John M. Floyd's

LAW AND DAUGHTER SERIES

A visiting FBI agent finds he has more assistance than he wants—and from an unexpected source.

HARTMANN'S CASE

by John M. Floyd

A dapper-looking stranger was standing in the sheriff's office when Fran Valentine stormed in. Fran stopped in her tracks, and stared at him. Strangers in town, especially those in suits and ties, were rare.

The sheriff—Fran's daughter Lucy, sitting behind the desk—wondered what else could go wrong today. She sighed and said, “What is it you need, Mother?” Deputy Ed Malone nodded to Fran from his seat in a corner.

“It can wait.” Fran eyed the new man. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Hartmann, FBI.”

“Special in what way?” she asked.

While Hartmann thought that over, Sheriff Valentine said, “Somebody blew up a mailbox, Mother.” Since becoming sheriff, Lucy had learned it was best to break news quickly to Frances

Valentine, rather than endure a thousand questions. “Agent Hartmann's seen some cases on the Coast where credit card bills were stolen, then the mailboxes destroyed as a coverup.”

“You think that's what happened here?” Fran asked.

“It's a possibility,” Hartmann said.

“Whose mailbox?”

He looked at his notes. “Joseph Dewberry.”

“That can't be,” Fran said. “Joey picks up his mail in town.”

“Then what was mounted on the post beside his driveway?”

“A box for his newspaper. And Joey has no credit cards.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me, she knows everything about this town,” Lucy said. Deputy Malone nodded.

“Then maybe you know how we can get in touch with Mr. Dewberry?” Hartmann asked. “He's not at home.”

“He's visiting his mother, in Alabama,” Fran said, raising an eyebrow at Lucy. “Some people actually go out of their way to spend time with their parents.” Lucy just blew out another sigh.

“I see,” Hartmann said. “You are Ms. Valentine, I assume?”

“Frances. Call me Fran.”

“Well, Fran, I was told it was a mailbox, when Deputy Wilson phoned me about this—”

“Zack phoned you?” Fran looked at both Lucy and Ed Malone, and probably saw the answer in their faces. Zack Wilson, who was pushing eighty, had never been known for his good judgment.

“Destruction of mail's a federal offense,” Hartmann said.

“I told you, it's a newspaper dropbox.”

“Maybe mail sometimes got put in by mistake. Anyhow, I found, in the wreckage, a hole punched through the back of the box. Probably for a fuse, or wiring of some kind.” Hartmann took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and set the pack and lighter on the desktop beside Fran's purse. The blue cloud he exhaled almost obscured the NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

Sheriff Valentine added, with a glare at the cigarette, “A neighbor said he saw a car pull away five minutes before the blast. So—”

“So we assume they set a timer, before their getaway,” Hartmann said. “In similar cases, we found the remains of sophisticated explosive devices.”

Fran shook her head. “Not here. Tomorrow's July fourth—this was probably just a local hooligan, armed with a cherry bomb and too much booze.”

“Cherry bomb?”

She took several ping-pong-sized red balls from her purse. “Fireworks, like these. For my nephew.”

“Those fuses are too short,” Hartmann said. “And amateurs don't set timed charges. Besides, it's my case now.” His smug look wasn't lost on the sheriff. The FBI and Lucy Valentine had never been best buddies.

“Now, if you'll excuse us,” Hartmann added.

“But you're—”

“Later, Mother,” Lucy said tiredly. “We'll handle this.”

“But, Luce, I think I know what—”

“Later.”

Fran studied the two men and her daughter a moment, then frowned and scooped her purse up off the desk. “May I at least use your restroom?”

Lucy waved her toward the hallway. After Fran left, Hartmann said, “Luce?”

“It's a nickname.”

“How cute. Luce, Joey, Zack, Fran—all God's chillun got nicknames.” Hartmann smirked at Ed. “What do they call you? Eddie?”

“You can call me Deputy Malone.”

“Look, everybody calm down,” the sheriff said. “And don't ignore my mother, Hartmann—she's a pain at times, but she's smart.”

“I'm glad somebody is. If you people had secured the scene sooner, we'd know what caused the blast.”

“I think she's right. It was probably fireworks, with a long fuse.”

Hartmann shook his head. “Homemade fuses—ropes, string, cord—seldom work. You'd know that if you'd had any real training. Besides, there's that hole in the box. That's a new twist.” He took a draw on his cigarette and stared though the office window at Fran Valentine, who'd apparently left by another door after the bathroom and was standing outside. “What's she doing now?”

Lucy glanced out the window. “If you're taking over this case, you better hope she's thinking.”

Hartmann snorted. “I'll do the thinking myself.”

A moment later Fran entered the office again. “More questions?” Hartmann said to her.

“Just one. How long since I went to the restroom?”

“Excuse me?”

“How long?” she said again. “From the time I left you.”

Hartmann exchanged a glance with Sheriff Valentine. “I don't know. Five minutes, maybe.”

“Five minutes?”

“About that. Why?”

Suddenly an explosion shook the building. All three law officers jumped to their feet, hands on their guns.

Then Lucy noticed her mother's face. Fran was staring calmly at Agent Hartmann.

“What did you do?” Hartmann snapped.

“A little demonstration.” Fran reached into her purse and took out his cigarette pack and lighter. He blinked, then glanced at the desktop where they'd been. Holding his gaze, Fran shook out a cigarette and pointed to a spot an inch from the end. “An old trick, really. Make a tiny cut here, light the cigarette, set it down, stick a cherry bomb's fuse into the cut, and leave.”

Hartmann was scowling now. “A cut?”

“I used my fingernail, but an ice pick would work too, since that's probably what they used to puncture the dropbox.”

“Of course,” Lucy murmured, as if speaking to herself. “For ventilation.”

Fran nodded. “Leave the front of the box open, punch a hole through the back, and the air flow keeps the butt burning. Every inch of cigarette equals about five minutes. A perfect fuse.”

She turned to the FBI man. “Country folks aren't ‘sophisticated,' Agent Hartmann. They just improvise.”

He glared at her a moment, hesitated, then picked up his cigarettes and lighter and marched to the door. “Keep your damn case,” he growled to the sheriff.

“Nice seeing you too,” Lucy said.

He left and slammed the door. A moment later they heard a car roar out of the lot. The office was dead quiet.

Finally Fran said, “Don't worry, Lucy, all I blew up was a restroom wastebasket.”

The sheriff sat back and studied her mother. “What about ventilation?”

“I opened both windows.”

“I hope Suzie wasn't back there, in a stall.” Suzie Parker was a temp who'd been helping Lucy catch up on the filing.

“She left early. Might've done her good, though—she's looked a little constipated, lately.” Fran paused, thinking. “Who do you figure did Joey's box? Billy Crowder?”

“Could be. Even sober, he hates the Dewberrys.”

Fran nodded, then frowned. “What are you two staring at?”

“How'd you know all that, Ms. Valentine?” Malone said. “The fuse stuff, I mean.”

She chuckled. “An old boyfriend. Long before your father, Lucy. He was good at that kind of thing.”

“What was he, an engineer?”

“A hooligan,” she said.

She was still grinning when she left.