Read Online One Deadly Sin by Annie Solomon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annie Solomon
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He had an odd impulse to go back and ask her to dinner. Or lunch, maybe. Yes, lunch would be more appropriate. He might even enjoy talking with a woman closer to his own age. He’d enjoyed talking with her just now.
But he couldn’t imagine her sitting next to him in his gleaming Corvette. He’d look ridiculous. He needed someone pretty and young sitting there.
So he suppressed that fleeting impulse and opened the car door. Was about to toss his briefcase inside, when his smile chilled. Something on the passenger seat. Something small and black.
Tentatively, he leaned over the driver’s side and poked at it. The thing rolled on its back, and sent a ripple of apprehension down Dennis Runkle’s spine.
A tiny black angel. Just like the one Fred Lyle had received right before his death.
What the—
He slid behind the wheel. Stared at it. How long had it been there? Up until the afternoon he’d had folders and papers piled up on that seat, ready to move them to the new office. Had someone tossed it in days ago and he hadn’t seen it? Or had someone placed it there today? A few minutes ago.
He looked around. No one on the street. He started the engine and slowly rolled down the road. No one hiding behind trees or shrubs.
He started to sweat.
Anyone could have done this. In good weather, he always kept the top down. He liked to show off.
But now… He’d been foolish to expose himself all this time.
He sped away and as soon as he saw a public lot—Myer’s Gas Station—he pulled in, quickly raised the car top, locked it in place, and rolled up the windows. Feeling safer, he sped off again, blasting the air-conditioning. He was absurdly hot.
He glanced at the dark little creature, so like a devil’s messenger. Another shiver ran through him.
What did it mean? Some kind of voodoo?
Suddenly, he grabbed the figure, yanked open the glove compartment, and threw it inside.
But still, he couldn’t breathe easier. He couldn’t breathe at all.
He gripped the wheel. His throat was closing up. He gasped, desperate for air, and clutched his neck. The car swerved violently. Panic overwhelmed him, and in a violent jolt, he understood what was happening. But the knowledge came too late.
Holt got the call over the radio while he was doing his afternoon patrol. By the time he got to the accident site there was a small crowd. The town fire truck was there, along with their volunteer crew. A county ambulance stood by. Sam had already set up a perimeter and was holding the curious back.
He drew her away from prying ears. “Status?”
“Dead,” she said.
“I can see that.” He glanced over her shoulder to the wreck. The showy blue convertible was crunched like a tin can against a telephone pole. Dennis Runkle’s body was crushed against the steering wheel.
“Pretty straightforward. Plenty of eyewitnesses,” Sam said, gesturing with her head toward a group separated from the rest. Holt recognized Andy Burkett, who ran Myer’s garage, but he didn’t know the others. “Same story all around,” she said. “He was going fast, lost control, and wham.” She whistled like a mortar traveling overhead and exploding. “I tracked the skids. They jibe with what the witnesses say.”
“Any indication of why he was speeding?”
“Idiocy? I mean, the man was seventy if he was a day. Had no business driving a powerhouse like that to begin with.”
“Ageism, Deputy Fish? Not much of a theory.”
“Okay, so maybe the brakes failed.”
“Wouldn’t be skidmarks if they had.” Holt signaled to Andy Burkett, who ambled over. “You said he was driving fast. Anyone following him?”
The mechanic shook his head. “Just raced down that hill toward the square like a demon was after him.”
“You see one?”
“No, sir.”
“Sam, check with the others.” She went off, and Holt turned back to Burkett. “Can you stand by? We’ll get the body out and you can tow the car.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
Between
He had an odd impulse to go back and ask her to dinner. Or lunch, maybe. Yes, lunch would be more appropriate. He might even enjoy talking with a woman closer to his own age. He’d enjoyed talking with her just now.
But he couldn’t imagine her sitting next to him in his gleaming Corvette. He’d look ridiculous. He needed someone pretty and young sitting there.
So he suppressed that fleeting impulse and opened the car door. Was about to toss his briefcase inside, when his smile chilled. Something on the passenger seat. Something small and black.
Tentatively, he leaned over the driver’s side and poked at it. The thing rolled on its back, and sent a ripple of apprehension down Dennis Runkle’s spine.
A tiny black angel. Just like the one Fred Lyle had received right before his death.
What the—
He slid behind the wheel. Stared at it. How long had it been there? Up until the afternoon he’d had folders and papers piled up on that seat, ready to move them to the new office. Had someone tossed it in days ago and he hadn’t seen it? Or had someone placed it there today? A few minutes ago.
He looked around. No one on the street. He started the engine and slowly rolled down the road. No one hiding behind trees or shrubs.
He started to sweat.
Anyone could have done this. In good weather, he always kept the top down. He liked to show off.
But now… He’d been foolish to expose himself all this time.
He sped away and as soon as he saw a public lot—Myer’s Gas Station—he pulled in, quickly raised the car top, locked it in place, and rolled up the windows. Feeling safer, he sped off again, blasting the air-conditioning. He was absurdly hot.
He glanced at the dark little creature, so like a devil’s messenger. Another shiver ran through him.
What did it mean? Some kind of voodoo?
Suddenly, he grabbed the figure, yanked open the glove compartment, and threw it inside.
But still, he couldn’t breathe easier. He couldn’t breathe at all.
He gripped the wheel. His throat was closing up. He gasped, desperate for air, and clutched his neck. The car swerved violently. Panic overwhelmed him, and in a violent jolt, he understood what was happening. But the knowledge came too late.
Holt got the call over the radio while he was doing his afternoon patrol. By the time he got to the accident site there was a small crowd. The town fire truck was there, along with their volunteer crew. A county ambulance stood by. Sam had already set up a perimeter and was holding the curious back.
He drew her away from prying ears. “Status?”
“Dead,” she said.
“I can see that.” He glanced over her shoulder to the wreck. The showy blue convertible was crunched like a tin can against a telephone pole. Dennis Runkle’s body was crushed against the steering wheel.
“Pretty straightforward. Plenty of eyewitnesses,” Sam said, gesturing with her head toward a group separated from the rest. Holt recognized Andy Burkett, who ran Myer’s garage, but he didn’t know the others. “Same story all around,” she said. “He was going fast, lost control, and wham.” She whistled like a mortar traveling overhead and exploding. “I tracked the skids. They jibe with what the witnesses say.”
“Any indication of why he was speeding?”
“Idiocy? I mean, the man was seventy if he was a day. Had no business driving a powerhouse like that to begin with.”
“Ageism, Deputy Fish? Not much of a theory.”
“Okay, so maybe the brakes failed.”
“Wouldn’t be skidmarks if they had.” Holt signaled to Andy Burkett, who ambled over. “You said he was driving fast. Anyone following him?”
The mechanic shook his head. “Just raced down that hill toward the square like a demon was after him.”
“You see one?”
“No, sir.”
“Sam, check with the others.” She went off, and Holt turned back to Burkett. “Can you stand by? We’ll get the body out and you can tow the car.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
Between
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