them for inclusion in a script. “Have you apprehended the perp yet?” he asked.
I sighed, irritated as always by his lame attempts at cop lingo, a habit he’d picked up when his first series, Roll Call , was such a success. “Nope. And I won’t get to,” I said. “The Vernonville PD’s got this case.”
“The stiff in the display window would make a great opening shot,” he mused, “but I don’t think we want him nude. That would pull an ‘R’ rating for sure. Maybe if wardrobe could dress him in a woman’s bathing suit . . . Oh, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her.
“Oh, poor baby, did you get turned down by another police department?” Her soothing voice flowed over me, and I pictured her on the lanai at their Malibu house, expertly dyed blond hair slicked back under a sun hat, relaxing on the poolside lounger.
“Yep.” I’d given up long ago trying to figure out how she could know what was happening in my life based on a single word like “hi.” Must be some kind of mom ESP. Maybe Kyra had a book about it. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not.” So we chatted about their upcoming visit to Virginia, my brother’s work—“I think he’s in Malaysia, now,” Mom said. “I do hope he’s careful if he’s interviewing terrorists again”—and her charity work. Mom might look like a typical Hollywood spouse—blond, sleek, and fashionable—and she might come across as a bit ditzy, but she could mobilize volunteers like no one else and had raised hundreds of millions for cancer research over the years after her mother died of ovarian cancer.
“How’s your grandfather?” she asked with a bit of trepidation. “I hope he’s been behaving himself.”
“He’s great,” I said. “And of course he’s behaving.” I crossed my fingers.
“Well, that’s good,” she said doubtfully. “It would be nice if we could get him interested in bridge, or maybe bird-watching. A nice, quiet hobby.” One that didn’t get you beaten up. Or land you in jail. Or require the purchase and use of deadly weapons. She left all that unsaid, but I heard it in her voice.
Yeah, good luck with that.
We said our good-byes, and I ate my soufflé in front of the television with a bottle of Potowmack Ale. Afterwards, I strummed on my guitar for a while, practicing the Rodrigo Fantasia I’d been working on for some weeks. I concentrated ferociously enough to push all thought of the murder from my head. Fubar still hadn’t returned when I was ready for bed, but that wasn’t unusual. I left a light on in the hallway for him—yeah, I know cats can see in the dark, but it just seemed friendlier—and went to bed. Some time later—my clock said almost midnight—I was awakened by a thump. Caught in the throes of my recurring nightmare, with the whump of the armored Humvee next to mine exploding as it rolled over an IED in Aghanistan, it took me a moment to orient myself. The thumping came again—definitely not part of my dream. I sat up in bed. “Fubar?”
Thump-thump-thump! I recognized it as knocking. Pulling a robe on over my nightgown and easing my Beretta nine-millimeter from my bedside table, I headed for the front door, only to realize the knocking was coming from the back. Stranger and stranger. I cut through the kitchen, leaving the lights off so I didn’t silhouette myself as a target. Skirting the pallet of tile on the floor, I flicked on the patio light and illuminated a tall figure pressed up against the window. Hastily, I set my weapon on the counter and unlocked the door. Grandpa Atherton stumbled in, almost tripping over Fubar, who shot past him, eager to be in on the unusual midnight activity.
“Hello, Emma-Joy. Hope I didn’t wake you.” He gave me a smile that turned into a wince and pressed a hand to his forehead.
A cut on his forehead was dripping blood, so I grabbed a paper towel, dampened it, and pressed it to the wound as I led him
I sighed, irritated as always by his lame attempts at cop lingo, a habit he’d picked up when his first series, Roll Call , was such a success. “Nope. And I won’t get to,” I said. “The Vernonville PD’s got this case.”
“The stiff in the display window would make a great opening shot,” he mused, “but I don’t think we want him nude. That would pull an ‘R’ rating for sure. Maybe if wardrobe could dress him in a woman’s bathing suit . . . Oh, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her.
“Oh, poor baby, did you get turned down by another police department?” Her soothing voice flowed over me, and I pictured her on the lanai at their Malibu house, expertly dyed blond hair slicked back under a sun hat, relaxing on the poolside lounger.
“Yep.” I’d given up long ago trying to figure out how she could know what was happening in my life based on a single word like “hi.” Must be some kind of mom ESP. Maybe Kyra had a book about it. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not.” So we chatted about their upcoming visit to Virginia, my brother’s work—“I think he’s in Malaysia, now,” Mom said. “I do hope he’s careful if he’s interviewing terrorists again”—and her charity work. Mom might look like a typical Hollywood spouse—blond, sleek, and fashionable—and she might come across as a bit ditzy, but she could mobilize volunteers like no one else and had raised hundreds of millions for cancer research over the years after her mother died of ovarian cancer.
“How’s your grandfather?” she asked with a bit of trepidation. “I hope he’s been behaving himself.”
“He’s great,” I said. “And of course he’s behaving.” I crossed my fingers.
“Well, that’s good,” she said doubtfully. “It would be nice if we could get him interested in bridge, or maybe bird-watching. A nice, quiet hobby.” One that didn’t get you beaten up. Or land you in jail. Or require the purchase and use of deadly weapons. She left all that unsaid, but I heard it in her voice.
Yeah, good luck with that.
We said our good-byes, and I ate my soufflé in front of the television with a bottle of Potowmack Ale. Afterwards, I strummed on my guitar for a while, practicing the Rodrigo Fantasia I’d been working on for some weeks. I concentrated ferociously enough to push all thought of the murder from my head. Fubar still hadn’t returned when I was ready for bed, but that wasn’t unusual. I left a light on in the hallway for him—yeah, I know cats can see in the dark, but it just seemed friendlier—and went to bed. Some time later—my clock said almost midnight—I was awakened by a thump. Caught in the throes of my recurring nightmare, with the whump of the armored Humvee next to mine exploding as it rolled over an IED in Aghanistan, it took me a moment to orient myself. The thumping came again—definitely not part of my dream. I sat up in bed. “Fubar?”
Thump-thump-thump! I recognized it as knocking. Pulling a robe on over my nightgown and easing my Beretta nine-millimeter from my bedside table, I headed for the front door, only to realize the knocking was coming from the back. Stranger and stranger. I cut through the kitchen, leaving the lights off so I didn’t silhouette myself as a target. Skirting the pallet of tile on the floor, I flicked on the patio light and illuminated a tall figure pressed up against the window. Hastily, I set my weapon on the counter and unlocked the door. Grandpa Atherton stumbled in, almost tripping over Fubar, who shot past him, eager to be in on the unusual midnight activity.
“Hello, Emma-Joy. Hope I didn’t wake you.” He gave me a smile that turned into a wince and pressed a hand to his forehead.
A cut on his forehead was dripping blood, so I grabbed a paper towel, dampened it, and pressed it to the wound as I led him
Similar Books
