With Vics You Get Eggroll (A Mad for Mod Mystery Book 3) by Diane Vallere Page B

understand the meaning of ‘conditions’? Because you just violated the first one.”
    “Go on.”
    “Number two: twice a day you check in with me.”
    “For what purpose?”
    “So we can exchange information. I’ll tell you what I learn from the news, you tell me what you learn from camping out in front of the store.”
    “No. I’m not involving you in this.”
    “Lieutenant, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m sitting in your car discussing your suspect pool. I already am involved.”
    “Don’t you have a TV at Thelma Johnson’s house? Shit, Night, why are we still calling it that?”
    “Because of respect.”
    He was silent for a few beats while he appeared to consider that. “So, is there a schedule to these check-ins?”
    “We can figure that out when we talk. Right now, it’s about an hour past my bedtime and at this rate I’m not going to make it to the pool tomorrow.”
    “You really get something from swimming every morning, don’t you?”
    “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” I opened the door and slid out of the seat. “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”
    “See ya, Night.”
    As I drove to Thelma Johnson’s house, my mind raced with what Tex had told me about Dan Tyler. I understood the anger Tex said Dan had demonstrated at the funeral of his brother. Anybody would be angry. But now that Cleo was missing, was Dan going to turn to the police for help in finding her, or did his distrust of the police department run so deep that he would try to find her on his own?
    I called Sgt. Osmond. “Sergeant, has there been any word on Cleo Tyler?”
    “Not yet. Still can’t reach the husband, either.”
    “Cleo told me he went out of town for a few days. I don’t know when he’s due back. Are you any closer to finding the other missing women?”
    “Ma’am, we’re doing what we can. Nobody wants to find those women more than we do, but these phones are ringing off the hook and every phone call that doesn’t give us information takes us away from looking for them.”
    I thanked him for his time and hung up.
    Tensions were running high—at the police station, at the local businesses, and among the community. The apartment building, Thelma Johnson’s house, and Mad for Mod—none of them felt safe. I packed a turquoise and white vintage Samsonite suitcase like I was packing for a weekend getaway, put Rocky on his leash, and rooted around in the junk drawer in the kitchen until I found two house keys on a small silver ring. The keys belonged to Hudson.
    He’d given me the keys before he left town. In case of emergency, he had said. At the time, I’d just inherited the house from Thelma Johnson’s son. I didn’t know how to tell Hudson that the house where I’d been living had previously been owned by the family of the woman he’d been suspected of killing, so I took the keys he offered and tucked them away in a drawer, where they’d stayed until tonight.
    The personal drama that had followed Hudson for twenty years had reached a resolution thanks in large part to me. I suspected that he, now freed from his past, was interested in more than a working relationship with me, but my own walls were still up, not ready to let anyone else in. Had I asked him to stay in Lakewood, he might have, but that wouldn’t have been fair.
    As hard as it had been to watch him pack up his truck and leave, it would have been selfish to ask him to stay on my account. Offering me his keys told me he still wanted me in his life; taking them showed I wanted to be there. No matter what, I was happy for that connection.
    There had been days when I drove past his house with the keys in my pocket. Days when I had slowed down, and even one when I pulled into his driveway. But there was a difference between spending time in his house while he was away and spending time with him. Every time I’d been there, I’d turned around and driven home. Except for the one time I let Rocky relieve himself on the post of