CHAPTER 17February 22
Thursday, 11:30 p.m.
“You can let me off here,” Frank said as they drove by the major’s car. Mrs. Rawlson pulled over into the first open section of curb.
She turned to face him. “I’m sorry you’ve been exposed to so many risks. Let’s get together soon, maybe celebrate. I’ve got a bottle of twenty-seven-year-old Redbreast Irish whiskey with your name on it. I’m so damned relieved that it’s all over.” Her voice was softer and more human than before.
“But it isn’t all over, Mrs. Rawlson,” Frank said reluctantly, knowing he might frighten her back into her frozen façade. And, wistfully, he recalled that Redbreast 27 ran around $600 a bottle.
“Not over?” she said like a puzzled child. “But you’ve established that my husband was murdered. That’s all, isn’t it? I mean,
