Revenge of the Killer Flamingos by Patricia Burroughs

Author:Patricia Burroughs [Burroughs, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Book View Cafe

15

I was glad Sophie was at her desk and answered when I called to tell Ben I was running late and would meet him at the station so I could leave a message and not talk to him. My brain was scrambled. My heart was scrambled.

And yes, I was running late, but no, I wasn’t driving like a bat out of the netherworld when I finally approached the police station.

That was the other car. The VW that swerved around traffic and zipped in front of me, almost clipping my headlight, to get the last parking space in the close-up parking lot.

And no, I didn’t blow my horn or give her a piece of my mind—even within the confines of my car. Partly because when things like that happen, I actually have excellent reflexes. I have wondered if when my brain doesn’t have time to react it kind of acts at lightning speed.

But those reflexes and reactions never include honking the horn.

By the time I realize the disaster I averted and get annoyed enough to honk the horn? I end up annoyed at myself for not honking the horn when I should’ve because it’s always too late by then.

Except this time, the reason I didn’t honk the horn was because my jaw was hanging open.

Jazzmyn Johnson had screeched into that last space, parked crooked, one tire up over the curb and plowed into a flowerbed, and was even now flying across the parking lot toward the station, her beautiful white and fuchsia and purple hair flying behind her.

The expression on her face was pure-dee rage.

Okay, this is when I ended up being the one in “that car” that swerved in front of an oncoming vehicle to get the last parking space on the street. By the time I was out of my car and noticing that said vehicle contained my temporary boss and also client—this was getting confusing—I couldn’t care less. Instead I just called out to him, “Something big’s happening!”

I am not sure if his window was open, though. But he should be able to figure out for himself that the three TV news station trucks and vans meant something big was happening.

It didn’t take long to figure out what the media was salivating over and why Jazz was beside herself. “Let me through,” she kept saying, pushing at people’s backs, but they all ignored her. A barricade held onlookers back. Reporters with microphones and cameramen were in front of it, which I guess means the cops trust the media to stay in their place and out of the way.

Excuse me while I laugh.

Two squad cars pulled up had ASHEVILLE written on their sides in fat block letters that looked as though someone had cut them out of a poster of the city’s skyline. Three officers came from inside the station to assist the driver and—

Our detective, as a matter of fact. Detective Morales. When was she planning to let me know our interview was cancelled, I wondered snippily.

The first cop worked to get something out of the trunk.

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