Free For the Love of Jazz by Shiloh Walker Page A

notice the patrol car. Larry continued on down the street slowly, circled the block, and came up behind Desmond as he entered the heavier flow of traffic on Main Street. Larry dropped back several car lengths and continued to tail the doc’s fancy, gun-metal gray Mercedes.
    Twice he had to wipe his palms off on his pressed khakis, leaving damp trails down them. As the old man turned off Main Street, headed out of town and hit the highway, sweat started to trickle down the back of Larry’s neck. When the doc punched the gas pedal to the floor and hit seventy in roughly ten seconds flat, a grim smile of satisfaction came on Larry’s face as he flipped on his flashing lights.
    The Kincades liked speed, that was certain. Sure as the sun rose and set, the moment the road opened up, both father and daughter hit the gas.
    The wailing siren split the air as he got on the bumper of the German car. Shoulda bought American, you pissant, he thought, idly imagining himself keying the side of that expensive piece of machinery.
    “What’s the hurry, Doc? Gotta a baby to de-liver out here?” Larry drawled.
    “I’m not an obstetrician or a general surgeon, Deputy. You know that as well as anybody,” Desmond said, teeth clamped around a fat cigar that smelled of foreign, aromatic tobacco. The heady smell of it went straight to Larry’s senses and had him yearning for a taste.
    “Yeah, it’s the daughter that does that sort of thing, ain’t it? No, wait. She works with kids. You getting pretty old to still be cutting around in somebody’s chest, aren’t ya, Doc Kincade?”
    “Apparently not or I wouldn’t still be practicing.” The doctor sucked on the cigar and blew a smoke ring in Larry’s direction before saying, “You just write out that ticket, son.”
    “Where you headed in such an all-fired hurry?” Larry asked, not even reaching for his pad.
    “Out to see a friend,” Desmond answered, staring straight ahead, drumming his fingers on the smooth, leather-covered wheel.
    “That wouldn’t be the McNeil boy, would it?”
    “He’s hardly a boy anymore,” Desmond responded. “But, yes. I am heading out there.”
    “Don’t you think it was time to let bygones be bygones, Doc? I know you miss your boy, but it’s been near twenty years now.” Larry’s sweaty hands had to close twice around his pen before he was able to dig it out of his pocket.
    With an amused smile, Desmond asked, “Do you really think I would wait sixteen years just to pound on him a little? Have some imagination, Larry.” He puffed a little more on the cigar and stubbed it out in the ashtray before raising his eyes to the deputy. “Now are you going to give me that ticket so I can be on my way?”
    Mouth slack, skin pale, he looked from his cruiser back to the Benz, at the doc sitting in his high-priced car in his fine clothes. That damned McNeil brat , he thought with hatred. All his damned fault. If he hadn’t come back here…
    His hand itched, burned almost and before he even realized it, he was reaching for his gun. He had a moment to watch as Desmond’s eyes narrowed. He imagined planting a bullet between those eyes, those smug knowing eyes. A huge blast of air sounded in his ears as an eighteen-wheeler hurtled down the highway, followed by several pickups.
    The final car in the procession was a fire-engine red Mustang convertible. The car pulled up behind Larry’s cruiser and the muscles in his arm went slack as Anne-Marie Kincade climbed out, her heavy fall of black hair flowing free to her shoulders.
    “Hi, Daddy,” she said, crouching by the car, unaware of the tension in the air. “I saw you sitting here while I was heading back into town. I was heading out to see you, thought you’d like to go get a late breakfast.”
    “Miss Kincade…”
    She swung her head around and looked up with mossy green eyes fringed with heavy lashes. “Dr. Kincade, Deputy,” she corrected, rising to her feet. In her heeled boots, she barely