by Diane Kelly
BUSTED
By Diane Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Cover Design by Lyndsey Lewellen
Copyright © 2019 Diane Kelly
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in, or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system, in any form, whether electronic or mechanical, without the author’s prior written permission. Scanning, uploading, or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is prohibited. Federal law requires that consumers purchase only authorized electronic versions and provides for criminal and civil penalties for producing or possessing pirated copies.
CHAPTER ONE
READY, AIM, FIRE
He’s coming.
The far-off drone of a high-performance motorcycle engine drifted up the two-lane highway on the warm, early September north Texas breeze, the volume and pitch escalating as the bike grew closer. I had no idea who rode the Ninja, but I’d had my eye on him for weeks.
Today I’m going to nail him.
Sitting on my Harley-Davidson, I dug the heels of my knee-high black leather boots into the loose mix of dirt, gravel, and cigarette butts edging the highway. I eased the machine back from the shoulder until I was fully obscured by the faded yellow sign that read “Welcome to Jacksburg—Population 8,476 Friendly People,” under which “and a couple of assholes” had been added in thick red marker, probably by last year’s senior class from the rival high school in Hockerville.
Dressed head-to-toe in dark colors, I’d be difficult to spot. A couple of overgrown oleander bushes with pink flowers flanked the sign, providing extra cover. The guy would never see me lying in wait, gun in hand. He wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late.
Heh-heh.
I grasped the gun tightly, resting the grip across my right thigh, grown noticeably thicker over the last few months. Gah. Time to hit the treadmill. Craning my neck, I peeked between the swaying limbs of the bush, my gaze locked on the small rise a half mile up the road. A few strands of my dark hair pulled free from my long braid and blew in the breeze, tickling my freckled cheeks. Some might refer to the reddish streaks in my hair as highlights, but the coppery tones were unintentional, the result of wind and sun damage. Mother Nature was my hairdresser now. She was much less expensive than the stylist who’d coiffed my hair when I’d lived in Dallas.
The motor grew louder and my breathing ceased, every muscle in my body locked in place. I was a sniper, waiting for my target.
Waiting . . .
Waiting . . .
And there he was.
The golden-yellow and black Ninja ZX-14R popped up over the hill, the noise from its powerful engine now a full-blown primal scream, its rider hunched forward over the sport bike like a jockey over a racehorse to maximize aerodynamics. I raised the gun with two shaky hands, resting my forearms on the platform of my double-D breasts. Leveling the barrel, I sighted, squinting through my tinted goggles, and whispered, “One . . . two . . . three.”
I pulled the trigger.
Crud. The display on the ancient radar gun read 729 miles per hour. A Ninja can haul ass, but it wasn’t a frickin’ rocket. I yanked the gun’s power plug out of the bike’s cigarette lighter, reinserted it, and tried again. By this time, the Ninja was right on me. I took aim, squeezed the trigger a second time, and checked the readout. 56 mph. Nine miles under the speed limit. Damn. Looked like I’d never find out who rode that kick-ass bike.
The motorcycle roared past, kicking up a dusty, warm wind, its rider decked out in a sporty jumpsuit of yellow and black coordinated to match the bike. A quarter mile down the road, the bike turned left onto Main Street, disappearing into the distance and into my dreams.
I sighed and shoved the radar gun back into the plastic sheath mounted on my patrol bike. Maybe I’d be luckier tomorrow and catch the Ninja performing an illegal lane change. I’d pull the rider over, pat the guy down, maybe perform a strip search. One thing would lead to another and—
What the hell am I thinking? Lusting after a guy I’d never met made no sense, but I felt as though I knew him. The bike he rode told me he was cool and adventurous, the fact that he obeyed the speed limit told me he wasn’t crazy, and the fact that he passed this way at eight o’clock every weekday morning and again at five o’clock every evening told me he was gainfully employed and responsible. Not to mention that his form-fitting jumpsuit told me he had a tight, lean bod. All points in his favor. What more could a woman ask for?
I pulled my phone from the clip on my belt. Might as well listen to some tunes while I was stuck out here on traffic duty. My musical tastes leaned toward classic rock from the 70’s and 80’s, the songs my parents had grown up with, the ones my mother used to sing along with on the radio during my childhood, the songs my father still listened to today. I dialed up some Bachman Turner Overdrive to keep me company while I waited to catch some unlucky speeder. Yup, I was “Takin’ Care of Business”. My business was keeping the world, or at least the citizens of Jacksburg, safe.
Yeah, you guessed it. I’m a cop. Knew I’d become one ever since I was a little girl. Back then I’d fixated on Wonder Woman, the only female among the Super Friends, the cartoon airing just after school let out each afternoon. I’d run from the bus stop as fast as my sneakers would take me, charge through the front door, and hurl my backpack aside, jumping onto the couch and sitting enraptured for the next half hour while Wonder Woman and her friends brought hardened criminals to their knees. Mom would bring me a tray loaded with my favorite after-school snack, a root beer float and fresh popcorn she popped the old-fashioned way, in a covered pot on the stove. Wonder Woman was strong, smart, and sexy. She had whatever it took to save the day, no matter what the situation. When I grew up I wanted to be just like her, not like the doctors who lacked the skills and tools to save my mother’s life.
Even at six years old I knew superheroes weren’t real and I figured becoming a police officer was as close as I could hope to get. Twenty-five years later, I’d long since forgiven the doctors—and my mother—for her early death, and after nearly a decade patrolling the streets of Dallas, I’d experienced enough dangerous situations to last a lifetime. Actually, I’d experienced one dangerous situation too many. It didn’t end well. But I’m trying my best to put that behind me. Easier said than done.
Traffic detail isn’t the most exciting task in small-town law enforcement, but I’m okay with that. It’s not like there’s much threat in Jacksburg anyway. The worst crime to hit town lately was a couple of ten-year-olds who dared each other to steal Tootsie Rolls from the Grab-N-Go. Besides, what other job would pay a woman to ride around all day on what was essentially a 140-horsepower vibrator?
An older Dodge pickup came over the hill at fifty-two miles per hour, its left turn signal flashing like a Las Vegas casino marquee. Blink-blink. Blink-blink. How could the driver fail to notice a flashing indicator light on the dash right in front of him? How could he not hear the sound? Blink-blink. Blink-blink. Anyone that oblivious shouldn’t be entitled to a driver’s license. Unfortunately, there was no point in pursuing the driver. Stupidity wasn’t a crime. But maybe it ought to be.
Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” cued up just as a late-model maroon Ford Taurus came up the road. I raised the radar gun and pulled the trigger.
Busted.
The readout showed the vehicle was doing sixty-nine. Only four miles over the speed limit but that was good enough for me. I hadn’t written a single ticket all morning and it was time for me to head back to the office to finish some long-neglected paperwork. Returning to the office without writing at least one ticket would be downright shameful. Sorry, dude. Over the limi
t is over the limit.
I slipped the radar gun back into the sheath, slid my goggles into place, and switched on my flashing lights, pulling onto the highway just after the car drove by. A half mile down the highway, I caught up to it. Red brake lights lit up as the driver spotted me in pursuit. The car slowed, pulled onto the shoulder, and stopped. I rolled to a stop behind it.
I turned down the volume on my phone and squeezed the button on the shoulder-mounted radio that connected me to dispatch. “Hey, Selena. Run a plate for me.”
“Sure thing, Marnie,” Selena’s voice called back over the airwaves. “Whatcha got?”
I lifted my goggles and rattled off the numbers and letters from the license plate. Five seconds later Selena’s voice squawked back. “It’s a rental.”
A rental generally meant one thing. A lost tourist. The few tourists who ventured through Jacksburg had usually set out from the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex for Southfork Ranch, the setting for the popular 80’s television show “Dallas,” and had missed a turn somewhere. Jacksburg was situated sixty-three miles northeast of Dallas, between the Big D and nowhere. We weren’t near a major interstate and there was nothing in town to draw outsiders in. We had no bed and breakfast, no quaint antique shops, and no historical sites unless you believed the legend that Jesse James had once stopped in town to relieve himself in the outhouse behind the city hall. Being as neither the old city hall nor the outhouse wereouthouse were still in existence, there was no place to hang a plaque.
I steeled myself for the bullshit arguments the driver was sure to make, the same ones I’d heard hundreds of times before from other misdirected tourists, and I had my well-rehearsed, pat responses at the ready:
Driver: “I’m not from around here, so I’m not familiar with these roads.”
Me: “All the more reason to slow it down.”
Driver: “I’m not used to driving this rental car.”
Me: “All the more reason to take it easy.”
Driver: “This is a rental car. It ain’t my fault if the speedometer’s screwed up.”
Me: “Tell it to the judge.”
I cut the engine, climbed off my bike, and retrieved my ticket book from the white fiberglass saddle bag on the side of my bike. As I stepped up to the car, I pulled off my right glove and touched my fingertips to the trunk, a standard police procedure that served two purposes. Checking the trunk not only ensured the driver hadn’t popped it open to access a hidden stash of weapons, but it also provided physical evidence of the traffic stop, the cop’s fingerprints, in the event the driver tried to make a run for it. In many jurisdictions, body and dashboard cameras had rendered the procedure moot, but here in Jacksburg, where the department’s budget was too small to provide for modern technologies, we did things old-school style.
An inch of gray fabric stuck out from the closed trunk of the rental car. I reached out and fingered the material. From the look and feel it appeared to be the hem of a pair of men’s dress pants. The driver must’ve been in a hurry when he’d packed his trunk.
The window came down as I stepped up next to the car. The enticing hint of Hugo Boss cologne, the same scent my ex-husband used to wear, wafted from the car. In the window appeared the face of a guy in his early thirties, his light brown hair close cropped, his blue button-down shirt starched and neat. Not bad. Not bad at all.
His eyes locked on my chest. Typical. There weren’t many female motorcycle cops, even fewer with both a .38 on her hip and a couple of 38DD’s pulling her uniform tight across her chest. I was built like a cement mixer. Large and round on top, squat and sturdy on the bottom.
I put my hand in front of my breasts and raised my index finger to point at my face. “Up here, buddy.”
The guy’s deep green eyes, a shade darker than mine, snapped to my face. “Sorry.” A pink flush spread up his tensed jaw. “I wasn’t expecting a woman.”
Ticket book at the ready, I hesitated. This guy was cute and had the decency to blush and apologize for ogling me. He wasn’t feeding me some lame excuse. Besides, he smelled good. And the way he was looking at me with those sexy, emerald-colored eyes . . . Maybe I’d let him off with a warning. He was only four miles over the limit, after all. No sense giving Jacksburg the reputation for being a speed trap. With any luck, I could score a date.
It was a desperate move, sure. But, hell, I was desperate. It’s not that there aren’t eligible men in Jacksburg. The problem is they’re eligible for social security, food stamps, or parole. It wasn’t my fault I had to troll for potential dates among the traffic violators I pulled over on the highway.
Time to find out who this attractive man is. “License, please.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, removed his license, and held it out to me with his left hand. He wore no ring wedding ring. we shared, mMy own wedding ring having had been cut in half and refashioned into a pair of hoop earrings last year after my divorce from Chet. I was single again. A free woman. Unattached and available. Of course, those were only fancy ways of saying I’m all alone.
As I took the license from him, he gave me a soft smile that drew my eyes to his equally soft lips. How long had it been since I’d been kissed? It felt like forever. I glanced down at the card in my hand, an Illinois license with a Chicago address. This guy and his green eyes and kissable lips were a long way from home. The name on the license was John William Fulton.
“Stay put, Mr. Fulton. I’ll be right back.”
I stepped to the safety of the highway shoulder while I called his driver’s license in. Through the speakers built into my helmet, I heard Selena mutter a curse in Spanish followed by a banging sound, no doubt her beating on the computer.
“The stupid system’s crashed again,” she said. “I can’t access anything.”
First the radar gun and now the computer. The indignities of working for an underfunded police force. Oh, well. The guy was clean cut and didn’t give off any strange vibes. Should be safe to send him on his way.
I stepped back up to the window. “It’s your lucky day.” I shot him a flirtatious wink. “I’ve decided to let you off with a warning.” I handed Fulton’s license back to him and his face relaxed into a smile. “Slow down a bit, okay? Speed limit’s sixty-five on this stretch of highway.”
“Will do. Thanks.” He slid the card back into his wallet.
“Where you headed?” I couldn’t help but wonder what someone from an exciting place like Chicago would be doing out here in the boonies.
The guy paused for a moment, staring straight through the windshield for a few seconds before turning to look up at me. “Rocky River,” he said, naming a town forty miles up the road. “Visiting my aunt.”
How sweet. A family man. But I let it drop. As lonely as I was, a long-distance relationship wasn’t what I was looking for. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Thanks for letting me slide.” He flashed another smile.
I grinned back, shamelessly flirting now. “Just this once. Next time you’ll be in big trouble, mister.”
Fulton waved as he pulled back onto the road. Sighing, I slid my goggles down into place and climbed onto my motorcycle. I made a U-turn, heading back into Jacksburg, scanning the roadways and parking lots for any sign of the Ninja.
Nothing. My mystery man and his bike had vanished.
CHAPTER TWO
CUT TO THE CHASE
As the department’s captain, I was a Jill-of-all-trades, serving the dual roles of part-time peace officer, part-time office manager. While I rode back to the office, I mentally ran through my to-do list for the afternoon.
Item one: prepare a memo reminding the officers of the annual Jacksburg Jackrabbit Jamboree scheduled for the end of next month, the weekend before Halloween.
Item two: pay the department’s light bill.
Item three: type up my notes from yesterday’s investigation of a domestic violence call reported by a neighbor who’d heard squealing and banging coming from the trailer next do
or. Turned out to be nothing more than a raucous nooner between two consenting septuagenarians lacking the forethought to close the bedroom window.