The Betrayed. Heather Graham

sat out. Sooner or later, someone would have really looked at the headless horseman that stood outside the entrance to Tommy’s place. The police hadn’t really needed her services. She actually wished that they hadn’t called her; this one was a little too close to home.

      “Why my horseman?” Mo heard. She turned.

      Tommy Jensen, an old friend—and owner of the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar—had been allowed through. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven; his staff didn’t even arrive until nine or nine-thirty. But, she realized, looking at his grim face as he stared at the scene, it was his horseman and his parking lot. She figured he’d been called in.

      He looked at her bleakly and tried to smile. “Of all the horsemen in all the world...”

      Mo touched his arm. He was her senior by a few years; she’d known him since she was ten or so. She recalled that the older girls had often teased him because he’d been a big, awkward kid. He still liked to moan about his dating life. But now that they were all older and presumably more mature, the group she’d hung out with growing up now frequented his restaurant. It was her favorite hangout when friends met up at night for dinner, coffee or drinks. He always took care of them.

      He’d been born and bred in the area and was a true lover of the Hudson Valley. He’d owned the restaurant for about two years and it was charming, offering pool tables, dart boards and an “enchanted forest” for young children when their families came for lunch.

      Purbeck turned to him. “What time did you leave last night, Tommy?”

      Tommy was startled—as if he’d just realized he might be a suspect. “About 2:30 a.m. And I didn’t leave alone. I left with Abby Cole. We cleaned up, locked the place and were together the whole time. I drove her home.”

      “And you didn’t see anything? Anything at all unusual?” Purbeck demanded.

      Tommy shook his head. “Sir, I’m telling you, we were worn-out. Halloween’s coming, you know? We’re busy. We had to announce last call and practically shove people out of their chairs. When we finally took off, my car was the only one in the lot and...”

      “And?”

      “I didn’t even glance at the horseman, to be honest. But, like I said, we’d been busy. We had a lot of visitors and people were talking at their cars before leaving. They’d been to the attractions, the haunted houses, the storytelling, all that. So...I’m not a cop, but I don’t see how this could have been done until the wee hours of the morning.”

      Purbeck released a sigh. “Call your people. We’re going to have this area closed off for the next five hours or so.”

      “The poor guy! I feel really bad about this.” Tommy frowned. “But why did it have to be in front of my place? Oh, Lord, will anyone ever come here again?” he asked, his tone dismayed.

      “They’ll flock in—to see where the head of Richard Highsmith was found,” Purbeck said dryly. “You can open, but not until dinner.” He paused, glancing at the scene. “I’m giving my crime scene techs a good five hours. Until then, the crime scene tape stays up. Oh, and, make sure I can get hold of you.”

      Tommy looked at Mo. “Don’t leave town, huh?” he said. Then he looked back at Purbeck. “I don’t leave town often, sir, so no worries there. Can I go home?”

      “For now. Tell Abby we’ll be talking to her and the staff,” Purbeck added.

      Tommy waved as he turned to leave. Then he stopped. “Mo, can you come by later? He could be right about business being okay—or people could be so creeped out, they won’t come anymore.”

      “I’ll come by, Tommy,” Mo promised. “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

      She wished she believed her own words. But talking to him, encouraging him, was at least keeping him from seeing the head spiked on his effigy of the headless horseman.

      Lieutenant Robert Purbeck walked over to her. “Mo, you can go, if you like. We’ll take it from here.” He sounded gruff and uncomfortable. “You and Rollo were dead-on, as usual.” He paused, rolling his eyes at his unfortunate choice of words. “That came out wrong, but this whole thing is just...bad. Very bad. Are you all right?”

      Was she all right?

      No one there was all right. But she wasn’t a cop or a forensic expert; she was Rollo’s owner. She was an “expert consultant.” And, sadly, she’d seen the very bad before.

      Sometimes, more often than not, she and Rollo found those who were still living. She could proudly say that many a time they had helped save lives.

      Not today.

      “Yes, I’m fine,” she assured Purbeck. “But it’s not a picture I’ll forget.”

      “None of us will,” he murmured.

      She squared her shoulders and patted Rollo’s massive head. “We’ve found terrible and tragic things before, Lieutenant. And we’ve survived them.”

      Purbeck was a tall, muscled man in his late fifties. He could be a tough cop, but he was also a sort of father figure to her, and his expression was one of parental concern. “We just discovered a head on a pole, Maureen. Here. In Sleepy Hollow. That’s damned...scary and disturbing.”

      All she could do was agree. “I’m worried about you,” he said next. “You live alone.”

      “I have Rollo.”

      Rollo was huge. Standing on his hind legs, he was nearly six feet tall and dwarfed most men. He was one of the largest of his breed she had ever seen.

      “Rollo, yes. He might well scare the common car thief,” Purbeck said. “And, yeah, he’s great at what he does. He’s not a bloodhound, not even a scent hound, he’s a sight hound, but he’s always right on the money. I guess dogs have it over us.” He shrugged. “And he’s one hell of a companion. But, Mo, whoever did this is sick. Really sick. I’m no expert on nutcases—and I don’t think I have to be. This is—” He paused, searching for a better word. Apparently, he didn’t find one. “Sick,” he repeated.

      Maureen nodded again. “I...I would hope that someone suffering from a serious mental problem, an illness, would be the only person who could do something so horrible,” she said. She gestured around her. “Most people come here because of Washington Irving and his short story ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ They’re intrigued by it, they love history—and, well, they just want to see the place. But with this... Someone’s turning it into an obscene joke.”

      “Yeah. Some whacked bastard out there has taken the work of the first American man of letters and twisted it into something tragic. I’m going to stop it. I refuse to let any more of this happen in our town. I’m going to track down whoever committed such a...such a dreadful crime, such a travesty—” Purbeck broke off. “I will get this bastard!” he vowed.

      Maureen placed one hand on his arm. People here were extremely proud of Washington Irving, and of course the tourist trade that sustained many businesses in the village of Sleepy Hollow and in Tarrytown was due to Irving’s time-tested stories. She knew that herself. Like many who found their way to Sleepy Hollow, her parents were Irish New Yorkers who had fallen in love with the Hudson Valley. They hadn’t purchased property in the area, though. Instead, they’d rented every time they’d come for the summer or other holidays. She’d been the one to set down permanent roots here, buying a cottage down the Hudson from Irving’s Sunnyside. It had belonged to an older couple, friends of her parents, who’d gone to Arizona because of the husband’s severe asthma; they and Maureen had made a deal that was amenable to both parties, and she’d become a full-time resident. Her parents, too, had decided to retire to Scottsdale, joking that they’d never again have to shovel snow.

      While she still loved the city—there was, truly, nothing like New York in the world—she’d needed to get away from the nonstop energy,