Free The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart Page B

looked up at the hard, slate-colored clouds drifting across the sky from the west. In the distance came a rumble of thunder. He hadn’t listened to the weather report, but it looked like a storm was brewing. Easing upright, he unzipped hisjacket, then took off again, this time more slowly. He was working out the kinks in his legs when he saw it, the charred wreckage of a car down in a deep ditch.
    â€œWhat the hell,” he whispered. Moving sideways down the embankment to get a closer look, he saw that it was a newer car. A Mazda or a Honda. There was no sign of the driver inside, so hopefully he’d gotten out. Randy tried to imagine what had happened. An overheated engine? Or maybe the gas tank had caught fire when the car hit the ditch.
    Walking through the wet, matted weeds, he saw that some of the brush around the car was blackened, but thankfully it had been a wet spring, otherwise the flames might have caused a grass fire.
    Randy stood for a moment more, wondering if he should call the cops. There was no rational reason not to, except that every time he reached for the cell phone in the pocket of his jacket, something stopped him.
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” he said finally. He tapped in 411 and asked to be connected to the police. He reported the car, gave his name and address, the approximate location along Potter Road, then hung up.
    â€œStupid,” he said as he climbed back up to the road and continued with his run.
    Â 
    Cordelia waited outside the the two-story building on Lyndale Avenue, where
City Beat’s
offices were located. She’d been there for all of two minutes when Melanie walked out.
    â€œHey, Gunderson,” she called, her back pressed against the side of her Hummer.
    Melanie gave her an annoyed look and walked in the opposite direction.
    â€œYou can outrun me, but I’ll hunt you down. You know I will.”
    Melanie stopped, turned around. “I’m not interested in an argument.”
    Cordelia held up her hands. “Just wanna talk. Nice and friendly.”
    â€œYeah, I’ll bet.”
    â€œCome on. Do I look
that
disagreeable?” She’d worn her favorite new outfit—brown gaucho pants that ended just below the knee, long black leather boots with one-inch heels, a blousey embroidered silk tunic tied at the waist, and to top it off, a flat-brimmed black gaucho hat. She looked spectacular, if she did say so herself.
    â€œI’ve got an appointment,” said Melanie.
    â€œYeah. With me.”
    â€œYou are so frustrating!”
    â€œCan’t we just talk about your investigation like two adults?”
    â€œI’m an adult. Where are we gonna get the other one?”
    â€œFunny.” Cordelia wiped a spot off the hood of her Hummer.
    â€œThat thing belong to you?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?”
    â€œI suppose you drive a Prius.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do.”
    â€œBoy, I can see why we split. We’ve got nothing in common.”
    â€œAmen.”
    â€œI make all the stupid choices and you make all the smart ones. Like smoking.”
    â€œI’m not having this conversation.” She turned, but before she got more than a few feet, Cordelia was next to her.
    â€œYou hungry?” she asked.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I’m starving.”
    â€œWell, there. We agree on that. There’s a restaurant just up the street. I’ll buy you dinner.”
    Melanie groaned. “If I have dinner with you, will you leave me alone, not bother me anymore?”
    â€œDeal.”
    Â 
    Over tapas, they talked turkey about Melanie’s investigation. After a good hour of heated conversation, they agreed that they were unlikely to reach a detente, but by then they were both in much better moods due to the bottle of red wine they’d consumed. The discussion moved back to their breakup—how different they were, and why they could never live