Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Doctor-patient privilege, Bernie,” Bill said. “You know I can’t divulge the—”

“Was it someone I know? Why was he shuttled off in secrecy behind the building? Was it the Johnson boy? What was his name again?”

“Elray,” Thatcher said.

Croft turned to him. “Elray, yes. I heard you tried to chase down his assassin. In fact, you seem to be Johnny-on-the-spot since you came to Foley. One can find you anywhere there’s disorder.”

Thatcher said, “That seems to make you nervous. I wonder how come.”

Croft puffed up like an adder, but he faced Bill again. “You had just as well tell me who was in that ambulance. I’ll wring it out of Dr. Perkins anyway. Save me the climb upstairs.”

Bill relented. “A local woman was assaulted.” Without going into detail, he told Croft what had happened.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Who was she?”

“I’m keeping it quiet, Bernie, out of respect for the lady and her family’s privacy.”

“Very sensitive of you, Bill. But other ladies should be made aware that there’s a rapist in our midst, don’t you think?” He gave Thatcher a significant look.

Thatcher adjusted his stance to a more confrontational one. “Why don’t you just come out and say it, Croft?”

“Say what?”

“Accuse me of preying on women.”

“I already did.”

“And it didn’t stick.”

“Gentlemen,” Bill said quietly. “Let’s not draw an audience, please.”

The only audience they’d drawn that Thatcher could see was Hennessy, Croft’s so-called chauffeur. Cap pulled low, he was leaning against the side of the mayor’s car parked across the street, his posture a little too indolent to be genuine, his entire aspect one of menace.

Thatcher hadn’t made out like he’d noticed him lurking there, but he was well aware.

Croft was adding to his list of complaints against the sheriff. “I just don’t understand you. It’s obvious to everyone except you, even to men in your department, that your judgment has become clouded of late. Mine hasn’t. I’m responsible for the welfare of this town’s citizenry, particularly those who can’t defend themselves, our children, our female population.”

“Oh, for godsake, Bernie,” Bill snapped, “save the speech. The victim’s name was Norma Blanchard.”

The mayor reacted with a start.

“Obviously you knew her,” Bill said.

“Not personally, but I knew of her. The pretty sister, correct?”

“She was pretty before today.”

“Where was she attacked?”

“In her home.”

Again he gave Thatcher a pointed glance. “Someone looking for a room to let?”

Thatcher moved in closer, wanting badly to knock this pompous hypocrite on his ass.

But Bill motioned for him to stay as he was, and for the sheriff’s sake, Thatcher let the insult pass.

Bill said, “A vagrant is a possibility, of course. But initial indications are that she knew her assailant and let him inside the house. Her infant was asleep in the front room, so it was someone she trusted.”

The mayor drew a frown and absently toyed with his watch chain.

“What is it, Bernie?”

He stopped fiddling with the chain, but his frown remained. “Something I wish I didn’t know.”

“About Miss Blanchard?”

“Yes, but I was told in the strictest confidence.”

“If it’s pertinent to the crime, then—”

“I’m not saying that,” Croft said in a rush. “Not at all. It probably has no relevance whatsoever.”

“Tell me and let me decide.”

He sighed with seeming reluctance. “On the day following Mila Driscoll’s disappearance, I spoke to Gabe by telephone. Mrs. Driscoll’s relatives hadn’t arrived yet, so while your deputy was using the bathroom, Gabe called me on the sly and confessed that he’d had a liaison with that Blanchard girl.”

“Why would he have confessed that to you?”

“Because I had been his staunch proponent there in your office. I had promised to continue standing by him until his wife was found or her fate determined. Therefore, he felt I deserved to know that he harbored what he called ‘a shameful secret.’

“I was thinking in terms of unsettled gambling debts, or blackmail, or fleecing hypochondriacs. Something like that. I never would have dreamed that Gabe Driscoll’s dirty secret was a sexual fling. He’s such a cold fish. I can’t imagine him humping anybody, can you?”

Thatcher could tell that Bill was offended by Croft’s terminology, but he pounced on the primary matter. “After that rousing sermon you just delivered about your civic responsibility, you tell me this? Why didn’t you come to me with it before now? You didn’t think an affair with another woman was pertinent to the sudden disappearance of the man’s wife?”

“Calm down. It wasn’t an affair. It was one afternoon of sexual congress that occurred the day after he and the Blanchard woman met.”

“Only that one time?”

“That’s what he told me. Tearfully. With contrition. Soon after this breach of his marriage vows, Mrs. Driscoll conceived. Gabe regarded her pregnancy as a sign of forgiveness from on high.