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Three Weeks Later
Adam glared at his computer, rubbing his eyes. He’d scanned this same page several times but didn’t remember what he read. Jinks breezed in to hand him a McMuffin and a large coffee. The station’s coffee machine was broken, and it was funny to see all the paper and Styrofoam carry-out cups from local joints clutched in everyone’s hands as they navigated their day.
“Any word from Beverly?” Jinks asked.
“Nope.” It was three weeks since she’d vanished. He’d got some ribbing from a few of the beat cops, but Jinks stayed silent on the matter, other than to say she liked her.
After the initial political and legal firestorm surrounding Forsythe’s shooting and the resulting media carnival, things were settling down. Reporters were making hay out of tragedy, as they usually did, speculating on the motive for the murders. Who knew when, or if, Forsythe would be alert enough for his attorneys to consult with him.
Strudwick’s murder would have to wait until the trial if there was one. Beverly’s evidence would also have to come to public light some day. But after Beverly told him more about Strudwick, Adam got the chief to hold off on releasing those sordid details to protect the man’s family for as long as possible.
The circus would die down eventually and be largely forgotten by most people. Not by Mayor Lehmann. He protested his innocence, and knowing how thick the mayor’s Teflon skin was, Adam was betting he’d survive this politically.
Adam had toyed with the idea of calling Zelda to see how she was holding up but decided against it. When he ran into her in town, she’d gripped his hand briefly without saying a word and then hurried off.
Adam tried not to think about Beverly, but her face kept popping back into his mind. He’d done more research after she left, trying to tie up a few loose ends. Like why did old man Kornelson bury the statue in the churchyard instead of selling it? Then Adam found out the man was exhibiting early signs of dementia, and his only living relative, a greedy nephew, tried to force a Power of Attorney order to take over the man’s estate.
Adam occupied the rest of his time with a couple of cases that should have been interesting. For some reason, work now felt like a chore. The intercom on his desk phone shook him out of his glum reverie. Arline Newton, the department receptionist, wanted to route a call to his office phone. It was from a representative of the American Indian College Fund.
The woman apologized for bothering him. “It was so out of the ordinary, I had to follow through. It’s not every day we get a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars. The donor wished to remain anonymous. But the enclosed note had your name and number on it and said you’d be getting something, too.”
“This donor didn’t identify himself or herself at all? No address?”
“No, they definitely wanted to remain anonymous. But the check was good.”
Adam thanked her and hung up, bewildered. American Indian College Fund? Then his heart raced as Arline brought in Dutton’s mail and dumped it into his in-box. He flipped through the magazines, official bulletins, and junk mail until he uncovered a small, handwritten package with no return address.
He slit it open and drew out a package of maple fudge, which made him smile. How did she know it was his favorite? And then he scanned the letter inside, which the history-loving Beverly had written in the form of a telegram.
“Found a little silver object someone was interested in buying. Stop. Thought of you working your way through community college and also theft from Indians by Rangers. Stop. Payback time. Stop. Can’t find anyone here with eyes as nice as yours. Stop. Ironwood Junction might be a nice place to settle down. Stop. Could use a partner to help nail additional NAL crooks.”
He smiled. And then he chuckled. And then he pulled out the large file he’d started compiling on more of the Northeastern Antiquities League bad guys. A partner, huh? Yeah, he’d be ready.
