Flash Point. Metsy Hingle

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СКАЧАТЬ the only reason I agreed to pay you for that birth certificate.”

      He tapped the envelope against his palm, gave her a measuring look. “I imagine your sister would be willing to pay a great deal to learn who her daddy was. Of course, if you was to—”

      “I don’t have a sister,” she snapped. “And I suggest you quit trying to shake me down for more money, Doctor. Otherwise, I might reconsider whether or not I’ve made a mistake by not going to the police and telling them about your offer.”

      “Now, hang on a second. There’s no need to go dragging the police into a little business transaction between friends.”

      “You and I are not friends, Doctor. And I doubt that the police would see your proposal as a simple business transaction.”

      “We had a deal and it’s too late for you to try to back out now,” he said, and shoved the envelope at her.

      While he dug through the bag of cash, she stared at the paper a moment before crushing it in her fist. “You’re sure this is the only copy?”

      “What? Yeah, it’s the only one,” he lied. The bitch would find out soon enough that he’d kept another copy, he thought. Eager to get to the casino, he began stuffing the money back into the bag.

      “Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor.”

      Something in her voice—a cold amusement—alerted him. He looked up and saw the gun. But it was too late. Before he could say a word, she pulled the trigger.

      “Lady? Lady, are you all right?”

      Kelly dropped the newspaper and came spinning back from the dark alley to the table in the Café du Monde. Her heart still racing, she looked up at the worried face of her waiter.

      “Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked again.

      “I…yes,” she told him, although it wasn’t true.

      “You sure? You look kind of…strange.”

      “I’m all right,” she assured him.

      Looking skeptical, he placed her beignets and coffee in front of her. “That’ll be $4.75.”

      Still reeling from the vision, Kelly grabbed her camera bag and dug out her wallet. She retrieved a five-dollar bill and one-dollar bill and slapped them on the table. “There was a man who was sitting at this table earlier, the one who left that newspaper. Do you happen to know who he was?”

      The waiter shrugged. “Beats me. When I came on duty at ten o’clock, the paper was already there. Figured I’d leave it in case somebody wanted to read it. But if it’s in your way, I can toss it.”

      “That’s all right,” she said, while in truth she wished to God she’d never touched the thing. She didn’t want to get involved. All she wanted was to see the Mother Superior at the convent and satisfy herself that Sister Grace’s death had been a peaceful one, sign any paperwork the attorneys had for her regarding the nun’s bequest and go back to New York. But how could she ignore what she’d just seen in the vision? What if the murder hadn’t happened yet? If she did nothing, that man was going to be killed.

      And what if he’s already dead? Do you really want to be the butt of all those jokes and whispers again?

      Oh, God, she didn’t want to get involved. But what choice did she have? As unpleasant as it would be to open herself to the speculation and talk, she couldn’t honestly live with herself if he died because she’d done nothing. She had to do it. She had to go to the police.

      “Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right?”

      “Yes,” she replied, already feeling the weight of her decision settle upon her. She pushed the six dollars across the table at the waiter. “Keep the change.”

      “Thanks,” he said, and shoved the money into his pocket.

      When he started to leave, she said, “One more thing. The police station, is it still on North Rampart Street?”

      He shrugged. “No idea. I’ve only been in town a couple of months.”

      “It’s still there,” a scruffy-looking fellow nursing a coffee at the next table told her.

      “Thanks,” Kelly told him. Using a napkin, she picked up the newspaper and shoved it into her camera bag. She stood and slid the strap of the bag onto her shoulder.

      “Ain’t you going to eat those doughnuts?” the old guy asked.

      “No. My stomach’s not feeling all that well,” she said honestly. “But it would be a sin to let them go to waste. Maybe you’d do me a favor and eat them?”

      “Well, seeing as how it’s a favor, I guess I could do that,” the fellow said, his eyes lighting up as she placed the plate of beignets in front of him. “And no point in letting that coffee go to waste, either.”

      “You’re right.” After setting her untouched coffee on the guy’s table, she hurried out of the café and prayed she wouldn’t be too late.

      Two

      Police Sergeant Max Russo did his best to ignore the chaos surrounding him in the precinct. Eying the clock on his desk, he willed the next twenty minutes to pass quickly so that his shift would finally be over and he could head home.

      “Yo, Guthrie, this is a police station—not a dog pound,” Detective Sal Nuccio called out when an officer came through the precinct doors with a six-footer wearing a bedraggled brown fur costume and a pair of handcuffs.

      “You’re a real funny guy, Nuccio,” Guthrie fired back.

      “I’s a werewolf,” the culprit replied, his speech slurred from too much hootch or drugs or both.

      “And I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” Guthrie replied. “Come on.”

      “It’s true,” the shaggy fellow insisted. And as though to prove his point, he began to howl like a wolf.

      “Knock it off,” Guthrie commanded, and smacked the fellow on the back of the head while the rest of the station laughed.

      Max shook his head. Halloween certainly brought out the weirdos, he thought as the new rookie, Palmisano, marched in with three dames wearing black leather and carrying whips. Make that two dames, he amended when he noted the tall blonde had an Adam’s apple.

      “Officer, you’re making a terrible mistake. I told you that we were only trick-or-treating. There’s no law against trick-or-treating in New Orleans, is there?” the flashy brunette asked.

      “No, ma’am. But there is a law against offering to do the kind of tricks you were suggesting in exchange for money.”

      The wolfman howled again.

      “I told you to knock that shit off,” Guthrie ordered.

      “Maybe you ought to get him a leash, Guthrie,” Nuccio chided.

      “Up СКАЧАТЬ