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I made a U-turn and did another pass down Stark. I slowed when I got to Barrel’s rooming house, idled in front of the house for a moment, and was about to drive away when I saw Barrel on the next block, walking toward us.
“Do you see him?” I asked Lula.
“Yeah, I see him. And he don’t see us. He’s texting on his cellphone, not paying attention.”
I cut the engine, and Lula and I got out and went to the sidewalk. I tucked cuffs into the waistband of my jeans for easy access, put my illegal stun gun into my back pocket, and got a grip on my pepper spray.
“What’s the plan?” Lula asked. “How about I distract him by offering him some ’ho services, and then you could sneak up behind him and give him a thousand volts. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good. Make sure you turn him around so he doesn’t see me.”
I slipped into the doorway of a building, Lula headed for Barrel, and Barrel stepped off the curb still texting. A shiny black Mercedes sped down the side street and hit Barrel straight on. Barrel got punted about ten feet, and the Mercedes ran over him. My stomach instantly got sick and my breath caught in my throat.
“Ow,” Lula said. “That gotta hurt.”
The Mercedes came to a stop, and two men got out. They were all blinged up in gold chains and flashy running suits, and the one had a lightning bolt cut into his hair.
Lula and I ran into the street and joined the men who were standing, staring down at Barrel. Barrel wasn’t moving, and he had tire tracks across his chest.
“That’s Melvin Barrel,” the driver said.
The other guy squatted down for a closer look. “Yep. It’s Barrel all right.”
“Is he okay?” Lula asked.
“Looks to me like he’s dead,” the guy said.
“The idiot walked right in front of my car,” the driver said. “Who does that?”
“He was texting,” Lula said.
“Well, he’s not texting no more,” the driver said. He pulled out a gun and shot Barrel five times. “That’s for hitting my car, asshole.”
Lula and I sucked in some air and stumbled back about ten feet. And the two guys got into the Mercedes and drove away.
I punched 911 into my cellphone with a shaky finger and reported the accident. I called Morelli and reported the accident. And then Lula and I stood guard over the body so it didn’t get scooped up by God-knows-who like the last time we were on Stark. On a personal level, I didn’t actually care what happened to Barrel. As a professional, if the body disappeared my payday went with it. And as a woman, I was slightly nauseous.
A patrol car was the first on the scene. It was followed by the EMT truck, Morelli, and two more cop cars.
Morelli parked and sauntered over to me. “Your FTA has tire tracks on his chest.”
I made a small grimace. “Two guys in a Mercedes drove over him.”
“Technically it wasn’t a hit-and-run, though,” Lula told Morelli. “They stopped, but they just didn’t stay. They only stayed long enough to shoot him.”
“He got run over by the Mercedes, and then he got shot?” Morelli asked.
“That’s right,” Lula said. “But it was recreational shooting. Barrel was already dead from being run over.”
One of the uniforms was cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape. The two EMTs were shuffling around, waiting for the medical examiner to show up and take over. A small crowd was gathering, gawking at Barrel.
Morelli turned his attention to me. “You do understand that your life isn’t normal, right?”
“Barrel was texting and he stepped off a curb without looking,” I said.
“But you were here,” Morelli said. “How does it happen that you’re always right in the precise spot where disaster strikes? Your car’s been blown up how many times? And it’s never your fault. Remember when you fell off the fire escape into dog diarrhea? And the time you dated a seri
al killer?”
