Read Online Protect and Serve Don't Need A Hero by Lena Austin - Free Book Online Page A

conversation with Rat when the cell service made reception snowier than a Christmas morning in Denver frustrated the shit out of me.
    “Sorry for the (static) but I’ll be back in a (static) weeks.” Rat’s voice was so far away I had to restrain myself from shouting into the phone for fear he wouldn’t hear me.
    “Working a schedule board for one project drives me bat crap, much less six. Why can’t you manage it yourself from there?” So what if I was whining? Desperate times call for desperate measures. I knew the answer, but I had to make the point.
    “Reception sucks, that’s why!” Amazingly, that line came through loud and clear. Worse, Rat was shouting loud enough to make my ears ring. “Suck it up until I get back, girlfriend.” Then the line went dead. Crappy reception! You’d think a bunch of wealthy Arabs would have decent cell towers and satellite.
    I put a data stick in the file cabinet, slammed the drawer, and gave the digital screen one last tweak before shutting it down. “Thank God it’s Friday!”
    “I can agree with that.” My favorite cop lounged in the doorway of Rat’s office, all slinky panther grace. He was already out of uniform, wearing a classic pair of khakis and an open-throated camp shirt. Yummy! We had a date to check out a property off Mill Creek, in a formerly exclusive island community, complete with bridge.
    I practically ran -- okay, hobbled in a hurry -- to his car, but “sucked it up” and didn’t bitch on the ride. We crossed onto the island in no time. As soon as he turned into the formerly gated community, I got a weird sense of déjà vu.
    The red sides of a fake covered bridge had faded, making it even more rustic than its designers had originally intended. The inside of the bridge was dark, but mercifully short. Yeah, like it was so difficult to cross a creek so small a man could jump it, but apparently the residents had felt they needed their road pass over said creek. Weirdos.
    Apollo kept right on driving, maneuvering his patrol car around road debris, a fallen tree, and the creeping vegetation slowly taking over the road. His truck was sturdy enough to power over the vegetation creeping over what had been a paved road. “Damned kudzu,” he muttered.
    Each house sat on its own seven or so acres, each private estate of overgrown lawns where the normally unwelcome native flora and fauna now held sway. The wealthy owners and gardeners were long gone, and good riddance. Most of the houses were falling down, and many looked like the next hurricane would blow them apart like a pile of matchsticks.
    “You want a house here?” I looked out the window and shuddered. The carpenter in me itched to get my hands on the houses and save them. I wondered if I did a title search, maybe I could buy up the land for cheap. Note to self: buy the island. I hadn’t confessed to Apollo how rich Beans was making me. I didn’t want to be a wealthy rural socialite, anyway. However, Three Amigos Construction had made me rich, and Beans was doing a good job of making me filthy fucking rich.
    “Just one in particular.” Apollo turned the truck down a barely discernible driveway between two pillars. “The owner actually owns the entire island, but her rental properties are… Um…”
    “Let’s call them unoccupied.” I grinned at him and pointed at a small herd of mule deer in the clearing. “Sort of unoccupied. Why this place?”
    “Location, location, location. It’s close enough for me to work, but far enough for the riffraff to be negligible. Besides…”
    He didn’t need to explain more. Around a bend in the drive, a magnificent house I knew well appeared from behind a stand of live oaks. My home. Unlike all the other houses, the palmetto scrub had no claim on the lawn or wraparound porch. It stood in pristine glory, a gracious Victorian old lady waiting in serene silence with a fresh coat of paint.
    I wasn’t sure how I felt now that I was staring right at it.