Read Online Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1) by GA VanDruff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: GA VanDruff
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a wave as she shifted her leather pouch and crossed the street. “Will do.”
“Miss Hollywood. Autograph? Ha. Ha. Not.”
Terrance Hammermiller.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Flat tire. Had to take the board. See ya’, Jaq. Hey, get me a date with Taylor Swift.” He skated through the stop sign.
“Jaqie Shanahan. Give us a kiss.”
Oh, come on. How’s a girl supposed to get any ransacking done with a parade passing by?
“You first, Mr. Trimble.” It was a thing that we did.
After the Senior Citizens’ van took the left at the stop sign, I counted to twenty. If the coast remained clear, I was going in.
“Twenty-one. Bingo.” I pressed the Unlock button and the car obliged. I opened the door and hopped in the driver’s side. It would be harder to spot me from Peep’s porch, but easier to arrest me, street side. I shut the door, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it one click to engage the battery. It was my first felony. Best to take it one step at a time.
A country song exploded through the dash and thumped the speakers in the door panels and rattled the rear deck. I turned knobs and pounded buttons, shoved the gear shift in N before I found the right combination and put the singer out of his misery. My lack of new-age automobile technology had happily fired up the on-board GPS.
I grabbed my cell and took a picture of the screen. No convenient map, though, with a Jaqie, You Want to Go Here arrow, just coordinates, longitude and latitude.
“Why no address? What is this—a boat? Did they do this? Don’t waste time asking yourself questions.”
The driver’s door pocket was empty except for a plastic bag with a few beef jerky wrappers. Same for the passenger side, minus the wrappers. Presumably, Costello ate his. The rental agreement was folded up in the glove compartment. Avery was the only name I absorbed before a piece of scrap paper fluttered to the floor mat.
Hand-drawn, filled-in circles and connecting lines. One round scribble was tagged Start. I took a picture of that, too, tossed the scrap back into the glove compartment and turned off the ignition. The dash lights shut down and the GPS screen went dark.
That’s when I spotted them. Two dots no bigger than the head of a pin stuck to the GPS screen. Pink. I ran my fingertip over them. Hard, like plastic.
“Or nail polish.”
I squirreled around and stuck my upper body through the opening between the bucket seats. The mud, the paw prints, the nose prints—dry now. I already knew they had a dog. I knew they had a dog with nail polish on its ear. What I knew now was they put the polish on that ear right before the dog got in the backseat. No tea party. No passel of little girls. When Doofus shook, he’d sent a halo of tidewater debris a full three-sixty. Two teensy pearls of still-wet polish made it up front.
Avery and Costello had painted Doofus’s ear, covering up something deliberately, like, oh, say a black mark in the shape of a C. A dog in disguise.
Time for Plan B. Technically, Plan A, since I’d begun with no plan whatsoever.
I called Gertie.
As soon as she picked up, I said, “Don’t say anything.”
“Hi, Bub. Thanks for calling back,” she hollered into the phone.
I banged my head on the steering wheel. “Gertie, listen. I am going to steal the car. There’s too much evidence here, and I need them stranded so they can’t get to the dog and finish the job.”
The sound of silverware on plates, and a belch came over the line.
“Excuse me, Bub.” Gertie shouted, “No shovels, you say. For how long?”
“Two, three hours. Tops.”
“Make it seven.”
“Six.”
“And a half.”
“Done.”
CHAPTER 15
It was a stripped down version of a car so mundane, I couldn’t tell you the make or model of the thing. My bike fit in the trunk, no problem. I angled the handlebars and lowered the lid with both arms and the lock clicked shut.
The only high-end interior accoutrements
“Miss Hollywood. Autograph? Ha. Ha. Not.”
Terrance Hammermiller.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Flat tire. Had to take the board. See ya’, Jaq. Hey, get me a date with Taylor Swift.” He skated through the stop sign.
“Jaqie Shanahan. Give us a kiss.”
Oh, come on. How’s a girl supposed to get any ransacking done with a parade passing by?
“You first, Mr. Trimble.” It was a thing that we did.
After the Senior Citizens’ van took the left at the stop sign, I counted to twenty. If the coast remained clear, I was going in.
“Twenty-one. Bingo.” I pressed the Unlock button and the car obliged. I opened the door and hopped in the driver’s side. It would be harder to spot me from Peep’s porch, but easier to arrest me, street side. I shut the door, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it one click to engage the battery. It was my first felony. Best to take it one step at a time.
A country song exploded through the dash and thumped the speakers in the door panels and rattled the rear deck. I turned knobs and pounded buttons, shoved the gear shift in N before I found the right combination and put the singer out of his misery. My lack of new-age automobile technology had happily fired up the on-board GPS.
I grabbed my cell and took a picture of the screen. No convenient map, though, with a Jaqie, You Want to Go Here arrow, just coordinates, longitude and latitude.
“Why no address? What is this—a boat? Did they do this? Don’t waste time asking yourself questions.”
The driver’s door pocket was empty except for a plastic bag with a few beef jerky wrappers. Same for the passenger side, minus the wrappers. Presumably, Costello ate his. The rental agreement was folded up in the glove compartment. Avery was the only name I absorbed before a piece of scrap paper fluttered to the floor mat.
Hand-drawn, filled-in circles and connecting lines. One round scribble was tagged Start. I took a picture of that, too, tossed the scrap back into the glove compartment and turned off the ignition. The dash lights shut down and the GPS screen went dark.
That’s when I spotted them. Two dots no bigger than the head of a pin stuck to the GPS screen. Pink. I ran my fingertip over them. Hard, like plastic.
“Or nail polish.”
I squirreled around and stuck my upper body through the opening between the bucket seats. The mud, the paw prints, the nose prints—dry now. I already knew they had a dog. I knew they had a dog with nail polish on its ear. What I knew now was they put the polish on that ear right before the dog got in the backseat. No tea party. No passel of little girls. When Doofus shook, he’d sent a halo of tidewater debris a full three-sixty. Two teensy pearls of still-wet polish made it up front.
Avery and Costello had painted Doofus’s ear, covering up something deliberately, like, oh, say a black mark in the shape of a C. A dog in disguise.
Time for Plan B. Technically, Plan A, since I’d begun with no plan whatsoever.
I called Gertie.
As soon as she picked up, I said, “Don’t say anything.”
“Hi, Bub. Thanks for calling back,” she hollered into the phone.
I banged my head on the steering wheel. “Gertie, listen. I am going to steal the car. There’s too much evidence here, and I need them stranded so they can’t get to the dog and finish the job.”
The sound of silverware on plates, and a belch came over the line.
“Excuse me, Bub.” Gertie shouted, “No shovels, you say. For how long?”
“Two, three hours. Tops.”
“Make it seven.”
“Six.”
“And a half.”
“Done.”
CHAPTER 15
It was a stripped down version of a car so mundane, I couldn’t tell you the make or model of the thing. My bike fit in the trunk, no problem. I angled the handlebars and lowered the lid with both arms and the lock clicked shut.
The only high-end interior accoutrements
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