A Better Class of Angels

"An hour ago?" Jack felt his eyebrows come together. In the five years he had worked with Beverly Stutt he had often described his department's only female deputy as one of the best law enforcement officers he had ever worked with. Two decades in New York's Special Crimes division had left her with a personal discipline and an eye for detail that Jack prized in his deputies. But I still haven't heard anything that explains why you called me out here.

"OK, look. I know. I should've waited. But something's wrong here." She pushed the notebook into her breast pocket and waved a hand at the Lincoln. "All her stuff is there. Her driver’s license, credit cards, cell phone--it's all right there on the front seat. And when I got here . . . that takeout cup was still warm to the touch."

"You check the woods?"

"She didn't just go off to pee, Jack. She's . . . what? Five minutes from her house? And from what I can get from the agent I don't think she's the kinda' woman who's gonna' drop drawers in the woods."

"I was thinking maybe she hit a deer--or maybe she thought she did--and then she got out to check on it. Maybe she twisted an ankle or she got lost. I don't know . . . but I can tell by the way the car's parked that she was in a hurry." Jack looked at the woman beside the Cadillac. She was picking at her nails and sneaking glances at them between long, low sighs.