speed I wanted.
Finally, I pulled in front of my house. And this time had enough sense to leave the car running and carefully scan the block. Nothing seemed out of place.
I called Joanne. Not even giving her time to speak, I said, “Hey, Prejean just did more than make threats—I’m okay, but worried that he might have come to my house. I’m going in now.”
“Stay out!” she yelled.
“Cordelia’s in there.” I hung up.
He wanted me, not her. And if I had to give him me to get him away from her, then that was the only choice I had.
Not giving him an easy target, I ran from my car to the front steps. I banged on the door. “Core, it’s me.” She hates all the ways people choose to shorten her name, so I rarely do it, but there was not enough time for four syllables.
Of course now I was standing on my front steps being a perfectly easy target. Just as I got my keys out, the door was flung open.
Cordelia.
No one else.
She was talking on the phone. “She just got here. Do you have any idea what this is about?” She mouthed “Joanne” to me as I brushed past her, quickly locking the door behind me.
Once safely bolted in, I took the phone from Cordelia.
I gave them both—Joanne over the phone and Cordelia listening in—the quick and dirty version of what had happened.
Just as I finished talking, a squad car pulled up, lights flashing, but mercifully no siren.
Not so mercifully, they pulled their guns as they approached.
Cordelia started to open the door, but I pulled her back.
I yelled at the cops—and into the phone, but Joanne could have mentioned she was sending a patrol car, “Hey, we’re okay in here. Please put your guns down.” Then I slowly and carefully opened the door, coming out with my hands clearly visible. “I’m talking to Detective Sergeant Joanne Ranson,” I spelled out, so they would consider the possibility that the thing in my hand was a phone.
Mercifully, they did, putting their guns away.
A tinny voice—the phone two feet from my ear—said, “I’ll be there in about five minutes.” Replaced by a tinny buzzing. She’d hung up.
Just as I had finished explaining to the patrol cops that I was a private detective and that a swindler hadn’t appreciated my locating him for the people he had swindled and that he blamed me for a fire at his house—which I emphasized I had nothing to do with, lest they think otherwise—and just about everything else I could explain, Joanne arrived.
And I had to do it all over again.
And a third time when Danny showed up.
“If we just had an executioner, we’d be set,” I muttered.
“Naw, we just need a defense attorney,” Danny cheerfully corrected me. “This isn’t a capital offense.”
“I’m capitally offended,” I answered.
Joanne was kind enough to do the walk-through of the house, as if knowing that there had to be a bra or two hanging out of the laundry basket, letting the patrol cops check the outside, where we could argue that the dirty bras weren’t ours.
No big man, no gas can, nothing suspicious.
Maybe Prejean had only paid him for a one-shot deal. Maybe it was about scaring me and not really doing harm—although I was more than sure that someone was going to get hurt, the only choice was who.
But if he wanted me off the case, I was off the case. It was over. What I’d found couldn’t be unfound. Beating me into a coma wouldn’t change anything. It made no sense. Crooks and criminals are usually not high intellects; as we say here, a few sandbags short of a levee. It didn’t have to make sense to me.
As Joanne rejoined us, she said, “I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”
“One of you can stay with us,” Danny said.
“One of us?” Cordelia asked.
“Redoing the guest bedroom, so only the couch is available. Bad timing on our part,” Danny said with a rueful shrug as if she really did regret home improvement.
Joanne said, “One of you is welcome at our place. We’ve barely
Finally, I pulled in front of my house. And this time had enough sense to leave the car running and carefully scan the block. Nothing seemed out of place.
I called Joanne. Not even giving her time to speak, I said, “Hey, Prejean just did more than make threats—I’m okay, but worried that he might have come to my house. I’m going in now.”
“Stay out!” she yelled.
“Cordelia’s in there.” I hung up.
He wanted me, not her. And if I had to give him me to get him away from her, then that was the only choice I had.
Not giving him an easy target, I ran from my car to the front steps. I banged on the door. “Core, it’s me.” She hates all the ways people choose to shorten her name, so I rarely do it, but there was not enough time for four syllables.
Of course now I was standing on my front steps being a perfectly easy target. Just as I got my keys out, the door was flung open.
Cordelia.
No one else.
She was talking on the phone. “She just got here. Do you have any idea what this is about?” She mouthed “Joanne” to me as I brushed past her, quickly locking the door behind me.
Once safely bolted in, I took the phone from Cordelia.
I gave them both—Joanne over the phone and Cordelia listening in—the quick and dirty version of what had happened.
Just as I finished talking, a squad car pulled up, lights flashing, but mercifully no siren.
Not so mercifully, they pulled their guns as they approached.
Cordelia started to open the door, but I pulled her back.
I yelled at the cops—and into the phone, but Joanne could have mentioned she was sending a patrol car, “Hey, we’re okay in here. Please put your guns down.” Then I slowly and carefully opened the door, coming out with my hands clearly visible. “I’m talking to Detective Sergeant Joanne Ranson,” I spelled out, so they would consider the possibility that the thing in my hand was a phone.
Mercifully, they did, putting their guns away.
A tinny voice—the phone two feet from my ear—said, “I’ll be there in about five minutes.” Replaced by a tinny buzzing. She’d hung up.
Just as I had finished explaining to the patrol cops that I was a private detective and that a swindler hadn’t appreciated my locating him for the people he had swindled and that he blamed me for a fire at his house—which I emphasized I had nothing to do with, lest they think otherwise—and just about everything else I could explain, Joanne arrived.
And I had to do it all over again.
And a third time when Danny showed up.
“If we just had an executioner, we’d be set,” I muttered.
“Naw, we just need a defense attorney,” Danny cheerfully corrected me. “This isn’t a capital offense.”
“I’m capitally offended,” I answered.
Joanne was kind enough to do the walk-through of the house, as if knowing that there had to be a bra or two hanging out of the laundry basket, letting the patrol cops check the outside, where we could argue that the dirty bras weren’t ours.
No big man, no gas can, nothing suspicious.
Maybe Prejean had only paid him for a one-shot deal. Maybe it was about scaring me and not really doing harm—although I was more than sure that someone was going to get hurt, the only choice was who.
But if he wanted me off the case, I was off the case. It was over. What I’d found couldn’t be unfound. Beating me into a coma wouldn’t change anything. It made no sense. Crooks and criminals are usually not high intellects; as we say here, a few sandbags short of a levee. It didn’t have to make sense to me.
As Joanne rejoined us, she said, “I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”
“One of you can stay with us,” Danny said.
“One of us?” Cordelia asked.
“Redoing the guest bedroom, so only the couch is available. Bad timing on our part,” Danny said with a rueful shrug as if she really did regret home improvement.
Joanne said, “One of you is welcome at our place. We’ve barely
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