THE HARD WAY IN: A HARRY AND THE HULA GIRL INVESTIGATION by Erbe Leigh

Author:Erbe, Leigh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avondale-Arden Publishing, LLC
Published: 2020-05-26T00:00:00+00:00

42

A Spike In The Death Rate

After all the fun with the judge and his butler, I felt the need to hit the motel for a quick shower and change of clothes, along with a short nap. Then off I sailed to see Gus for a late dinner. And maybe a beer or two or three.

As the Volvo curbed herself in front of the Tam-O’-Shanter, a Kipling PD cruiser pulled in behind me, its siren blip a reminder Kipling cops dogged my every footstep.

Discretion trumping valor, I strolled over, said, “Howdy do,” to John the Cop. Most cops, I think, like a pleasant Howdy do. John, however, proved the exception.

“Cut the crap, Reno. Get in. We’re going for a ride.”

John’s steely cop stare didn’t intimidate me. His hand mimicking a gun pointed at my chest didn’t faze me, either. But why fight fate?

“Front or back?” I asked. The cage did not look inviting. Not at all.

He patted the front seat. “Get in, Harry.” I’m a sucker for anybody who calls me Harry.

John lit the lights, fired up the siren, and we rocketed down Kipling’s main drag, sending cars and pickups running for the sidelines as we headed into the city’s poorer reaches.

“You just don’t remember me, do you, Harry?”

“Nope.” I’d seen him come into The Pioneer one morning, seen him at my motel herding cowboys, but that was it. I said I was certain I would have recalled anyone with his combination of personal charm and Indy 500 driving skills.

“Cut the crap, Harry.”

So I did and hung on tight, trying to conjure a name from back then, stick it on this cop careening through the night. Started with the A’s, then tried the B’s, then . . . well, you get the idea.

By the time I’d run through the alphabet down to the V’s, John was screeching to a halt in front of a dilapidated flophouse. Some of Kipling’s finest were poking around in the alley beside the boarded-up building. An ambulance pulled in behind us.

John headed off to check on his blue brothers. I stayed put.

“Hey, Reno! Over here.” John, his hand waving encouragement. “Come on.”

Rotten smells were seeping out of the alley into the cruiser. So why not mingle with the garbage outside? I shoved my carcass out and headed his way.

The cops were standing around a blue tarp covering a body next to an overturned garbage can. One cop obligingly pulled the tarp away.

I didn’t like what I saw.

She lay on her side, fetal-curled, golden hair floating lifeless in a pool of liquidized crap, a syringe stuck in her arm. Her hustler’s miniskirt rode high above her hips, black panties covering a little, but not much, of her rear. My ex-cop eyes continued inventorying the deceased.

A purse lay next to her, its contents distributed across the pavement. Her halter top had given up trying to conceal her breasts. Someone had ripped it from her shoulders.

It lay across her stomach, spent and finished, just like the woman who had put it on—Elke Sorrenson, Kipling’s comeliest front desk clerk.

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