friggin’ great.” I palm-smacked the wheel. “Who the hel are you, Alison Stalings?”
Noting her plate number, I wished Radke luck in keeping Stalings far from the body.
My mobile rang as I was merging from the entrance ramp onto I-77. Traffic was heavy, but not yet the bumper-to-bumper crush it would be.
The caler ID showed an unfamiliar number with a 704 area code.
Curious, I clicked on.
“Go Mustangs,” a male voice said.
I was tired, preoccupied, and, to be honest, disappointed the cal was local and therefore not from Ryan. My reply wasn’t overly courteous.
“Who is this?”
The response was the first line of the Myers Park High School fight song.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Up for that coffee?”
“It’s not a good time.”
“Six o’clock? Seven? Eight? You name it.”
“I’ve been in the field al day. I’m tired and grubby.”
“As I recal, you clean up real good.” An old Southern expression.
I am competitive. Play hard. Work hard. Some people manage to do those things and remain wel-groomed. I’m not among them. Folowing our tennis tournaments, Charlie usualy looked like a GQ model. I usualy looked like a badly permed shih tzu.
“Thanks. I think.”
“Katy tels me you like lamb chops.”
The veering segue caught me off guard.
“I—”
“My specialty. How about this? You shower while I hit the Fresh Market. We meet at my place at seven. You relax while I toss a salad and throw chops on the gril.”
Whoa, big fela!
“Katy’s invited, of course. I’l catch her before she leaves here.”
I suspected his co-conspirator was right at his side.
“It’s been a long day,” I said.
“A shower wil make a new woman of you.”
“But the old one wil stil have to work in the morning.” That sounded lame even to me.
“Look. You like lamb chops, I like lamb chops. You don’t feel like cooking. I do.”
He had me there.
“I have to go to the ME office to FedEx some bugs.”
“Dead ant, dead ant.” Sung to the opening bars of The Pink Panther theme.
“Mostly flies.” I couldn’t help grinning.
Curtis Mayfield. No lyrics.
“Superfly,” I guessed.
“Very good,” Charlie said.
“I can’t stay late.”
“I won’t let you.”
A car cut into my lane, forcing me to brake hard. The phone dropped to my lap. Steering one-handed, I groped it back to my ear.
“You stil there?”
“Thought you’d hung up on me,” Charlie said.
Looking back, I probably should have.
My clothes went directly into the laundry. My body went directly into the shower.
Emerging, I found Birdie batting a blowfly around the bathroom floor. Before I could act, he ate it.
“Gross, Bird.”
The cat looked proud. Or smug. Or introspective, pondering the nuances of fly.
Smiling, I spread orange blossom body cream onto my skin.
Charlie was right. I felt rejuvenated. Cheery, even. Going out was a good idea. Making new friends was a healthy move.
A group of memory cels offered a colage of images, fuzzy, like snapshots left out in the rain.
The Skylark.
Charlie in cutoffs. Just cutoffs.
Me in shorts and a tank with bling on the front. A sparkly butterfly. Or was it a bird? Hair doing that layered, flippy seventies thing.
Upholstery stinging my sunburned back.
Maybe this wasn’t such a peachy idea.
Reacquainting with old friends, I amended my thinking. Friends. Just friends.
Uh-huh, the memory cels said.
Moving to the bedroom, I clicked on the news and crossed to the dresser.
“—sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood. Those words of Revelation never sounded more true. Lucifer is right here, at our own city gates.”
I froze, panties half out of the drawer.
12
BOYCE LINGO WAS ON THE STEPS OF THE NEW COURTHOUSE, cameras and mikes aimed at his face. Behind him stood a middle-aged man with buzz-cut hair, Brad Pitt cheeks, and a prominent chin. From the conservative dress, I guessed he was an aide. Navy jacket, white
Noting her plate number, I wished Radke luck in keeping Stalings far from the body.
My mobile rang as I was merging from the entrance ramp onto I-77. Traffic was heavy, but not yet the bumper-to-bumper crush it would be.
The caler ID showed an unfamiliar number with a 704 area code.
Curious, I clicked on.
“Go Mustangs,” a male voice said.
I was tired, preoccupied, and, to be honest, disappointed the cal was local and therefore not from Ryan. My reply wasn’t overly courteous.
“Who is this?”
The response was the first line of the Myers Park High School fight song.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Up for that coffee?”
“It’s not a good time.”
“Six o’clock? Seven? Eight? You name it.”
“I’ve been in the field al day. I’m tired and grubby.”
“As I recal, you clean up real good.” An old Southern expression.
I am competitive. Play hard. Work hard. Some people manage to do those things and remain wel-groomed. I’m not among them. Folowing our tennis tournaments, Charlie usualy looked like a GQ model. I usualy looked like a badly permed shih tzu.
“Thanks. I think.”
“Katy tels me you like lamb chops.”
The veering segue caught me off guard.
“I—”
“My specialty. How about this? You shower while I hit the Fresh Market. We meet at my place at seven. You relax while I toss a salad and throw chops on the gril.”
Whoa, big fela!
“Katy’s invited, of course. I’l catch her before she leaves here.”
I suspected his co-conspirator was right at his side.
“It’s been a long day,” I said.
“A shower wil make a new woman of you.”
“But the old one wil stil have to work in the morning.” That sounded lame even to me.
“Look. You like lamb chops, I like lamb chops. You don’t feel like cooking. I do.”
He had me there.
“I have to go to the ME office to FedEx some bugs.”
“Dead ant, dead ant.” Sung to the opening bars of The Pink Panther theme.
“Mostly flies.” I couldn’t help grinning.
Curtis Mayfield. No lyrics.
“Superfly,” I guessed.
“Very good,” Charlie said.
“I can’t stay late.”
“I won’t let you.”
A car cut into my lane, forcing me to brake hard. The phone dropped to my lap. Steering one-handed, I groped it back to my ear.
“You stil there?”
“Thought you’d hung up on me,” Charlie said.
Looking back, I probably should have.
My clothes went directly into the laundry. My body went directly into the shower.
Emerging, I found Birdie batting a blowfly around the bathroom floor. Before I could act, he ate it.
“Gross, Bird.”
The cat looked proud. Or smug. Or introspective, pondering the nuances of fly.
Smiling, I spread orange blossom body cream onto my skin.
Charlie was right. I felt rejuvenated. Cheery, even. Going out was a good idea. Making new friends was a healthy move.
A group of memory cels offered a colage of images, fuzzy, like snapshots left out in the rain.
The Skylark.
Charlie in cutoffs. Just cutoffs.
Me in shorts and a tank with bling on the front. A sparkly butterfly. Or was it a bird? Hair doing that layered, flippy seventies thing.
Upholstery stinging my sunburned back.
Maybe this wasn’t such a peachy idea.
Reacquainting with old friends, I amended my thinking. Friends. Just friends.
Uh-huh, the memory cels said.
Moving to the bedroom, I clicked on the news and crossed to the dresser.
“—sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood. Those words of Revelation never sounded more true. Lucifer is right here, at our own city gates.”
I froze, panties half out of the drawer.
12
BOYCE LINGO WAS ON THE STEPS OF THE NEW COURTHOUSE, cameras and mikes aimed at his face. Behind him stood a middle-aged man with buzz-cut hair, Brad Pitt cheeks, and a prominent chin. From the conservative dress, I guessed he was an aide. Navy jacket, white
Similar Books
