Free Don't Kill the Messenger by Eileen Rendahl

garbage to protect her. It’s not like me to willingly take on more household chores. “That’s me,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and unconcerned.
     
“May I come in?” he said.
     
I really didn’t want him in the apartment, but I more didn’t want him out in the hallway broadcasting whatever he was here about to all the neighbors. I sighed, shut the door and took the security chain off and then opened it. “Come on in,” I said, feeling as though I should be humming a Grateful Dead song. I do like to get some sleep before I travel.
     
He stepped in and looked around, then he stuck out his hand. “Officer Ted Goodnight.” He had a nice shake. He didn’t try to break my hand, but he wasn’t weird either. He was, however, tall. I was pretty much staring at the third button down on his uniform shirt.
     
“You’re kidding,” I said, shaking his hand.
     
“No. Not kidding. Why would I be kidding?”
     
Super. A cop with no sense of humor. At seven thirty A.M. He made up for it in the eye-candy category, though. The peephole had not done him justice. Gotta love that California-dude bronzed skin, pouty lips and sunshine-and-surf good looks. And solid. His uniform shirt clung to his shoulders and biceps in a way that left no doubt about what kind of shape this guy was in. Plus, he smelled good. I sniffed. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it made me think of muffins and cookies.
     
Norah stumbled from her room in boxers and a tank top, her hair rumpled in a way that reminded me of a hair product ad. “Cops? In the morning?” She looked at me blearily and not a little affronted.
     
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Norah. Go back to bed.”
     
She nodded. “Don’t tell him anything. You want Ned’s business card?” Norah’s cousin Ned had recently passed the bar and was constantly letting us know that he was available to deal with all our legal needs, should we have any. Since he could barely even parallel park his car, I wasn’t sure he was who I’d want representing me in anything that came up, but the offer was kind.
     
“It’s all right. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I shooed her back to her room, then turned back to Surfer Cop. He was cute enough to make me acutely aware of the fact that my hair was still wet and that I hadn’t put on any makeup yet. At least I’d brushed my teeth, although maybe high-octane morning breath would get him to keep his distance. “It is nothing, right? I’ve got a parking ticket that I haven’t paid or something?” Please, please, please let it be an unpaid parking ticket or a solicitation to buy a ticket to the annual picnic.
     
“Not exactly. Where were you at . . .” He pulled a little notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Ten o’clock last night?”
     
I blinked. Where had I been at ten last night? Oh crap. I’d been running away from where evil creatures were ripping cholos limb from limb and eating them like overcooked beef machaca . “I’m not exactly sure,” I said.
     
“Let me refresh your memory,” Officer Goodnight said. “Someone driving your car and looking a heck of a lot like you on the store’s security camera made a 911 call from the 7-Eleven on Fruitridge regarding some kind of gang fight a few blocks over.”
     
“Really?” I said. “Are you sure?”
     
Officer Goodnight all but rolled his pretty blue eyes. “I’m sure.”
     
“Well,” I said. “There you have it then.”
     
“Not exactly,” he said. “What were you doing there?”
     
“At the 7-Eleven? Being a good citizen and calling in a problem, obviously.” I smiled brightly and cursed my do-gooder inclinations. What did I care about a bunch of gangbangers, right? I only spent the entire night having nightmares about their deaths and felt like there were stones in my chest every time I thought about them. That didn’t constitute caring, right?
     
Now he did roll his eyes. “Ms. Markowitz,” he said.
     
“Melina,” I told him. Ms.