Free Garden of Evil by Edna Buchanan Page B

man to me.” Lottie’s eyes flashed fire. “Saw him panhandling downtown the other day and nearly stopped—and not to pin a medal on ’im.”
    â€œThe guy’s one hell of a storyteller. I sat right there while Ryan interviewed him. Believed it myself. So did the staff at the homeless shelter; they’re the ones who tipped Ryan off about ’im.” I checked the clock. “Looks like your ex isn’t in the building after all. He’s probably on a plane by now.”
    â€œThink so?” She looked disappointed. “He’s outside, I betcha, watching the exits. Wish I’d lost that ten pounds I’ve been meaning to drop. You kin drive me to my car. I’ll hide in your trunk.”
    â€œNo way, the trunk is not comfy. Why are you so determined to duck him?”
    â€œCuz if I see him, I’m a goner,” she said, focusing on the door behind me.
    â€œThe guy’s probably fat and bald by now. What does he look like anyway?”
    â€œLike that,” she whispered, and licked her lips. “Jist like that.”
    I followed her gaze. A man stood at my elbow, facing her.
    â€œCarlotta Samantha,” he drawled, in a gravelly baritone. “Make a wish.” Their eyes locked.
    â€œWhy, if it isn’t Austin Jeffrey O’Rourke,” she replied, with an air of total surprise.
    He was tall and lean, his black hair curly and his piercing eyes intense. He wore blue jeans and hand-tooled leather boots and exuded a magnetic energy. So did she.
    How perfect they looked together, I thought. I was clearly in the way.
    â€œSit down,” I offered, pushing back my chair. “I was just leaving.”
    He thanked me without taking his eyes off her. She returned his smoldery stare. Neither noticed when I left.
    Â 
    Two messages from Althea waited in the newsroom. I pushed them aside and read the wire copy on the rest-stop murder. Roland Miller, age thirty-six, had been driving a beige Ford Taurus. When he failed to keep his appointment for the Orlando job interview, the company contacted his home. His worried wife called the highway patrol to ask if he had been in an accident. They matched his description to the dead body in Alachua County.
    Charlie was not at his desk but returned my call minutes later. “We’ve got us a helluva breaking story here.” I heard the excitement in his voice.
    â€œDid the Shelby County detectives go down there yet?”
    â€œThey were all over it the minute the Blazer turned up. It’s the break they were waiting for. I just caught up with ’em twenty minutes ago.”
    â€œWhat’d they say? How many times was the victim shot?”
    â€œTwice.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œYou probably already guessed.”
    â€œThe same?”
    â€œHe died a happy man—at least till she pulled the gun on ’im.”
    â€œWhy—”
    â€œMaybe she’s a man-hater.”
    â€œI just saw a short wire story. Why aren’t they releasing more?”
    â€œThey’re about to. Britt?”
    â€œYeah, Charlie?”
    â€œShe shows up on your turf, you sharing information?”
    â€œSure. We’re not competitors. The street runs both ways.”
    â€œOkay,” he said. “The sex angle’s about to hit the fan. We’re running with it too. But there’s something else. Medical examiner down in Alachua saw something that didn’t look right in the cavity at the front of a hollow-point Black Talon he dug outa that poor bastard.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œA pigment that didn’t look right. Not blood or human tissue. He had the detective take it right over to the crime lab and they identified it.”
    â€œWhat was it, Charlie?”
    â€œLipstick.”
    â€œLipstick?”
    â€œThey’re thinking she kissed the bullet, left traces of lipstick on it, ’fore she loaded the gun.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œSend a