Dead Weight Read Online Free Page B

to crunch numbers only made me impatient. I was no statistician—and on top of that, I didn’t believe that statistics would give me the kind of answer I wanted.

Chapter Four
    The conundrum was simple. If Tom Pasquale was innocent of the charges spelled out in the note, he deserved kid-glove handling. He would need all the help I could give him. He didn’t deserve to lose sleep over the charges; he didn’t deserve the beginnings of an ulcer…In short, he didn’t deserve what some slimeball was trying to do to him.
    If, however, Tom Pasquale was guilty of using his badge, uniform, and gun as magic wands to create pocket money, then he deserved every ounce of the world that would come crashing down around his ears. And I’d be the one to kick the globe off its pedestal.
    I left the office before Undersheriff Torrez came in, assuring Gayle that what I wanted wasn’t important and that I’d catch him sometime later in the evening. I took the unmarked car and drove home, drenched with sweat by the time I pulled into the driveway.
    Inside, I sighed as the silent coolness of the old adobe seeped into my bones. No thundering swamp cooler, no whining refrigerated air—just musty coolness seeping out of the old twenty-four-inch-thick walls that rested in the shade of enormous spread-limbed cottonwoods.
    While a fresh pot of coffee dripped, I leafed through the mail that I’d picked up earlier in the day and then ignored. All of it could remain ignored for a while longer. For several minutes I sat with elbows on the counter, chin propped in my hands, staring out across the dark sunken living room while the coffee trickled into the urn.
    Whoever had written the goddamned note had already accomplished part of his goal. Without any hints of ownership, the note just sort of floated there in the ether, generic typing on generic paper. All I knew for sure was that the author wasn’t the world’s hottest speller or grammarian.
    But the young deputy’s name had been mentioned, and I found myself trying to imagine whom Deputy Pasquale would stop and when he’d make the decision that the driver was an easy target, how he might twist the screws, and what he might do with the money.
    If I drove over to his house, the one about which Carla Champlin was building a head of steam, would I find a flashy new boat in the yard, a fancy new truck parked in the driveway, and Deputy Pasquale sitting there on the porch sipping imported beer and wearing a new pair of snake-hide boots? Maybe he’d make enough scam money to pay for some water, at least making his landlady happy.
    With disgust I bit off a curse and poured myself a cup of powerful coffee. With that in one hand, I juggled the telephone off the cradle and punched the auto dialer for the office. Gayle Torrez answered.
    “I’m going to be occupied for most of the evening, Gayle, but I’ll have my phone with me, if you need anything.”
    “Yes, sir. Did you need to talk to Robert? He’s right here.”
    “No, that’s all right. Ernie’s on Dispatch tonight, right?”
    “Yes, sir. He’s here, too, if you need to talk with him.”
    I almost said,
“I don’t need to talk to anybody,”
but instead bit it off and settled for, “No, that’s fine. Just pass the message along. Have a good evening.”
    I refilled my cup, snapped off the coffeemaker, and ambled through the cool maze of rooms to the inside door leading to the garage. The Blazer was tucked in between towering piles of junk that I’d never gotten around to sorting, and I grunted into it, careful not to nick the door against the aluminum stepladder.
    As the garage door spooled open behind me, the engine kicked into velvety life, and I felt better. By the time I had enjoyed a massive burrito dinner at the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant, the sun would be on its way toward the back side of the San Cristobal Mountains. Things would start to cool down.
    I could drop the windows and idle around the county in the cool of the