Doggone

by Herkert, Gabriella

  I fixed him with the flashlight beam and he blinked, putting up a hand in defense. Russ’s clothes were pristine. Brand-new down vest, pressed jeans, starched shirt, and Coach belt. Brushed-suede hiking boots that, except for the walk from the car to the barn, had never seen anything but concrete. Tall and blond, his autumn Seattle pallor replaced with a tanning-salon bronze, he could have been on a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. If he weren’t my best friend, I’d hate him for it.

  Not me. I was a vomit-dappled disaster in stained jeans, faded hooded sweatshirt, and battered running shoes. I clicked off the flashlight and put it into the front pouch of my sweatshirt. I pulled Russ toward the gloom outside the barn and away from the smell of horse apples and regurgitated breakfast.

  ‘‘Just as well. You don’t want to get too used to this sort of thing,’’ I said, shaking my head. I hit *6 on my cell phone. I had the police on speed dial. What had my life become?

  ‘‘He looks really dead,’’ Russ said.

  ‘‘Well, that makes sense since he is really dead.’’ The phone rang on the other end.

  ‘‘Sergeant Wesley.’’

  ‘‘It’s me.’’

  Dial tone. I redialed. Two rings. Three. Four. ‘‘Wesley.’’

  ‘‘That wasn’t nice,’’ I told him. The early morning’s light rain had given way to a bone-chilling deluge and the barn didn’t have enough of an overhang to shield Russ and me. We’d parked the car in a wide area of the road’s shoulder a half mile from the farm.

  ‘‘Whatever it is,’’ Wesley said gruffly, ‘‘I don’t want to know. I’ve got two aggravated assaults, a push-in burglary, and some idiot who tried to rob an armored car by lying down in the middle of a busy street. Traffic’s a mess.’’

  ‘‘And it’s raining,’’ I offered. Russ tugged his collar up and looked snug if still a little seasick. I shivered in my cotton. ‘‘Did the armored car run over the moron in the road?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Then I’ll take your dumb-criminal tricks and raise you a corpse with suspicious circumstances.’’

  ‘‘Dammit.’’ He sighed. ‘‘What is it with you? Most people go their entire lives without seeing a dead body outside a funeral home. Not you. You trip over them every time you leave the house.’’

  ‘‘Helpful.’’

  ‘‘Is that Connor?’’ Russ asked, too loudly. I slapped my hand over his mouth. The last thing I needed was for someone to find out I’d taken Russ on a work thing. It was bad enough I was going to have to explain the dead guy.

  ‘‘Who’s with you?’’ Wesley demanded.

  ‘‘TV,’’ I said, taking my hand away with my sternest look and a pointed index finger.

  ‘‘When is he coming? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m through with this investigating gig. It’s not for me.’’ Russ’s voice was a little higher than his usual tenor. He kept sneaking glances over his shoulder into the open barn as if this were a slasher flick and the guy might rise from the dead. ‘‘Your husband should be here. I should be someplace else. Like Bermuda.’’

  I delivered a blow to Russ’s solar plexus. His brown eyes widened and his lips pursed. He gasped for air. It hadn’t taken much force. Connor’s SEAL team took turns showing me antisocial moves. They had a running bet on which technique I found most useful in casual settings. The heel thrust that Connor’s second in command, Blue, had shared was a definite front-runner. I turned my back and stepped away.

  ‘‘Brother,’’ Wesley muttered. ‘‘Where are you?’’

  ‘‘Stanwood,’’ I said. ‘‘About forty miles north of Seattle on I-5.’’

  ‘‘Way out of my jurisdiction.’’ Wesley sounded happy about it. What kind of pal used a technicality to feed you to the local cops?

  ‘‘But you’re my cop,’’ I protested, pulling up my hood. It was already heavy with rain but I remembered that most of my heat escaped through my head. When had I learned that? Probably around the same time I learned what a conjunction was. Damn. Now that song was going to be stuck in my head all day. Conjunction Junction, what’s your function?

  ‘‘We’re not Social Security numbers. Every citizen doesn’t get their own.’’

  ‘‘But I need one.’’

  He was silent. ‘‘Truer words were never spoken. Repeat the address.’’

  I did. Russ reached into the front pocket of my sweatshirt and took the car keys. I stayed his hand. Given his current state of mind, he might go in search of a medicinal triple no-foam espresso at Starbucks. We were beyond the civilization that put one on every street corner. In fact, we were past street corners altogether.

  ‘‘I know a guy up there. I’ll call him. You better be there, Sara, when he shows up.’’

  Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about bailing. Now that he’d mentioned it, it was a much better idea than calling him had been.

  ‘‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll just call the locals myself. I wouldn’t want your friend to think you were taking advantage. Stepping on toes or anything. Forget I called.’’

  ‘‘Did you kill the guy?’’ Wesley demanded.

  ‘‘Do I need a lawyer?’’ I shot back.

  ‘‘Did you kill him?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Then do not leave the scene. People who leave the scenes of crimes tend to get arrested. Prosecuted. Jailed.’’

  Wasn’t he painting a pretty picture? Not to mention fuzzing the legal niceties a little bit since I didn’t think leaving the scene of a dead body was in itself a crime. Heck, it could be a simple farm accident. I leaned back into the barn to have another look. No chance.

  ‘‘Fine,’’ I sighed.

  ‘‘You promise?’’

  ‘‘What am I, four years old?’’ I asked, my fingers crossed.

  ‘‘Cooperate fully and cheerfully with the sheriff I send you.’’

  ‘‘Fully and cheerfully.’’

  ‘‘No lying.’’

  ‘‘I never lie.’’ Which was a lie in itself. Russ shook his head and clucked his tongue.

  ‘‘Right.’’ Wesley hung up.

  ‘‘What were you thinking?’’ Russ asked. ‘‘Try ‘I’m usually truthful.’ He can hardly quantify. Go with ‘I’ll do my best.’ That plays for poignancy. Even a distraction like ‘Is that a fire bomb?’ Which, by the way, is more believable given your track record, and would have a better chance of being believed than ‘I never lie.’ You’re busted before the words are out of your mouth. After all I’ve taught you?’’ He tsked, tsked a little more.

  ‘‘I’m not the one who tossed his cookies like a little girl at the amusement park.’’

  ‘‘That’s harsh. It’s my first dead body. I’m not an old pro like you.’’

  ‘‘As the old pro . . .’’ I began, ‘‘I’d suggest we get our stories straight.’’

  About the Author

  Gabriella Herkert is an evil corporate lawyer with endless opportunities to meet characters worthy of inclusion as victims, perpetrators, and comic relief. If she runs out, there are always her friends, family, and Koko, who bears a striking if fictional resemblance to a certain opera-singing, devoutly faithful canine companion in this book. Visit Gabi on her Web site at www.gabriellaherkert.com or send an e-mail to gabi_herkert@hotmail.com.