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This case is slightly different in that there is no bounty to collect. There is no criminal at large. I don’t have a name or a face or a prison record at my disposal. All I’ve got is a big question mark and a favor to return. However, after Paul gave me the rundown on Oscar Stanley and how his peeping Tom ways got the snot beat out of him prior to the murder, I’m inclined to agree with the local PD on this one. The father of that girl came back to finish the job. It should take me one or two days to prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt and get back on the highway, my slate wiped clean of any favors or responsibilities to anyone.
On my way here—to Coriander Lane—I stopped at Lisa Stanley’s house and picked up the set of keys I’m holding. Technically, this is a crime scene and there is yellow caution tape across the entrance, but obeying rules isn’t really my strong suit. Never has been. That’s why I was a shit detective and an even worse husband. Might have been faithful, but loyalty only goes so far when a man leaves out the cherishing part of his vows.
Laughter kicks up down at the beach, voices intermingled with the sounds of Tom Petty. A bumble bee kite dips and whirls in the sky. The smell of hot dogs and burgers carries in thick on the breeze. This is where people come on vacation with their families. To be happy.
I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.
I toss up the keys and catch them in my hand, continuing across the street to the house where the murder supposedly occurred. I haven’t seen crime scene photos, but I have the victim’s description and it’s unlikely that a man of Oscar’s stature would have been transported by the perpetrator post-mortem. Furthermore, why would the murderer make it easier for the body to be found? No, this was a crime of passion. Anger. Cut and dried.
Get this over with.
I’m halfway across the street when I sense eyes on my back.
Slowly, I peer back over my shoulder and find a young woman, brownish-blonde hair, maybe in her mid-twenties, watering a flowerpot on the front porch of a house. She’s completely missing the pot, though. Water is pouring from the spout straight down onto the floorboards, splashing up onto her bare calves. And she doesn’t seem to notice at all.
“Can I help you?” I bark in a hard tone.
She drops the can with a loud clatter, spins on a toe and runs head on into the front door, bouncing right off the damn thing. Even from a hundred yards away, I can see the canaries spinning around her head. That’s what you get for being nosy.
I dig another antacid out of my jeans pocket, pop it and continue on my oh-so-merry way across the street, ripping the caution tape off the front door and letting it flutter to the ground. I’m halfway over the threshold when I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Nimble, girly ones. In the reflection of the storm door, the nosy neighbor approaches. And boom, I’m already annoyed. “Listen, you want to call the cops?” Scowling, I turn around partially to face her. “Be my…”
It’s extremely weird, the way I just sort of forget what I’m saying.
This has never happened to me before. Every word out of my mouth has a purpose and whoever I’m talking to better damn well listen. I just…don’t really know why I was planning on being so mean to her is all. Didn’t she just run into a door? That had to hurt. Plus there are water splatters all over her legs and she is…
Facts are facts. She’s cute as a button.
I don’t look twice at cute women. Anything cute, really. That would be like a tractor admiring a dandelion. Looking might seem like a fine idea, but tractors are built to mow down dandelions. It’s what they do. So there isn’t very much use in me noticing the way freckles just kind of…scatter all the way from her nose down her neck. To her tits. Which are tied up in a bikini top. A pink one. The color alone makes me feel guilty for looking, but hell, they’d fit right into my hands. A lot of her would. Those hips. Her knees. The sides of her beautiful face.
Christ. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. What the hell is the matter with me?
I clear my throat. Hard. “As I was saying, you want to call the cops, half pint? Be my guest. They know I’m here.”
“Half pint?” she gasps. Sputters. Pushes a big hunk of hair behind her ear so I’m impacted by the full force of her eyes. Green ones. Fuck. “I’ll have you know,” she continues, “that I’m the tallest one at my job.”
