"Capron, Bill - Color Blind Detective - Dead White Wulff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Capron Bill)

"Strange name?"

She explained, not for the first time, "Sixties generation hippie parents. It's short for Winsome, like somehow my name will affect my future."

"Not so strange. You're not a Bertha or Maude. I'd say Windy is winsome." She laughed but didn't say anything. I filled the void, "So how did Windy get into law enforcement?"

She leaned her elbows on the table and sipped her lemonade. "After getting de-hippy-ized, my dad became a cop, down in LA. He got caught up with some ethical problems and retired early. But he was a good cop and he pushed me, albeit willingly, in that direction. He instilled in me a sense of justice, something I need every day to sort of blank out what I'm learning from Willis."

"Can't get a different assignment?"

Her smile was crooked, knowing. "I could, but it'd be the end of any real career opportunities. Who's going to promote a cop who can't stand the heat of a bad partner. I think the brass knows I'm good. Willis is sort of a trial. Don't worry about me, I'm tougher than I look."

"I bet you are." I kept my eyes on hers and reached across the table to wipe the mustard from the corner of her mouth.

She fidgeted a little, then asked, "So much for why I'm in law enforcement. What about you?"

I leaned forward, steepled my fingers and set my chin at the point. "I'm in it to do good deeds." She laughed. "I know, it sounds corny, but that doesn't make it less real. I was in business for years, and pretty good at it, but something was missing. I'd see injustice all around me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it, just rail at the television. So I quit that life and became a PI, the dedicated servant to justice."

"You found justice, Lone Ranger?" she asked through narrowed eyes.

I thought hard about whether what I found was justice, then nodded my head. "Yes, I've found justice, but too often it's not connected to the law." She frowned at that. "I make justice happen. No, that's not it. I let justice happen sometimes. I create situations where, if what I believe is true, justice finds her own way, exacts her own punishment."

The question was begged, "Ah, so justice is a woman?"

"Maybe, especially when vengeance is needed, then justice is a woman."

"Does this describe how you feel about women?" The look on her face was expectant.

"No, it's how I feel about justice. So, Windy, how do you feel about justice?"

She shook her head, the short black hair a half beat behind, "I'm not in the justice business. I've finally reconciled to that, but if I do my job right, the chances of justice happening, as you say, are much better."

She crumbled up her wrapper, and we stood. I said, "I'd like to get a chance to continue this conversation sometime, if you don't mind."

She said, "I think I'd like that, Lone Ranger." Then she was gone.
* * * *
I waited outside the police station. I figured Mrs. Cobin was still there because the license plate on the SUV outside was FLYTYER. At eight-thirty Willis showed her out of the station and walked with her to the vehicle, a wide smile on his face. What did she have that I didn't. Sure she was tall, handsome, less than half the age of her husband, but except for my age, so was I. Well, maybe not that handsome. She was a knockout, even from a hundred feet. The sad smile on her face looked a little too practiced for me. I held a finger up covering her lips, and it looked like her eyes were smiling. As the sergeant tapped her hood twice, I saw it wasn't her lips he was looking at.

She backed up, then waved before moving forward. The fat cop waved, his eyes following her as she drove away. I didn't start my engine until he was back in the station, then I broke the speed limit to catch her before she got onto 205 north. She left the highway in Woodland and drove to one of the new homes above the town on the south side of the Lewis River, only twenty minutes from where he died. As she neared the front door, she tossed her keys into the air and grabbed them in what could only be described as a joyful leap.

I pulled my stakeout kit from the back compartment of my truck and ate some jerky, washing it down with a diet coke. I used my cellphone to call a good friend who'd been involved with fishing organizations in Washington since he was a child in the second world war. He told me he'd known Cobin for more than forty years, and throughout that time they'd been on opposite sides of the logging issue. My friend, one of the first environmental wackos, was against logging, Cobin owned pieces in three logging companies and was all for it. For that reason he was a pariah to much of the fishing community, but there was no denying his artistry. Even people who hated him, coveted his fly collections, but for most common people the price was just too dear. So the flies were gobbled up by celebrity fisherman for prices totally separated from reality considering the use of the product. Four years earlier Cobin was diagnosed with Parkinson's, and though the rich and famous didn't know it, his flies were tied by a talented, he mentioned that she was sinfully young, girl who last year became his wife.

I waited only a half-hour before she came running out of the house, ample breasts jiggling loosely in an Earth in the Lurch tee-shirt. She pulled on a sweatshirt against the night chill. She backed out into the street and left a little rubber as she changed directions. She turned back towards the highway, but made the right hand turn for the road on the north side of the Lewis. She was in a rush and I tested the envelope of my top-heavy truck as she sped around the curvy road in her lower SUV. She made the right hand turn at Jack's, onto 503 south. Two miles later she turned into a long driveway, a lit up cabin was set well back in the woods.

It was dark, so I parked on the other side of the road and made my way carefully down the rutted driveway. There was a raised up Toyota pickup with super large tires parked at the front door. Mrs. Cobin had parked right up against it. The bumper sticker on the truck said, "Fly fishermen catch the best girls." With any luck, that might prove to be true for me. I noted the Earth First logo in the back window.

I edged closer to the window which was opened a crack. I heard the sounds of sex. No small talk pillow talk, just panting and moaning. Then it was over.

The female voice asked, "When do you have to leave?"