N Is for Noose

in the system, so the paper was probably bogus, but I don't have a way to check that because I don't have access to the computer."
    "I can run that," he said smoothly. "What else?"
    I found myself choosing my words with care. "I think the guy was a phoney, too. He might have been a cop, but I think he misrepresented himself."
    "What name did he give?"
    "I asked about that, but the clerk I talked to wasn't on the desk that day and he claims the other fellow didn't get a name."
    "You think it was someone in our department," he said, making it a statement, not a question.
    "Possibly."
    "Based on what?"
    "Well, doesn't the timing seem a tiny bit coincidental?"
    "How so?"
    "Tom wanted to talk to Toth in connection with Pinkie Ritter's death. The other guy got there first and that was the end of poor old Alfie. Tom was a basket case starting in mid-January when Toth's body turned up, right?"
    "That's Selma's claim." Rafer's manner was now guarded and he started tapping, the tip of his index finger drumming a rapid series of beats. Maybe he was sending me a message in Morse code.
    "So isn't it possible this is what Tom was brooding about? I mean, what else could it be?"
    "Tom was a consummate professional for thirty-five years. He was the investigating officer in a homicide matter that I would say, yes, captured his interest, but no, did not in any way cause him to lie awake at night and bite his nails. Of course he thought about his work, but it didn't cause his heart attack. The idea's absurd."
    "If he was under a great deal of stress, couldn't that have been a contributing factor?"
    "Why would Toth's death cause him any stress at all? This was his job. He never even met the man, as far as I know."
    "He felt responsible."
    "For what?"
    "Toth's murder. Tom believed someone gained access to his notebook where he'd jotted down Toth's temporary address and the phone number at the Gramercy."
    "How do you know what Tom believed?"
    "Because that's what he confided to another sheriff's investigator."
    "Colleen Sellers."
    "That's right."
    "And Tom told her this?"
    "Well, not explicitly. But that's how the killer could have found Toth and murdered him," I said.
    "You still haven't said why you suspect someone from our department."
    "I'll broaden the claim. Let's say, someone in law enforcement."
    "You're fishing."
    "Who else had access to his notes?"
    "Everyone," he said. "His wife, his son, Brant. Half the time, the house was unlocked. Add his cleaning lady, the yard man, his next-door neighbor, the guy across the street. None of them are involved in law enforcement, but any one of them could have opened his front door and walked right in. And what makes you so sure it wasn't someone in Santa Teresa? The leak didn't necessarily come from this end."
    I stared at him. "You're right," I said. He had a point.
    The tapping stopped and his manner softened. "Why don't you back off and let us handle this?"
    "Handle what?"
    "We haven't been entirely idle. We're developing a lead."
    "I'm glad to hear that. About bloody time. I hate to think I'm the only one out here with my ass on the line."
    "Cut the sarcasm and don't push. Not your job."
    "Are you saying you have a line on Alfie's killer?"
    "I'm saying you'd be smart to go home and let us take it from here."
    "What about Selma?"
    "She knows better than to interfere with an official investigation. So do you."
    I tried Selma's line. "There's no law against asking questions."
    "That depends on who you ask." He glanced at his watch. "I got Vick in the car and we're late for church," he said. He got up and adjusted his coat, taking his leather gloves from one pocket. I watched him smooth them into place and thought, inexplicably, of his early morning arrival at the emergency room; freshly showered and shaven, nattily dressed, wide awake. He looked down at me. "Did anyone ever fill you in on local history?"
    "Cecilia did."
    He went on talking as if I hadn't spoken. "Bunch of convicts were shipped to the colonies from England. These were hardened criminals, literally branded for the heinousness of their behavior."
    "The 'Nota' of Nota Lake," I supplied dutifully.
    "That's right. The worst of 'em came west and settled in these mountains. What you're dealing with now are their descendants. You want to watch your step."
    I laughed, uneasily. "What, this is like a Western? I'm being warned off? I have to be out of town by sundown?"
    "Not a warning, a suggestion. For your own good," he said.
    I