Read Online Let Sleeping Dogs Lie by Suzann Ledbetter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzann Ledbetter
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backward, whipping her pouffy head. When the collar hung up on her ears, she bared her teeth and growled at him.
"Think you're scary, huh?" Jack tilted down the rearview mirror. "Check it out. You look like an attack hamster with a bad perm."
The Maltese stared at her reflection, then blinked her beady eyes. She tucked her feather-duster tail and sat down like the lady Ms. Pearl had raised her to be.
"Good doggy." He loosened the leash a few inches. She hesitated, then sighed and snuggled against his thigh.
He'd told her owner a rumor was circulating about boarding kennels using customer lists for purposes other than mailing Christmas cards. The disclosure was nearer his hunch than he'd cared to admit, yet it hadn't satisfied Ms. Pearl. She'd pushed for specifics. He refused to slander the three, thus far noncomplicit kennels that catered to an upscale clientele: TLC, Ltd., Home Away and Merry Hills.
"You'll just have to trust me on the details," he'd said. To his surprise, she had.
To the Maltese now sniffing at the air conditioner's exhaust, he said, "You're gonna love this gig. In-room movies, an exercise pool, story hour." Jack grunted. "At forty bucks a day, you'd better love it."
The morning rush hour on Denton Expressway was beginning to congeal. The female driver in the car ahead of him was applying mascara and slaloming between the roadway's painted lines. Jack checked his passenger's side mirror, then the rearview. In the inner lane, a Hummer was several cautious yards behind a pickup, as well as Jack's rear bumper. The compact sedan lagging in the Hummer's considerable shadow had a spidery crack in the upper quadrant of its windshield.
Jack's lips curled tight over his teeth. He hugged the dog to his thigh. The speedometer's needle stuck a hash mark past sixty-five, as though it were glued on. Constantly monitoring the mirrors, a half mile clocked past, then three quarters, then
He punched the accelerator and veered into the gap in front of the Hummer. Tapping the brake pedal, Jack timed the swerve onto Madison Road's off-ramp like a NASCAR contender. The maneuver earned a horn blast from the exiting car he'd cut in front of. Swooping in from nowhere probably scared its driver, but expertise separated careless and reckless from a controlled, slick-as-hell evasion.
Loosening his grip on the Maltese, Jack slowed for the traffic light at the top of the ramp. Below on the expressway, Brett Dean Blankenship's dented Cavalier now tailgated the Hummer like a pesky baby brother. The not-so-ace detective would take the next exit and circle back, for all the good it'd do him.
Jack took a stab at feeling smug. Outwitting the jerk didn't change the fact that four days had elapsed since Blankenship crawled out of his cave and into Jack's car at the motel. Seldom did one ever go by without Jack pissing off somebody, but Blankenship had definitely crossed the line from harassment into stalker territory.
"Lucky for him, you're riding shotgun," he told the dog.
It sneezed and wiped dog snot on his trousers.
"Oh, I hear ya. Moby Dickhead's just begging to get his blubber whipped." Jack signaled for a turn onto Lincoln Avenue. "But a man's got to choose his battles, and Ms. Pearl wouldn't be happy about you seeing me shred that creep like a head of cabbage."
He was still talking tough-guy trash out the side of his mouth and pleased with the effect when he almost drove past Euclid Terrace. Its four double-long blocks surrounded by a crumbling fieldrock wall were a tiny suburb back when lawn tennis and badminton parties were in vogue. By the '70s, the Victorian mansions were shabby white elephants too costly to heat, cool or maintain.
Some chopped up into student apartments were now being restored to their single-family glory, but it was even money which would will out: regentrification or
"Think you're scary, huh?" Jack tilted down the rearview mirror. "Check it out. You look like an attack hamster with a bad perm."
The Maltese stared at her reflection, then blinked her beady eyes. She tucked her feather-duster tail and sat down like the lady Ms. Pearl had raised her to be.
"Good doggy." He loosened the leash a few inches. She hesitated, then sighed and snuggled against his thigh.
He'd told her owner a rumor was circulating about boarding kennels using customer lists for purposes other than mailing Christmas cards. The disclosure was nearer his hunch than he'd cared to admit, yet it hadn't satisfied Ms. Pearl. She'd pushed for specifics. He refused to slander the three, thus far noncomplicit kennels that catered to an upscale clientele: TLC, Ltd., Home Away and Merry Hills.
"You'll just have to trust me on the details," he'd said. To his surprise, she had.
To the Maltese now sniffing at the air conditioner's exhaust, he said, "You're gonna love this gig. In-room movies, an exercise pool, story hour." Jack grunted. "At forty bucks a day, you'd better love it."
The morning rush hour on Denton Expressway was beginning to congeal. The female driver in the car ahead of him was applying mascara and slaloming between the roadway's painted lines. Jack checked his passenger's side mirror, then the rearview. In the inner lane, a Hummer was several cautious yards behind a pickup, as well as Jack's rear bumper. The compact sedan lagging in the Hummer's considerable shadow had a spidery crack in the upper quadrant of its windshield.
Jack's lips curled tight over his teeth. He hugged the dog to his thigh. The speedometer's needle stuck a hash mark past sixty-five, as though it were glued on. Constantly monitoring the mirrors, a half mile clocked past, then three quarters, then
He punched the accelerator and veered into the gap in front of the Hummer. Tapping the brake pedal, Jack timed the swerve onto Madison Road's off-ramp like a NASCAR contender. The maneuver earned a horn blast from the exiting car he'd cut in front of. Swooping in from nowhere probably scared its driver, but expertise separated careless and reckless from a controlled, slick-as-hell evasion.
Loosening his grip on the Maltese, Jack slowed for the traffic light at the top of the ramp. Below on the expressway, Brett Dean Blankenship's dented Cavalier now tailgated the Hummer like a pesky baby brother. The not-so-ace detective would take the next exit and circle back, for all the good it'd do him.
Jack took a stab at feeling smug. Outwitting the jerk didn't change the fact that four days had elapsed since Blankenship crawled out of his cave and into Jack's car at the motel. Seldom did one ever go by without Jack pissing off somebody, but Blankenship had definitely crossed the line from harassment into stalker territory.
"Lucky for him, you're riding shotgun," he told the dog.
It sneezed and wiped dog snot on his trousers.
"Oh, I hear ya. Moby Dickhead's just begging to get his blubber whipped." Jack signaled for a turn onto Lincoln Avenue. "But a man's got to choose his battles, and Ms. Pearl wouldn't be happy about you seeing me shred that creep like a head of cabbage."
He was still talking tough-guy trash out the side of his mouth and pleased with the effect when he almost drove past Euclid Terrace. Its four double-long blocks surrounded by a crumbling fieldrock wall were a tiny suburb back when lawn tennis and badminton parties were in vogue. By the '70s, the Victorian mansions were shabby white elephants too costly to heat, cool or maintain.
Some chopped up into student apartments were now being restored to their single-family glory, but it was even money which would will out: regentrification or
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