I followed him to his car. “This sweet ride is a Dodge Charger.” We stood at the front grill, and he caressed the gleaming, black hood. “She’s got a 5.7 liter hemi—”
I nodded, acting like I cared.
“—V8 and 370 horsepower.” Crowley moved toward the back of the car, running his fingers along its side. “She’ll do zero to sixty in 5.4 seconds.” He popped the trunk. “We got your first aid kit, your portable defibrillator, your fire extinguisher, your shotgun, your tools.” He lifted out a Kevlar vest and handed it to me. “Put this on.”
I slipped it on, made a few admiring noises, and then began to shuck the ponderous thing.
“Nope. You need to wear that during our shift. Department policy. That’s an old one.” He smacked his vest. “Now we wear load-bearing vests so we’re not carrying all our gear on our belts, which was killing my back.”
“What all do you carry?”
“A sidearm, two loaded magazines,” he said as he patted each item in his vest, “a radio, a body camera, couple of cuffs, flashlight, pepper spray, baton, a Taser, and what-have-you.”
“Don’t you get hot?”
“I prefer sweat to dead. Besides, if I get killed on duty and I don’t have my vest on, the little woman won’t get her full benefits.” He laughed, shaking his head. “LuAnn would whoop my ass for sure.”
Crowley slammed the trunk lid, then opened the front passenger door. “Plunk yourself down, and we’ll get rollin’.” He went around the car and settled into the driver’s seat with a grunt. “You look a tad jumpy, Katy. Don’t be. Nothin’ ever happens on this shift.”
The muscle car rumbled out of the lot onto Chestnut Street. “Now if you really wanted to see some action, ya shoulda rode on a Friday night. It’s a college town, so we get a lot of drunk-and-disorderlies. Sometimes a pot bust. If we’re lucky, maybe a burglary.”
We left downtown and cruised to a seedy neighborhood near the industrial area. Crowley told me that junk cars in the front yard were usually a good indication that there was a meth lab operating inside the house. There were a lot of rusty cars in the weedy yards.
Up ahead, a scraggly bearded man wearing gravity-defying pants held up with one hand, stood at the edge of a thirsty looking yard, waving at us to stop.
“Probably havin’ a tiff with the wife. Stay in the car, Katy. That’s an order. Domestic calls can get real ugly.”
“Officer. You gotta help me.” The scrawny man was hopping around like his feet were on fire. “That bitch’s crazy!”
Crowley approached slowly. “Calm down, sir, and tell me what the problem is.”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is!” screamed a chunky dishwater blond on the porch, aiming a shotgun in our direction. “That piece of slime molested my little baby, that’s what the problem is!”
The slimy guy hollered, “No way would I touch Jasmine. I love my little girl.”
“She ain’t your little girl, and you are one sick pervert. The world is gonna be a better place without you in it.” She stepped off the porch, advancing toward the quivering man.
“Ma’am, please put down your weapon.” Crowley used an amiable tone, sliding his hand toward his gun.
“No! I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch once and for all.” She pumped the shotgun and swung it in Crowley’s direction. “Please take your hand off your gun… and… and put ’em behind your head. I got no quarrel with you, but there is no way in hell I’m gonna let that piece of shit walk away from this.”
Crowley did as told, and she turned the gun back on the man, aiming at his crotch. “I caught you in the act, Leon, so don’t bother denying it.” She hiccupped a sob. “This is all my fault. I should’ve listened to my mama and never married you. She said you was trash.”
“Please, Tanya. I’m begging you. Don’t kill me. It’s not my fault. I got a sickness. I need help so I can get cured.”
“That’s a joke, Leon. The only cured pedophile is a dead pedophile.” A mangy calico cat curled around her legs, and she gently nudged her away with her foot while keeping the shotgun dead aimed on Leon. “I want you to take the officer’s gun and bring it to me.”
Leon sidled up to the sergeant, and with the hand not holding his pants; he slid the gun from Crowley’s holster.
“Hold it by the barrel,” Tanya ordered, “and remember—the closer you get, the bigger the hole in your chest will be.”
I rolled up the car window and slumped low in my seat, keeping an eye on Crowley. He wore a police radio on his shoulder but didn’t dare move to activate it. His eyes locked with mine. He seemed to be telling me something. He tilted his chin, looked at his radio, and then back at me. Call the police!
I scrunched down so no one could see me, dug in my purse for my cell, and pressed the Home button, and whispered to Siri, “Call 9-1-1.”
“I’m sorry. I did not understand that.”
“Call 9-1-1.”
“Calling 9-1-1.”
A moment later a woman answered. “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
I peeped out the window. Leon was inching his way toward the squad car, aiming Crowley’s gun at Tanya.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Tanya!” Leon shouted. “Just let me go, and I won’t shoot you.”
No! Go the other way! I silently screamed. Oh shit! Can a shotgun blast go right through the door and kill me?
Tanya laughed. “No way you’ll hit me, you low-life meth-head.”
“What is your emergency?” The dispatcher spoke in a placid tone that made me want to strangle her.
I whispered, “I’m in a police car and a crazy woman has a shotgun.”
“What is your location, ma’am?”
“I’m in Santa Lucia.”
“Where in Santa Lucia?”
“God, I don’t know. Can’t you trace this call or something? It’s a crummy area near the freeway.”
“Ma’am, try to stay calm. Can you see a street sign?”
I raised my head just enough to look out the window, hoping my head wouldn’t be blown off. Tanya had raised the shotgun, aiming at the car.
“Oh shit! She’s gonna shoot!” Ducking my head between my knees, I heard Leon fire off a shot at Tanya from behind the car. Then the shotgun exploded, and the car shivered as a billion bullets slammed into it. Something thumped hard on the hood, but I kept my head down.
Crowley ordered the woman to drop the weapon and lie down, but she kept screaming she was going to finish off the good-for-nuthin’ dirtbag.
I stayed down, praying to anyone out there who might be listening. “Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let me die.”
The dispatcher said, “Please remain calm and tell me where you are.”
“Stop telling me to stay calm!”
The driver’s door opened and Leon dropped into the seat, still clutching Crowley’s gun. His entire body seemed to be oozing blood.
“Get out!” we screamed at each other.
The coppery smell of blood mixed with Leon’s reeking BO made my stomach lurch as I fumbled to unfasten my seat belt. I heard the chung-chung of the shotgun racking and glanced out my window. Tanya was advancing, presumably to finish Leon off as promised, which did not bode well for me.
I rolled down my window. “Please, Tanya! Don’t shoot me!”
“Then, girl, you best get outta the car pronto.”
I wailed pathetically, “I’m trying, but I can’t get the seat belt off.”
Leon had the motor running. “Shit, I can’t see a fucking thing outta the window!”
The thump I’d heard on the hood had been Leon, and the windshield was spray-painted red with his blood. He flipped on the windshield wipers, smearing the gore back and forth with an eerie screech.
Leon tried to shift the car into drive, but his bloody hand slipped on the gear, and when he stomped on the gas, we shot backward, plowing into the truck parked behind us. My seat belt pinned me back hard, but Leon’s skinny body pitched forward, slammin
g his face into the windshield.
“Oh shit, that really hurtssss…” His body shuddered and collapsed, draped over the steering wheel, blood gushing from his wrecked face.
“Momma?” called a little girl from the porch.
“Go back inside, Jasmine. Mama’s busy cleaning house. This nasty piece of trash ain’t gonna hurt you no more, baby.”
The child, maybe five or six, dressed only in a stained yellow T-shirt, underpants, and sandals, ran down the steps to her gun-toting mama and flung her skinny arms around the woman’s ample thighs. Crowley eased the gun out of the sobbing mother’s hands, and she sank to her knees, clutching her daughter as sirens wailed in the distance.
The sergeant emptied the shotgun, then came round to Leon and opened the door. “You’re one lucky hombre it was just birdshot, or we’d be scraping you off the sidewalk.”
Leon didn’t budge. Crowley felt for a pulse and then glanced at me. “Well, if that don’t beat all. Dumb son of a bitch is dead. He say anything to you?”
I will never, ever forget his last words. “He said, ‘Oh shit, that really hurts.’”
I tried to unlatch my seat belt, but my brain had disconnected from my quivering body, and my fingers couldn’t comprehend my extreme need to vacate the car of horrors. Crowley came around, reached in, and released me. “You look a little wobbly. Take my arm.”
He practically had to lift me out and carry me to the porch steps. A little while later, an EMT checked my blood pressure and gave me water, which I dribbled all over my blood-spattered blouse.
Leon remained in the car for the next few hours as the crime scene investigators collected evidence. A motley crowd gathered on the street, and the local news crews descended.
Eventually child protective services pried little Jasmine from her mother’s arms, and Tanya was cuffed and hauled away, crying for her baby. It broke my heart. If I had a kid and someone hurt her, I would want to kill them, too. No doubt about it.
When I was finally allowed to leave the crime scene, an officer returned me to my car at the police station. Once I was behind the wheel, I must have shifted into autopilot, because the next thing I knew I was parked in my driveway.
All I wanted to do was get inside, bolt the door, set the alarm, and take a long, hot shower. Daisy, my yellow Lab, greeted me, and when she got a snoot full of blood, sweat, and tears, she slid into Mommy mode, trying to comfort me. Tabitha, my gray tabby cat, had preferred to keep a safe distance, staring at me bug-eyed in that freaky way that cats do when they are about to lose it.
I sloshed a hefty helping of Pinot Grigio into a plastic tumbler, leaving a puddle on the counter. After a few shaky gulps, I stripped to my skivvies and tossed everything into the garbage can, then headed for the shower where I let the hot water sterilize my body.
Feeling a little more human, I climbed into my favorite cookie-print flannels, grabbed the comforter from my bed, refilled my cup, and then curled up on the couch with my two furballs.
I always keep old movies recorded for when I need comforting. Now, Voyager with Bette Davis was exactly what I needed. A plain-Jane spinster who blossoms and finds impossible romance. The next thing I knew, sun was shining in my eyes through the french doors.
Chapter Three
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
WEDNESDAY • JUNE 12
Posted by Katy McKenna
“You could have been killed,” said Mom. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about a career in law enforcement, and ride-alongs aren’t usually dangerous or they wouldn’t do them. Ouch! Don’t pull my hair so hard.”
“Sorry.” Mom owns the Cut ’n’ Caboodles hair salon near the downtown area of Santa Lucia, and I was in for a trim. Probably not a good idea considering how upset she was with me.
She sliced through another section of my auburn, shoulder-length hair and snipped the ends. “I’m still so upset. You cannot begin to understand what it was like to hear on the eleven o’clock news that my daughter had been in the middle of a gun battle. And then I tried to call you and it went directly to voice mail. Why didn’t you call us?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I wasn’t thinking straight. But I did call you first thing yesterday morning.”
“Only because I left about a thousand messages on your phone.”
“If it’s any consolation, I never even saw the messages before I called you because I’d turned my phone off. So I had no idea that you already knew or were worried.”
Mom brushed away a tear. “Someday when you have kids of your own you’ll understand.” She lifted a big hunk of my hair, scissors poised in the air.
“Hold on there! What’re you doing?” I said.
“Taking some of the bulk out so it’ll lay better.” She slashed through the hair like a kamikaze pilot on a mission. “How’s your elbow feeling?”
I flexed my healing left arm. “Better. I almost have full extension. It’s time to post an ad on Craigslist and quit dipping into my nest egg. And please don’t trim my bangs. I’m growing them out.”
“I worry about you doing that.”
“Growing out my bangs?”
“No. The Craigslist thing. No telling what kind of weirdo will answer it. And I think you look cute with bangs.”
“You could say the same thing about the weirdo posting the ad, you know. And bangs bug me.”
The woman sitting in the next chair said, “I might have an idea for you. I get lots of interesting work through a temp agency here in town.”
“What kind of work?”
“It varies. I’ve demonstrated products at Costco, taken surveys, filed, ran errands for housebound people, receptionist…” She scrunched her lips, thinking. “Product tester. I loved that one. I taste-tested ice cream for a local dairy. Can you believe it?”
Whoa! Hold the phone. That sounded right up my alley. “You actually got paid to eat ice cream? Where do I sign up?”
“I have a business card in my bag.”
While she rummaged through her purse, I asked, “How long does the average job last?”
“Oh, anywhere from a half a day to a few months. By the way—I like your bangs. I think you should keep them. Now where did I stick that darn card? Usually, I put cards in the side compartment so I don’t lose them. Oh wait—here it is.” She produced a tattered card.
Nothing Lasts Forever Temps
The temp agency is located downtown on Olivera Street about three blocks from the hair salon, so rather than hunt for the ever-elusive parking spot, I left my car in the lot behind Mom’s shop and hoofed it. The temperature was pushing eighty-five and I appreciated the cooling canopy of the old ficus and camphor trees that shade Santa Lucia’s downtown streets.
One hundred and four Olivera Street is an old, three-story building with boutiques on the street level and offices upstairs. I found a directory posted by a staircase. Suite 304.
The office door was half-open and the receptionist’s desk was vacant, so I called, “Yoo-hoo, anyone here?”
“Yeah! Be right with you,” answered a gruff male voice from another room. “Have a seat.”
I perched on a couch that was older than me and counted cobwebs. A few minutes passed before a tall, baggy-suited, balding man came out and stuffed a McDonald’s bag in the wastebasket.
“Sorry. Lunch. Don’t tell my wife. She worries about my cholesterol.” He stifled a burp. “You here about the job?”
“A woman told me about your agency and gave me your card.”
He nodded, opened a drawer in the desk, and handed me a form attached to a clipboard. “Fill this out and we’ll talk.” He went back to his office.
It was a standard application. Name, birthdate, address, phone, social security number, education… Position desired: ice cream taster. And finally: May we contact your former employer?
I worked for a few years as a graphic artist at an ad agency, then freelanced, then ran The Bookstore Bistro with my ex (which he got in the divorce se
ttlement), and since then, one freelance graphics job for an upholstery shop.
References: Police Chief Angela Yaeger. That should impress him.
I finished and called, “All done.” No response. I waited a moment and called again. Nothing. Another minute passed, and then I peeked into his office. He was slumped in his chair, slack-jawed.
I cleared my throat. Still nothing. “Excuse me?” Still no response. I returned to the front office door, opened it and slammed it, then sat down.
He trundled out, scrubbing his face with his hands, glanced at the door, then me.
“Just me.” I waved the application. “Here you go. All filled out.”
“Okey-dokey. Let’s have a look-see.” He motioned me into his office, and I sat opposite him at his cluttered desk and waited while he scanned the application. “Everything looks good. When can you start?”
“Right away.”
“Good enough. Follow me.”
He led me out to the front office. I assumed he would give me the address where I would be tasting ice cream. Instead he opened the door and pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s at the end. There’s also a kitchen we share with the other offices with a fridge and a coffeemaker. I like mine black.”
I like mine with two or three sugars and half-and-half but to each his own. Back in the office, he opened a small storage closet. “Office supplies are in here. We open at nine and close at five. Be here by 8:45. Half an hour for lunch. Any questions, Miss…” He glanced at my application. “McKenna?”
“Yes, Mister…”
“Musser. Paul Musser.”
“Well, Mr. Musser—”
“We’re not formal here. Call me Paul.”
“Paul, I think there’s been a little miscommunication here. As you can see on my application, I’m here for the ice cream tasting job.” Yes—I realize now how ridiculous that sounds.
He gave me an are-you-crazy look. “What’re you talking about? There’s no ice cream tasting job.”
“Then how about product demos at Costco?” I think my blog followers would agree that the snacks at Costco are the number one reason to shop there.
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 28
