Double Booked For Death
- Автор: Брэндон Али
- Серия: A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery #1
- Год: 2011
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penguin
- ISBN: 0425244970
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Double Booked For Death». Краткое содержание книги:
“Park there,” Reese instructed, pointing to said illegal space. When she gave him a questioning look, he added, “Don’t worry, we’re on police business. Anyone tries to tow you, I’ll show ’em my badge.”
“Works for me,” Darla replied, secretly hoping a tow driver would try to drag Maybelle off, just so she could watch that badge-fl ashing action in person. After all, it always looked pretty cool and official on the television cop shows.
She slid into the spot with a brisk efficiency that earned her a nod of approval from the detective. His next words, however, took some of the glow off that unspoken praise.
“You wait here in the car while Jake and I go inside to see if anyone matches your girl’s description. If we find someone, we’ll have you ID her through the window. But in the meantime, keep your head down. You’ve already scared her off once. We don’t want you spooking her a second time. Got it?”
“Got it,” Darla agreed, tone resigned as she switched off the key. “You two play good cop and bad cop, and I’ll just hang out here and play sit-on-my-ass cop.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Jake assured her as she unfolded herself from the backseat, “sitting on your ass is one of the first things they teach you at the academy. It’s a vital skill, but hardly anyone ever fails that course. I’m sure you can handle it.”
The pair of them exited the car. Jake hastily lit a cigarette, took a couple of quick puffs, then tamped it out and tucked her arm through Reese’s. This presumably was so they’d look more like a couple stopping in for lattes than a cop and his retired partner out prowling about for suspects. In Darla’s opinion, however, the effort ranked as an epic fail, as her teen customers have would put it.
“Talk about scaring off suspects,” she muttered as she watched the two enter the coffee shop. The pair might as well have had “Police” stenciled on their foreheads, trailing as they both did a whole kick-butt aura about them. The sunglasses didn’t help, either.
Still, Darla obediently scooched down in her seat, window cracked to admit ventilation without allowing more than the top of her head to be seen. She also slid over to the passenger side, not so much for a better view as to look like she was waiting for the driver to return. It was a trick she’d seen on one of those police procedural television shows years ago, and she figured it wouldn’t hurt to try. Then, peering intently from behind her Wayfarers, she studied the coffee shop.
From the outside, at least, A Cuppa Joe seemed like one of those trendy spots that tried hard not to be one. A trio of battered wrought-iron bistro tables with matching chairs served as outdoor dining, while the wooden sign hanging beside the door with a crude rendition of a steaming coffee cup looked as if the owner had painted it himself. The interior likely carried on that same “ just folks” casual air, no doubt with mismatched furniture and crockery. But Darla had an idea of what property in this area leased for . . . knew, too, that every vehicle parked nearby would have sported a hefty price tag on the dealer’s lot. Success on this block would require a loyal and substantial following.
Sure enough, more people began drifting toward its doors, so that now a line had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Darla frowned and glanced at her watch. Jake and Reese had been inside a good five minutes, ample time to have determined whether or not the Lone Protester was there. Either the girl had long since come and gone, or else her destination had been somewhere other than the coffee shop.
As if on cue, the door to the consignment shop next door opened, and the Lone Protester stepped out onto the sidewalk, shopping bag in hand.
“Oh no!” Darla sat up straight and shot a look at the coffee shop door. The line was no shorter, and Jake and Reese were still nowhere to be seen. And the Lone Protester was strolling right toward where the Mercedes was parked!
THIRTEEN
SCRUNCHING DOWN AGAIN, DARLA GRABBED HER CELL AND quickly dialed Jake’s phone, only to hear the “Yellow Rose of Texas”—the tune Jake had downloaded as the default ring for Darla’s number—playing behind her. Jake’s phone must have fallen out of her pocket and onto the seat when she squeezed out of the back door.
Darla shut her phone in frustration. She didn’t know Reese’s number, and since she already knew that Jake’s phone couldn’t be unlocked without the correct password, she couldn’t search her friend’s contacts for that information. That meant she’d have to wait until the protester was safely past and then run inside the coffee shop to find them. The problem with that plan was that, in the meantime, the Lone Protester might grab another cab or disappear into another shop. It seemed that her only choice would be to follow the girl once again . . . but this time, in such a way that the teen didn’t know she was being tailed.
Darla frowned. Though her Wayfarers would serve as something of a disguise, it would be hard to hide her red hair unless Great-Aunt Dee had tucked a convenient scarf a la Audrey Hepburn into the glove box. She made a quick, hopeful rummage through the compartment but came up empty. No matter. The Lone Protester couldn’t be expecting to be followed a second time today, anyhow, right?
By this time, the girl had passed the car and was continuing at a casual pace down the sidewalk. Darla swiftly made her decision. She’d follow the girl and go on the assumption that her quarry wasn’t packing a weapon or fists of fury, or anything else that might require Darla needing immediate backup should she be spotted and recognized. Not the ideal plan, she conceded, but no way she was leaving Maybelle alone and unlocked. This meant that if Jake showed up at the Mercedes before Darla returned, the most she could do was stare through the car window at her cell phone, which was still lying on the back seat. She could only hope that Jake had her cell number memorized so she could use Reese’s phone to call her and find out what was going on.
She had just grabbed her purse and was about to reach over and pull the keys from the ignition when a sharp rapping against the driver’s side window glass made her jump. Choking back a surprised gasp, she glanced up to see a beefy uniformed police officer staring at her through the tinted glass, his expression one of extreme disapproval.
Bad cop.
That was Darla’s reflexive categorization of the broad-faced, mustachioed officer as she recalled Reese’s earlier take on this new kinder, gentler breed of law enforcement. As for Reese, he fell into the infamous never-one-around-when-you-need-one cop category. Here, he’d instructed her to park illegally, and now he wasn’t available to do the promised badge flashing to get her out of it. Frantic, she glanced from the coffee shop door to the Lone Protester’s retreating figure. Not only were they going to lose their sole suspect in Valerie Baylor’s possibly suspicious death, but she was about to get slapped with a substantial fine as well. She needed to talk her way out of this ticket, and quickly.
She took a deep breath and powered down the driver’s side window via the center console, and then leaned toward the uniformed man.
“Hello, Officer,” she said with a broad smile, deliberately thickening her East Texas twang into even more honeyed southern tones. She’d found that most middle-aged New York men responded positively to that accent. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah,” he replied, still disapproving and apparently immune to sweetness and light. He flipped open his citation book and started to scribble. “You can make sure whosever’s car this is gets this little love note. In case you didn’t notice, lady, you’re in a loading zone.”