Free Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) by Joni Rodgers

your vehicle, sir.”
    Van Reuse crashed out of the Lincoln, shouting at Shep that he was a pervert and about to die. Raising his window, locking the doors, Shep kept the camcorder running. He wanted an iron-clad close-up ID of the subject along with the verbally abusive and downright loco behavior. Van Reuse strode to the rear of the Navigator and brought out a tire iron.
    “Sir, you do not want to do that.” Shep called through the closed window. “Listen, sir. Mr. Van Reuse? Listen to me.”
    They never listened.
    “Fuck you, asshole!” Van Reuse bellowed, and the rear window of the Range Rover exploded.
    “Mr. Van Reuse? Sir, you’re only making this worse for yourself.”
    The tire iron jabbed through the passenger side window and raked across the hood. The windshield spider-webbed and sagged.
    “Ah, God damnit,” Shep groaned.
    He spurred his headlights and caught a fleeting bit of footage of the babysitter running down the street, her Hello Kitty backpack bouncing off her shoulders. As the Range Rover roared away from the intersection, the tire iron clanged against the rear quarter-panel and bangaranged on the pavement.
    Shep cursed and lowered the driver’s side window, completing the involuntary cross-breeze as he headed toward the freeway. He was going to require a beer before going home. And a coin-operated car vacuum. It was Shep’s job to deliver Charlie to daycare every morning, and Libby would not be amused if she saw her son’s little safety seat filled with auto glass niblets.
    The cell vibrated in his breast pocket. He fished it out and checked the caller ID.
    Suri Fitch.
    Shep said, “Hey, boss.”
    “Good evening, Mr. Hartigate,” said Suri. “Did you bag Van Reuse?”
    “Paper or plastic?”
    “Sweet. Upload the video and e-mail a link as soon as you get home, will you? I’m anxious to see it.”
    “No problem.”
    “Why so noisy on your end?”
    “Got the top down.”
    “Ah. How Roman Holiday of you, Shep. Hang onto your Fedora.”
    He enjoyed the way she said his name, enjoyed the easy back-and-forth they’d settled into over the last year. The honeysuckle texture of Suri’s laughter combined with her all-business demeanor to create a short-skirt-long-jacket brand of sexy.
    Smartie Breedlove had been the anti-Janny with her generous curves and petite stature; every time Shep watched Suri walk purposefully down the hallway, he was instantly returned to everything he loved about Janny’s long, lean legs and angular body. Suri had the same strong lines and unquestionable right ness with which Janny had always carried herself.
    In the ultra-modern glass and steel construct of their workplace, Suri’s private office was a tastefully sensual haven of rich fabrics, soft side chairs, and warm wooden fixtures. In an intricately carved box on her desk, she kept a collection of little elephants carved from soapstone and tiger’s eye, and she played with them sometimes when she was thinking.
    “It’s getting late,” Shep said casually. “Why don’t I stop by the office and see you to your car?”
    He’d wait until they were in the elevator together before he suggested they go for a drink. Get her to a bar. Take it from there.
    “You’re very thoughtful, Shep, but Mr. Barth is here.”
    Shep’s shoulders sagged a little. Oh, well. Worth a try.
    “Shep, could I trouble you to take care of one other tiny thing?”
    “Sure, boss.”
    “I had a rather odd conversation this afternoon,” said Suri. “This new client is supposedly announcing her intent to file tonight.”
    “Supposedly?”
    “I got a frisson that something was off.” Suri retreated just short of anything that might sound like an accusation. “It’s a bit late, but I wish you’d pop round and verify that she made good on her intention and the spouse is off the premises. For her safety, or however you care to spin it.”
    “Got it.”
    Suri gave him the address, but Shep’s hand stopped midway as he jotted it