Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

held a silver Colt .45 at his side, ready if Rosswell raised his pistol.

  After the marshal glanced from side to side, he said, “You alone?”

  “Yep.”

  The man matched Rosswell’s short stature, but topped him by at least forty pounds. The investigator’s thinning, straight black hair unbalanced his shiny mustache, onyx, curled, and heavy. How Rosswell envied those handlebars.

  The man said, “Are you peaceable?”

  “Yep.” Rosswell knew enough not to spook a cop who’d arrived on a scene where a fresh body lay in the road. Especially if the cop had a big gun.

  Rosswell watched him dip a wad of chewing tobacco out of an open pouch on his car’s dash, then squirrel it in a ruddy cheek, all the while holding his pistol. If there’s a habit nastier than chewing an expensive weed that burns your mouth, stains your teeth a dead brown color, gives you the breath of a charnel house, causes your stomach to ache, and makes you hawk slimy gobs of greasy crap, Rosswell had yet to discover it. Who kissed this man? Hadn’t the man read the warning on the tobacco pouch: THIS PRODUCT IS NOT A SAFE ALTER- NATIVE TO CIGARETTES?

  As if on cue, the investigator spit a brown stream and wiped his chin. Abominable. Rosswell tracked the gelatinous lump the man had ejaculated from between his grimy teeth as it landed inches from Rosswell’s feet. He scowled at the filthy gob, vowing to watch where he stepped from that moment on.

  “Jim Bill Evans,” he said. “I’m with the Department of Public Safety. Fire Marshal’s office.”

  “Rosswell Carew.” He doubted that Jim Bill Evans would be impressed that he was a judge.

  Jim Bill’s tongue worked the weed wad around until it collected in his lower lip, and he spit again. “Mr. Carew, looks like there’s been a killing.”

  “Yep. I killed the guy.”

  Jim Bill spit again. “You best be handing that gun over to me. Butt first.” Rosswell complied. Jim Bill handcuffed Rosswell behind his back. “Now you can get in my car. You’re under arrest.”

  Rosswell rubbed his wrists, urging the blood to circulate, after Jim Bill removed the handcuffs.

  Frizz and Neal had arrived shortly after the investigator summoned them by radio.

  Neal said, “Here’s Ross and here’s another body.”

  Frizz told Jim Bill, “He’s our judge.”

  “We’ve met,” Jim Bill said, probably wondering why a judge would go around killing people in public.

  Frizz said, “Take his cuffs off.”

  Rosswell said, “Frizz, I take it you’ve released Candy again.”

  “Not yet.”

  Rosswell said, “Johnny Dan’s the murderer.”

  “I’ve got to agree with you on that one,” Neal said. “Where’s your camera?”

  “It’s in my car but Vicky’s leaking gasoline. I’m not sure I should go over there.”

  Jim Bill appraised the VW and the gasoline dripping from it. “Let’s

  roll it into the road to let the gas soak in the road.”

  Rosswell said, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Jim Bill said, “Yes.”

  V

  Vicky had been towed into town without incident and Rosswell sat in headquarters with Frizz.

  The door was shut.

  After a million questions from Frizz, Rosswell said, “Are you through?”

  “Until I think of something else to ask.”

  “You and me . . . we need to have a serious talk.”

  “That’s what we’ve been doing.”

  “It’s about the money.” Rosswell stood and walked behind Frizz’s desk, where he pointed to the drawer holding the strongbox. “I need to know why you have a box full of cash.”

  “How do you know what’s in there? This drawer is locked.” Frizz pulled on the drawer to demonstrate.

  “Ollie picked the drawer then picked the strong box. After we looked, he locked them again.”

  “Ollie? Hell of a research assistant working for you. I should arrest his ass.”

  “Let’s deal. You tell me why you have the cash and I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t tell you how I know.”

  “About what? How much do you know already?” Frizz unlocked the drawer.

  “You and Nadine are lovers and your wife is a gambler out of control.”

  Frizz plunked the box on top of his desk. “Twenty-five thousand dollars. Not a penny less. I’ve been collecting it for six years. A skim here, a skim there. It adds up.”

  “How much did you spend?”

  “I haven’t spent one hot penny.”

  “Then, legally, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re the sheriff. You snatched cash as evidence. You have evidence locked in your office. You did what you’re supposed to do.”

  Frizz laughed. “Right. And how do I apportion all that money to however many cases over the last six years? I need to resign. The state needs to investigate me. I need to go to jail.”

  “Unadulterated bullshit.”

  “Are you threatening me with Ollie phrases?”

  “How many cash stashes do you have in the evidence locker?”

  Frizz said, “None.”

  “Okay, then here’s what we do. From now until you get rid of the pile in your strongbox, you slip in a couple of hundred every time you make a legal bust. No one will know but you and me.”

  “That leaves my wife and Nadine.”

  “You’re on your own there.”

  “I’ll do what everyone else does. Bankruptcy and divorce.”

  “I’m going home to clean up. Then I’m going to see Tina.”

  “The evil nurse may try to arrest you.”

  “I can deal with her.”

   Chapter Thirty-four

  Saturday night

  Rosswell, clean and shiny after his shower at home, answered his cellphone.

  Without greeting, Frizz said, “I found Ambrosia Forcade’s white Cadillac.”

  “Where?”

  “In Johnny Dan’s shop, under a tarp. Neal is processing the scene.”

  “Now what are your odds on it being Babe?”

  “Judge, I know how to handle it. I can find Ambrosia or Babe or whatever the hell she’s calling herself.”

  The phone went dead.

  Rosswell fetched the letter Tina had written him.

  It was late and Tina would be asleep. He’d decided to go to her room, sneaking past the nurse guarding the door if necessary, and sit by her bedside. There he would open the letter and read it. What a spot of calm in an ocean of problems. He sitting by his beloved reading what had to be a love letter. That is, if it wasn’t a get-lost letter.

  At the hospital, the door to Tina’s room at the end of the hallway was open, but inside it was dark.

  Junior Fleming stood at Priscilla’s desk, chatting, laughing. Apparently he didn’t find her quite the ugly stick anymore.

  A dark room was a good sign. Tina slept, he assured himself. She needed rest. Tina hated resting, but that was the major thing she needed. He would sit by her bed and watch her sleep.

  Tina was not in the room. Rosswell walked to the nurse’s station. “Junior,” Rosswell said, “where’s Tina? Where’s the deputy?”

  Junior turned to face Rosswell. “Tina’s in there, sleeping.” He pointed to the dark room. “The deputy went to supper.”

  Rosswell went back in the room, knocked on the bathroom door.

  No response. He opened the door. The bathroom was dark and unoccupied.

  “Crap,” he said under his breath. Tina was out gallivanting in the halls, visiting who knew who. She loved talking to people, and she’d perked up enough to be bored, and boredom had finally overcome her. He’d give her a good lecture which, of course, she’d ignore.

  Rosswell stuck his head out the door to her room. Peered up and down the hall. No one in sight but Junior and Priscilla.

  “Junior, she’s not here.”

  The cop bolted for the room and turned on all the lights and checked the bathroom. He radioed security.
“I’m on it, Judge.” Junior left, apparently to search the whole hospital by himself.

  Roswell began walking the corridors. After half an hour, Rosswell returned to her room. Still no Tina. The bed was mussed as if she’d just gotten out of it. Nothing appeared to be missing. Except Tina.

  A security guard approached him. “Are you Judge Carew?”

  “Yes,” Rosswell said to the young man he’d never seen before. “But something’s bad wrong. Do you know where Tina Parkmore is?” He pointed to her room.

  “Let me check,” the man said, hunching over a computer. “Says here she’s still a patient.”

  Priscilla frowned. “She’s not in her room. The judge has been looking all over for her and so has Junior.”

  Rosswell said, “Where else would she be this time of night?”

  The security guard said, “I’ve called the sheriff. He’s on his way. I’ll be searching the grounds.”

  The nurse strode to Tina’s room and did a search of her own.

  Doesn’t she think that Junior, the security guard, and I could find one woman in a hospital room?

  “Not here,” the nurse said. She dialed a number and spoke to someone, then said to Rosswell, “My supervisor will be right here.”

  The supervisor was Benita Smothers.

  “Ross,” she said. “How are you making it? You healing okay?”

  Rosswell gritted his teeth. Then he said, “Yeah, I’m doing fine, but Tina Parkmore is not in her room.”

  Benita also searched the room. “Doesn’t look like she took anything so I doubt that she left the hospital. I need to call security.”

  Priscilla informed her that security and Junior were already searching for Tina.

  Benita hung her head and tapped her foot. A thinking position, Rosswell assumed. “Call the sheriff.”

  “They’ve already done that,” Rosswell said. “Benita, please step in here and talk to me.”

  After Rosswell had shut the door to the room, he said, “Have