Death Stretch (3 page)

“My peeper does the job. You came here to insult me, is that right?”

I watched him inhale, like he held in a rant. Shame on me, but pissing off the man held a certain appeal.

He took a breath through his nose, his gaze lifted for divine inspiration, or perhaps patience. “Break-ins are common these days, so maybe you should use the dead bolt.”

“How do you know I don't?”

“The lock didn't tumble before you opened your door.”

“Oh.” It's hard to be sarcastic to a guy whose job is to “protect and serve.” Speaking of serve, those lips could offer… no, I wouldn’t go there.

“So, Detective Johnson, what
does
bring you by?”

“I have a few more questions. Mind if I come in?”

My brain stopped at the word
come
. Silly, but have I mentioned it's been awhile since I’ve dated?

He grabbed my arm. “Ms. Sheridan? Katie?”

The sizzle of his touch jolted me back to life. “Um, sure. Sorry, I haven't cleaned yet today.” Or last week, but who's keeping count? And why apologize?

I closed the woman's magazine I'd left open to an article on
Giving Good Head
and shoved it under a pile of papers, hoping Detective Johnson hadn't noticed my reading preference. His smirk suggested he probably had.

My attention shifted into hostess mode. I might be a slut wanna-be, but my Mama raised me right.

“Something to drink? I have iced tea, bottled water, Pepsi.” I stopped before adding “wine and beer.”

The smirk disappeared and his jaw tightened. “All I want are answers.”

His sudden mood change threw me. I struggled for composure. Cop A-hole had returned.

He consulted his notebook. “A witness reports you bent over and touched Anderson's body before you left the room. Care to tell me why your accounts differ?”

Oh, let me count the ways. “First, I told you—I didn't bend over or touch Morgan's body. I stopped to make sure he hadn't seen me then I scooted to the bathroom. Second, I don't know who told you something different, but I'd like to know why they lied. Third, if I had bent over, you would have seen the puddle, because I really had to pee.”

Crap. I hadn't meant to say that last part aloud.

Detective Johnson looked away, but not before I saw his grin. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you should stop drinking from that big bottle of water you carry. No wonder you need the bathroom so often.”

“Toxins. I flush them with water.”

“Leading to the Mrs. Crankshaw effect.”

We faced each other so I couldn’t miss his raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Don't tell me you're on some weird diet. Having as many curves as the Blue Ridge Parkway isn’t a bad thing.” He coughed and looked at his notes.

My stomach dropped deliciously
.
I could fall in love with this version of the man. I squashed that thought under my steel-toed work boot. “Who said I bent over and touched the body? Everyone had their eyes closed.”

“Apparently not everyone.”

“I guess someone could have seen me standing. When I looked around, everyone seemed lost in Nirvana. The place you're supposed to find with meditation, not the band.”

“So you looked around?
Why? Feeling guilty? Or making sure there were no witnesses?”

“I didn't do anything to Morgan. I didn't even know the man.” I stopped to control my temper but my raised voice proved my failure. “Who said I did more than stand there?”

He didn't answer my question. “If you were leaving the room, why didn't you take your things with you? Isn't that proper yoga etiquette?”

How did he know yoga etiquette? Finally I had a clue to my accuser's identity. The finger pointer had to be Flash. She'd made a big deal about my not removing my shoes instantly when I walked in the door. I knew I didn't like her. But why would she lie about my actions? And why had she been watching me? “I told you. It was my first lesson. I had to use the bathroom. I figured everyone would be up when I returned to the room.”

“So your story is you didn't know the victim, didn't bend over him and didn't kill him. Is that right?”

“Right.” My pulse slowed and my chest ached. “Was he really murdered?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, he really was murdered.”

“Why?”

“I'm working to answer that question. Meanwhile, don't—”

“Yeah, I know. Don't leave town.”

He grinned. “No, I was going to say don't forget to lock your door. Any nut job could get in here.”

“Including you?” Dang, there went my smart mouth again.

He shook his head. “I don't want another case on my overloaded desk because you're too naïve to take precautions.”

“So I'm off the suspect list?”

“I didn't say that. We're investigating everyone. I'll be back when I have more questions.” “Don't forget to lock your door.” He pointed his index finger at me. “And don't leave town.”

“Sheesh.”

He stomped out the door, leaving me with too many questions and a vague sense of unrest. If only we hadn't gotten interrupted at Mona's before she'd told us why Morgan had been headed to Corpseville.

Crap. I should have mentioned Mona to Detective Johnson. On second thought, good thing I hadn't. Her information could lead the cops right back to Ginger.

Chapter Three

Ginger answered on the first ring, her voice low and urgent. “I can't talk now. Rob just got home. I'll call you later.”

I stared at the receiver, the dial tone loud and clear. What the ...?

My stomach growled almost as loud as the dial tone, so I replaced the receiver and headed for the kitchen. Ginger never hung up on me. And where had her husband been on a Sunday morning? He wasn't a church-going man, and a small paunch indicated he'd taken a hiatus from running.

Morgan's death was making me crazy. Ginger and I considered Morgan an unlikely blackmailer. So the threat remained. Maybe Mona could shed light on the situation.

I hopped on my bike and headed for the Chocolate Fix. Yeah, I know. More exercise on the same weekend. I needed to stop before fitness turned into a habit, but I had no choice. My car sat in the shop and the bike remained my only transportation. Ginger offered to lend me a car but I didn't want the responsibility. The combined cost of the Howe vehicles could purchase three of my bungalows.

****

Dang. I stood in front of the Fix, lungs heaving and sweat once more pouring off my forehead. Too bad I forgot Mona closed on Sunday, but then it wasn't every weekend I became a murder suspect.

I should let things go. Yeah. Just go home.

Avoiding my sweaty reflection in the store window, I eased onto the bike seat and peddled toward home. I didn't need a mirror to know my black hair stuck to my head, and my brown eyes looked like they belonged on a velvet painting.

Having taken the same route hundreds of times, I pedaled by rote, barely noticing the houses of friends and neighbors I passed every day. Too bad I couldn't put my brain on automatic. My mind kept replaying the previous day's events. Detective Johnson stayed at the forefront of the memories.

Morgan's face floated to mind. Such a vital man. Dead.

Ginger, threatened by a blackmailer who might or might not have been Morgan.

Me, questioned by the police. Treated like a criminal. Told I couldn’t leave town.

Could my life get any worse?

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a dark SUV with tinted windows ten feet behind me. Strange. He had plenty of room to pass me on the back street. The engine noise revved up.

Time to get this moron on his way. I motioned for him to pass, but he hung back. The engine raced. I glanced over my shoulder. Sunlight glared off the SUV’s chrome grill. I winced. My eyes closed, but not before I saw the vehicle veer toward me. Crap, he wouldn’t miss me. I needed to move and fast.

I swerved to the side and ran up the Haywood's driveway, steering with one hand. I hit a rock. The bike dropped to the side and so did I. My hands took the brunt of the impact, scraping as I sandpapered the cement. I rolled to a sitting position.

The SUV raced off, now too far away to catch the plate. If I hadn't turned sharply onto the drive, I’d be hamburger.

My hands stung. I cradled them to my chest, breathing quickly and trying not to cry. I don't know how long I'd been blubbering when Mrs. Haywood ran from her house, a first-aid kit in one hand and cell phone in the other. My mind blanked as she fussed over me.

I had to stop asking rhetorical questions. Yes, life could get worse. Much worse. If the SUV driver hadn't just proved that fact, the arriving car did. Detectives Johnson and Pulaski arrived on the scene.

“So you're working Traffic Division now?” I bit my bottom lip but the gesture didn't retract my words.

Dirk raised his eyebrows and looked to his partner. Detective Pulaski shrugged and answered. “Just lucky. We were the closest unit.”

“We’d have stopped anyway. When a suspect or material witness is involved in any altercation, we get notified,” Dirk said.

Mrs. Haywood gasped and spurted half a tube of antiseptic cream on my hands. She trembled and leaned away from me. “I'm sorry dear. I wouldn't have called the police if I'd known.”

I looked her in the eyes. “Mrs. Haywood, Detective Johnson is teasing. You've known me for years. Do you really think I'm mixed up with criminals?”

She thought about my question a beat too long. “Well, dear, I knew you and Ginger formed a club. What was it called again?” She placed a finger against her lips and tilted her head. “Oh, yes, the Dynamic Duo, wasn't it?” She chuckled. “You two did get into a fair amount of scrapes as I recall.”

I closed my eyes against the harsh reality of former teachers and small town life.

Against admittedly low odds, a low male voice heightened my shame. “Dynamic Duo, huh? Which one of you was Batman and which one Robin?”

I didn't bother to correct his impression. Demonic Duo didn't have the same cache. His amusement vibrated the air but I ignored him. Well, tried to ignore him. The man had presence.

“You didn't need to stop. I fell off my bike. No big deal.”

Detective Johnson narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine back.

“The call was reported a hit and run.”

“Who called it a hit and run?”

Mrs. Haywood placed her hand on my arm. “I did, dear, remember?”

I kept my tone airy. “Oh, you know SUV drivers. Either they think they own the road or they can't see over the dash. There was no
hit
.
I had an accident.”

“Was it a dark SUV?”

“I guess so. They all look alike, but I think it had a Cadillac insignia. Why?”

He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. Warmth exploded and shot down my spine.

“Morgan Anderson drove an Escalade. His assistant reported the keys missing.”

“Why would... Huh?”

“I told you earlier. You need to be careful.” He released my shoulders but watched me.

“I can take care of myself.”

He snorted, somehow making his honk sound sexy. “Right.”

“Yeah, right, I can.”

He shook his head. “You're one hard-headed woman.” He motioned to Pulaski. “Let's get the bike loaded.”

“Hey, where do you think you're going with my bicycle?”

He pointed to the mangled frame and flat front tire. “You really think you can ride this?”

“No,” I muttered.

“Sorry, I didn't hear you.”

I raised my voice to just under a shout. “I said, no.”

“We'll give you a ride home.”

“I can walk. I've gotten scraped up before.”

“Hey, Matt, you ever see such a stubborn woman?”

“Yeah, my mother, my sisters, my ex.”

Dirk turned to me. “You're coming with us. No arguments.”

Throughout my ordeal, Mrs. Haywood had stayed by my side. Her whisper caught my attention. “You should go after him, dear. He's quite handsome and sparks fly between you. I think it’s Kismet.”

With that, she got to her feet, picked up her phone and first-aid supplies and scurried home. Sparks fly, my ass.

I sprung up after her. Okay, the truth is I barely concealed my groans as I rose. My knees had escaped Mrs. Haywood’s frenzied nursing, so they didn’t sport bandages or oily antiseptic. Didn’t make the scrapes hurt less. A sore right hip and a bruised keister added to the mix.

The two detectives loaded my battered bike into their trunk, me into their backseat and themselves into the front. We left the scene, my ego more bruised than my body. And my body was in rough shape.

My head spun. Could this day - no, I wouldn’t ask.

****

We pulled into my drive and Johnson jumped out and ran to my porch. I might've been charmed with his actions but being locked in the backseat ticked me off. Royally. This “he who shall be obeyed” crap rubbed me raw.

Johnson stomped back to the car. Uh, oh, trouble. His red face and hunched shoulders clued me in. I inched to the middle of the seat, ignoring the shiny brown stain next to me. Matt Pulaski lowered the window as his partner walked up. “What's wrong?”

Johnson waved his large hand at me. “Her.”