As I was sitting in our king-size bed with my crossword puzzle book on a lap desk resting on my knees, the thought occurred to me that, like Martin, Jack Burns was a tough man with a few enemies.
Jack, who must have been in his early fifties, had spent most of his working career on the Lawrenceton police force, though I remembered he’d tried the Atlanta police for a four-year stint. Jack had hated Atlanta ever after, and more than just about any other resident of Lawrenceton, he had resented our town’s ever-nearing inclusion in the sprawling Atlanta metro-plex. Jack had hated change, and loved justice, which couldn’t come pure enough to suit him. He’d had an almost total disregard for his personal appearance, beyond getting his hair cut and shaving every morning; he’d always looked as though he’d reached in his closet blindfolded and pulled on whatever came out, pieces that often seemed totally unrelated to each other.
“I wonder how he came to be in the plane,” I murmured, putting aside the lap desk and book. “Seems like to me he took flying lessons at one time. I think I remember Bess saying he thought it might come in handy on the job.”
Martin was brushing his teeth, but he heard me. He appeared in the bathroom door to make gestures. He’d tell me in a minute.
I heard gargling noises, and Martin emerged blotting his mouth with a towel, which he tossed back in the bathroom as an afterthought. It landed sort of in the vicinity of the towel rack.