Free Last Ragged Breath by Julia Keller

spilling out into the corridor like treats from an upended candy jar.
    â€œBell. Hey,” Harrison said, the moment Bell arrived there.
    The sheriff was seated at her desk. By now, she’d taken her hat off. There was someone else present, too, but Bell kept her attention on Harrison for the first instant after entering, as she adjusted to the reality of seeing someone other than Nick Fogelsong behind that desk, the same way her eyes might adjust to the level of light before she could see clearly.
    Truth was, Pam Harrison looked as if she’d been destined to occupy this spot from the day she was born, or shortly thereafter. Inscribed on a small gold-plated bar that held down the flap of her left breast pocket was her name and her title. Her forehead was creased by a horizontal red band, the mark where the hat’s inside brim had pinched throughout a long day and what was shaping up to be an even longer night.
    The first few times Bell had come here after Nick’s defection, she was struck by the oddity of it all, by the sense of this office as a drastically altered place—but these days, the shock passed away in less than a second. There was too much work to do to indulge that kind of pointless nostalgia. Bell might chafe at the sight of Nick in civilian clothes, driving his own car and not a county vehicle—but here in the courthouse, she’d accepted the new reality. Pam Harrison now ran the sheriff’s department. Her stoic demeanor was a perfect fit with the battered black desk, a desk that, over the years, had endured kicks and body-slams from outraged defendants, innumerable spills from overfilled coffee mugs, and quarter-moon gouges across the top from having Nick Fogelsong’s big black boots piled restlessly on it during countless conferences with his deputies.
    Right now a very angry woman stood in front of that desk. She exuded a livid hostility. She had wavy brown hair with expensive-looking blond highlights, a black suit, a red scarf draped expertly around her neck, and complicated earrings that shivered and bobbed each time she leaned forward and pointed a finger at Sheriff Harrison. Bell had never formally met the woman, but recognized her from her appearances at county commission meetings. She was Carolyn Runyon, founder and CEO of Mountain Magic. She had a solid-gold CV: Yale undergrad, University of Chicago MBA, ten years as CFO of an international hotel chain, three years as a deputy to the U.S. Secretary of Commerce. She’s got more connections than a junction box, was how Rhonda Lovejoy put it back in September, when she and Bell were having a cup of coffee after the commission meeting at which Runyon had introduced herself and pitched the resort project.
    This was a different woman from the one who had charmed and flirted with county officials that night. She didn’t acknowledge Bell. Instead she continued hectoring the sheriff, her voice haughty and cold.
    â€œâ€”and I demand to have Ed’s body removed immediately to a reputable medical facility for an independent autopsy. This minute, do you hear? These primitive facilities are absolutely and totally unacceptable .” She shivered in disgust, as if she’d spotted a bowl of squirming leeches or a long row of patent-medicine bottles with fading labels. “It’s my understanding that you currently have an individual in custody for this unspeakably brutal and vicious crime. I want your personal guarantee, Sheriff, that this man will remain under lock and key until the trial. We simply will not tolerate any mistakes or delays. Frankly, it’s a question of peace of mind for the rest of my employees as they go about their business here in Raythune County.”
    Harrison ignored the insults. She gestured toward Bell. “Ms. Runyon, I’d like you to meet our prosecuting attorney, Belfa Elkins. Bell, this is Carolyn Runyon. She just returned from the coroner’s office, where she