Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

THIRTEEN

SCRUNCHING DOWN AGAIN, DARLA GRABBED HER CELL AND quickly dialed Jake’s phone, only to hear the “Yellow Rose of Texas” — the tune Jake had downloaded as the default ring for Darla’s number—playing behind her. Jake’s phone must have fallen out of her pocket and onto the seat when she squeezed out of the back door.

Darla shut her phone in frustration. She didn’t know Reese’s number, and since she already knew that Jake’s phone couldn’t be unlocked without the correct password, she couldn’t search her friend’s contacts for that information. That meant she’d have to wait until the protester was safely past and then run inside the coffee shop to find them. The problem with that plan was that, in the meantime, the Lone Protester might grab another cab or disappear into another shop. It seemed that her only choice would be to follow the girl once again . . . but this time, in such a way that the teen didn’t know she was being tailed.

Darla frowned. Though her Wayfarers would serve as something of a disguise, it would be hard to hide her red hair unless Great-Aunt Dee had tucked a convenient scarf a la Audrey Hepburn into the glove box. She made a quick, hopeful rummage through the compartment but came up empty. No matter. The Lone Protester couldn’t be expecting to be followed a second time today, anyhow, right?

By this time, the girl had passed the car and was continuing at a casual pace down the sidewalk. Darla swiftly made her decision. She’d follow the girl and go on the assumption that her quarry wasn’t packing a weapon or fists of fury, or anything else that might require Darla needing immediate backup should she be spotted and recognized. Not the ideal plan, she conceded, but no way she was leaving Maybelle alone and unlocked. This meant that if Jake showed up at the Mercedes before Darla returned, the most she could do was stare through the car window at her cell phone, which was still lying on the back seat. She could only hope that Jake had her cell number memorized so she could use Reese’s phone to call her and find out what was going on.

She had just grabbed her purse and was about to reach over and pull the keys from the ignition when a sharp rapping against the driver’s side window glass made her jump. Choking back a surprised gasp, she glanced up to see a beefy uniformed police officer staring at her through the tinted glass, his expression one of extreme disapproval.

Bad cop.

That was Darla’s reflexive categorization of the broad-faced, mustachioed officer as she recalled Reese’s earlier take on this new kinder, gentler breed of law enforcement. As for Reese, he fell into the infamous never-one-around-when-you-need-one cop category. Here, he’d instructed her to park illegally, and now he wasn’t available to do the promised badge flashing to get her out of it. Frantic, she glanced from the coffee shop door to the Lone Protester’s retreating figure. Not only were they going to lose their sole suspect in Valerie Baylor’s possibly suspicious death, but she was about to get slapped with a substantial fine as well. She needed to talk her way out of this ticket, and quickly.

She took a deep breath and powered down the driver’s side window via the center console, and then leaned toward the uniformed man.

“Hello, Officer,” she said with a broad smile, deliberately thickening her East Texas twang into even more honeyed southern tones. She’d found that most middle-aged New York men responded positively to that accent. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah,” he replied, still disapproving and apparently immune to sweetness and light. He flipped open his citation book and started to scribble. “You can make sure whosever’s car this is gets this little love note. In case you didn’t notice, lady, you’re in a loading zone.”

“Are we? Oh dear, and here my friend, Detective Reese, said it was fine for us to park here while he checked out a suspect.”

“Suspect?”

The cop paused to squint at her, and Darla anxiously pointed to the Lone Protester, who now was peering into the window of a shop a few doors down.

“That girl with the long dark hair and black scarf, right near the red awning,” she said, giving up the southern-girl routine and cutting to the chase. “I was just about to go after her. She knows something about a murder. If we lose her now, we might never find her again.”

“Yeah? So where’s this detective friend of yours, and where’s his parking placard? And why isn’t he following this so-called murder suspect?”

“He would be, but he’s still checking out the coffee shop,” she exclaimed, not bothering to correct his assumption about who owned the Mercedes. Shaking her head in frustration, she grabbed the keys from the ignition. “Look, if you need to write a ticket, write it, but I really need to go now.”

“Lady, where you really need to go is out of this loading zone. You’ve got the keys, so do your friend a favor and move his car for him. I still see it parked here a minute from now, I’m booting it and calling a tow truck.”

Baring oversized teeth in what probably was supposed to be a smile, he ripped the citation from the book and tucked it under the windshield wiper. “Now, you have a nice day,” he told her and climbed back inside his patrol car.

Biting back a groan of frustration, Darla powered up the window again and yanked open the passenger door, almost falling out it in her haste. She climbed up on the door frame for a better look at her quarry. The Lone Protester had moved on down the block now and was approaching the busy intersection. The familiar orange hand flashed on the pedestrian crosswalk sign, meaning Darla still had several seconds to catch up before the light changed again. Otherwise, the girl likely would escape her a second time. She hopped down again and slammed the door, only to hear Reese’s voice behind her.

“I told you to wait in the car. Your protester sees you hanging around here, and she’ll take off again.”

Darla whipped about to find him and Jake surveying her with the same disapproving look Officer Bad Cop had just used on her. The needle on her own disapproval meter promptly swung way over into the totally p.o.’d zone.

“Where in the hell were you two, roasting your own coffee beans?” she demanded. “The Lone Protester wasn’t in the coffee shop, she was next door in the consignment store. And now she’s standing on the corner about to vanish again as soon as the light changes.”

Though, in fact, the light had already switched over from orange hand to walking man. As Darla pointed in the girl’s direction, the latter stepped off the curb and headed down the crosswalk with another dozen or so pedestrians.

Reese said nothing but dashed off in that direction. Jake was on his heels, though not before she ordered, “Wait here, Darla. We’ll be back in a minute.”

“I can’t wait,” Darla called after her, waving the ticket like a flag. “I just got fined for parking in a loading zone. The cop is going to call a tow truck on me.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Jake’s voice drifted back to her.

Despite her limp, the older woman was swiftly closing the gap between her and Reese. He, in turn, had already reached the corner. Unfortunately, from what Darla could see through the passing traffic, the Lone Protester had already made her way safely across the street and was headed down the next block, oblivious to any chase going on behind her.

By now, Jake had joined Reese there on the corner. Darla watched the distant pantomime as the pair seemed to confer for a moment, Reese gesturing in the girl’s direction. Then, shaking off the restraining hand that Jake had put on his arm, he plunged into the stream of cross traffic.