EIGHT
DENVER, COLORADOShe arrived home, dog-tired after a full cleaning day at the police station, and plunked herself down on the couch.
A car door slammed. She went to the living room window and pushed back the curtain to see Sergeant Herbie Collins emerging from the bushes across the gravel road. Fat-bellied, bow-legged Collins, the one who was eyeing her in a strange way only an hour before at the station. What did he want? Where was the police car? In the bushes?
He banged up the porch steps and tapped on the door. Ramona opened up, slowly.
“Mrs. Lee,” he said, looking up and down the roadway through his dark sunglasses.
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“What’s this concerning?”
He removed the glasses. His badge glinted in the sun. “Your husband, ma’am.”
She laughed. “Clyde? That no-a
