Murder on the Brewster Flats by Aaron Paul Lazar

Author:Aaron Paul Lazar [Lazar, Aaron Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: young love, music, Beach, family feud, Murder, pirates, treasure
Published: 2018-01-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

I’ve come to depend way too much on my GPS and Siri. Thankfully the directions Finn gave me were easy enough to follow.

What wasn’t so easy was maneuvering through the flooded streets, fire trucks, rescue crews, people in canoes and kayaks, and the occasional stranded minivan that lay nose-deep in gutter water.

By the time we spotted the green and white sign for the Brewster police facility, I’d already had to drive up on people’s lawns (sorry, but not really) and blast my way through deep streams of water. The little buggy was a tough vehicle, designed for rough terrain and set up with a high undercarriage, and for that, I was grateful.

The police parking lot was jammed with cars and people. A double line streamed out the front door and halfway down the lot.

Camille and I exchanged a worried glance.

“No way,” she muttered.

“Doesn’t look too good, babe.”

We sat for a minute and watched a never-ending procession of cars swarm into the parking area behind us.

“Look at them all,” she said.

“I know, right? This isn’t going to work,” I said. “And if we don’t move, we’ll get trapped here.”

“Let’s go,” Camille tapped the dashboard. “We’ll try to find a pay phone. Maybe we can get through that way.”

Yet again, I had to veer up onto the beautiful lawn of the police facility to avoid the triple line of traffic now trying to jam into the parking area. Once out, we began to scout for a phone along Main Street.

There aren’t many pay phones left in the modern world, let me tell you that.

We finally found one at a gas station that was actually working. Miraculously, Camille found some quarters in her purse. When 911 didn’t work, I tried dialing “O” for operator, like we used to do. No answer. Then 411 for information. Busy, busy, busy. I wanted to try the local station number. I even tried to get information for the FBI phone number. But since our phones weren’t working, and some nice citizen had ripped out the old phone book from the chain in the booth, we were out of luck. I doubted if the FBI was actually “listed” anyway. After ten minutes of busy signals, we gave up.

“Gus?” Camille said, leaning against the building. “Where do you really think she’d take the baby?”

I slammed the receiver back on its hook. “Hell, I’ve got no idea.”

“Listen. I’ve been thinking about this.” She took both of my hands in hers and met my eyes. “What makes you think she didn’t go back to her own house?”

“Well, I—” Stunned, I stood silently for a minute.

I’d instantly assumed that if she kidnapped a child, she’d need to disappear. She’d run. She’d hide. And her own home certainly wouldn’t give her anonymity.

“She doesn’t know you guys escaped from the cellar, right?” Camille continued.

“Right,” I said, warming up to her theory.

“And she might want to be in her ‘safe place’. Her home. Her kitchen.”

“Her dungeon?” I flashed a sardonic smile.

“Well, maybe. Since you said all that treasure’s down there.

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