“The hell I don’t.” The whites of her eyes are so exposed she looks rabid. “You’re going to jail for a long, long time, Lauren Beck...”
Many of the onlookers are friends of my family. Others know the Beck name from dad’s farm or his real estate dealings, or they remember my brother from the sports page back when he made All-American in lacrosse. Maybe I arrested somebody’s husband or son for something or other, or ticketed them for speeding when I was back on the job.
Nobody here will forget me now. Never mind that I’m innocent; I’ve just become the OJ Simpson of Landis, Pennsylvania.
Pointing toward the door, Nina’s vicious “GET OUT!” lands on me like spit.
Norman steps forward, but I halt him with my arm. “She’s just upset,” I tell the old bulldog. “I’ll be okay.”
But I won’t. My dad’s friend knows it, and I know it; but he backs off anyhow. What other choice does he have?
The annex door clunks shut behind me. Nina’s shocker has temporarily put my grief at bay, but I can’t remember where I left my Miata. Doesn’t matter though; there’s an unmarked car at the curb.
Wearing softened designer jeans, a tweed sport coat, and no particular expression, Scarp Poletta summons me with a lift of his chin. As I plod down the cement steps, he opens the passenger door more like a gentleman than a homicide cop.
When we’re eye to eye, I finally ask. “Is this our first date, or are you here to arrest me?”
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For Better or Worse Page 19
