Crunch Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

weeks? There were strange cars driving past Ernest’s house.”
    “Can you describe the cars?”
    “One was silver, like a luxury car. It came past once, real slowly. But I didn’t get any license plates.”
    Tom waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked John, “Could you go into the other room and have one of our guys visit Kris Nielsen?” John disappeared into the living room while Tom turned his attention back to Yolanda. “Could you take us through your movements, starting with Friday night?”
    So she did. Ernest had gone out around half past eight, when Yolanda and Ferdinanda were watching a rerun of a telenovela on Ernest’s basement television. Tom asked her which episode was on and what had happened. She gave him a wry look, thought for a moment, then told him. Tom wrote in his notebook. When the program was over, Yolanda rolled Ferdinanda into the guest bathroom and helped her get ready for bed.
    John Bertram returned to the kitchen and flicked a glance at Tom. Tom asked Yolanda, “Do you know where Ernest had been that day?”
    “Uh,” Yolanda said, again discombobulated. “Friday? He was off doing investigating. I don’t know if that had to do with the puppies or not. He came home, said he’d gotten some good pictures, and then I gave him dinner.” She seemed unsure whether to go on. Maybe she thought someone was going to ask what food she’d made for Ernest.
    “On Friday night, you gave him dinner?” Tom said, prompting her.
    “That was my job, Tom,” Yolanda explained testily, her eyes lit with defiance.
    Tom shrugged. He did not mention the seventeen thousand bucks under the mattress. Nor did he bring up the people Yolanda hung out with, those folks he didn’t like. Instead, he stood and walked into the hallway with John. Yolanda avoided my gaze.
    When Tom returned, he smoothly picked up his earlier line of questioning. “So, Ernest said he got some good pictures?”
    “Yes.” Yolanda wrinkled her forehead. “He always kept his digital camera with him, in his backpack.”
    “His backpack?”
    “Yeah, he kept his cell in there, too.” Yolanda took a deep breath. “I never saw him go out without his red backpack.”
    “He didn’t have a backpack with him. Just his wallet. Why would he carry a backpack?”
    Yolanda said patiently, “He was trying to get more exercise. Whenever he would go out for a walk, he would sling it over his shoulders.” Yolanda made an impatient movement with her hands. “I don’t know, maybe he left the camera in his home office.” When she stopped talking, there was another one of those long silences that were making me so uncomfortable.
    I felt myself beginning to fidget, so I offered everyone coffee, even though it was twenty after four. There weren’t any takers.
    “Drink, then?” I asked. “As in wine or—”
    “Goldy, please,” Tom said. Then he asked Yolanda, “What did you make Ernest for dinner Friday night?”
    “Grilled swordfish.” Yolanda brushed her hair back from her face. “You can check the trash if you want. I also made him guacamole and put it on tomatoes. He liked that kind of thing, Tex-Mex, even though he didn’t eat very much.” Her brow wrinkled. “After dinner, he said he had to go out, but that he’d be back that night, hopefully with some dogs.”
    “Were you surprised by his mention of the dogs?” asked Tom.
    “Nothing about Ernest surprised me,” said Yolanda. A smile lit her face for a moment, then faded. “I did think he was kidding about the dogs. And then around midnight, he rolled up in his truck with a bunch of beagle puppies in cardboard boxes. I heard them yapping. In fact, they woke me up. Ferdinanda, too.”
    “Where exactly did you sleep in the house?” Tom asked, although I was sure he already knew the answer. He wanted to get it on the tape. He was up to something, I didn’t know what, but I didn’t like it, and my protective instinct toward Yolanda again flared up. I gave Tom