Janet Evanovich - The Rocky Road to Romance

It seemed to Daisy that this was the sort of news a radio station should know about, so she called WZZZ’s editor and told him about the incident, concluding, “I can hear the gunshots coming over the scanner.”

“Where are you?”

“Coming up to the EighteenthStreetBridge.”

“Take the bridge, babe. Go for it.”

“Go for it? What do you mean ‘go for it’?” Daisy asked.

“Go mobile. That’s what you’ve got the tape recorder for. You’ve got the tape recorder, haven’t you?”

“You mean you want me to go to report on this? Don’t you want to send someone else? Someone with more experience?”

“Hell, no. It’d take too long for anyone else to get there.”

Daisy looked overhead, saw the bridge directions flash by, and followed them. “Watch out, Lois Lane,” she said. “Here comes Daisy Adams!”

Fifteen minutes later she was driving down a strange street lined with litter and boarded-up buildings. The scanner was still tuned to D.C. police. The confrontation had quieted down. SWAT teams were at the site and had a lone gunman pinned down in a row house. The gunman held a little girl hostage. It was a standoff.

A large TV news truck blocked off part of the road, and Daisy felt a stab of disappointment. She didn’t have a “scoop.” Then she looked at the equipment in her car and realized she still could beat out the TV crew. She had the ability to broadcast sooner.

Suddenly the scanner came alive again with shouting. The gunman was coming out with the hostage. They were in the doorway of the house. They were on the steps.

Daisy turned the car down the cross street. She didn’t want to miss seeing the gunman. She took the corner and found at least half the road clogged with police cars. They’d kept a lane open for emergency vehicles, and Daisy told herself this was an emergency. She was relieved that she was driving a compact and could squeeze through the narrow corridor of empty roadway. A man darted from between two parked cars. Daisy slammed on the brakes the moment she saw him, but it was too late. She would never forget the look of astonishment on his face just before impact- just before he was deflected off her right front fender.

An instant later the area was swarming with police. Daisy’s car door was opened and she was helped out. The minicam appeared. Medics and police surrounded the man Daisy had hit.

Daisy tried to go to the man, but she was restrained by a cop.

“Is he all right?” she asked. “This is terrible!” She felt the tears gathering behind her eyes.

The man was on his feet, swearing at Daisy. “I’m gonna get you!” he said. “You’re a marked woman. Your life is gone, sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Daisy said. “I didn’t see you…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” the cop told Daisy. “You were going real slow, and there was no way you could have seen him. He ran right into the side of your car. Besides, you’re a hero. He let the little girl go and made a run for it, but we couldn’t get near him what with all these bystanders. We might have lost him if you hadn’t knocked him on his keister.”

“Oh no,” Daisy said. “Are you telling me that man was the gunman?”

The minicam zoomed in on Daisy.

“How does it feel to have captured Barry LeRoy, the Roach?” a woman asked.

“Well, I didn’t exactly capture him,” Daisy said. “I sort of inadvertently ran into him.”

The minicam swung around to record the Roach, handcuffed now, being led to the paddy wagon.

The woman continued the interview. “Are you a police officer?” she asked Daisy, noting the antennae sticking out of her car like porcupine quills.

“ No! Goodness. I’m the WZZZ traffic reporter. I was hoping for an interview. I suppose it’s too late for that,” Daisy said, watching the doors clang closed on the police van.

Steve Crow was on his way to the pound to get a dog when he heard the bulletin come over the radio. The Dog Lady of Snore had just run down the Roach, a major dope dealer. Steve made a U-turn and put in a call to the station.

“Who the devil sent her out on an interview?” Steve yelled into his phone.

“I did,” the editor said. “I thought that’s what she was supposed to do. We always use the traffic cars as mobile units.”

“She bakes dog biscuits!” Steve shouted.

“For crying out loud, she gives fashion reports on accident victims.”

“It’s the human interest angle,” the editor said. “People seem to like it.”

Steve slammed the phone into its cradle. He knew people liked it. In fact, he, too, found it pleasant to have the traffic report humanized. What he’d actually been thinking, but didn’t dare say, was that Daisy Adams, despite her cheerful busyness and obvious competency, seemed fragile and vulnerable to him. He wanted to care for her, protect her. He definitely did not want her running around in bad neighborhoods and bagging dope dealers.

He dialed her car phone number and clenched his teeth while he waited. One ring, two rings. “Come on, come on,” he said. When she answered he didn’t bother with hello. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yup. I’m fine.”

“Is it true you ran down Barry LeRoy?”

“Sort of. He kind of bounced off my fender. It was an accident.”

Steve clenched his teeth again and counted to ten. “Okay, where are you now?”

“I’m on my way to the station.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the garage.”

“Do you have Bob?” Daisy asked. “The editor said you went home to get Bob.”

Steve smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Yeah, I have Bob. We’ll both meet you at the garage.”

He made another U-turn. The pound was only a few miles away. He still had time to pick up a dog. It wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself. A dog was man’s best friend. They could go jogging together. And Bob would be waiting for him when he came home each evening. Coming home to an empty house had gotten old lately. This was going to work out fine. In fact, he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought to get a dog sooner.

Five minutes later Steve followed a young woman in a blue kennel coat down the rows of cages, checking out the dogs. Small mutt with perky ears; greyhound rescued from a lab; mixed breed with a litter of puppies; fox terrier… and Bob. Steve knew him the moment he laid eyes on him. Bob was a gray-and-white sheepdog. Steve knew he’d be a great pet because he looked just like the nursemaid dog in Peter Pan. He was almost as wide as he was tall. He looked like a big box with hair.

“That’s him,” Steve said. “That’s my dog.”

“He’s just a puppy,” the girl said. “He’ll be a year old next week.”

“Perfect. Wrap him up.” Steve looked at his watch. “I’m running a little late.”

The girl opened the cage door and put a collar around the dog. She clicked on a leash and handed it to Steve. “There are a few forms to fill out.”

The dog bounded from his cage, put his two front paws on Steve’s chest, and barked.

Steve grinned at him. “He likes me,” he told the kennel attendant.

He had his first doubts about Bob when he opened the car door for him and the dog barely fit through. He had more serious doubts when he slid behind the wheel and couldn’t find the gearshift under Bob’s tail. Bob began to pant in the close quarters. A glob of drool plopped onto Steve’s shoulder. The windows fogged. Steve opened the sun roof and Bob tipped his nose up for fresh air.

“This isn’t going to work,” Steve said. “The car is too small.”

He pushed against Bob, trying to get to the cell phone plugged into the consul, but Bob was sitting on it. In truth, he had no place else to sit.