Free Ice Shear by M. P. Cooley Page B

clasped my hand as I handed over the money.
    â€œThank you!” Barbara said. “I’m so honored! Thank you!” as if I had just handed her a Grammy Award.
    Hale pulled out his wallet. Barbara turned toward him, her eyelids and knees drooping, seemingly falling asleep where she stood. She was on the nod. Hale reached out, but I knew she wouldn’t fall: Barbara had spent the last thirty years on the edge of tipping over but never actually dropping. While Hale’s attention was on Barbara I moved around to the side of the de-iced car. Barbara startled and smiled brightly at Hale, and I ducked into the car as Barbara gave her thanks. As she shuffled off, Hale approached. The car wasn’t just warm, but hot, and I rolled down my window.
    â€œI gotta confess,” Hale said as Barbara walked a series of diagonals across the lot, nodding off again near Pete’s Dodge Charger, “I wasn’t expecting a junkie population in Hopewell Falls.”
    I couldn’t listen to him for another minute. “We should have no problem working together, because you’re a professional and I’m a professional.” Relief swept his face. “I do not, however, forgive you. Off hours, I hate your guts.”
    I didn’t roll up my window, but snapped on my seat belt and reversed the car. I drove toward the lot’s exit, fishtailing a bit before righting the vehicle. In the rearview mirror, I saw Hale standing in the same spot, and he made me want to play music too loud and drive too fast. The roads, coupled with my practical car, weren’t going to allow fast, but I pushed in London Calling , turned the volume up to nine, rolled up my window, and closed out Hale, the case, and Hopewell Falls.

CHAPTER 7
    S O, EX-BOYFRIEND?” DAVE ASKED.
    His question barely registered. I hunkered down in the passenger seat, reading through Norm’s files before we got to the Brouillettes’. I was studying the body diagrams and Danielle’s injuries noted in Norm’s tight, neat script. His comments backed up what he’d told us this morning: Danielle was impaled, but prior to that suffered significant trauma. Norm had explained that she was probably struck over the head and stunned, then strangled.
    â€œPetechiae,” Norm had said, pulling up the eyelids, exposing cherry red eyes, the blue almost gone. “All the blood vessels in her eyes are blown.”
    Danielle was a bruised and battered sleeping beauty. I wanted to know this girl who liked to drive too fast with the window open.
    â€œTime of death?” Dave asked.
    â€œBased on the rigor, and taking into account her exposure to the elements, I would say that death was between two and five A.M. ”
    â€œThe congresswoman and the feds are pushing for something more exact,” Dave said.
    â€œI know, I know.” Norm waved at his instruments, most of which were stacked in a corner because they no longer worked. “And to do that, we need new equipment. But since Albany’s got gangbangers, Troy’s got prostitutes, and Schenectady has drugs, our little burg, with its five murders a decade and a laughable tax base, will not be funded.” He shook his head. “Anyway, rigor is more definitive.”
    Norm explained all the injuries, and made sure to point out the remains of a tattoo, a heart with the name Jason in it, barely visible thanks to laser surgery. Jason Byrne’s name had been called into the tip line—he was her ex-boyfriend—and we would probably be interviewing him this afternoon.
    â€œSo, ex-boyfriend?” Dave repeated, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.
    â€œJason? I can’t tell you whether he’s a real suspect until the interview. I suppose it’s possible.”
    Dave’s voice was casual, but his shoulders were tense. “No, I mean Hale. There’s something between the two of you. Like history.”
    Our one-night stand hardly