uniform. Puller eyed the nametag.
Lindemann. The good sheriff of this fine hamlet.
“I am, Sheriff Lindemann. Please, have a seat.”
Lindemann wedged himself across from Puller. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and set it down on the table. He swept a hand through his thinning hair that was sticking up at odd angles from the encounter with the hat. He smelled of Old Spice, coffee, and nicotine. Puller began to wonder if everyone in Drake smoked.
“Won’t take up too much of your time. Figure you’re busy,” said Lindemann.
“Figure you are too, sir.”
“No need to sir me. I’m Pat. What do I call you?”
“Puller will work just fine.”
“Cole tells me you’re good at what you do. I trust her. Some say she’s a gal and shouldn’t be wearing the uniform or carrying no gun, but I’ll take her over any man I have in the department.”
“From what I’ve seen of her I would too. You want some coffee?”
“Tempting, but I have to say no. Well, at least my kidneys have to say no after three cups already. And my prostate, which Doc tells me is the size of a grapefruit. Not too many places to pee in a patrol car.”
“I can see that.”
“Tricky damn business, all this.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not used to this stuff around here. Last murder we had was ten years ago.”
“What happened then?”
“Hubby caught his wife cheating with his brother.”
“He killed her?’
“No, she beat him to it. Shot him. And then shot the brother when he came after her for shooting his brother. Got a little convoluted, to say the least.” He paused and looked around before settling his gaze back on Puller. “We don’t ordinarily collaborate with outsiders on police matters.”
“I can understand that.”
“But the fact is we need your help.”
“I’m glad to give it.”
“You keep working with Sam.”
“I will.”
“Keep me in the loop. Media inquiries.” He said these words with considerable distaste.
“Army can help you with that. I can give you some contact info.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Puller took a business card from his pocket and wrote a name and number on the back and slid it across. The lawman picked it up without looking at it and eased it into his shirt pocket.
“I best be heading on,” said Lindemann. “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Lindemann slid his hat back on and trudged out of the Crib.
As Puller’s gaze followed him out, a guy sitting two tables away caught his attention for one reason only.
He had on a U.S. Postal Service cap.
CHAPTER
26
PULLER WATCHED HIM. The man ate his food slowly, deliberately. Coffee the same. One sip, then the mug went down. Ten seconds, another sip, then down again. Puller’s food came. He ate it faster than he had originally intended. The carbs and protein pumped up his energy level. He left cash on the table, not even waiting for the bill. He knew the amount from the night before.
He rose, cradling his last cup of coffee, walked past tables, ignored the stares, and stopped at the postman’s booth.
The man looked up.
“You Howard Reed?” asked Puller.
The skinny, sallow-cheeked fellow nodded.
“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”
“Don’t worry about the door. Focus on the package. Was it addressed to the Halversons?”
Reed nodded. “Yep, I remember seeing the name on there.”
Puller didn’t respond. He just let the man think about it, picture the package in his mind. The mind was a funny thing. Give it time and something fresh usually popped.
Reed’s eyes widened slightly. “Now I think about it, it was a C/O.”
“Care of?”