it right. Money equals a better life all around.”
“Yeah, next time I’m in Kabul, I’ll let them know your thoughts.”
“I was talking the United States of America, not dipshit land where they talk funny and think their pissant god is better than our real God.”
“I think I’ll keep that one to myself,” replied Puller.
“Like I give a crap what you do.”
Puller tried to remove his elbow from Hooper’s grip but the man kept it there, as if he were a magnet and Puller were a block of metal. The guy was doing it just to piss him off. That was clear. And Puller could do nothing about it unless he wanted to end up in a jail cell, which would seriously crimp the investigation of his aunt’s death.
Hooper directed him to a chair outside of a frosted glass–enclosed office with the name
Henry Bullock, Chief of Police
stenciled on the door. Landry knocked twice and Puller heard a gruff voice say, “Enter.”
Hooper stood next to him as Landry disappeared inside the office.
Puller had nothing else to do so he looked around. His attention was captured by a man and a woman in their early forties because they appeared distraught in a sea of otherwise completecalm. They were seated at the desk of a man dressed in black slacks, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a muted tie. A plastic lanyard with a badge on it hung from his reedy neck.
Puller could catch only snatches of the conversation, but he heard the words “late-night walk,” then the names “Nancy and Fred Storrow.”
The woman dabbed at her nose with a tissue while the man looked down at his hands. The guy behind the desk hit keys on his computer and uttered sympathetic noises.
Puller drew his attention away from this exchange when the door to Bullock’s office opened and Landry and another man whom Puller assumed was the chief of police stepped out.
Henry Bullock was a fraction under six feet with thick shoulders and hammy arms that pulled tight against his regulation uniform. His gut was widening and offered even greater strain against the fabric than did his muscles. His body was better balanced than Hooper’s because the man’s legs were thick but tapered down to unusually small feet. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, thick eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and skin that had seen too much sun and wind. The furrows on his brow were deep and permanent and left him with a perpetual scowl.
If he’d been in a different uniform Puller would have sworn the man was his former drill sergeant.
“Puller?” he said, staring down at him.
“That’s me.”
“Come on in. You too, Landry. Hoop, you can wait outside.”
“But Chief,” said Hooper. “I was in on the bust too.”
Bullock turned to look at him. “There is no bust, Hoop. Not yet. If there is, I’ll let you know.”
And in those few words Puller could tell that Bullock was a savvy man and knew exactly the limits of Officer Hooper.
Hooper stood there sullenly, his gaze on Puller as though this slight was somehow his fault. Puller stood and walked past the man, his elbow finally free.
“Just hang tight,
Hoop
,” he said. “We’ll get back to you.”
12
P ULLER WALKED INTO THE OFFICE , trailed by Landry. She shut the door behind her.
The office was a twelve-foot-wide, eight-foot-deep rectangle of space. It was furnished in a spartan, no-nonsense way, which, Puller assumed, precisely paralleled the personality of the occupant.
Bullock sat down behind his wooden desk and motioned for Puller to take the lone chair opposite. Landry stood at semi-attention diagonally off Puller’s left shoulder.
Puller sat, looking expectantly at Bullock.
The police chief fiddled with the fingernail of his right index finger for a few moments before breaking the silence.
“We’re verifying you are who you say you are.”
“And after you do can I check out the crime scene?”
Bullock flicked an annoyed gaze at him. “There is no crime
“Yeah, next time I’m in Kabul, I’ll let them know your thoughts.”
“I was talking the United States of America, not dipshit land where they talk funny and think their pissant god is better than our real God.”
“I think I’ll keep that one to myself,” replied Puller.
“Like I give a crap what you do.”
Puller tried to remove his elbow from Hooper’s grip but the man kept it there, as if he were a magnet and Puller were a block of metal. The guy was doing it just to piss him off. That was clear. And Puller could do nothing about it unless he wanted to end up in a jail cell, which would seriously crimp the investigation of his aunt’s death.
Hooper directed him to a chair outside of a frosted glass–enclosed office with the name
Henry Bullock, Chief of Police
stenciled on the door. Landry knocked twice and Puller heard a gruff voice say, “Enter.”
Hooper stood next to him as Landry disappeared inside the office.
Puller had nothing else to do so he looked around. His attention was captured by a man and a woman in their early forties because they appeared distraught in a sea of otherwise completecalm. They were seated at the desk of a man dressed in black slacks, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a muted tie. A plastic lanyard with a badge on it hung from his reedy neck.
Puller could catch only snatches of the conversation, but he heard the words “late-night walk,” then the names “Nancy and Fred Storrow.”
The woman dabbed at her nose with a tissue while the man looked down at his hands. The guy behind the desk hit keys on his computer and uttered sympathetic noises.
Puller drew his attention away from this exchange when the door to Bullock’s office opened and Landry and another man whom Puller assumed was the chief of police stepped out.
Henry Bullock was a fraction under six feet with thick shoulders and hammy arms that pulled tight against his regulation uniform. His gut was widening and offered even greater strain against the fabric than did his muscles. His body was better balanced than Hooper’s because the man’s legs were thick but tapered down to unusually small feet. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, thick eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and skin that had seen too much sun and wind. The furrows on his brow were deep and permanent and left him with a perpetual scowl.
If he’d been in a different uniform Puller would have sworn the man was his former drill sergeant.
“Puller?” he said, staring down at him.
“That’s me.”
“Come on in. You too, Landry. Hoop, you can wait outside.”
“But Chief,” said Hooper. “I was in on the bust too.”
Bullock turned to look at him. “There is no bust, Hoop. Not yet. If there is, I’ll let you know.”
And in those few words Puller could tell that Bullock was a savvy man and knew exactly the limits of Officer Hooper.
Hooper stood there sullenly, his gaze on Puller as though this slight was somehow his fault. Puller stood and walked past the man, his elbow finally free.
“Just hang tight,
Hoop
,” he said. “We’ll get back to you.”
12
P ULLER WALKED INTO THE OFFICE , trailed by Landry. She shut the door behind her.
The office was a twelve-foot-wide, eight-foot-deep rectangle of space. It was furnished in a spartan, no-nonsense way, which, Puller assumed, precisely paralleled the personality of the occupant.
Bullock sat down behind his wooden desk and motioned for Puller to take the lone chair opposite. Landry stood at semi-attention diagonally off Puller’s left shoulder.
Puller sat, looking expectantly at Bullock.
The police chief fiddled with the fingernail of his right index finger for a few moments before breaking the silence.
“We’re verifying you are who you say you are.”
“And after you do can I check out the crime scene?”
Bullock flicked an annoyed gaze at him. “There is no crime
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