Free Deceived by James Scott Bell

she’d come back another time. But she had come all this way, and it was just one guy, and maybe he was a friend of Arty’s or something.
    If she needed to give him a swift kick, she would.
    She stopped the car but kept the engine idling. She got out and stood behind the door.
    “Is Arty home?” she said.
    The guy started down the steps. He wore blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black jacket. He wasn’t bad looking, either. But then, neither was Boyd. Just get that thought out of your mind right now , Roxanne , you idiot.
    “No,” the guy said. “I’ve been trying to reach him.”
    She felt better when he said that. His voice was at least friendly. Still, she was ready to jump in the car and gun it if she had to.
    “You’re a friend of Arty’s?” she asked.
    “A good friend,” he said. He was at the door now. “Daniel MacDonald. People call me Mac.”
    “Oh yeah, Arty mentioned you,” Rocky said. “I’m his sister.”
    “Rocky? Glad to know you.” He stuck out his hand. “I was wondering when we’d meet.”
    “Uh-huh.” She shook his hand. “So any idea where he might be?”
    “No,” Mac said. “I’ve left a couple messages for him. Maybe he’s out with Liz.”
    “Great.”
    “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
    “Nice meeting you,” Rocky said. She started to get back in the car.
    Mac said, “Don’t you want to wait?”
    “Maybe I’ll come back in a while.”
    “I was thinking of grabbing a burrito, if you want to wait with somebody.”
    She was hungry, and a burrito sounded good. Any kind of Mexican food sounded good. But she only had two dollars on her. And she wasn’t exactly ready to socialize with a stranger.
    “Thanks anyway,” she said.
    He said, “Are you sure? It’s about time we got to know each other. Arty’s sister and his bud. Besides which, I’m buying.”
    She hesitated, another refusal on her tongue. But it stayed there. Arty’s friend. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to get close to her brother again. This was a start.
    Besides, she noticed her stomach was playing mariachi music. “You talked me into it.”
    7:03 p.m.
    Liz made herself cry over her husband’s body, even though it was in a zipped-up coroner’s bag. She got the tears flowing as it was shoved into the back of a van, where it would be sent downtown.
    So they said. They seemed as unconcerned about it as if it were a sack of laundry. She guessed that must be the way it is when you handle a lot of dead bodies. Just another day at the office.
    Arty didn’t deserve that. She’d grant him that much. It made it a little easier to cry.
    They were still near the parking lot, she and this guy named Ted, and the detective from the LA County Sheriff ’s office. A woman named Moss. She wore a brown suit with a white blouse, and she had a six-point star on the left side of her belt. She was about forty-five years old. Wheat-colored hair with tight curls that looked like they did pushups. She was throwing around a little too much authority to suit Liz.
    “Once more, Mrs. Towne,” Detective Moss said. “And this will be all for tonight.”
    “I hope so,” Ted Gillespie said.
    Moss turned to him. “I believe a deputy took your statement. Is that correct, Sir?”
    “Yeah — ”
    “Then we’ll be in touch. Thanks for all you’ve done.”
    “I’ll stay.”
    “I’d prefer to speak with Mrs. Towne alone for just a moment, if you don’t mind.”
    Ted glanced at Liz. He had a lost-puppy look. “But somebody needs to take her home,” he said.
    “I can drive,” Liz said.
    “We’ll take care of it,” Moss said. “Thanks again.”
    Ted shuffled his feet but didn’t move in any direction. Then he said to Liz, “Can I check on you tomorrow?”
    “No need,” Liz said.
    “But I want to.”
    “Thank you. I need a few days.”
    “Of course.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Gillespie.” Moss gently pushed his arm and got him started off toward his car. He didn’t move very fast. Like a dinghy