Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1)

by Lori Power

  On the balls of his feet, he sidestepped the door. “Are you hurt?”

  Her gasp startled him and he closed his mouth with a click of his teeth. When her hands flew for her throat and she teetered backward on her heels, he reached a hand towards her elbow to steady her.

  Brows arched high above her sunglasses, her head turned towards the approach of his hand—watching—as one would a snake. With a shake of her head, she dropped her hands and flattened back to the side of the truck to avoid his touch.

  With raised palms, he stepped back to give her space. If possible, her brows drew closer to her hairline creasing her forehead, a question written across her features. He should be prepared for this kind of reaction, given the fact he drove a hearse.

  In a gesture of goodwill, he pulled off his hat to hold it in his right hand. “Are you hurt?” he repeated when she didn’t respond.

  In a flash he took in her features. In contrast to her no-nonsense hair, the wraparound sunglasses did little to hide her eyes while the sun caressed her cheeks. The curve of her jaw gave him a sense of familiarity. He tried to place her, but drew a blank. He turned to close the door and a glint of sparkle caught his eye. A diamond stud, no bigger than a freckle decorated her nose, catching a ray of sunlight.

  He almost laughed. Maybe not so big a stick up her ass after all. There could be a bit of a rebel buried under the fine linen. He strangled the urge to remove her glasses for a closer inspection.

  “No, no, I’m okay,” she answered at last, keeping her hand on the door handle as she stretched her arm to look towards the front of the truck. “Better than my front end, anyway.”

  Was it her voice or the pout of the delicate bottom lip? He couldn’t shake the sudden attraction and awareness that he knew her from somewhere.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to focus. He needed to get to church. “Listen, I’m so sorry about the accident, but I must go.”

  Confusion etched her features and he held up his other palm to stop whatever she was going to say. Lives would be in jeopardy if he were a no-show. “There’s an emergency. Kinda the nature of my job.” He waved his arm back towards the long, black vehicle and tried for a smile. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Here’s my license. When you file the accident, just leave it with them. They’ll mail it back to me.”

  She removed her glasses and shook her head, brows plunged to furrow closer to her nose. “What?”

  He started to turn and tossed her the license. “We can settle up on the insurance a bit later, okay?”

  She caught the driver’s license with one swift movement and nailed him with a stern glare. “Where are you going?”

  Mitch began to stride away. “I gotta to go. I’m sorry, but I’m glad you’re okay,” he called over his shoulder, racing back towards the banged-up hearse. The front right tire bent slightly towards the engine, but it would get him where he needed to go. Nerves like a coiled snake settled in his lower intestines, and he prayed nothing else would slow him down.

  Ignoring her waved hand, Mitch started the car and squealed away. The injured tire thumped its protest with a loud rhythmic clank.

  Caught at odds, Mitch pounded the wheel. “Goddamnit,” he ground through clenched teeth. “It’s my job to not let shit like this happen.”

  The memory of her face filled the windshield of his mind and he blocked the sense of familiarity she had created. “I definitely don’t have time for this.”

  ***

  She stared in mute fascination as the long hearse labored away.

  Lorna slapped her palm against her forehead. “What’s wrong with me?” She gave herself a mental shake. Why hadn’t she gotten the license plate number? Blood pulsed in her ears, filling her with dread. “That was some scary-looking guy.”

  When the bearded man ran over with shoulders the size of a linebacker, it was all she could do not to scream. The blackout, mirrored sunglasses were an absolute divergence to the black suit and chauffeur’s hat.

  The dull thump of the rattled tire sounded a distant echo even if she could no longer see the vehicle itself. Had the grim reaper just paid a visit? What was she going to do?

  The edge of the plastic driver’s license cut into her palm and she glanced down at the picture. An unkempt man with greasy hair and piercing eyes stared back. Thanking God she always purchased full insurance on her rentals, Lorna reached inside the cab for her purse and stowed the certificate in the side pouch.

  She grasped the door handle. Approaching footfalls and a heavy wheeze caused her to turn around. Across a carpet of neatly trimmed grass, a portly man of about 70 rushed to her side.

  “Saw the whole thing, Miss,” he said. He bent forward to catch his breath and removed his golfer’s cap to wipe his brow. “Are you okay? Did that fella just run off? You can use me as a witness.”

  Distracted, Lorna nodded and turned back to where the hearse had disappeared from view. She lifted a hand and pointed. “He just drove off.”

  The good Samaritan reached light fingers to rest on her elbow.

  “He left me his license.”

  The older man released her elbow to move to the front of the truck. He shook his head as he inspected her front end. “You’ll have to report it, Miss.” He hunched over to peer under the grill. His head popped up from inspecting the chrome, eyes squinted against the sun. He placed his hat back on his head. “Not much damage. A rig like this though must have done a number on his. Did you get the plate number?”

  “No.” She brought her hand to her forehead and walked to the front of the truck where one of the headlights was broken, glass fanned from the blow like a shadow. “How many hearses can there be with a large dent on the passenger side?”

  She needed to shake this fog and do something.

  “Well, at least you remembered to get his driver’s license.”

  She stepped back from the damage and replaced her glasses, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Yes. At least that’s something.” Adding a visit to the police station to her mental must-do list, she reached out a hand to the older man. “I’ll take you up on your offer as a witness. Mister…”

  “Gordon.” The warmth of his hand engulfed hers. “Paul Gordon.”

  “I’m grateful. Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” Lorna let the sound of his name float off her tongue. “It’s kind of you.”

  “Oh, well.” He lowered his head as pink spots highlighted his ruddy cheeks. “Call me Paul. I was watering my flowers over there.” He pointed back towards a blue-trimmed house on the corner. “Don’t normally get much traffic in the neighborhood during the day, but there’s always a bit of excitement now and again, I guess. But when a hearse of all things flew right out there in front of you, I couldn’t believe my eyes. You know he ran the stop sign?”

  Lorna peered down the street again, envisioning the driver’s return.

  “Imagine a fella like that chauffeuring you to your final resting spot.”

  There’s a happy thought. “Mr. Gordon, ah, Paul. May I write down your contact information?”

  ***

  Much later, having barely finished her appointments, Lorna sat outside the community police station contemplating her next move. She had no choice but to report the accident, but with the day’s drama subsided, she was left exhausted, and so procrastinated over this one last chore. Lost in thought, holding the driver’s license with the tips of her fingers, she rubbed her thumbs along the hard plastic edges, scrutinizing the picture.

  She stared at a face she had hoped to never see again.

  Mitchell Morgan. Could it really be him after all this time? What’s it been? Five years?

  Merging the image of the thug-like funeral chauffeur, who drove out in front of her this morning, with the man who seared her to her core in her final year at university was not as hard as she would have supposed. What puzzled Lorna was not her lack of recognizing him—how could she, disguised as he was—but surely he would know her.

  Her bare toes fiddl
ed aimlessly with the shoes she had kicked off to stretch her tired feet. Her procrastination had purpose, though resting weary feet was not on the list. The problem she faced, making her hesitate before going into the local detachment, was the driver’s license itself. It didn’t belong to Mitchell Morgan, though most certainly featured his picture, however much facial hair altered his image. Sunglasses hooked in her pinky finger, she ran the tip of her forefinger across the embossed name. “Your name is not Michael Ward.”

  Whatever trouble caused him to use forged documents was not and sadly never would be her concern. Running nervous fingers along her chignon, she lowered the visor mirror to refresh her lipstick and check the rest of her makeup. Correcting a smudge, she widened her eyes at her reflection before flipping the shade back in place. She slipped the heeled shoes back over her aching feet, drew air in through her nostrils, straightened her spine, and squared her shoulders. Running a moist palm down her skirt, she grabbed her purse and opened the heavy truck door, taking the time to hold the handle and step on the running board before reaching another foot towards the pavement.

  The two officers manning the long, green counter were absorbed with their computer monitors, uninterested in whatever action might walk through their door. She shrugged, straightened her blouse, and clipped across the tiles.

  The one closest to her lifted his bespectacled gaze with obvious reluctance. “How can I help you, Miss?”

  She coughed to clear her dry throat. “Lorna…” She croaked and started again. “Lorna Tymchuk.” She held out her hand in greeting, noted his unwavering stare, and retracted the motion. Were police stations intentionally designed to make people uncomfortable the moment they stepped over the threshold? She grabbed the handle of her purse. “Ah, yes. I’ve been involved in a hit and run.”

  In need of grease, the wheels of the officer’s chair squeaked a protest when he bent out of sight below his monitor. The light from the screen reflected off his balding dome. A long arm, extended in her direction with a legal-sized form held in his hand, preceded the appearance of the rest of him. With a sniffled snort, he stood, causing the chair to sail a few feet away from its perch. He set the paper in front of her, groping, without looking, in the space below the counter for a pen. “Complete this form in full. You can sit over there.” He pointed across the long room. “Once you’re done, bring it back, and I will go through it with you.”

  Lorna veered her gaze from the uniformed policeman to the built-in table across the way and nodded her assent. Retrieving her black notebook, her heels clicked across the tiled floor. Pulling a chair forward, she took the paper and pen and sat. Including Mr. Gordon’s information, she answered the questions and wrote her report in the space provided. Several minutes later, she returned to the counter, still the only civilian in the foyer of the building.

  The officer glanced up from his perch, and seemed disinclined to leave his chair again so soon. This left Lorna to stand like a statue at the counter. To her disgust, she observed a sneaky pinky finger slip up one of his nostrils to make a grab for something unmentionable.

  She turned her head away quickly as bile rose and her gag reflex spiked.

  He snorted a couple of times while she concentrated her attention out a window. She glanced back and waited for the constable to finish, envisioning all she could be doing at the moment instead. She had about six hours of work ahead of her to get the Aqua Oil situation sorted out. Unbidden, she tapped her foot and searched the ceiling for distraction. The dust motes floating in the current from the slow-moving fan did little to settle her nerves.

  “So I read here you actually hit the other vehicle. A hearse, you say?” The officer stood on the other side of the counter, running a finger up and down the bridge of his nose, causing a slight red area to grow the white head of an impending pimple. Yuk.

  “Yes. The hearse ran the stop sign.”

  “You’re sure it was a hearse?”

  “I assure you it was a black hearse.” She snorted, exhausted and a bit unhinged by her discovery. She immediately wanted to reel the sound back like a wayward fish. She sobered with a cough to cover her distress. “There’s a witness. His information is just here.” Lorna pointed a nail at the area of the sheet where she had included Paul Gordon’s information.

  “And the driver of the hearse just drove off?”

  The question of why bother to complete a report if the officer was just going to recap every point by point blinked like a neon sign behind her lids. “No, as I wrote, right here.” She pointed to another neatly printed line on the statement. “The man got out to see if I was okay…”

  The policeman rested an elbow on the counter and smirked. “Nice of him.”

  “I guess,” she agreed, forcing a lift to her lips, putting on her best salesman face. “Listen, the man left me his driver’s license. Said an emergency called him away.”

  “Emergencies can happen in the funeral business, I imagine.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, brow furrowed. ‘So, a polite runner then?”

  Inhaling deeply, Lorna forged on. “I want to talk to you about that, actually.”

  The constable stared, barely blinking, so she blurted. “It’s a fake.”

  “What’s a fake?”

  “The driver’s license,” she confirmed through tight lips.

  “How would you know?”

  “I didn’t recognize him at first with the beard and everything.” Oh, God, she was rambling. Get a grip. Lorna took a shaky breath. “I know–once knew–the driver I hit. His name is Mitchell Morgan, not Michael Ward, as is written here. The picture on this license,” she said, moving her own hand to cover the license on the counter, “is him, but that’s not his name. This,” she paused to tap the document with her fingernail, “is a fake.”

  “How can you be sure?” His murky brown eyes met hers, clearly skeptical.

  She glanced at the picture again, the tips of her fingers still touching the edge of the laminated surface. How could she explain the fact she would never be able to forget Mitchell Morgan’s midnight-blue eyes? Those same expression-filled eyes with just a hint of mischief couldn’t be disguised. “I’m sure.”

  The officer lifted the license off the counter with beefy fingers and scrutinized the information, stifling a yawn. “Please sit down. I’ll run it through our system and see what comes up.”

  Sitting down on the hard plastic chair, which seemed to be made for an imaginary body type, because no matter which way she twisted, the damned thing was uncomfortable. Crossing her legs and pulling her purse onto her lap, Lorna stared at the institutional grey walls and considered the ramifications of her actions. Mitchell Morgan or Michael Ward? Perhaps he used an alias at university? She disregarded this. Perhaps he changed his name after graduating. Possible, but she didn’t think so. Her gut told her the license was a fake, and she had long since learned to trust her intuition.

  “Miss?” The constable’s gruff voice brought Lorna back from her thoughts.

  “Yes?” She returned to the counter.

  “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. The license is real. A Mr. Michael Ward is the registered owner of a black Jeep Cherokee. He is also listed as a licensed chauffeur for Golden Meadows Funeral Home. Is that the correct description of the vehicle you hit?”

  Lorna blinked several times trying to figure out the puzzle. “There wasn’t a sign on the vehicle, but…” she paused, striving for something—anything—to concentrate her thoughts in the empty room, “but I know this man by a different name.”

  The officer shrugged, clearly bored with the conversation. “Either he looks like someone you knew or that someone used a different name with you.” To his credit, the officer tried for a smile. The crease at the side of his mouth resembled a fold in paper. “They say everyone has a twin.”

  Lorna drummed her fingers on the countertop and shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught the officer’s eye again. The muddy brown gaze saddled her with a pitying
expression saved for those lonely people craving a bit of excitement. She straightened her shoulders. “You are mistaken, sir. The man in this picture is Mitchell Morgan. I assure you.”

  “Our system seems to disagree with you,” the officer replied with a note of skepticism in his voice while he retained hold of the license. “We’ll take care of sending this back to Mr. Ward as soon as he files his report.”

  She lifted her purse from the countertop. “Fine. I’ve done my due diligence. If you choose to do nothing, that’s your business. All I need to concern myself with is ensuring my rental vehicle is reported damaged so the insurance people will have no further concerns.”

  His domed top reflected the fluorescent light when he nodded before he resumed his seat, already lost in the information contained on the monitor. He glanced up once to nod a dismissal, an air of pity still glowing in his muck brown eyes.

  The sympathy, combined with the day’s frustrations, caused her simmering blood to reach a boiling point. “Goddamnit to hell. I’m not some sorry loser seeking a bit of drama to spice up my life,” she said, flattening her hand on the scarred green surface.

  Noting his okay-here’s-another-female-with-too-many-hormones look, she turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder. “Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss.”

  Jerk!

  Chapter Three

  Mitch leaned against the back bumper of the open hearse. He filled his deprived lungs with air and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. With a drawn-out sigh, he allowed the adrenaline from the day’s proceedings to drain away. Considering the day’s events and near miss, Mitch pinched the bridge of his nose. He examined the solid gait of his partner’s approach through the rows of headstones. The crime scene team, accompanied by police dogs, had unearthed a small fortune of buried drugs stashed inside caskets and urns, waiting for transfer over the border. The graveyard resembled a gopher’s patch with its mass of open burial plots.

  Mitch’s partner cut an imposing spectacle dressed in leather chaps, bare-chested with a leather vest revealing an art dealer’s amount of ink from shoulder to waist.