Orchid Blues (Holly Barker 2)

"I know you don't think much of the death penalty, for a cop, anyway."

She nodded. "That's right. What could be worse than rotting in a Florida prison? Dying would be fun in comparison."

"You got a point, though I favor the penalty, myself, even if I don't get to personally administer it. What about after that's all done? You're a woman of means now; you can do whatever."

"I'm just going to keep on being a cop and keep drinking with you, I guess."

Ham rolled a fillet of fish in flour and dropped it into a pan of hot oil, then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You sure know how to make an old man happy."

She kissed him back. "I don't see any old man."

"I'm gettin' there, sugar."

"Not you, Ham, not ever."

Ham blinked rapidly. "Oh, shut up and drink your bourbon."

10

The following morning Holly went back to work on the bank's personnel files.

Hurd Wallace came and leaned on her doorjamb. "Why do you think we'd be more interested in somebody who's new at the bank than somebody who'd been there for a long time?"

"Standard operating procedure," she said. "New employees are more likely to be involved in crimes against their employers than longtime ones. Didn't they cover that when you went to the academy?"

"Yes, they did," Hurd said, "but there's all kinds of reasons for an old employee to get involved: somebody has debts, maybe gambling or drugs; somebody has an affair and wants to run away with the new girlfriend and ditch the wife, needs funds."

"I agree," Holly said. "All I'm saying is let's start with the classically most likely employees and work our way down the list."

"There're two on your desk, there," Hurd said.

Holly picked up a folder. "Emily Harston?"

"Yep, and the other one is Franklin Morris. He's a new manager at the bank, been there four months."

Holly dug out the file. "Came from their home office in Miami; twenty-seven years old, married with a young child, senior loan officer. Would a loan officer know how much money was in the vault on any given day?"

"Probably not, unless he made it his business to know."

Holly turned to the other file. "Emily Harston has been there seven and a half months, a teller. Married, no kids, home address, P.O. Box 1990, Vero Beach."

"Kind of funny to have a post-office box as a home address," Hurd said.

"Good point." Holly turned to the next page. "Here we go: twelve Birch Street, Lake Winachobee. Where's Lake Winachobee?"

Hurd looked blank. "You got me, but there're a lot of lakes in Florida."

Holly got a Florida road atlas from a bookcase and spread it on her desk. Hurd came and looked over her shoulder.

"Well, we've got Lake Okeechobee, to the southwest," she said, pointing a

t it.

"Florida's largest lake." He pointed at a patch of water to the west. "What's this?"

Holly took a magnifying glass from her desk. "That's it; Lake Winachobee; about a tenth the size of Okeechobee." She looked more closely. "But there's no town by that name, and only one road going to the lake."