The Devil She Knows
Page 35
One cop, a burly unibrowed Hispanic, stretched his lower back. The other, a tall, thin blond with a big nose, walked over to Preacher and Maureen.
“What the fuck happened in there, Quinn?” Preacher asked.
“You won’t believe it, Preach,” Quinn said, his chest heaving as he struggled to recover from the effort of subduing the woman. “In the dishwasher. Like, two pounds of weed in a garbage bag. And three guns in a shoe box.” He smiled. “A fucking bust and a half and we fucking fell right into it.”
Preacher’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead. He threw a quick glance at Maureen. “Yes, indeed.”
Quinn shrugged. “Ruiz was the one that spotted the washer was un-hooked and leaning half outta the counter. He went in there for a glass of water.”
“Tell ya what,” Preacher said, turning to Maureen. “Now I believe it wasn’t her that called us here. These two clowns are no dealers. They’re holding for someone else, under orders, I’m sure, to stay away from the cops.”
Maureen scanned Washington Avenue in both directions. The three boys and the whistler were gone. I don’t know what it is, she thought, but we’re missing something here.
MORE FROM CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED NOVELIST BILL LOEHFELM
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