than six months.
“You need medical attention, Charlie. And what about your truck?”
Teeth clenched against the pain, he eased into the passenger seat of Brenda’s car. “Get the truck for me, will you, Sam? I’ll . . .” He stopped, grunted, and started again. “I’ll call the service department and let ’em know you’ll pick it up.”
“Oh, sure. Stick me for the repair bill, why don’t you?”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Uh-huh. Like you paid this Richie guy back?”
Since both he and Brenda had slammed their doors, the question was pretty much rhetorical. I stood there, thoroughly disgusted, while they drove off.
A black-and-white appeared about three minutes later. I provided what details I could. A medium-build guy I’d never seen before sprang out of the dark, went after my now-departed ex and me with a length of pipe, jumped in his car, and disappeared. Tony added that he was driving a light blue or gray, late-model Malibu with California plates.
When asked for the motive for the attack, I hesitated. Charlie was already in enough trouble. I hated to shovel more on him but saw no way out of sharing Brenda’s frantic disclosures.
AFTER the drama of the day and evening, I had to force myself to sit down at my laptop and draft an email to my boss. I knew the fire incident would appear in DARPA’s morning report. My only hope of salvation was to zing off a preliminary notification tonight, before he read the morning report.
I was stuck at “Hi, Dr. J” when my phone rang. Grabbing at the chance of even a temporary reprieve, I checked caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voice mail.
“Lieutenant Spade, this is DeWayne Wilson, Channel Nine News.”
Oh, crap! I had a feeling I knew what was coming. Junior Reporter confirmed it with his next breathless disclosure.
“My producer just called. He picked up a report on the police scanner that an EPPD patrol officer responded to a nine-one-one call involving you tonight. He thought because of our, uh, past association you might fill me in on the details. Call me as soon as you can and . . .”
Sighing, I hit talk. “No comment.”
“Lieutenant Spade? Is that you?”
“No.”
I thoroughly enjoyed the ensuing five seconds of silence.
“It sounds like you,” he said hesitantly.
I took pity on the guy. “All right. You caught me, DeWayne. But I can’t comment on the incident tonight.”
“Why not? Are you saying it’s related to the Victor Duarte shooting?”
I started to dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Brenda had been so emphatic the attacker was after Charlie. When he’d ordered me to get in his car, I’d just assumed he’d mistaken me for Brenda and Richie the Mob Guy intended to force Charlie to pay up by kidnapping his wife.
Junior Reporter had now opened other, far more sinister, possibilities. Maybe someone had heard the story about the reward. Maybe they thought I’d already collected and decided to take a cut. What better way than to force me into a car and hold me for ransom? Or keep me incommunicado until the banks opened tomorrow morning and I could withdraw some cold, hard cash.
Or maybe, I thought as my stomach did a slow roll, whoever had hired Duarte was out for revenge.
“Gotta go,” I mumbled.
I disconnected, feeling shell-shocked. How the heck had my life become so complicated? Longing for the days before severed heads and ex-husbands on the lam from the Mob, I decided Dr. J would have to wait. Right now I needed Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla Caramel Fudge. And lots of it!
CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO heaping bowls of vanilla caramel fudge did the trick. Reenergized, I drafted a brief and shamelessly exculpatory email about the fire to Dr. J, fine-tuned it a couple of times, and zinged it off.
I hoped Mitch would call before I hit the sack, but I didn’t hear from him. I was happy he and Jenny had these few precious days together but I was anxious to talk to him and bring him up to speed
“You need medical attention, Charlie. And what about your truck?”
Teeth clenched against the pain, he eased into the passenger seat of Brenda’s car. “Get the truck for me, will you, Sam? I’ll . . .” He stopped, grunted, and started again. “I’ll call the service department and let ’em know you’ll pick it up.”
“Oh, sure. Stick me for the repair bill, why don’t you?”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Uh-huh. Like you paid this Richie guy back?”
Since both he and Brenda had slammed their doors, the question was pretty much rhetorical. I stood there, thoroughly disgusted, while they drove off.
A black-and-white appeared about three minutes later. I provided what details I could. A medium-build guy I’d never seen before sprang out of the dark, went after my now-departed ex and me with a length of pipe, jumped in his car, and disappeared. Tony added that he was driving a light blue or gray, late-model Malibu with California plates.
When asked for the motive for the attack, I hesitated. Charlie was already in enough trouble. I hated to shovel more on him but saw no way out of sharing Brenda’s frantic disclosures.
AFTER the drama of the day and evening, I had to force myself to sit down at my laptop and draft an email to my boss. I knew the fire incident would appear in DARPA’s morning report. My only hope of salvation was to zing off a preliminary notification tonight, before he read the morning report.
I was stuck at “Hi, Dr. J” when my phone rang. Grabbing at the chance of even a temporary reprieve, I checked caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voice mail.
“Lieutenant Spade, this is DeWayne Wilson, Channel Nine News.”
Oh, crap! I had a feeling I knew what was coming. Junior Reporter confirmed it with his next breathless disclosure.
“My producer just called. He picked up a report on the police scanner that an EPPD patrol officer responded to a nine-one-one call involving you tonight. He thought because of our, uh, past association you might fill me in on the details. Call me as soon as you can and . . .”
Sighing, I hit talk. “No comment.”
“Lieutenant Spade? Is that you?”
“No.”
I thoroughly enjoyed the ensuing five seconds of silence.
“It sounds like you,” he said hesitantly.
I took pity on the guy. “All right. You caught me, DeWayne. But I can’t comment on the incident tonight.”
“Why not? Are you saying it’s related to the Victor Duarte shooting?”
I started to dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Brenda had been so emphatic the attacker was after Charlie. When he’d ordered me to get in his car, I’d just assumed he’d mistaken me for Brenda and Richie the Mob Guy intended to force Charlie to pay up by kidnapping his wife.
Junior Reporter had now opened other, far more sinister, possibilities. Maybe someone had heard the story about the reward. Maybe they thought I’d already collected and decided to take a cut. What better way than to force me into a car and hold me for ransom? Or keep me incommunicado until the banks opened tomorrow morning and I could withdraw some cold, hard cash.
Or maybe, I thought as my stomach did a slow roll, whoever had hired Duarte was out for revenge.
“Gotta go,” I mumbled.
I disconnected, feeling shell-shocked. How the heck had my life become so complicated? Longing for the days before severed heads and ex-husbands on the lam from the Mob, I decided Dr. J would have to wait. Right now I needed Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla Caramel Fudge. And lots of it!
CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO heaping bowls of vanilla caramel fudge did the trick. Reenergized, I drafted a brief and shamelessly exculpatory email about the fire to Dr. J, fine-tuned it a couple of times, and zinged it off.
I hoped Mitch would call before I hit the sack, but I didn’t hear from him. I was happy he and Jenny had these few precious days together but I was anxious to talk to him and bring him up to speed
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