Hidden Fire, Kobo (28 page)

"This," she said. She pointed
at the base end of one of the complete halves. "These were obviously made
in two pieces, then fitted together after the first firing. The repair makes it
hard to be certain, but I guess the parts were attached somehow, then glazed
and refired, but why?"

"That's not normal, I take it,"
Kovak said.

"Not at all. Makes the job much
harder. The join would be under the glaze, so it wouldn't be obvious at a
casual glance. Heck, probably not even if you were looking for it. If they hadn't
broken, I don't think I'd ever have noticed. But it explains the even break."

She ran her finger along the inner
contours where the pedestal joined the mug. "But this is weird."

"What?" Both men spoke in
unison.

"Give me a minute. I'm trying to
figure out how he made the mugs. He'd have thrown the whole thing. Then cut the
pedestal off with a clay cutter. It's either nylon or wire with wooden handles
at both ends." She raised her gaze to the men who were listening intently.
"Like the things in the movies they use to strangle people."

"Not just the movies," Kovak
muttered under his breath.

Right. Kovak probably saw a fair share of
death. She suppressed a shudder, then went on. "So, here, it seems they
cut the mug from the pedestal as well. But the base would be a solid piece of
clay. Now, if the clay's too thick, firing is tricky, so the potter will hollow
out the bottom of a base. But this is strange." She pointed at an
indentation at the top of the pedestal. "They hollowed out the top, too.
It still seems like it would make it harder to fit the two pieces together."

"Could it have something to do with
weight?" Kovak asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine,"
Sarah said. "I still wonder why he went to all that trouble. He's a superb
potter and knows what he's doing, but it's a lot of extra work and he would
have had to throw away a lot of bad ones. If the pieces don't dry exactly the
same size, it'd be almost impossible to join them so it wasn't obvious."

She held up the pedestals, examining the
edges where they'd been attached. "I'm willing to bet these were cut apart
after
the mug was finished. Then glued together with household glue.
That would never hold up in firing."

"Maybe these are older pieces,"
Mike suggested. "Experiments?"

"Speculation is getting us nowhere."
Kovak picked up a mug half and tossed it in his hand. "I think I need to
find out how these mugs got to Saint Michael's. Find the owner and ask. Maybe
there's a simple explanation."

Sarah felt her face heat. "You don't
have to mention that I kind of walked off with them, do you? I can give you
replacements, but they won't be Garrigues."

Kovak's mouth twitched in an obvious
attempt to hold back a smile. "Works for me. I'll tell her one of the
workers broke them last night and wanted to replace them."

"I'll go get some," Sarah said.

"My treat," Kovak said. "I
could use a change of scenery. I'll pick up two mugs at Thriftway on my way
over." He turned to Mike. "You have a printout of the originals so I
can show them around?"

"I have them," Sarah said. "But
I'd like copies so I can try to match this mug to my inventory. Can I take the
mugs, too?"

"How about we keep one, you take
one?" Kovak said.

"Thank you." Sarah wrapped one
and put it in a plastic bag. She noticed Kovak putting the other into a bag and
sealing it with evidence tape.

"Do you think this is a real clue?"
she asked.

"No idea. But better to have it here
safe and toss it if we don't need it than need it and not be able to use it,"
Kovak said.

Randy always said most of his job was
paperwork. She was beginning to understand.

With Kovak off to Saint Michael's, Mike Connor
doing whatever he did, and the mug parts in a bag, Sarah went to her shop.

By four, she'd divided her customers into
three lists. Locals, out-of-areas who had provided contact information, and
what she called drop-ins. Some had left names in her guestbook, so she put a
star by those names. Others were simply names on receipts. Sometimes the items
they bought triggered a picture in her head, but even though it had only been a
few days, far too many names didn't hook up with faces. Nothing connected with
the photos Kovak had showed her. She picked up the phone and called Jennifer.

"Can't today," Jennifer said. "But
I don't have any classes after two tomorrow. How about then?"

"I'll be here, even though we're
closed. Use the back entrance."

She hung up and stretched, trying to ease
the tension in her neck and shoulders. Definitely, a hot bubble bath was on her
agenda. A gnawing in her stomach reminded her she'd had a late breakfast but no
lunch. She'd call it a day, go home and have an early dinner. Soak in a bubble
bath. She smiled. Randy had a huge tub. Maybe she'd take her bath over there
and surprise him. She could stop for groceries and make the steak dinner he'd
wanted to have the other night.

She put away her paperwork and
contemplated the mugs. Air pockets caused clay to explode in the kiln. Yet
these obviously hadn't. Maybe he'd fired them all separately and glued them
together afterward, although for the life of her, she couldn't come up with a
reason.

Someone knocked at the back door. She checked
her watch. A UPS delivery? She remembered an outstanding order for some
Halloween craft items. Spirits lifting at the thought of more merchandise to
display, she set the mug pieces on the counter and hurried to the door.

Two uniformed deputy sheriffs stood
there, polite smiles on their faces. "Sarah Tucker?"

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am. Routine
check. We need to verify your business license, clear up a few things. Shouldn't
take long."

"Everything's in order," she
said. "I've paid all my fees." Had she? She must have. She always
did. They were due in June and if she'd missed it, someone would have notified
her.

"Part of the licensing agreement, ma'am.
You know that."

She couldn't recall anyone ever showing
up to inspect the store. But David had always handled that side of the business
and she might have simply ignored it. "I guess it's all right. What do you
need?"

"A look at your business license.
You have it displayed, as required by law, correct?"

She breathed a quick sigh of relief. "Of
course. It's right over here." She led them to the counter. "There it
is." She pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. One of the
deputies reached into his pocket for a piece of paper and unfolded it. He
fingered one of the mug halves.

"Interesting. New art form?" He
smiled.

"No," she said. "An
experiment, I guess you'd call it."

The deputy motioned to his partner, who
examined the pieces. They exchanged a hooded glance. Something about it made
sweat prickle at the base of her spine.

"Mrs. Tucker, we're going to need
you to come with us."

"You're what?" Randy bolted
upright. "On what grounds?"

"Sit," Eldridge said, as if
Randy were a recalcitrant puppy.

Glaring, Randy lowered himself into the
chair. He sucked in a breath from somewhere around his knees to regain his
composure. Hell, he didn't work for Eldridge. What was going on? He waited. So
did Eldridge. Deferring to the man's rank, Randy broke the silence.

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not
sure this is a legitimate course of action."

"Tell me about That Special
Something," Eldridge said. "You know the owner."

Apprehension washed over him. He kept his
face neutral. "Sarah Tucker. Yes, I know her. It's no secret."

"You got a thing going with her,
right?"

Randy bit back a caustic retort. Slowly,
it dawned on him that Eldridge was interrogating him, playing bad cop. "We're
involved, yes," he said.

"You don't want to see her get hurt,
do you?"

Memories of her kidnapping flooded him.
He gripped the arms of the chair. "What do you mean? Has something
happened to her?"

"Relax, Detweiler. It's not what you're
thinking. But I need to know about your interest in her boutique."

Survival instinct and his training took
over. "Are you questioning me about a case, sir? As a suspect? Should I
call a representative? Because I'm not going to answer any more questions
unless I know what it's about."

Eldridge raised his hand. "Let's
walk."

Clamping his jaw shut, Randy accompanied
Eldridge to the side stairwell. The man's cowboy boots clattered on the metal
stairs as they descended. At the base of the stairs, Eldridge pushed the steel
exit door open and wended his way through the parking lot to a blue Subaru. The
car gave a beep as Eldridge clicked the remote. "Let's roll."

Ten minutes later, they were parked at a
sandwich stop. Having given up on getting anything more from the lieutenant
until he was ready to talk, Randy followed the man inside. He perused the menu
above the counter and ordered an Italian combo and a soda. When he reached for
his wallet, Eldridge stopped him. "On me," he said.

"Thanks. I'm going to hit the head,"
Randy said.

He took his time, calming himself. He
would ride this out. Wait to see what was going on. But visions of Sarah in
trouble refused to disappear. Randy rejected the notion that she was in
physical danger. Eldridge would never keep that from him. So it had to do with
her shop. Had it been hit again? But if so, why leave him in the dark? So much
for calming himself. He was in worse shape now than when he'd come in. He
leaned over the sink, cupping handfuls of cold water and splashing his face. It
didn't do much.

He yanked a paper towel from the
dispenser, dried himself and threw it in the trash. The wadded towel plopped
into the receptacle. Randy wished it wasn't such a damn quiet process. He
resisted the urge to kick the plastic container. That wouldn't make enough
impact, either. Only a mess.

In the café, he found Eldridge seated at
a table against the far wall, one with a clear view of the entrance. Two large cups
sat on the table, condensation beading on their waxy surfaces. "I got you
a cola," Eldridge said.

Tempted to say he wanted root beer, not
cola, Randy begrudgingly accepted the drink. It's what he would have chosen,
but he didn't like the idea that Eldridge got it right. Eldridge had taken the
seat against the wall, leaving Randy little choice but to sit with his back to
incoming clientele.

Eldridge busied himself checking his cell
phone and his PDA while sipping his drink. And watching the door. He was
expecting someone. Randy repressed his desire to slide his chair around. His
gut ached. What had happened to Sarah? He concentrated on listening to the
numbers being called from behind the counter, watching customers get up and
retrieve their food.

More numbers blared from the loudspeaker.
Eldridge stood. "That's us." He went to the counter and returned with
a tray holding three platters. He set one in front of Randy and cast another
glance toward the entrance. From the slight tip of his head and a flicker of
the corner of Eldridge's mouth, Randy knew whoever he'd been expecting had
arrived. He waited, eyes focused on his sandwich. This was Eldridge's game and
Randy didn't want to play any more than he had to. Randy opened the bag of
chips and tipped them onto his plate.

He sensed the approach of someone. Male.
Not too tall. He tilted his head and wondered why he wasn't more surprised.

"Chief." He rose.

"Sit," Laughlin said.

There was that trained dog thing again.
He sat. Laughlin pulled a chair from the nearest table and Eldridge scooted
over to make room.

"Be right back," Laughlin said.

Randy followed him with his eyes as he
stepped to the counter, paid for a drink and sauntered over to the dispensers
to fill it. He returned and set the cup beside his plate, then sat down and
placed his napkin on his lap.

Randy's impatience grew as the two
exchanged pleasantries, which seemed to revolve around comparing budget issues.

"There's talk of privatizing the
county jail system," Eldridge said. "That's going to mean finding new
slots for an awful lot of deputies."

"I hear you," the chief said. "In
our case, there are rumors the entire police force will be cut and they'll
outsource it to you guys. Maybe that's where your folks will end up."

"Or your guys can go get jobs at the
jail. I hate the politics." Eldridge frowned. "Why can't we catch bad
guys? That's enough of a job."

"Agreed."

They glanced at Randy, as if only now
remembering he was at the table. Tension as thick as the mustard on his
sandwich hung in the air. He moved his chips around and waited. The couple at
the table behind him got up and left.

As if that were his cue to speak, the chief
cleared his throat and leaned toward him. "You're a good cop, Randy."
His tone was low, his voice even. "This is all going to be resolved
quickly, but until it is, we can't afford the slightest tinge of favoritism or
impropriety."