Free Crazy Like a Fox (Lil & Boris #3) (Lil & Boris Mysteries) by Shannon Hill

minutes, thanks to Kurt calling us first. I felt a little queasy when I got out of my cruiser, and for once, Boris stayed right in my arms. He’s a terror in town, but out in the woods, he realizes he’s somebody’s lunch. Punk stuck close, too. He’d napped in the back seat most of the way. Or pretended to. Neither of us had been too happy with Tom ordering him to baby-sit, but it was quicker not to argue.
    Kurt reached out and gave Boris a pat on the head that, if Boris hadn’t been so shocked, would’ve gotten his fingers ripped up. “So that’s the famous cat sheriff,” he said, and waved us further up the road. It was all mud and ruts, and on one side, steep drop-off to Wolf Creek. The melt had the creek rushing at a good clip. If the truck had gone over the edge, it would’ve been months before anyone found it or Craig McElroy. But the turn-off was surprisingly wide, and a narrow path led down to the water. Fishing spot was my guess.
    The F-150 matched the Campbell kid’s description all right. Except for the hole in the driver’s side window. A nearby tree had caught part of the shotgun blast, a few pellets in the bark. The state police crime scene boys were already picking them out.
    I got as close as I dared to study the corpse. The critters had been at it, but I could still tell from the size and build that this could have been Shotgun. Wearing old work boots, jeans, a camouflage-print jacket. He was slumped in a way that suggested he’d been facing someone in the passenger seat when the shot took him. The window had broken from, I would bet, the combined force of his head and the shotgun blast. Safety glass isn’t unbreakable, after all. Just safe.
    I took a closer look. Not easy to do without trampling something. The cab had lots of little holes that had me wondering.
    I walked over to Lieutenant Breeden. We’d faxed or e-mailed every police department in three states with a description of the F-150, the bag the ransom was put in, and the Chevy sedan Tom and Punk had spotted picking up the ransom. We’d had a be-on-lookout, a BOLO, for McElroy, too. It was unsettling to think he’d been that close to home the whole time. When I said as much, Breeden nodded. “Raises some questions.”
    That it did. I gave Punk a go-away look, and he stumped off to rejoin Kurt. Breeden sighed, shoulders drooping. “Any chance you can call off your aunt?”
    “Is there ice skating in hell yet?”
    He sighed again. He’d have been a happier man if he’d broken free of his mother, whose influence Aunt Marge exploited shamelessly to get my way. “Anything you want to know?”
    Lots, but I started with, “McElroy own a Chevy Malibu?”
    “We’re going over his place right now. Last call I got, the guy had six-seven cars in the yard, under tarps, and another four in this old barn. I’ll fax over the information when we’ve got it.”
    I nodded to the truck. “Is it just me or does it look like there might have been two shots fired in there?”
    Breeden shrugged one shoulder. “We bagged two shells. We’ll know more later. Anything else?” He glanced downhill, past me, and his blank face got even blanker. “Chief Rucker’s here.”
    I shifted Boris’s weight and muttered a nasty word.
    “He’s officially in charge, Lil,” said Breeden lamely, “I can’t change that. Neither can you.”
    I snarled, mostly to myself. “If you quote that Saint Francis serenity thing, I’ll throw Boris at you.”
    “You being here is a courtesy, you know that.”
    Which was his way of reminding me I had no official status except as “victim”. Lucky for me, it was pretty clear McElroy had been dead long enough I wasn’t much use as “suspect”.
    Not to say this stopped Rucker from bleating like an old sick bull, “What’s she doin’ here?”
    God bless Breeden. “Identifying the suspect.”
    What remained of the suspect, more like. I retreated to my cruiser before Rucker could huff and puff his way uphill to