A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

two months. I asked him if he was planning on masquerading as a sheriff for trick or treat. That stung, especially when Frank Olney laughed. After my little funny, Pryor said I was neither needed nor welcome at the crime scene and told me to leave.

“You see that signpost over there?” Frank asked him as dry as a bone. Pryor and I both turned our heads. “It says you’re in Montgomery County, Henry. I’ll speak to whoever the hell I please.”

Pryor shuffled a bit, and, clearly cowed by his large colleague from the neighboring jurisdiction, he changed his tune. “Sure, Frank. I was only trying to help.”

“Was that Micheline Charbonneau in the car?” I asked.

Frank nodded. “Looks like it. There’s a passbook in her purse. And a bill from Niagara Mohawk in her name.”

“So what happened?”

“The fellow who owns this land discovered the car parked behind a grove of trees down there.” He pointed to the southeast. “Car doors locked with a dead lady at the wheel.”

“Has Fred Peruso been out here to examine the body?”

“He’s over there. Writing up his preliminary report. You can talk to him when he’s through.”

I noticed Pryor watching closely as Frank and I talked. Whether he was curious, surprised, or simply cheesed off, I couldn’t say. But our familiarity and spirit of cooperation must have confused him. In fact, a change seemed to come over him, as if he wanted to be part of our little coterie. The moments passed, and his interest grew. He even started to smile and pretend to share in our trust.

“The ignition was still on,” said Frank. “Not running, though. And the tank was empty.”

“So the car ran until all the gas was gone?”

He nodded. “Appears so. Probably a day or more, depending on how full it was.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning?”

“Not quite. Her neck was snapped. Someone placed her in the driver’s seat. Maybe to make it look like she was driving. But as far as we can tell, she didn’t even have a license.”

“How long has she been there?”

Frank motioned in the direction of the county coroner.

“Fred will have a better idea than anything I might estimate. Still, I’d say it’s been a while. Skin doesn’t turn that color overnight. Not a pretty sight.”

“Maybe a week?” I asked.

“She was pretty ripe,” said the sheriff. “If I was a betting man, I’d say she died the same night as the other two on Tempesta Farm.”

“And barely a half mile away.”

Pryor finally found speech and broke in. “I’d say it was the same murderer. Ditched the body and the car here after he killed the others and set the barn on fire.”

“So we’re after the same guy?” I asked.

“We already found him,” he said. “I picked him up this afternoon at the racetrack. A guy by the name of Robertson.”

“Bruce Robertson?”

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

“No. But I heard he was a gambler shopping around information on Johnny Dornan’s past. Some kind of betting scandal in Maryland nine years ago.”

“Exactly. This seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said. “Gamblers and jockeys. It’s a bad combination. I think Robertson tried to blackmail Dornan to throw a race or two. Maybe Dornan didn’t want to cooperate.”

“How does Micheline Charbonneau fit in?” I asked.

“She was with Dornan the night he died, right? A witness to the murders on the farm. She had to go, too.”

“Sounds logical,” said Frank. “But why is she here and they’re back there over the county line? Why not burn her with the others?”

Pryor didn’t have an answer for that. But he explained it away. “There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

“I offered you information several days ago,” I said, shifting gears. “You weren’t interested in the man Johnny Dornan was meeting at midnight last Friday. Robinson.”

“No, I wasn’t. And I’ve got my man. Robertson.”

“There was also the tip on the identity of the female victim in the barn. I tried to tell you, but you only listened when Sheriff Olney shared the name.”

“There’s no use holding a grudge, miss,” he said. “Tell you what. How about I slip you some details? You know, stuff that will do nicely in your newspaper stories.”

“I thought you saved your best tips for Scotty Freed at the Saratogian.”

“Look, I have a job to do, and so do you. And so does Scotty. But I’m telling you I’m willing to share information with you now.”

I had an idea. It would make for a fine feather in my cap if he agreed. And I had a tantalizing quid to offer in exchange for his quo. I put it to him.

“If you let me talk to Bruce Robertson in the jailhouse, I’ll give you a piece of information that no one else besides me knows.”

He studied me for a long moment. Frank Olney was keeping quiet during our back-and-forth. I would have given him my information for nothing, of course, but what I had to offer was on the Saratoga side of the county line. At length, Pryor came to a decision.

“All right, Miss Stone. You got a deal. Tomorrow at ten a.m. I’ll let you interview Bruce Robertson. That is if he’s on board with it.” He paused. “And his lawyer.”

Usually I like to receive cash on the barrelhead for my tips, but in this case, I agreed to deliver my goods in advance of my payment. Frank Olney would be my insurance if Pryor tried to weasel out of his promise. So I told him. I told them both that someone was haunting the caretaker’s house on Tempesta Farm.

“What proof do you have of that?” asked Pryor.

“I visited the house on Thursday afternoon. And I found a newspaper on the second floor.”

“And?”

“It was Wednesday’s edition of the Republic.”

“Anything else you’ve been withholding?”

I cleared my throat. “There’s also a pistol. A small-caliber Colt.”

Pryor shook his head. “You should have told me right away. There might have been fingerprints.”

“I phoned your office Thursday afternoon and left an urgent message. You didn’t return my call.”

“Well, I’m sure