Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ first on mine,” September said.

      Gretchen stretched her arms over her head. “It’s six-thirty. After the de Fores, I’m done for today.” She scooted back her chair and gathered up the second half of her sandwich.

      “I hear ya,” George said and Gretchen shot September a sideways look. George did as little as possible when it came to dealing with people, especially bereaved people.

      September thought of her rented condo. She’d lived there for three years, ever since the owners had bought it, and a number of other units, out of foreclosure and turned them all into rentals. When she’d first moved in she’d painted all the rooms and bought new towels and an overly expensive couch, but since that first flurry of pride of house, she’d spent more time advancing her career than caring about hearth and home. Now, she didn’t really relish going back to her empty rooms.

      “I think I’ll stick around a little bit longer,” she said.

      “Suit yourself,” Gretchen responded as she took a left out of the squad room. George hefted his bulk from the chair and headed down the hall after her in the direction of the staff room.

      After they were gone, the squad room was nearly empty and had a strange echoey feel that didn’t exist during the rest of the day. She thought of her family—two brothers, one sister, her autocratic father and stepmother—and decided she didn’t want to talk to any of them, either.

      Detective Wes “Weasel” Pelligree stuck his head inside the squad room from the hall to the lockers. A tall, lean, black man, he had a killer smile, a slow-talking manner and a dry wit. He made September’s heart race a little faster whenever he appeared, but he was firmly entrenched in a long-term relationship with his high school girlfriend and had been for fifteen years or so, so the rumor went. He was also on a mission to arrest every crack and meth dealer he could find, a result of the death of his older brother, a user, who’d nicknamed Wes “Weasel” long before Wes had grown to his full six-foot-three height.

      “How ya doin’?” he asked her.

      “Been a long day,” September admitted.

      “Sandler’s a bitch, but she knows what she’s doing,” he said.

      “I guess that’s a recommendation of sorts.”

      He grinned. “Look forward to the day when someone says it about you. Then you’ll know you’re a detective.”

      “Oh, joy.” When he ducked back out, she yelled after him, “Aren’t you on the trail of Olivia Dugan?”

      “The Zuma employee? Uh-uh. Probably somebody D’Annibal thinks’ll look good on TV. Channel Seven’s all over this.”

      “All the stations are,” September said.

      “Well, try to stay away from Seven’s Pauline Kirby. That woman’s a barracuda.” He gave a mock shudder. “And a bitch.”

      “So, she’s good at her job?”

      He snorted. “You can be a bitch and a lousy detective,” he allowed. “You just don’t last long.”

      “How about nice, or at least personable, and good at your job?”

      He flashed her his pearly whites. “Never happen.”

      September was still smiling after he was gone. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be a bitch,” she said to the empty room.

      Trask Burcher Martin was a pothead. And a drunk, kinda. And definitely a slacker. But he was a good guy inside. Ya just had to look a little harder, sometimes, to see the good of it all. At least that’s what he told himself whenever he thought hard about the whole thing, like now.

      He exhaled a lungful of smoke, lost in a bit of a weed dream-state. He liked Jo. Loved her, maybe. She was his woman and they were together. Taking another toke, Trask relaxed into the couch cushions. A little MJ from time to time kept him from noticing that he and Jo didn’t have too much going for them, really. Not cash-wise, anyway. Making the rent payment every month was kinda tricky, and well, his job pumping gas wasn’t gonna make them rich anytime soon. Jo was a clerk at the local convenience store, but she would only work the daylight hours because of all the sick fucks who held up places like hers late at night, so that kept her from any serious greenbacks.

      Still, it was okay. Pretty okay. Kept Jo safe and that was good.

      He squinted an eye at the television cable box. If he didn’t pay that bill soon, it would shut off and be over. But for right now, he could read the time: eight-thirty.

      So, where was Jo, huh? It was getting damn dark.

      “Jo,” he said aloud. And then burned the end of his fingers with the last ember of the doobie. “FUCK!” He dropped it and stamped it out with his foot, waving away the smoke. Lucky for him, his neighbor, Liv, was spooked by about everything so if she smelled anything she wasn’t likely to call the authorities down on him. Like the landlord. Or the police. Or anybody.

      Shaking his head, he sucked on his fingers, then ran them through his hair and stepped outside onto the concrete balcony that fronted the parking lot side of the L-shaped building. A wave of August heat burned up from the pavement below; he could feel it rising beneath his bare feet, too. It was just barely dark, but still fuckin’ hot. He could see the faint glimmer of stars above the fir trees at the back of the lot.

      And the GMC truck was there. The 2005 one that . . . was kinda like his old one.

      Trask blinked. Tried to remember. What was that about? Oh, yeah. The lurking asshole in the hoodie outside Liv’s place who wouldn’t show his face.

      He wondered if Liv was home. Maybe Jo was with her?

      “That . . . would be . . . unlikely,” he said to the parking lot below, working on the thought to keep it from flying around inside his muddled brain.

      But the truck . . . ?

      Oh, yeah. The dude. He’d been in a truck like that. Asshole.

      Trask lurched along the balcony toward the stairs. Whoa, man. He musta kinda overdid it. Was havin’ a few proble-mos with his equal . . . equality . . . equilibrium. Yessirree. Equilibrium. Maybe he should just talk to that dude? See what was on his mind. Ask him what the fuck he was doing hangin’ around Liv’s . . . place . . . room.

      Nodding, he worked his way slowly down the outdoor stairs to the ground level, his soles scraping along the concrete steps. Shoulda put on some shoes, he realized belatedly.

      He slipped down the last couple of steps, had to grab the metal rail. Whoa. Head rush. Pulling it together, he strode right over to the truck. “Hey,” he yelled, then was incensed when the bastard fired up the vehicle like he was gonna race away.

      “Hey!” Trask yelled again. He pointed his finger at him.

      I see you. You fucker. I see you!

      To Trask’s surprise, the guy slid down his window . . . and pointed the barrel of a handgun at him.

      “What . . . whoa, man.” Trask backed up, holding his hands in the air. Fucker! Geez . . . God.

      Bang. СКАЧАТЬ