[Maggie Sullivan 01.0] - No Game for a Dame by M. Ruth Myers

Author:M. Ruth Myers [Myers, M. Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: private investigator, mystery, historical, detective, women sleuths
Publisher: Tuesday House
Published: 2015-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-four

“Mother of God!” I opened my eyes to my leg on fire and pandemonium all around me. Men barked words to other men. Shapes sprinted past me. Mingling with the man sounds were those of a baby crying, a woman’s shrill hysteria, and somewhere close at hand, a woman’s nervous staccato:

“She’d just knocked to warn me when we heard the shots upstairs–”

“Hello, Sunshine. Glad to see that bump on the head didn’t do too much damage.”

A cop I recognized as one of Billy’s pals was kneeling over me. Walker? Waller?

“Don’t call Billy or Seamus,” I said thickly. “I’m okay.”

“– and he fired right at her–”

“Lie still for a minute.” Walker/Waller put out a restraining hand as I tried to sit. “Give us a chance to check you, see if we want a stretcher.”

My brief disorientation passed. I was lying just to the side of the stairs I’d been creeping up what seemed like only minutes ago. Maybe it was only minutes ago. The air still reeked of gunpowder. A shard of wood as long as my forearm dangled from one of the stairs. It bobbled as a pair of feet hurried down them. My left leg burned like sin.

“How many bodies up there?” I couldn’t nod to indicate the second story since Walker’s fingers were poking firmly but gently at the back of my neck, hunting any hint it might be broken.

“One. Plus some blood in the hall.” He sat back on his heels. “Looks like maybe you winged the killer.” He glanced up at someone approaching. “Hey, Mick, how about checking her leg?”

“Not me. I’ve heard what she does to cops who get overfriendly.”

“You’ve got better skills with the ladies than that idiot Fuller. They want me talking to witnesses.”

“Gee, I think maybe I can check my own leg,” I said. Both of them grabbed to help as I started to sit. I willed my brain back to speed. What the hell was Connelly doing here in uniform this time of night?

“Turn and rest your back against the stairs,” he ordered, shifting me as he said it. He looked perversely pleased when I swore at the pain.

Bereft of memory I stared at my leg. It was streaked with blood. Okay, I was supposed to check it. I put two fingertips tentatively to a spot near the worst of the blood.

“Oh, for chrissake. You wouldn’t recognize a break or sprain if you found one.” Connelly shoved my hand away, his irritation barely contained. He took out a crisp white hanky and scrubbed at his fingers. Holding my ankle and moving it gently he probed and pressed. His hands were strong. Confident. More aware of them now than of pain, I hitched in my breath.

“Hurt?”

“If there’s a bullet in there, you’re going to shove it in further,” I hedged.

“You weren’t shot. Though it doesn’t appear to be from lack of trying.”

Reaching past me he smacked something into my lap with unnecessary force. I looked down at the tam that had kept me warm in the car.

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