Free Assassins Bite by Mary Hughes Page A

looks exactly like a turtle. Well, except that turtles are green, not orange. Sunny?”
    He caught me four feet short. I plastered myself to the wall beside the doorway, imagining myself as a certain sexy shadow while my brother lumbered past. Hardly believing my good luck, I folded around the corner and slid out.
    I clompity-clomped triple-time downstairs. The fresh air cleared my brain. Both Elena and Titus wanted me on patrol. So I’d go on patrol. If I happened to track down Aiden Blackthorne and make Elena proud, bonus.
    As I kicked off, I pulled out my phone and started an Internet search for Dawn Truck Lines. Traditionally Ruffleses couldn’t chew gum and think at the same time, much less walk, but I was a savant Ruffles and had mastered the art of bipedal multitasking. A little solid police work—non-Ruffles police work—netted me both phone number and the exact address of DTL, Thirteenth and Main.
    Being the crafty investigator I was, I phoned to ask if Blackthorne was there.
    A sensual female voice greeted me. “Kitty speaking. May I help you?” The purred emphasis left no doubt that “helping” would involve liberal rubbing of body parts.
    I cleared my throat. “Is Aiden Blackthorne there?”
    â€œ Oh , yes. Aiden is here.” She extended the O with an rgasm , and caressed his name so intimately it made me want to drive pencils into my eyes. “He’s bucking freight,” giving bucking a roll which made me want to stick the pencils in her eyes. “I’ll have him come to the phone. May I tell him who’s calling?”
    I hung up.
    So. He was there. While, yay, I’d overcome my Ruffles DNA to put in solid police work tracking Blackthorne down, boo, I’d left my car at home. Dawn Truck Lines was over a mile from the cop shop and though I can run a fifteen-minute mile, it wasn’t in shoes that would double as clown cars. Hopefully bucking freight meant he was stuck loading and would be there for a bit.
    I’d gone maybe a block when a warning ruffled my nape. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping for dark sexy shadows, but a guy in a lumpy butterscotch parka schlepped along behind me, talking on his phone. I sped up, springing a few drops of worry.
    At the corner, I dropped south.
    The guy dropped south too.
    Throat tight, I sped up again.
    The guy edged into a lope. Catching up.
    My belly filled with acid. No Jonesy to back me up this time. If the Lumpy Parka attacked, I had two options—run or go nuclear.
    Yes, I’m a cop and should have been able to impose my authority. But I’m small. While the stone can take several jabs from the pitcher, unless the pitcher wants to be broken and defenseless, it can only take one hit from the stone. If I can, I avoid or defuse the situation. But I only have one shot, so for me, it’s off, or it’s on. Kicking and scratching, bones breaking…
    We hit Fifth Street. I turned west.
    He peeled off south toward Kangaroo Comics.
    My heart gradually slowed. I was at an intersection doing my look-both-ways—it’s a Meiers Corners thing—and my pulse was almost normal when the black sedan screeched up to, and nearly past, the four-way stop.
    Face-to-face with the rear window, I thought I was looking into a mirror. Dark eyes confronted me. Oval face. Features hardened by the mirrored glass.
    I looked so angry, so…feral.
    Wait. The dark, short hair wasn’t the bowl-bob cut I’d worn since kindergarten.
    The resemblance shattered. The glass was a window, not a mirror. The woman’s face wasn’t mine—but I did recognize it. My first night as an RVPD cop, I’d memorized everything about the experience I could, including the Most Wanted posters. That was Elle Louise Smith, wanted for drug dealing, armed robbery and murder.
    Shock sang through me. A murderer, here?
    The sedan pulled forward, gathering speed. I pursued, clomping as fast as I could.