna want their trucks with all cylinders running.”
    They entered the Sheriff’s Department wing. Half the complement was out inspecting the sheriff’s new wheels. Jim Slocum was looking at a handful of letters. Corde assumed they were more of the worthless confessions and tip letters that accompany any publicized investigation.
    “Dodd, you can’t keep doing this,” Corde said to his prisoner.
    “Doing what?” the man asked drowsily.
    The man’s Toyota pickup had sheared a leg off the Purina feed billboard on 116 and dropped a painted sixty-foot Hereford on her black-and-white rump. Miller took him into the lockup in the back of the office. When he returned Corde looked up from the arrest report. “Two point four. He’s more than legally drunk. I do believe he’s legally dead.”
    Miller said, “Well, he’s legally barfing and he’s got bits of windshield falling out of his skivvies. It’s all over the floor.”
    Corde said, “Give him some paper towels and make him clean it up. Nobody should be drinking like that on a weekday morning.”
    “He’ll lose his license this time,” Miller said.
    “Hardly matters,” Corde answered. “That was his last truck.”
    Steve Ribbon appeared in the doorway and looked at Corde. “Talk to you for a minute, Bill.”
    Corde followed him into his office and the sheriff shut the door. Ribbon sat down and expanded his cheeks like a blowfish’s body and started to bounce a Ticonderoga number two off the drum of his skin. Corde decided it might be a long conversation and sat down in the chair opposite the sheriff’s desk.
    “Bill …” The pencil stopped being a drumstick and became a Flash Gordon rocket crash-landing on the desk. “Damn this bureaucracy, Bill.”
    Corde waited.
    “County and state and everybody.”
    “Okay, what’s up, Steve?”
    “I got a call from Ellison.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Bill, this is a damn difficult thing to say to you.”
    Corde laughed without humor. “Then spit it out fast.”
    Ribbon said, “The county’s taking over the Gebben