The Marquesa's Necklace (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) by P.J. MacLayne

pulled his leg back into the car and reached for his cell phone. Yet another hard bump made him drop it, but this time the other car accelerated around him.
    Ignoring the sensation of a warm liquid running down his calf, Detective Thomason gave chase. In my mind, I could see it—the other driver would have made unexpected turns, cut through alleys, sped through red lights, and Detective Thomason would have stuck close behind. When the vehicle left town, he stayed glued to its tail.
    Once they cleared the subdivisions south of town, he stomped on the gas pedal until the front bumper of the Mustang almost touched the rear bumper of the other vehicle and flashed his lights several times. The driver had slowed abruptly, causing the two cars to bump, and Detective Thomason’s chest hit the steering wheel. The driver then pulled into the other lane and adjusted his speed so that the two vehicles were side by side.
    The detective tried to ram the side of the Mustang into the passenger’s side of the other car, but wasn’t able to push it off the road. The other vehicle fell back slightly, then, with a sudden burst of speed, rammed into the rear quarter panel of the Mustang, knocking it into a spin. Detective Thomason remembered hitting the brakes, the car sliding, his head hitting the steering wheel, and a barbed-wire fence rushing at him.
    The description of the car and its driver was meager. A dark-colored sedan, with out of state plates. Its driver was probably male, but a baseball cap, worn low on the forehead, made identification doubtful if not nearly impossible.
    Shaken, I dropped the report on the table and draped my afghan over me.

    Sure, cops make enemies. Detective Thomason wasn’t exactly my most favorite person anymore, but to try to kill him? Things like that don’t happen in our little town. Besides, the report said the plates weren’t local. I couldn’t access the police department computers—I’m no hacker—but the newspaper printed a list of everyone who got busted each week. And they do have a nice on-line archive. Two years ago seemed like a good place to start.
    Either I was losing my research skills or I was approaching the problem all wrong. The biggest crime news in the past year was me and Jake. Neither of us tried to run Detective Thomason off the road. I did learn a few things. Darla Smith, who was only a few years older than me, had been arrested twice for drunk driving. It made me sad—ever since her seven-year old got run over by an old lady who stepped on the gas instead of the brake, Darla had been falling apart. And Harry, an old friend of my mother’s, got busted for possession of drug paraphernalia. He’s getting up there in years, but still dresses like its 1968. I got distracted and traced down the court report. Thankfully, the judge who handled the case let Harry off with a good talking to.
    There was one interesting report. A guy from Chicago got busted for stealing a car. He was out on bail, but that would explain the out-of-state plates. And if he was smart, he would have used a stolen car. Pure speculation, because the reports didn’t even mention if Detective Thomason had been involved in the case. I needed to find out more. I made a mental note to drop by and visit the detective the next day. At least I had hope that the attack had nothing to do with me.
    When I propped my feet up on the table, I’d knocked over the stack of postcards, and they lay scattered on the floor. I knelt down to gather them up and stopped at the one from the Grand Canyon. Had Jake picked up a woman while he had been there? A tourist, or one of the college girls that work there during the summer? I flipped the card over to check out the date. September thirteenth. But as I studied the postmark, I noticed something. Something that didn’t add up.
    Why would a postcard from Arizona be postmarked in San Francisco? And the one from Seattle was stamped in Chicago? I should have called Detective Thomason