Murder Most Irritating by John Duckworth

Author:John Duckworth [Duckworth, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781647346980
Publisher: City Lights Press
Published: 2020-06-16T16:00:00+00:00

The second I climbed into the Prius I tossed the MB7890 onto the passenger seat. Thanks, Marvin, I thought.

The black Volvo was waiting at a stop sign, ready to leave the lot. A Mercedes in a Volvo, I thought. I’d have to remember that hilarious irony in case I lived through this.

I followed it into traffic, trying to keep at least one car between us. Where were we going? Wherever it was, it wasn’t back to the office.

Before long we were on Airport Way South, going north. Every other sign seemed to have the word Boeing on it. Boeing Field, Boeing Military Flight Center, Aviation Partners Boeing, Boeing Radiation Effects Lab. Overhead, 757s and 767s rose into the clouds. Something called the Museum of Flight was around here somewhere, according to a billboard, and a couple of helicopters cut across the sky in front of me, their shadows rippling on the highway.

The Volvo signaled right. I matched it. I was directly behind Ms. Pierce now, trying not to look conspicuous. We pulled into the industrial district, passing old brick factories, fenced-in patches of electrical transformers, and small but trendy-looking restaurants.

Suddenly, without signaling, the Volvo veered to the right, into an alley. I continued straight down the street, not wanting to follow. A block later I parked in front of an anonymous storefront with boarded-up windows.

I opened my door, then froze. Across the street, in front of a vacant lot, sat another vehicle I hadn’t noticed before. There was no one at the wheel.

It was a gray Hyundai SUV.

I hesitated. Was it the gray Hyundai SUV?

If it was, what should I do?

I bit my lip. Whatever I did, I had to do it quickly. Ms. Pierce hadn’t turned down an alley to freshen her makeup, though it might have been a good idea. If she was meeting someone, the conversation wouldn’t be leisurely. She could be gone by the time I got there.

I stepped out and locked the car, then stayed close to the storefronts as I hurried back toward the alley. The smell of curry hung in the air, probably because I was passing a place with a sign that said TASTE OF DELHI. Then came a cell phone repair shop. A bicyclist wearing magenta Spandex and a helmet pedaled past, going the other way. A normal enough neighborhood, I told myself.

My pace slowed as I reached the alley, then came to a full stop. Cautiously I stole a glance around the corner.

At first all I saw was a blue dumpster. Then I saw the rear of the black Volvo further down the alley, parked in the shadows.

I sidled toward the dumpster, my tweedy brown editor’s blazer snagging on the brick wall behind me. Slowly I moved around the edge of the huge metal box, wrinkling my nose at the smell of banana peels and more curry.

Two figures sat in the car, in profile, facing each other. Ms. Pierce was in the driver’s seat. On the passenger side was a man I didn’t recognize.

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