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“Sounds pretty thin to me,” he said. “There must be hundreds of other establishments it could just as well come from. And even if it’s a restaurant and you run it down, there’s nothing to say it will tell anything. To be honest, I can’t see how I would justify taking time to do any checking myself.”
She’d never expected his help, only that he not get in the way.
“Oh, no, I understand. You know how it is. You get something stuck in your craw. Maybe I just hate letting go, so I nose around whenever time and duties allow. That’s how I stumbled on this Lawton guy and the abalone. You know, from the stuff you found in Toompas’s car. Since you’re the lead on that case, I wanted to let you know what I’m doing and make sure you had no problem with me asking a few questions in your county.”
“I guess there’s no harm. Just be sure you don’t give the impression the case is still an active investigation. In fact, don’t mention the Toompas case at all. Either make up something or say the reason is still confidential. The media would jump all over this. The more stories they write about no progress, the more they slant it to question either the competence or the commitment of law enforcement.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Do. For the moment, I won’t say anything to my boss, unless there’s any blowback. If that does happen, you can expect to hear from Wallace, and he’ll likely order you to drop the case.”
“I hear you, Mitch. Thanks for the advice. So long.”
She punched out the connection before her tongue ran off on its own. Some of these people spend more energy on turf protection and being scared of the media than doing their fucking jobs!
She had done her duty and pretended she wanted permission, but they couldn’t really say no if she insisted.
Well, that wasn’t fair, she thought. Mitch was right about the two sheriffs talking to each other. He gave me a fair and honest warning. And positioned himself to protect his own ass, of course. Greta guessed there was nothing wrong with that, as long he stayed out of her way.
Thus armed with permission to do her job, she turned to the first priority of the day, a barking dog complaint in Netarts, a small unincorporated community east of Tillamook City. The homeowner had called in several times to complain. There were no firm ordinances about dog behavior in rural areas, which technically included Netarts, even though it resembled a pocket of suburban housing plucked from almost any larger city outskirts.
The complainant, one William Sloats, was home, as he’d said he would be. Greta had called earlier to say she would stop by to check out the complaint. When she arrived, Sloats stood on the sidewalk in front of this house.
“’Bout time I got a response from you people. I’ve called enough times. What are we paying you for if you’re never around when needed?”
And good day to you, sir, she thought. Please accept my abject apology for not dropping everything to come running whenever Your Greatness calls.
She rushed to the topic of dogs to skip over his next snide comments. “Sorry for the delay. I’m sure you understand that there are many calls to the Sheriff’s Department. Now, about your barking dog complaint?”
“It’s right next door.” He gestured to the left at an immaculately maintained house and yard. She looked back at his yard. Any remains of an original “lawn” were long extinct or barely survived among the weeds, and the few decorative bushes needed pruning and shaping years ago. Similarly, the house needed repainting, though she couldn’t tell how long ago its last paint job had been. This close to the ocean, the salt spray weathered paint even a mile inland, and this neighborhood sat right on the coast.
“Is it one dog or more?”
“How the hell would I know! There’s just barking all the time.”
“I’ll talk to the owner.”
“Talk! Damn dogs like that need to be put down.”
Greta held her tongue for fear of what she might say. She walked to the neighbor’s front door and rang the buzzer. She was about to ring again when the door opened, and an elderly lady who couldn’t have been over five feet tall stood there.
“Hello there, dearie. Oh, my. Aren’t you a big girl? Please come in.”
Greta stepped into a living room right out of The Big Book of Granny Decorations. Doilies everywhere, plastic roses, knick-knacks. Everything in its place and no clutter anywhere.
“I’m Tillamook County sheriff’s deputy Greta Havorsford. And what is your name, please?”
“Why . . . I’m Gracie Stallworth. Lived in this house the last thirty-four years. Now it’s just me and Snuffy.”
“Snuffy?”
The woman gave a light clap of her hands, and a fur ball came running from another room and jumped into her open arms.
“There you are, little dear. Look wh
o we have visiting. A nice young woman who’s with the police.”
Greta stared at the ferocious bark machine. “Do you have any other dogs, Mrs. Stallworth?”
