Stone Angel by Carol O'Connell

Author:Carol O'Connell [O'Connell, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-09-07T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

WHEN DETECTIVE SERGEANT Riker walked into the reception area of the sheriff’s office, there was no one minding the store. A man’s deep voice came from the next room. Riker looked through the open doorway of the private office, but the only person in sight was a pretty woman with long red hair and a tight dress.

Riker sat down on a wooden bench with a carved backing a little higher than a church pew. A toilet flushed behind a door on the other side of the room. The door swung open, and a small boy of six or seven emerged, stuffing his T-shirt into his jeans. He had the pretty woman’s red hair, but not her large blue eyes. The boy’s eyes were small, brown and curious.

“Are you a bum?”

“No, I’m a cop.”

The boy’s mouth went up on one side, and the jut of his chin said, You’re lying.

Riker looked down at his tie, spotted with souvenirs of past meals. The old gray suit had been creased by the long train ride. It had been merely rumpled before he had gotten on that train. His scuffed shoes had not been polished since the last funeral he attended. He looked up at the boy, who was sniffing the air and no doubt detecting the beer scarfed down with lunch. “I’m an undercover cop,” he lied.

“Cool.” The boy sat down beside him and scrutinized the two-day growth of stubble on Riker’s face. “It’s really good.” And now the child took in every detail of the shabby apparel, down to the scruffy shoes. “Great disguise.”

“Thanks, squirt. So what’re you in for? You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”

“Well, no,” said the boy with some regret. Then he smiled and leaned deep into the zone of conspiracy, whispering, “But I think my mom did.”

“No kidding,” said Riker, very impressed.

“The Georgia police arrested her. Then they put us on a plane back to Louisiana. Sheriff Jessop’s in there with her now. He’s gonna make her confess.”

Now Riker and the boy listened together.

The sheriff’s voice was asking, “You think Fred might’ve had a hand in it?”

Riker thought the man’s tone lacked the passion of a good grilling. The sheriff might as well have been asking his suspect where she bought that tight dress. The woman’s response was too soft to carry distinctly, though Riker and the boy strained their necks in unison to catch the words.

“Sally,” said the sheriff, “I’m not looking at conspiracy theories here. Babe was no Jack Kennedy, and his death ain’t that big a deal.”

The woman said something in a low rush of words. All that was intelligible was a slight tone of indignation.

Riker leaned toward the boy and whispered, “Who’s Babe?”

“My father,” said the boy, brightly. “The bastard’s as dead as a doornail.”

And now Riker really was impressed. Even New York children were not so blase about the demise of a parent. “I guess you didn’t like your old man that much.”

“He creeped me out, and my mother hated his guts.”

Now Riker looked up to see a man his own age with a gold star pinned to his dark linen sports jacket.

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