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wallet.

 
    Chapter Eleven
    This time when I went into the police headquarters I stopped to speak to Wanda Purncell, who only sighed and nodded me toward Ossie’s office, where he was at his computer working. He sat bent to the screen, staring intently. Even the set of his shoulders said, I’m into serious business here. Don’t interrupt me.
    â€œI got it,” I said and waved the wallet.
    He looked up and blinked, like he was asking, Who are you? What do you want and it better be important?
    I said, “Proof. You wanted proof the guy on the picnic table that Reba absolutely did not kill is not the husband who is missing. The husband of this bonko lady who’s threatening me. Here it is.”
    He reached for the wallet.
    I held it away from him, flipped it open to the photos. “This,” I said and pointed to the photo, “is the woman who is threatening me. And this is Butch Rigsbee, who I think Reba kept calling God.” I told him about the phone call at Motel 3 and my other suspicions that this woman was following me and meant to do me harm and that Allison said Butch Rigsbee had left, but his truck was the one Bruce drove here. “The one right out there in your parking lot.” I pointed out the window, but Ossie didn’t even look.
    Instead he took the wallet, glanced at the photos, opened it all the way flat and felt in the compartment that would have held cash. “It’s empty,” he said, folded it back together and slid it in his desk drawer.
    â€œThat’s evidence,” I said, shocked at his nonchalance. “Aren’t you going to tag and bag it?”
    â€œTell me something I don’t already know.” He turned back to his computer.
    â€œI know this woman is threatening me. Threatening me with bodily harm. And her husband is missing. Missing. Maybe murdered.” When I said it, my voice shook and I felt like crying. “She called me a hussy.”
    â€œSo, are you?”
    â€œAm I what?”
    â€œA hussy.” His voice almost sounded like it had half a chuckle in it. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Little girl, go home. You are into something you don’t know anything about.”
    â€œBut…” I said.
    He didn’t even look up.
    I let myself out and when I walked by Wanda’s desk she gave me a look of pure sympathy and an uplifted finger of a wave that seemed to say, Honey, you just got a taste of what I work with every day. Goodbye and good luck.
    Near the back entrance I saw Bruce Bechner’s office. Hmmm, I thought. Maybe Bruce would be the one to get his mind on what was going on in Littleboro since he didn’t have wedding jitters.
    I opened the door and poked my head in. No Bruce. The office was empty except for a desk, a file cabinet, a one-cup coffeemaker and a whole windowsill of African violets in a profusion of purples and pinks and whites.
    Out the window I saw the white van and on Bruce’s desk lay a set of keys that looked like a jangle of truck keys.
    â€œHmm,” I said, out loud this time.
    I picked up the keys, went out the back door and jogged over to the truck. I knew Ossie could see me from his office, but my latest encounter with him told me he wasn’t interested in anything I said or did. I’d bet anything he still had his nose glued to that computer screen.
    I tried one of the keys in the rear lock and heard a rumbling noise as the gate lifted. Nearly scared me to death. I jumped back. Who knew that was the right key and that it worked the lift gate? The gate rose very slowly until the whole interior of the truck was wide open. Wide open to dark and more dark. Empty. There was nothing in that truck bed but a small stack of white boxes. I climbed into the truck bed and opened one of the boxes. Rows of dozens of new orange prescription bottles. Empty ones. Was Butch hauling pharmacy supplies?
    So what was all this fuss about?
    I closed the boxes,