Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

Jake, meanwhile, had leaned over the front seat, chin almost on Darla’s shoulder. “That was pretty bold of you, telling a Jersey boy he has to sit there and let a broad drive him around,” she said with a grin. “Now, show a little compassion and don’t rub it in.”

“I won’t,” she promised as Reese opened his door and slid in. He shot her a look. Or so she presumed, since she technically couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“You won’t what?” he said.

“I won’t break any traffic laws getting there. Now, how about some directions, before the Lone Protester flies the coop again?”

Reese gave her the name of their destination, which was literally “A Cuppa Joe”—she had thought he was indulging in cop-speak before—and pointed her in the direction of the expressway. Once they were well on their way, he settled back in his seat and gave an experimental sniff.

“Smells like Chanel No. 5.”

“Yep. That was Great-Aunt Dee’s favorite.”

Darla managed a fond smile even as she negotiated a tricky lane change and then ignored sign language from the driver she passed.

“I can remember her wearing it from the time I was a little girl,” she went on. “I think the scent permanently permeated the seat leather of this car after ten years of her driving it. The apartment used to smell the same way, but now it’s dissipated. I kind of miss it, though.”

“Yeah, my ma liked Chanel No. 5, too. She’d save up a whole year to buy herself one of those little bitty bottles, and she’d make it last until the next year. I always told her someday I’d buy her a whole vat of it, so she could bathe in it if she wanted, but I never got the chance.”

Darla glanced Reese’s way in time to see him shrug. From the way he let the subject trail off, she had to assume his mother was long dead. She didn’t know him well enough yet to broach a potentially awkward subject like that, so instead, she took the safe way out and asked, “Is this my turn coming up?”

“Next block,” he told her. “And while we’ve got a minute, how about a description of your girl? Jake’s already given me hers, but we’d better compare notes in case she changed her hair or put on glasses or something.”

As Darla relayed what she’d noticed, another thought occurred to her.

“Wait. I know someone else who has seen her up close and personal. Juanita Hillburn.” When he merely stared at her, expression quizzical, Darla added, “She’s one of the local television news people. You know, blond, obnoxious, in-your-face.”

“Reese doesn’t watch anything except ESPN and the History Channel,” Jake interjected with a grin.

Reese gave her a quelling look over his shoulder and then asked Darla, “This Hillburn woman . . . when would she have seen the girl?”

“The day of the autographing. She was interviewing me and mentioned she’d also talked to the Lone Protester. You must have noticed her news van on the street.”

“Yeah, well, I was kinda busy then, and that was before your author got herself killed,” he said with a shrug as he reached for his cell phone again. “I’ll have someone check that out with Hillburn. Maybe she’s got some tape we can pull. What station did you say she was on?”

Darla gave him the call letters while he dialed his precinct. Once he’d relayed that bit of information, he snapped the phone shut again with a satisfied nod. “If we need it, it’s ours. Now, turn here.”

They reached the coffee shop a few minutes later. A young couple and a college-aged boy sat at two of the three outdoor tables, meaning the Lone Protester—if she was still there—must be enjoying her brew inside the café. As to be expected, every parking spot on the block was taken, except for one Mercedes-sized opening in a restricted loading zone.

“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!