Free Mad Dog and Englishman: A Mad Dog & Englishman Mystery #1 (Mad Dog & Englishman Series) by J M Hayes

frame of the Sheriff’s Office.
    “Where Wynn is. Where French is. If Doc had anything for him yet.”
    “And?”
    Mrs. Kraus couldn’t decide whether Mad Dog looked more or less grotesque with the paint washed off. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in the restroom across the hall. From the way his skin glowed, as if it had been lightly abraded rather than gently scrubbed, she suspected he’d discovered the hard way, just as she once had, that the body paint didn’t come off as easily as advertised. Mad Dog stood there in his black Speedos, his near nakedness emphasized by his shaved head. He was an uncommonly powerful figure for a man his age.
    “I didn’t kill him,” Mad Dog said in response to her silent stare.
    She leaned back in her chair, pulling the top drawer of her desk open as she did so, exposing the handle of the Glock to her view if not his. “Never thought you did,” she said, reassuringly. She smiled, showing off her teeth. A few were still of organic origin.
    “And?” he tried again.
    “And nothing,” she said. “‘Wynn some’ is lost, drove himself off into Kastleman’s field west of town and ain’t been seen since. French ain’t home yet and nobody can find him. No other deputies in the county just now. Me and your brother’s the only law enforcement anybody can reach. And Doc hasn’t called.”
    “Englishman find somebody to tell Old Man Simms about his boy yet?”
    “My guess would be that’s one reason he’s looking for a spare deputy. He’s following up some lead he picked up over at the Reverend’s or he’d probably go himself. I’d call, but the old man’s pretty frail and that seems a heartless way to learn a relative’s gone, even if neither had much use for the other.” Besides, the sheriff had told her not to call when she’d suggested it. If the shock of the call didn’t kill him, Old Man Simms was the kind to sue over a near miss.
    “You know,” Mad Dog mused. “I feel responsible.” Mrs. Kraus let her fingers slide into the drawer. “Maybe I’ll go out and tell him. That way, if a deputy does show up, Englishman can use him for something more important. Englishman calls again, let him know where I’ve gone.”
    “I’ll do that,” Mrs. Kraus agreed. She kept her hand near the butt of the gun until she heard Mad Dog’s aging Saab start up. When his car was no longer audible she took the phone off the hook and went to visit the restroom herself.
    She was out of the office when the short, swarthy man with the gymnast’s build came in, knocked at the open door and called out “Hello,” and “Is anybody home?” The only reply he got was the angry pulse of the phone demanding to be put back on its cradle and the sheriff’s muffled voice interrupted by occasional bursts of static as he tried to raise Mrs. Kraus on the radio that occupied the center of her desk.
    “I don’t know if you can hear me,” the sheriff finally told the stranger after repeating “Five-oh-one to five hundred” several times. “I tried to call but the line was busy. I’m in my truck and headed out of town. Simms’ last phone call was to Sourdough Ranch and that’s where I’m going. I’ll phone from there, but if something comes up and you can’t reach me on the radio, call ahead and leave a message or maybe get one of the neighbors to take it over and meet me there.”
    “Thank you,” the man with the Mediterranean features replied in the direction of the radio. “All that time going through the house gets me nothing. I come in here and I don’t even have to ask. Yes, thank you very much indeed.”
    “Did you copy that?” the sheriff’s voice inquired. There was no longer anyone in his office to hear.
    ***
     
    “Assume the position,” Wynn commanded.
    “What position?” The black man seemed genuinely confused. At least he’d frozen when the deputy ordered him to do so and had yet to notice, or if he had, to mention, that what was aimed at him was an