Conspiracy

92

“This time of night, where you’re going to find the chief is in bed,” said the Pine Plains assessor, who was the only one in the village hall when Lia got there. “He hits the hay around nine, nine thirty. Doesn’t like to be bothered, either. Comes in at five, though. Sometimes earlier.” The assessor smiled and raised the cup of coffee to his lips. His small office was in the front of the building; the police department was in the back.

“How come you work so late?” Lia asked.

“First of all, job’s part-time. I have a real job in Poughkeepsie nine to five. Second of all, gets me out of the house.” He smiled, then glanced at the clock. “I usually leave by midnight, though. Another half hour.”

“I have something to talk to him about that’s pretty important,” said Lia. “Where does he live?”

“You’re going to wake him up?”

“Why not?”

The assessor smirked.

“The chief lives right around from the station, on Church Street. Number Eleven. It’s just the next block over — right at the end here, then another right. Third house on the right. Do me a favor though, OK? Don’t tell him I told you.”