I’d be struggling out of bed to the sound of Joe mumbling, “What time is it? Thought the point of being retired was that we didn’t have to get up early anymore.” School days had been crazy early in order to make the commute into downtown Brooklyn.
But it didn’t take me long to learn to jump out of bed when the alarm went off, the adrenaline already rushing through my veins.
The lights flickered, signaling the end of the visit. As the guard motioned that we had to leave, I was almost at the door before I realized I had forgotten to ask the most important question of all.
“Wait—Angus—who was the guy? The guy that you almost beat to death?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Hank Ramsbottom. Detective Frank Ramsbottom’s father.”
Chapter Six
I stumbled out of the prison, the memory of Angus’s wry, defeated expression burned into my brain. No wonder he felt as though the situation was hopeless. If the detective on your case held a major grudge against you, did you really stand much of a chance, no matter how good your attorney? In a small community like this, where the police, the judge, the DA, and other officials were so tight, it made the odds against him stacked even higher.
On the way home, I stopped for gas on the outskirts of Sheepville.
Betty’s brother, George Hildebrand, owned the garage, and he came over to the car when he saw me, wiping his hands on a rag.
I told him about visiting Angus at the prison.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“He’s okay, I guess, I—”
“Oh, it’s just terrible, isn’t it? Terrible situation. We’ve had Betty over a lot lately. Don’t want her to sit home brooding by herself. I go and pick her up, you know. She doesn’t like to drive at night. Neither does my Annie. It’s really something to get older, isn’t it? Everything starts going on you. The knees, the hips, the eyes. No idea why they call it the Golden Years . . .”
George was one of those people who could talk and talk, and talk some more, whether he had an audience or not. I watched the dollar amount on the gas pump click higher and higher. I pulled the nozzle out when I couldn’t stand it anymore, even though the tank wasn’t completely full.
He was still carrying on, something about Angus bringing the car in for an oil change on Friday. “Don’t you know he forgot to pay? Good old Angus. But that’s par for the course lately.”
“Wait—what did you just say?” I stared at the sticker on my windshield and its mileage reminder for the next service.
“About what? Not paying?”
“About Angus coming in for an oil change? On Friday?”
“Yes. Friday afternoon.”
Before he went to the pub with Jimmy Kratz.
“Thanks, George. Thanks for your help!” I barely remembered to rip my credit card receipt off the machine before I jumped in my car and waved good-bye to a startled George.
I clicked my odometer to zero, drove to Angus’s house, and turned around. I drove back to Sheepville, stopped in front of the pub, and drove back to his house again.
Exactly 2.1 miles.
I got out of the Subaru, ran over to Angus’s Ford F-150 pickup, and peered through the window at the odometer and the sticker. About two miles difference between the two, which proved that he didn’t drive the half mile to Jimmy’s the next morning and back again.
“Yes! Daisy Buchanan, you’re a genius!”
Hold on, genius. If Jimmy walked home, why couldn’t Angus have walked to Jimmy’s, too? That’s what the police will say.
I frowned, smoothing out a patch of kicked-up gravel with the bottom of my shoe.
But why would Angus walk? His first instinct would be to jump in the truck and get there as fast as possible, assuming he’d found the pens missing and was pissed off at Jimmy. He’d have sobered up enough to feel like he could drive, and wouldn’t be thinking about subtleties like oil change stickers.
I glanced at my watch. I still had time to visit the detective and tell him about this new discovery. Knowing what I knew now, I wasn’t assured of a great reception.
*
“The desk sergeant punched a button on his phone, and held a muttered brief conversation before gesturing to the hallway behind the reception desk. “You can go on back.”
I hurried down the hall toward an open doorway at the end. Ramsbottom didn’t actually have an office, more like a piece of the back room. I ran the gauntlet of the other officers glancing my way—some with casual interest, others with more pointed stares—as I picked my way through their desks to where the hefty detective sat in the far-right-hand corner.
“Well, this is a pleasure, Mrs. Daly,” he said, his tone indicating the opposite. To my surprise, he wasn’t sitting around stuffing his face today. Only nursing a giant plastic cup of iced coffee with a straw.