Conspiracy

87

Amanda Rauci moused up to the file command, clearing the history file so that the Web sites she had visited would be erased. She got back to the main browser screen just as the librarian arrived, intending to scold Amanda for going over the library’s half-hour-use allotment for a second time that eve ning.

“Now, miss—” said the librarian, finger raised as if she were about to wag it at a wayward child.

“I’m done,” announced Amanda, jumping from the computer.

“We do have rules, you know.”

“Yup.”

“And there are people waiting.” The librarian had obviously rehearsed her speech for a long time, because she was still sputtering as Amanda left the building.

Three hours of Web surfing had provided several interesting tidbits of information, though not necessarily what Amanda had hoped to find. Her access to her work files and the Ser vice’s computers in general had been cut off, which wasn’t particularly surprising. She’d made several attempts to guess Forester’s password without any luck; she couldn’t tell whether his account, too, had been frozen or she was just guessing poorly. It was probably the former, though she wished now that she had tried earlier.

Amanda suspected that neither Pete Goddard nor Gordon Hirt had had anything to do with Forester’s investigation.

The police chief had been too casual about mentioning their names, she thought; it was a misdirection play if ever she’d seen one.

Her time on the Internet seemed to confirm that. Peter Goddard, the “retired” journalist, was an author of several books on Eu ro pe an history; two had been on the best-seller list. According to the profiles of him she’d read — one in the New York Times, another in an industry magazine — he spent about half of the year traveling in Eu rope, where he researched his material. He generally spent spring and the fall there, which meant he’d be there right now.

While Gordon Hirt had only been principal of the high school for a few years, he’d been vice principal of an even larger school two towns away for over fifteen years, according to a recent profile in the area daily. He also happened to be a committeeman in McSweeney’s political party. Neither man looked to be a good candidate to have made a death threat against anyone.

Chief Ball, on the other hand, was definitely up to something. Maybe it was just that he didn’t like women in law enforcement, but Amanda decided to check his background anyway. She did a general Google search, then paid for an online credit and lien report — once again using her credit card, though at least this time, pinning down her physical location would be hard.

The chief had decent credit and no criminal convictions.

Two years before, he had celebrated his thirtieth year as police chief. The online edition of the local newspaper featured several ut-of-focus pictures of his party, along with the mayor’s comments about how lucky Pine Plains was to have him, yada, yada yada.

How had he come to Pine Plains? The article didn’t say.

The article claimed he was fifty-two, but the data in the credit report had him at fifty-nine.

Maybe the reporter had made an error, or maybe the chief was simply vain. The story mentioned that he had served in the military and been a part-timer before becoming one of the force’s two full-time patrolmen. His first big case had involved a shoot-out with a bank robbery suspect; Patrolman Ball had bravely confronted the man and ended up shooting him dead, after a state trooper was wounded. That apparently was Ball’s ticket to becoming chief, though the newspaper didn’t actually say that.

Most police officers, most Secret Service agents for that matter, never fired their guns in anger, let alone shot down a murderer in a do-or-die situation. It seemed incongruous to her — here was a man who had proved his worth in battle, as it were, and yet he had chosen to stay in a small town his entire life. Was the moment of heroism an anomaly? Was the story inflated? But there must be some truth to it.

She remembered Jerry Forester brooding about his career. If only he’d been on a detail where he could prove his worth, if only he’d had a chance when he was younger…

What would he have done with it?

The library closed at seven. Amanda went out to her car, not sure what to do next. She wanted a drink desperately but knew she didn’t dare. One sip and she would fall deeper into the hole she was trying to climb out of. It was too dangerous even to stop at a restaurant that served liquor or beer. She headed toward the Burger King she’d seen up the road.

A police car passed as she pulled in. Amanda didn’t think much of it until she came out of the drive-thru line and found the car waiting for her. Chief Ball was sitting in the driver’s seat. She rolled down the passenger-side window of her car.

“Hey, were you looking for a notebook?” asked the chief.

“A notebook?”

“One of the investigators mentioned that they were interested in a notebook,” he told her. “Some kids found one off the road on County Highway Nineteen. Stenographer-type pad. Got tire marks, and it’s dirty as hell. There are notes in it. Can’t make most of them out. You want it?”

“Absolutely,” said Amanda, though she’d been caught off guard.

“All right — well, then, follow me to the station. Unless you want to eat your dinner first.”

“No, it’s OK.”

Amanda waited for him to pull ahead. So they did know there was another notebook. Maybe she should just keep going, not take it — but then the police chief would call whoever it was who had asked about it and casually mention that she’d been there.

So? What was she running from? Not the Ser vice. From despair. There wasn’t anything that they could do to her that they hadn’t already done — obviously, her career there was over, at least in a meaningful sense.

Maybe Pine Plains could use a female police officer, she thought to herself as she pulled into the back of the parking lot.

She laughed. As she got out of the car, she realized it was the first time she’d laughed since her lover’s death.