Murder in the Extreme by J.T. Kunkel

Author:J.T. Kunkel [Kunkel, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter

Eighteen

Morning came early on Monday. Heather's bedroom door was closed, and I could hear her snoring behind it, so I figured she had come home late. It was unlike her not to text me, call me or leave a note, but she was a big girl, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I did wonder what she was up to, though.

Figuring Heather was the least of my worries, I focused on my trip up to the Bay Area. I had decided against traveling yesterday because I didn't want the hassle of packing and strapping a bag on my Ducati. If I ended up having to stay somewhere on the way home, I'd figure it out then. It wouldn't be the first time I had washed my underwear in a hotel room sink and bought a toothbrush.

When considering my route, since I was time limited, I decided to take the Five North, even though it wasn't as scenic as the Pacific Coast Highway. I would probably take the PCH home if I could make the timing work. I knew of a couple of vintage motels on the coast, which were perfect for a short night's stay if I needed one. I would worry about that later.

I left just before 6 a.m. as the sun was coming up. I savored the smells of the strawberries, grapes, onions, and tomatoes as I passed through the fields of Oxnard. It had been a while since I had come up the Five, and I had forgotten about the cattle yards at Harris Ranch Road, about halfway to San Francisco. The stench of the cattle yards seemed to extend for twenty miles in either direction. I finally pulled over and tied a rag from my saddlebag over my mouth and nose. Note to self: take the scenic route home.

After hitting the typically impossible traffic from Santa Clara to the Bay Bridge, I pulled in front of the police station with fifteen minutes to spare, saved only by the lane splitting law. I debated running into one of the many Chinese restaurants up and down the street but opted for a hot dog and some fries from a street cart. I still had a couple of minutes left before my appointment after I wolfed it down but opted to go inside because I felt vulnerable on the street.

Having come through the same door for the third time in as many weeks was not a particularly comforting feeling. But I was relieved to see that the city's underbelly was still asleep, or at least not here. The waiting room was empty.

There was a young man with multiple tattoos I didn't recognize behind the counter. “May I help you,” he said. I could barely hear him through the bullet-proof glass.

I yelled, probably louder than I needed to. “I'm here to see Detective Morrison. I have an appointment.”

He checked a sheet in front of him. “Ms. Marquette?” He pronounced it 'Markay,' which was an unusual mispronunciation. 'Market' was the most popular, followed up by 'Markwet.

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