Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Hey, I think something just happened,” the camera girl’s puzzled voice overrode the background noise just before the video went black.

The three of them stared in mutual silence for a few moments at the screen, which now displayed an invitation either to share or replay the clip. Jake was the first to speak up.

“Interesting, but not exactly helpful. All this does is corroborate some of your witness statements. I think you need to find that girl.”

Reese’s phone rang just then. He answered, interspersing a few “uh-huh’s” with the scribbled notes he was making while Darla and Jake replayed the final few moments of the video. Next event like this, Darla grimly told herself, she’d have a camera on the crowd the whole time, just in case.

Reese had already hung up by the time the screen went black again. Eagerly, the pair turned to him.

“Got it,” he confirmed. “My buddy was able to get hold of the driver who picked up your girl. He said he just dropped off a fare matching her description at a coffee joint in the Village. If we’re lucky, maybe she’s planning to camp there the rest of the afternoon like all the kids do. Jake, you feel like reliving the good old days and heading out for a cuppa joe? Strictly off the clock . . . you know how the department is about OT these days.”

“Fine by me, since I’m off the clock permanently,” the woman replied with a grin. She rose from her spot on the couch. “I’ll be bad cop, okay?”

“Not so fast, Dirty Harriet. Guess you retired right about the time they hit us with all that sensitivity training. These days, it’s ‘good cop, mildly disapproving cop.’ Don’t want to hurt the perp’s feelings, you know.”

“Fine. I’ll stand behind you and look annoyed. Now let’s get moving.”

“Hey, what about me?” Darla wanted to know. Jake and Reese exchanged glances. Then, before either of them could protest, she added in a casually offhanded tone, “I have a car. A Mercedes.”

From the reaction she got from Reese, her words might as well have been punctuated by a sudden beam of sunlight accompanied by a harp glissando.

“A Mercedes?” he echoed with the sort of reverent awe usually reserved for weeping statues of saints and angelic visitations.

“Great-Aunt Dee left the car to me along with the apartment. Jake’s ridden with me before. It’s parked in a garage a few blocks away.”

That particular bequest had been, to her mind, a godsend. If there was one thing she’d yet to grow used to living in New York, it was being so dependent on public transportation. Not that she didn’t understand the whole New York car-free thing from a practical point of view. The simple act of trying to snag a parking space on the crowded city streets could take up to an hour on a good day. Moreover, once said spot was snagged, it usually ended up being a couple of blocks’ hike from one’s final destination. And this didn’t even take into consideration the veritable game of musical chairs that was alternate-side street parking, which might or might not be enforced on a particular day, depending on the vagaries of weather, politics, and official holidays.

But coming from the wide open spaces of Texas, one was almost a nonentity without a gas-powered vehicle at one’s beck and call. A car was not so much a privilege as a birthright. Darla couldn’t envision life without her own personal wheels. Especially since the car was hers, free and clear, and the exorbitant garage fees were already paid for the next year.

Reese had apparently already calculated the advantages of having a car at his disposal—particularly one that was likely eight or ten steps above what he normally drove when on duty—for he nodded as he grabbed his jacket. “Sure, Red. You can come, but you’re only there to ID the girl if Jake doesn’t spot her first. No chasing suspects on foot. Or running them over.”

Darla was already digging into her purse for her keys, when she halted and gave Reese a stony look. Jake, who knew the cause of her sudden ire, grinned broadly.

“Hey, Reese,” she said, “you’d better retract that, or you’re gonna be walking the whole way to the Village.”

“Retract what?” he demanded, looking from her to Darla in bemusement.

Before Darla could explain, Jake cheerfully went on, “You just broke the first commandment of Darla: thou shalt not ever call her ‘Red.’ That is, not if you value your man parts.”

Reese’s bemused look turned faintly disbelieving, but he took a prudent step back anyhow as he asked, “Okay, and why not?”

“Because my ex-husband used to call me that,” Darla spoke up in a tight voice.

Reese shrugged and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Good enough reason for me. Sure, Darla , you can come.”

“Fine.”

She jangled the keys, feeling a bit embarrassed at her abrupt reaction to the nickname, which she knew had been meant in a comradely way. Face it , she told herself, with hair this color, there’s always someone who’s going to call you that. Time to toughen up.

Summoning a conciliatory smile to smooth things over, she added, “So, what are we waiting for?”

They walked quickly over to the garage, where Darla took the service elevator to the level where her late aunt’s sleek, midnight blue sedan sat patiently parked. She unlocked it and slipped behind the wheel, not bothering to suppress the reflexive “ahh” as she sunk into the cushy leather seat in contrasting gray. A hint of Dee’s favorite perfume still lingered, despite the fact it had been half a year since the last time the old woman had driven it.

Darla had never owned a car this nice. Her ex had somehow always ended up with the more expensive vehicle in the family. His excuse had been that his job often entailed whisking customers about town, and he couldn’t very well pick them up in a cloth-seated compact. Whenever it came time for her to purchase a new car, however, he invariably laid the whole environmentally conscious guilt trip on her and insisted that, since her commute was longer, she should opt for a cheaper, more fuel-efficient model. And so she’d spent most of her adult life driving cars that sipped fuel but did little to nourish her inner diva. By contrast, her inherited Mercedes barely got double-digit mileage in town, but compensated for that lack with its air of pure luxury that made her feel to the manner born.

Darla had last driven the car about two weeks earlier, and so she held her breath as she waited for the engine to turn over. To her relief, it caught with a purr that would have put Hamlet to shame. She slid open the moonroof and then put on the eighties-era pair of black-framed Wayfarers that she had found tucked behind the visor the first time she drove the car.

She wasn’t sure if said sunglasses had belonged to Great-Aunt Dee or the last of her late husbands. Still, in Darla’s opinion the retro eyewear added a nice, adventurous vibe to her usual sedate fashion choices. She didn’t have time this day, however, to admire the effect in the rearview mirror. Instead, she hastily put the Mercedes into gear, and a few moments later she was downstairs again at the entry where Reese and Jake awaited her. Both had donned sunglasses as well, though theirs were the mirrored, police-issue variety.

She powered down the driver’s side window and frowned in Reese’s direction.

“No way,” she told him when he appeared headed toward her door. “The computer’s one thing, but no one drives Maybelle except me. You can ride shotgun.”

She thought for a moment he’d argue the point. To his credit, however, he only said, “Nice shades,” and opened the rear passenger door for Jake. Then, politely closing it after her, he walked around to the front passenger side.