Free Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) by Larissa Reinhart Page A

moment later, a giant man and a small jumble of fur popped out of the woods.
    “Hey there,” the giant called. The man’s t-shirt strained to hold his girth, and I caught belly peekage. His toes hung over his flip flops. The fur yapped and strained at the leash, eager to inspect us.
    “Hey yourself. Are you the driver of that rig?” I relaxed my stance and Todd dropped his hand. I bent over to let the giant hamster smell my hands. “You’re a cute, little thing.”
    “She’s Princess Yapadoodle. I’m Joe, and yep, that’s my Bulldog. My Mack truck. Hauling wine through the Bible belt.” He grinned. “Y’all stopping through to the Big A? Sorry if I scared you. Princess needed to tee-tee.”
    “Actually we’re local,” I said. “I’m Cherry and this here is Todd. Did you know a truck was hijacked here last night?”
    Joe’s jowls brushed his neck as he nodded. “That news spreads fast. Heard about it at the Flying J outside Birmingham.”
    “What are folks saying?”
    “Most are shocked. I knew the driver from a mutual acquaintance. Got a wife and kids in Chattanooga. You know he wasn’t even supposed to be driving? Took the shift when the original driver got tossed in the can for drunk driving. I believe he’s from these parts.”
    “That’s bad luck,” said Todd. “Pick up an extra shift and get jacked.”
    Princess barked and turned three circles. Joe glanced down at the mop of fur. “Princess’s got to go tooty. She didn’t finish her business.”
    “Be safe, Joe,” I said.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Joe saluted me. “Y’all have a nice night.” He pulled Princess back toward the woods.
    I glanced at the patrolman, still leaning against his vehicle and watching us. “I’m glad he’s there for Joe’s sake.”
    Todd watched the giant clomp through the trees. “I don’t think many people would bother Joe. He could crush a person with his thumb.”
    “I don’t think a thumb can crush a handgun.” I scowled. “That semi-automatic sure did a number on poor Tyrone. Where was the state patrol when he was getting shot?”

     

Nine

    The next morning, the drive to Atlanta took an hour. And given the confusing lack of signage accompanied with the winding streets of residential Buckhead, finding the home of my newest patron, Rupert Agadzinoff, took even longer.
    The trip gave me time to ponder my predicaments including Shawna’s missing pictures, the Bear’s dubious offer of help, and the hijacking. The sharp barb of guilt over Tyrone Coderre’s murder had caught and dug into my conscience. I hoped the police would have some news for the Coderres before my visit with Luke that night. I didn’t look forward to admitting I could have prevented Tyrone’s death and didn’t expect the Coderres to take that fact too kindly.
    The tree-lined drive to Mr. Agadzinoff’s address curved up a steep hill graced with a palatial antebellum home. My Datsun chugged up the drive, while I squished my mouth to the side and studied the Tara knock-off. Max’s house was bigger, but Agadzinoff would have paid more for the zip code. What was it with these Ruskies and their plantation fantasies?
    I parked in the donut drive and slid out of the Datsun with my portfolio case. While I waited on the wide, brick stoop, I admired the ornamentals and the decorative metal bracketing on the tall, graceful windows on the first floor. Not the usual plantation decor, but Agadzinoff did live in the city, and I supposed lawyers might need to protect themselves from irritable clients.
    After a few minutes, my ding-dong was answered by a woman dressed in a study of gray chromatics starting at her feet with expensive looking charcoal pumps and gradually lightening to her smoke gray blouse. Her white-gold hair had been tightened into a bun, the strands refused release even with their good behavior.
    “May I help you?” Her sharp, blue eyes combed over my contract outfit. Boots and an orange tank dress I had decorated with