Serial

80

Hogart, the present

Mathew Wellman was eating chocolate ice cream. He would spoon it into his mouth with one hand, and with the other manipulate the mouse and keyboard of Westerley’s computer. With Westerley’s permission, and charge card, Mathew had added to the computer memory chips and apps and features that Westerley not only had never heard of but still didn’t understand.

Bobi had soon developed a liking for young Mathew and brought him snacks from time to time, even on days when she wasn’t working.

Westerley sat at his desk and observed Mathew, marveling at how his gooey fingers danced. The sheriff couldn’t see what was happening on the monitor because of reflection, with the sun angling in through the bamboo window treatments Bobi had bought. They softened the light somewhat but didn’t keep it out.

After a while, Westerley voiced what he’d been wondering. “Is all this tech wizardry-which I heartily admire, Mathew-actually getting us somewhere?”

Mathew didn’t answer until he’d swallowed the ice cream he’d skillfully transferred from bowl to mouth.

“’Es, sir,” he said, swallowing. On the return trip to the bowl, his spoon dribbled chocolate onto his blue Stephen Hawking T-shirt. Westerley had broken his rhythm.

“Where?” Westerley asked, somewhat surprised.

And Mathew Wellman proceeded to tell the sheriff everything that Jerry Lido had told Quinn and Associates.

When Mathew was finished talking, Westerley sat for a while thinking over what he’d heard.

He stood up and put on his Sam Browne belt, and the leather holster he wore on his right hip. Then he adjusted with movements of long habit the rest of the gear that was affixed to and dangled from the belt. The tools of his profession.

“Call Bobi and tell her I want her to come in,” he said. He smiled. “You’re doing a great job, Mathew.”

Mathew beamed.

Westerley got his Smokey hat from where it hung on a wall hook. “If anybody needs me, I’ll have my cell phone turned on. I’m gonna be at Mrs. Evans’s house.”

“I’ll tell Bobi, sir.”

Mathew watched Westerley go out the door and then observed through the window as the sheriff strode toward his SUV. He walked kind of neat, Mathew thought, with the uniform and thick belt across his back, and all that paraphernalia dangling from his belt. Holster, cell phone with GPS, key ring, leather notepad holder, telescoping billy club. Handcuffs, even.

Going to Mrs. Evans’s house.

Mrs. Evans, Mathew thought with a smile. Was that kind of formality supposed to fool anyone? Not that Mathew blamed Westerley. He’d seen Mrs. Evans and thought she was hot.

Mathew called Bobi Gregory and then viewed some porn from Sweden on the Internet. He could cover his tracks with a few clicks of the mouse when he saw Bobi coming. And what he was doing should be safe, considering he was using the sheriff’s department’s computer.

Sweden usually meant blondes. Mathew liked blondes.