As Driver turned into the Commissioner’s street, the town car was nearly sideswiped by a classic black Cadillac El Dorado with three guys inside doing about 60. The Eldo blew through the stop sign without so much as a tap on the brakes.
Funny. The driver had borne an uncanny resemblance to Claude Lemieux. And the guy in the backseat, even though he’d only had a glimpse, could have played Dale Hunter’s stunt double.
He shook his head. That’s what happens when you eat and breathe hockey 24/7. Complete strangers look like retired cheap-shot artists. You start imagining what the mailroom guy would look like with a mullet. You forget to change the channel off of Versus and end up watching duck hunting tips at 3 in the morning.
The Commissioner stepped out of the car and closed the door. Driver pulled away.
Why was the front door open?
He stepped inside. The stereo was blaring from the family room. For the second time that day, inexplicably, he was listening to “Coward of the County.”
“Mrs. Bettman?” he called. There was no response, other than a faint sobbing coming from the bedroom upstairs. He went up.
And in the master bedroom was where he found her. The torn dress, the shattered look. It was, almost, more than he could stand.
“Someone is going to get a very sternly worded letter from my lawyers,” he said, and handed Mrs. Bettman a tissue.