Both men had seemed to take a perverse pleasure in making him feel as inept and incompetent as possible. After allowing him to describe the coroner's findings on the death of Manuel Tortes and relate his own firsthand knowledge of the cemetery, Rossiter had said only, "Rio Verde only has ten thousand people. Anything new or different would be noticed immediately by you or your men, wouldn't it?"
The implied criticism in that condescending query had made Robert bristle, but he'd forced himself not to be come defensive, had made sure his voice remained professionally impersonal. "Not necessarily.
Our town may be small compared to Phoenix, but we still don't know every one in it. And we're not in the habit of keeping tabs on people when they haven't done anything wrong."
"But they've done something wrong now, haven't they?"
"Who?" Robert had tried to keep his voice even. "We're a couple hours' drive from Florence, Globe, Miami Superior. We're four hours from Phoenix. Five from Payson and Randall. Seven from Flagstaff and Sedona. Who's to say someone's not cruising into town, doing his business, and leaving? We get a lot of tourists passing through here on their way to Roosevelt Lake. It seems more than likely to me that this is being done by someone who does not live in Rio Verde."
"Really?" The agent had looked at him with a bored expression. "I think it highly unlikely that any criminal or psychopath would specifically make a series of runs all the way out here merely to perform activities he could do in his own hometown." :
He'd sneezed and said nothing more. "
The thing that had galled him the most was the importance both men seemed to place on anything that happened in Rio Verde, their almost nonchalant attitude toward the horrors that had occurred here. A man had been murdered. A man with friends, a family. The bodies of hundreds of the town's departed loved ones had been disinterred, their resting places desecrated. Wild animals had been killed. But none of this seemed to make any sort of impression on either Rossiter or Cash.
It was almost as though they considered events in Rio Verde too trivial to be taken seriously, the province of children rather than adults, hardly worth bothering with.
He half considered calling up both men's superiors and leveling a charge of racism against them, claiming that they were dragging their feet because Manuel Torres was
Hispanic. That would get a response.
Only he wasn't sure he wanted any deeper involvement from those people. The FBI had installed a fax machine in his office, a direct line to the federal building in Phoe nix so he could send copies of all reports and paperwork.
That was enough meddling in his business, as far as he was concerned.
]
He would keep them informed of his progress, let them know when something was discovered, but that was it.
The intercom beeped, and Robert moved away from the window and back to his desk. He held down the white
"Talk" button, leaning into the receiver. "What is it?"
Steve's voice came through clear and strong. "We have a slight, uh, situation. I think you'd better come out here."
"Be there in a sec." Robert let go of the button, wiped his nose with the wet handkerchief, and collected the forms and pamphlets the FBI agent had left him, carrying them out to the front office.
In the waiting area, six or seven people were clustered on the other side of the counter near the front door. They were standing close together, obviously upset. At the receptionist's desk, Lee Anne was trying to look busy, shuffling through recently typed papers, not looking up. Robert scanned the group of people and noticed that they were all from the Central Arizona Bank.
Almost as one, the faces turned toward him. Robert dropped the handful of pamphlets on Steve's desk and bent down. "What is this?" he asked quietly.
Steve shook his head, grinning. "I'll let them tell you."
"Mr. Johnson wants us to wear underwear Tammette Walker said.
"Uniforms!" Maxine Gilbert added.
Robert straightened up and stared at them uncomprehendingly. "He wants us to wear uniforms made out of underwear!"
"He's gone crazy! There must be a law againstm" Robert held up his hands for silence. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on now, just hold your horses. One person at a time." He nodded toward Maxine. "Maxie? Why don't you try telling me what this is all about?"
The elderly teller pursed her lips and nervously clicked the clasp on her handbag open and shut. "Mr. Johnson has not been himself lately, not for the past week or so. Usually, he's very involved in the operation of the bank, but for the past several days we haven't seen him at all. He just stays cooped up in his office. This morning, though, when we arrived, he was there waiting for us, and he had his ..
. uniforms on display."
"It was disgustingl" Tammette said.
Robert held up his hands. "Let Maxie finish. Please." He nodded at Maxine. "Go on."
"They were---" She shook her head, as though unable to come up with an adequate description. "They're made out of underwear. He sewed pan des and bras and boxer shorts all together, into pants and shirt swell they're not really pants and shirts, but they sort of have sleeves and legs and necklines---and he calls them uniforms. He said that all bank employees now have to wear one of his uniforms. He said if we don't wear them, we'll be fired."
"I think they're made from used underwear," Mort Emerson added, grimacing. '"They have stains on them."
Robert cleared his throat. "I don't quite understand what you want me to do about this."
"Pee Wee would know what to do," Stephanie Bishop said through pinched lips.
"I'm not Pee Wee."
"We want you to arrest him!" Tammette said. "It's not legal to force us to wear uniforms made out of underwear."
"I don't think an actual crime has been committed here. I'll go over and talk to Mr. Johnson if you want, but I can't arrest him. My suggestion would be to call the head office and talk to the bank president, tell him your problem-"
"There is no head office," Mort said. "Sophocles Johnson is the president."
"Well, if worst comes to worst, if Mr. Johnson really does fire you, you may have to take him to court--"
"We need our jobs," Tammette said. "And what do you mean court? Isn't there a law against forcing your employees to wear uniforms made out of underwear?"
"Used underwear?" Art added.
Robert sighed. "I'll talk to Mr. Johnson. I'll try to get this cleared up. If I can't, I'll call the Better Business Bureau and the state wage and hour commission. I'll get this thing sorted out, okay?"
"He's crazy," Maxine said. "He won't talk to you." "It sounds as though he's a little whacked out," Robert admitted, "but I'll see what I can do. Right now, why don't all of you leave your numbers with Lee Anne over there at the front desk. I'll give you a call this afternoon."
Maxine clicked and un clicked her purse clasp. "What about the bank?
It's going to stay close?"
"I can't afford to lose a day of work," Janice Lake said. "I'll do what I can," Robert told them. "I'm going to go call Mr. Johnson right now. Just leave your numbers with Lee Anne He turned away, forcing the receptionist to deal with the bank employees. He looked over at Steve, who was still grinning, rolled his eyes, and walked back down the hall to his office.
The first thing he saw when he strode through the door was the fax machine on his side table.
This was turning out to be a hell of a day.
Before he retired and moved back to Arizona six years ago, Bill Covey had been an architect. Senior Architectural Supervisor at Sippl, Doyle and Dane in Irvine, California to be exact. He never had any illusions about himself, and he would have been the first to admit that his architectural efforts had been less than inspired. Many of the small stores and restaurants that he had designed in the fifties and sixties had, in fact, been bulldozed over and replaced with splashier, more eye-catching structures in the wave of redevelopment which swept over Southern California in the seventies and eighties. The con doming ium plans he had laid out before retiring, his last project for the firm, were probably the best work he had ever done, yet even they were hardly original.