Read Online Here Comes the Night by Linda McDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda McDonald
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other office. I got this asshole.”
Chapter 35
The Mustang sat bathed in halogen spots, which cast a
surreal light under the ragged night sky. The vehicle had been driven as far
off the road as it would go and then abandoned under a giant catalpa tree, key
still in the ignition.
Detective Harry “Horse” Douglas, in an ugly, rumpled brown
suit, studied the car’s front grill as a crime scene tech collected blood and
hair samples.
Horse glanced up as his partner Edgars arrived, and waved
him over. In his 50's, Horse’s beer belly now protruded beyond any possibility
of a buttoned suitcoat. He noticed as Edgars moved their way that he was
wearing yet another new cowboy hat.
In spite of his own slovenly habits, Horse mildly
disapproved of the younger detective’s Stockyards City look. The carefully
distressed Levi’s, western style suitcoats and boots screamed clotheshorse to
him. For all he knew, the kid had never seen a ranch, whereas Horse’s own
father had dressed as a cowboy every day of his life because he was one. And
nothing had made Harry Sr. prouder than when his boy got a career where he wore
a suit to work.
“Nice hat,” Horse said by way of greeting.
Edgars tipped the brim in response. He nodded to the tech,
took out his iPhone, and started punching information into the keyboard. “I
checked my odometer when I left. This is less than ten miles away from the
crime scene. Somebody panicked pretty quick.”
“Yeah. Looks like we got hair and blood on the grill.
Probably mixes of the girl and the horse.” Then, referring to the forensics
officer. “He’s almost done, and we can get a look inside the car. But we won’t
need that to identify the owner.”
“Yeah? What, you psychic now?”
“Take a look at this,” Horse said, nodding with his head to
follow him.
When they were in the rear of the car, Horse pointed to the
Mustang’s license plate. QRTBACK.
“It’s custom. Should be an easy look-up,” Edgars said.
“Yeah,” Horse said, “except we won’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I know who this belongs to. Seen it around a million
times. It’s one of my heroes.”
“Who?”
“Buck Dearmore.”
“No fucking way,” Edgars answered, shocked. “For real?”
Horse nodded. “Maybe somebody stole it,” Edgars suggested.
“I ran it through,” Horse said. “Nobody’s reported it.”
The tech nodded his head at them. “Okay, I’m finished enough
you can go ahead and take a look inside.”
Horse and Edgars snapped on latex. After nothing jumped out
inside the car, they opened the glove box.
“You got his phone, so you can check his calls,” the tech
said. “The car itself is pretty clean. Looks like somebody wiped it down, but I
lifted some partials. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Horse checked out the fancy screen and was relieved he knew
enough to pull up the phone’s history. The last two missed calls were from two
different unknown numbers, at 6:20 and again at 9:02. He decided to wait until
they got back to the station to run a trace on them. There wasn’t much more to
do here.
Horse still couldn’t believe it. Hell, he’d met Buck
Dearmore, shook his hand. The man had been a cottage industry in this state at
one time. If the ex-Sooner was a lush, Horse had never heard about it, and that
kind of celebrity gossip usually blew through the police station like an
airborne virus.
The whole deal was like discovering some coach played with
little boys. This just wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with All-Americans.
Chapter 36
Angie sat in a holding cell with an assortment of
prostitutes, drunks, and bruised faces. She’d sobered up just enough that it
hurt to move her head, even a quarter of an inch. They’d bandaged her cut hand,
but were unwilling to dispense any pain pills. Some bullshit about liability.
At least her throbbing head might keep her alert, she
thought. And with the women in here, she’d better be. They’d been ogling her
silk outfit.
Chapter 35
The Mustang sat bathed in halogen spots, which cast a
surreal light under the ragged night sky. The vehicle had been driven as far
off the road as it would go and then abandoned under a giant catalpa tree, key
still in the ignition.
Detective Harry “Horse” Douglas, in an ugly, rumpled brown
suit, studied the car’s front grill as a crime scene tech collected blood and
hair samples.
Horse glanced up as his partner Edgars arrived, and waved
him over. In his 50's, Horse’s beer belly now protruded beyond any possibility
of a buttoned suitcoat. He noticed as Edgars moved their way that he was
wearing yet another new cowboy hat.
In spite of his own slovenly habits, Horse mildly
disapproved of the younger detective’s Stockyards City look. The carefully
distressed Levi’s, western style suitcoats and boots screamed clotheshorse to
him. For all he knew, the kid had never seen a ranch, whereas Horse’s own
father had dressed as a cowboy every day of his life because he was one. And
nothing had made Harry Sr. prouder than when his boy got a career where he wore
a suit to work.
“Nice hat,” Horse said by way of greeting.
Edgars tipped the brim in response. He nodded to the tech,
took out his iPhone, and started punching information into the keyboard. “I
checked my odometer when I left. This is less than ten miles away from the
crime scene. Somebody panicked pretty quick.”
“Yeah. Looks like we got hair and blood on the grill.
Probably mixes of the girl and the horse.” Then, referring to the forensics
officer. “He’s almost done, and we can get a look inside the car. But we won’t
need that to identify the owner.”
“Yeah? What, you psychic now?”
“Take a look at this,” Horse said, nodding with his head to
follow him.
When they were in the rear of the car, Horse pointed to the
Mustang’s license plate. QRTBACK.
“It’s custom. Should be an easy look-up,” Edgars said.
“Yeah,” Horse said, “except we won’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I know who this belongs to. Seen it around a million
times. It’s one of my heroes.”
“Who?”
“Buck Dearmore.”
“No fucking way,” Edgars answered, shocked. “For real?”
Horse nodded. “Maybe somebody stole it,” Edgars suggested.
“I ran it through,” Horse said. “Nobody’s reported it.”
The tech nodded his head at them. “Okay, I’m finished enough
you can go ahead and take a look inside.”
Horse and Edgars snapped on latex. After nothing jumped out
inside the car, they opened the glove box.
“You got his phone, so you can check his calls,” the tech
said. “The car itself is pretty clean. Looks like somebody wiped it down, but I
lifted some partials. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Horse checked out the fancy screen and was relieved he knew
enough to pull up the phone’s history. The last two missed calls were from two
different unknown numbers, at 6:20 and again at 9:02. He decided to wait until
they got back to the station to run a trace on them. There wasn’t much more to
do here.
Horse still couldn’t believe it. Hell, he’d met Buck
Dearmore, shook his hand. The man had been a cottage industry in this state at
one time. If the ex-Sooner was a lush, Horse had never heard about it, and that
kind of celebrity gossip usually blew through the police station like an
airborne virus.
The whole deal was like discovering some coach played with
little boys. This just wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with All-Americans.
Chapter 36
Angie sat in a holding cell with an assortment of
prostitutes, drunks, and bruised faces. She’d sobered up just enough that it
hurt to move her head, even a quarter of an inch. They’d bandaged her cut hand,
but were unwilling to dispense any pain pills. Some bullshit about liability.
At least her throbbing head might keep her alert, she
thought. And with the women in here, she’d better be. They’d been ogling her
silk outfit.
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