The Talk Show Murders: A Billy Blessing Novel by Al Roker & Dick Lochte

Author:Al Roker & Dick Lochte [Roker, Al & Lochte, Dick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cozy, Crime, Fiction, Humour, Mystery & Detective, Suspense, Thriller
ISBN: 9780440245827
Google: bgc3PxFo2mQC
Amazon: 0440245826
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2011-12-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter

TWENTY-SIX

If J.B. had bothered to inquire, she’d have discovered that the cab deposited me at 3510 South Michigan Avenue. That’s the address of Chicago police headquarters, where Lieutenant Maureen Oswald was expecting me in approximately twelve minutes. Kiki had said the lieutenant promised to impart new information. About Larry Kelsto’s murder? Or Pat Patton’s? Or both? Or neither? Or … the hell with it. I’d know in just a few minutes.

Or not.

The man who cut me off as I approached the building’s glass doors was dressed like a Wisconsin farmhand who’d just arrived in the big city. He was wearing a red plaid shirt tucked into faded blue denims. He stood at a little over six feet in worn brown work boots. His blond hair hadn’t been combed that morning, maybe never, and stuck up in corn-silk tufts. He had a half-grin on his square-chinned, dopey, beardless face. “You’re him, right?” he asked.

“Everybody’s somebody,” I said, and attempted to walk around him. He sidestepped, staying in my way. “I mean, you’re the guy on the morning show? Blessing?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to get to a meeting.”

“No, you don’t.” That came from someone standing directly behind me.

He was a few inches shorter than his coworker, older by a decade, and, I suppose, women might have found him ruggedly handsome with his three-day growth of beard. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses, a brown leather bombardier jacket, fashionably weathered, khaki slacks, and white tennis shoes. His right hand was in the pocket of his jacket along with something that gave him a lopsided look.

I had the feeling I’d seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t place the location.

“See that silver van parked at the curb, friend?” he said. “The three of us are going to stroll to it and go for a little ride.”

“Really? In front of police headquarters you’re doing this?” I asked.

He scanned the area casually, noting the civilians and cops entering and exiting the building. “I don’t see anything here to stop you from taking a bullet,” he said.

“Good point.”

We headed for what I assumed was the silver van. It was silverish. And van-ish.

Country Boy opened the side door, exposing middle and rear seats.

“In,” the handsome bombardier ordered.

The middle row consisted of two separate buckets. Bombardier prodded me toward the far seat, and he took the one beside me, removing his hand from his pocket and pointing his gun at my groin. I wondered if he targeted that area on all of his kidnaps or if he suspected it might be my particular Achilles heel.

Country Boy shut the door and circled the van, sliding behind the wheel in front.

We sat like that for a minute or two while Country Boy puttered around. Finally, Bombardier said, “Anytime you’re ready, Ace.”

“I keep pressin’ the button, but it won’t start, C-man.”

“Turn the key.”

“Cars don’t have keys no more, C-man. They got buttons you press.”

“Then press it.”

“It ain’t doing nuthin’.”

“You fucking with me?”

“No. Maybe the battery wore out.

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