Free Yesterday's News by Jeremiah Healy Page A

typical.”
    “You see Jane Rust?”
    “Yeah. Walked through the place with Hagan himself. No sign of forced entry, struggle, even anybody else being there. Cocoa in the mug, some ground up pills in another one, some—”
    “Wait a minute. Two mugs, one with cocoa, and one with the pills?”
    “Yeah. Like she used the one to drink from and the other to grind them up. You got a problem with that?”
    “Rust told me that afternoon she couldn’t abide pills. I guess I can’t see her being that methodical about them. Seems to me she’d just grind up a couple in a mug, then run the cocoa right in on top. One mug, not two.”
    “Assuming she was just trying to fall asleep, maybe. But if she’s going off the deep end, and I’ve never seen more evidence of it short of a notarized bye-bye note, maybe she keeps grinding in the one and pouring in the other till she fades out.”
    Cardwell made sense. I said, “Anything else?”
    “You talk with her landlady yet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then that’s all I’ve got.”
    I thanked him and rose.
    “Hey, Cuddy?”
    “Yes?”
    “You bring me something on this kiddie porn shit, I’ll think about it. Especially if, and I say again, if, the cops are in on it. Jane Rust never even tried me. Don’t know why, but she never did. You find something that ain’t ranting and raving, something tangible I can tie an evidence tag to, you come back and see me. Otherwise, I don’t want to know about you. Got it?”
    “Got it.”
    Someone, maybe Murphy, had taught Cardwell how to swim among the sharks. But I had the feeling he was learning how to grow that extra row of teeth all on his own.

    The Nasharbor Redevelopment Authority was tucked above a coffee shop on Main Street , about three blocks down from city hall. I left my car in the municipal lot and walked it, passing on the way one Roman Catholic church with high windows of stained glass and two taverns with low windows of neon beer signs.
    At the top of the stairs, a pleasant woman of sixty-plus years looked up from her typing. She was working at a machine that hadn’t benefited from electricity, much less memory, at the factory.
    “Yes?”
    “My name’s John Cuddy. I’d like to see Bruce Fetch if he’s in.”
    “Just one moment.” She got up and knocked at a door already ajar twelve feet away. She said, “Bruce?,” then something lower that I couldn’t catch. Turning back to me, she said, “Please go on in, Mr. Cuddy.”
    He was thumbing through a thick binder of blueprints still rolling up at the edges despite their considerable weight. The binder and a computer monitor and keyboard usurped most of his desk. “Have a seat, be right with... you. There it is!”
    He marked a place with a sheet of paper while I sat across from him. Knowing he’d dated Jane Rust, I guess I expected an accountant-type, with hornrimmed glasses, white shirt, and thin black tie. The tie was thin and black, alright, but cut from distressed leather. It hung loosely from an L. L. Bean hunting shirt over wide-wale corduroy trousers. He was about five-ten and maybe a hundred forty with socks. His hair was dark brown, pulled back into a stubbly pony tail. He blinked frequently behind wire glasses that I thought had been unobtainable since “Mr. Tambourine Man” was on the charts. The hippie in the photo on Jane Rust’s dresser.
    Finally looking up at me, he said, “I’m Bruce Fetch, executive director here. What can I do for you?”
    “My name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator from Boston . Jane Rust hired me.”
    Fetch’s face was long and expressive, the kind you can watch a thought sink into. This particular thought hit ledge right away.
    “I don’t want to talk about her. Or why she hired you, okay?”
    “Can you give me a reason?”
    “Yes, but I don’t see I have to.”
    “You don’t, but I understood you dated her. I’d think you’d be a little more interested in her death.” He flared. “I am interested! Maybe I