Free Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests by Linda Fairstein Page A

gate.
    “Yeah. I got a late start. Things look pretty quiet around here.” He shifted his milk crate to get past Sam.
    “Like the tomb. I saw a plow go by an hour ago, but I’d stay in town tonight if I were you. See you in a few weeks.”
    It was dark outside, but the snow had finally quit. By the prison lights he couldn’t see if the sky had cleared up or if more
     snow was on the way. Six inches of snow was piled on his car. He brushed the worst of it off with the scraper from his glove
     compartment and got in. The Cavalier’s engine cranked twice before it started, rough at first. Then he drove to a motel on
     the edge of town, drank two glasses of bourbon, ate a bag of Cheetos from the machine in the lobby, and slept until nine the
     next morning.
    He found the sheriff’s phone number at the front of the motel’s phone book. “I gave a middle-aged woman a ride partway up
     the Seney stretch yesterday,” he told the woman who answered. “She struck off on her own, and I was concerned about her.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “She didn’t tell me.”
    “I haven’t heard about any lost women, so she’s probably okay. You can call back later if you want, once all the plows have
     been out.”
    “Thanks.”
    He drove slow between Marquette and Shingleton. The plows had pushed the snow into banks and the traffic had picked up from
     yesterday. He wore sunglasses against the bright white and squinted into every pickup he met. He passed two sedans and a semi
     off the road before he reached Shingleton.
    The lights were on in Steve’s Tavern, and he pulled in. The parking area was the best-plowed spot in town. It looked sculpted.
    “Old Milwaukee,” he told the bartender, who obviously lived behind the small bar. “Are you Steve?”
    “Bill. Steve’s my dad. He died ten years ago.” He was using a rag like the one under Jeff’s car seat to wash beer glasses.
    “Were you working yesterday?”
    “Ain’t nobody else
but
me.”
    “I gave a woman a ride. Her car went off the road on the Seney stretch. She was heading to Marquette.”
    The man rolled his eyes. “Big? Nose like this?” He pushed his nose to the side with a forefinger.
    “That’s her.”
    “Fenn Schultz brought her in. I can tell you, she didn’t get to Marquette yesterday. She spent the whole day in here with
     Fenn, tossing’em back and shooting pool. They left together about six.” He shook his head. “And that’s all I know.”
    “Thanks.”
    Jeff drank his beer and glanced now and then at a soap opera on the television above the bar. He used the men’s john, which
     was cleaner than he expected, and when he came out, the bartender was waiting for him. He held a thick white envelope.
    “This might sound crazy,” he said, “but the woman you mentioned? She dropped an envelope on the floor. It’s addressed. You’re
     the only one who’s asked about her. You wouldn’t be Jeff Willett, would you?”
    Jeff waved at him and headed for the door. “Sorry.”
    In the parking lot he transferred his milk crate to the trunk and drove straight through to Lansing.

BY HOOK OR BY CROOK
    BY CHARLIE DREES
    I set the compact tape recorder on the scarred table and watch Dexter Bass pace back and forth in the cramped room. He’s six-three—give
     or take an inch—with a sinewy build and long, sun-bleached blond hair. The police file indicates he’s been a guest of the
     state on two prior occasions, but his muscles appear to come from hard manual labor rather than from pumping iron on a prison
     bench. Watching Bass, I feel more like an audience than his court-appointed attorney. He catches me glancing at my watch and
     slides into the chair on the other side of the table.
    “Am I boring you?”
    “Mr. Bass, I’ve been appointed—”
    “I’ve had lawyers like you before,” he says, fixing me with his charcoal-colored eyes. “Just going through the motions—and
     I did the time.”
    I settle back in my chair. Due to a shortage